The Masterful Mr. Montague (24 page)

Tilly’s brother had called, sent around by Montague; Fred Westcott proved to have been Tilly’s twin, and he’d been so much like her that Violet had had to expend considerable effort fighting to hold back her tears. Tears that would have made poor Fred even more bewildered and uncomfortable; he’d been having such a hard time believing his twin sister was dead.

He lived in Kent and had driven into town in a small wagon; he’d followed Violet’s directions to Montague’s office, and had been sent on to Albemarle Street to pick up Tilly’s things en route to the morgue, where he’d planned to take possession of Tilly’s body and drive it back in the wagon for burial in the little village graveyard beside their parents.

So Tilly was gone, and after Fred’s departure, Violet had felt shattered.

Had truly felt and comprehensively understood the destructiveness of murder.

Penelope and her staff, and even young Oliver, had gathered around and done what they could to distract her; even Barnaby, when he’d joined them for dinner, had been almost unbearably kind.

When night had fallen, she’d escaped early to her bed, and in doing so had underscored that she, unlike Tilly, still had a place, a purpose, and a life to live.

This morning, when she’d woken, she’d discovered that her determination to expose the murderer and gain justice for Lady Halstead, Runcorn, and Tilly had only grown more steely.

Meeting Penelope’s gaze, she said, “Actually, there’s something curious I remembered this morning about the Halstead estate.”

Penelope widened her eyes, her interest immediate. “Do tell.”

“The family arguing about how to divide the estate jogged my memory—they mentioned the family’s country house, The Laurels. It’s part of the estate, and they were all arguing about whether to sell or lease it.” Violet licked the last of the gooseberry preserve—it really was excellent—from her fingers, then, frowning, went on, “I have no reason to believe that this has anything at all to do with what’s been going on, with those odd payments into Lady Halstead’s account, but one of the factors contributing to her anxiety about the estate was that she’d received a letter from a neighbor in the country—the vicar’s wife—about someone living at The Laurels.” She met Penelope’s gaze. “As far as Lady Halstead knew, The Laurels is closed up and untenanted, and has been for years.”

“Ah.” After a moment of considering her, Penelope asked, “I don’t suppose you read this letter?”

“No.” Violet held Penelope’s gaze. “But I know where it is.”

“Where?”

“In Lady Halstead’s traveling writing desk, which is in the bottom drawer of that big chest of drawers in her room.” Violet paused, then said, “While they might have taken the jewelry by now, I doubt the family will have bothered with the writing desk. It was old and not especially noteworthy.”

“They might not even have stumbled on it yet.” Behind her spectacles, Penelope’s eyes gleamed.

Violet nodded. “And I remembered something else this morning that I’d forgotten.”

Penelope’s eyes widened even further. “What?”

“That I haven’t handed Mr. Montague my keys to the house.”

“Oh, my.” A smile of quite remarkable energy spread across Penelope’s face. “That settles it, I believe.” She locked eyes with Violet. “Clearly, we are supposed to go to the house and examine this letter, and, if it proves to be interesting, remove it. Who knows? It might be vital evidence, even if we don’t yet know what about.”

Barely pausing to blink, Penelope continued, “I suggest, my dear Violet, that you and I have the carriage brought around, then take a trip to Greenbury Street to pick up Griselda—she’ll definitely want to be a part of this—and then we can stop by in Lowndes Street and secure the letter before going on to the City and calling at Montague’s so you can hand him those keys.”

Penelope beamed. Violet couldn’t help but beam back.

“And that,” Penelope said, pushing back her chair, “sounds like an excellent way to spend our morning.”

T
he Lowndes Street house already looked deserted.

When, at Penelope’s direction, her carriage slowed to a halt by the curb in front of the house across the street, Violet peered out at the fully curtained windows. “They must have had the footmen and butlers draw all the curtains.”

Seated opposite, Griselda gave a little shiver. “I hate it when they do that—it’s as if the house dies, too.”

“But there’s not even black ribbon on the knocker.” Penelope leaned closer to the window, scanning the house, then what she could see of the street. “Which is just as well, I suppose. Less reason to note us if anyone sees us going in.”

She glanced at Violet. “Ready?”

Fishing the ring with the keys to the front and back doors from her reticule, Violet nodded. Jaw setting, she glanced at the house, then followed Penelope and Griselda from the carriage.

Leaving Penelope’s groom with the carriage, they crossed the street—three ladies out for a morning stroll.

“Quick.” Penelope swung open the gate. “There’s no one about at the moment. Let’s get inside.”

Violet knew Penelope didn’t mean her to hurry but rather not to dally. Very ready to oblige, she walked directly up the path, key already in her gloved fingers. Reaching the door, she slid the key into the lock, turned it, then twisted the knob, opened the door, and led the way inside.

Whisking around, she quietly closed the door immediately Griselda stepped past.

In the gloomy dimness of the hall, they all paused, listening, straining their ears for the least little sound that might indicate the presence of some footman or other servant left to watch over the house. If anyone arrived to question their presence, Violet would explain that she’d forgotten something from her room upstairs; she’d even brought a finely carved thimble so she could produce some real item as their excuse.

But no one came.

After a moment, Griselda shook her head. “There’s no one here.”

“I didn’t really think there would be.” Violet turned to the stairs. “This is a family that simply doesn’t care about anything that isn’t their own.”

She led the way up the stairs. Penelope followed; Griselda brought up the rear.

Violet was grateful they were there, at her back, doing this with her. The deserted, empty, rather chill atmosphere that had spread through the house was unsettling. Faintly threatening. And made even worse by the dismal lack of light.

When they walked into Lady Halstead’s room, it was immediately apparent that her family had visited. Even with the curtains tightly drawn, enough light seeped past for them to note the empty spaces.

Penelope waved at the dressing table. “The big jewelry box is gone.”

“So are the silver-backed brushes and the ivory combs,” Griselda said. “Along with the crystal tray they sat on.”

“So—let’s see.” Violet went to the large chest of drawers, bent, and pulled out the deep bottom drawer. As the other two gathered around, she smiled. “As expected, they didn’t get this far.”

“Or simply weren’t interested.” Penelope stepped back as Violet straightened, the writing desk in her hands.

She walked to the bed and set the slanted-topped wooden box on the counterpane.

Griselda had already gone to the window; she eased one curtain back, allowing weak autumn sunlight to spill across the room to illuminate the bed and the writing desk.

“Thank you,” Violet murmured. Opening the lid, with its worn leather inset, she set it fully back, revealing what lay in the cavity beneath—a loose jumble of letters covered in a variety of spidery hands.

She reached for the creased sheet lying uppermost. “This should be it.”

Raising the letter, she angled it to the light, holding it so that all three of them could gather around and read.

The letter wasn’t overly long, and from the easy salutation and the comfortable tone, it appeared that the wife of the vicar of Noak Hill, a Mrs. Findlayson, had been a longtime acquaintance of Lady Halstead. She wrote that Lady Halstead’s Essex friends were somewhat curious about the fiercely reclusive people currently living in her ladyship’s house. While Mrs. Findlayson had written nothing specific about what, exactly, had incited the locals’ concerns, the implication that there was something of a dubious nature afoot came through clearly.

After perusing the letter twice, Penelope looked at Violet, then glanced at Griselda. “Noak Hill. I have no idea where that might be, precisely, but as it is in Essex, it can’t be all that far.”

“Perhaps,” Griselda said, “we might ask your coachman if he knows of it?”

Penelope nodded. “And, if so, how long it will take to get there.”

“And back,” Griselda said. “It’s already eleven o’clock, and we won’t want to be too late home.”

“No, indeed.” Penelope’s expression had taken on a certain steely quality. “But I do think, Violet dear, that as Mrs. Findlayson and her friends have very likely not yet learned of Lady Halstead’s death, you—accompanied by Griselda and me—should call on Mrs. Findlayson and let her know that her ladyship has passed on.”

Violet met Penelope’s gaze. “It would be the right thing to do. I’m sure Lady Halstead would wish me to inform her country friends of her death.”

“Well, from all we’ve seen, her family won’t bother,” Griselda put in. “So I, too, vote yes—we should, if we can manage it within the day, visit Noak Hill vicarage.”

“And, just possibly, pass by The Laurels, too.” Penelope turned to the door. There, she paused, waiting for Violet to close the writing desk and, retaining Mrs. Findlayson’s letter, return the desk to the chest of drawers. “Last item on this meeting’s agenda,” Penelope said as Violet straightened and Griselda closed the curtain again, plunging the room once more into gloom. “Do we tell Stokes, Barnaby, and Montague first, or later?”

Violet glanced at Griselda, then looked back at Penelope. “Actually, although the letter bothered her ladyship and she initially worried that the two issues might be connected, on reflection she decided that any problem at The Laurels was entirely separate from the odd deposits paid into her bank account—the sums involved were far too large to have been rent or anything like that. She decided that the people at The Laurels were most likely itinerants or something of the sort, and, relatively speaking, that that was a minor matter. As the bank account problem was her primary concern, she elected to concentrate—and have Runcorn and later Montague concentrate—on that, so she deliberately didn’t tell them about the problem at The Laurels—she didn’t want to distract them from the more pressing issue.”

Violet paused, then more slowly went on, “More importantly, she didn’t mention the letter or the problem at The Laurels to any of her family, so whatever the problem at The Laurels might be, it can’t have any connection to the murders.”

“Excellent!” Penelope said. “So as it’s a side issue, and as such one our men don’t have time to pursue, there’s no reason we shouldn’t, and see what we can learn. Especially”—turning, Penelope led the way out of the door and back toward the stairs—“as there’s no reason to suppose that the strange people at The Laurels have anything to do with the murders.”

“Regardless of what we might hope,” Griselda wryly added.

Penelope nodded. “Precisely.” She started down the stairs. “And anyway, it’s an uncontestable fact that the three of us will make a much better fist of interviewing Mrs. Findlayson, the vicar’s wife, than any man ever born.”

Chapter 12

P
enelope led the way into the office of Montague and Son. Montague’s head clerk, Slocum, recognized her immediately and came forward with a smile.

“Mrs. Adair.” Slocum’s gaze went past Penelope to Griselda, whom he had never met, but then his eyes lighted on Violet and his smile deepened. “And Miss Matcham, isn’t it?”

“And this is Mrs. Stokes.” Penelope indicated Griselda. “You have recently encountered her husband, Inspector Stokes, I believe.”

“Indeed, yes.” Slocum bowed. “Good morning, ladies, and how may we help you?”

Violet smiled in return. “Good morning, Mr. Slocum. I’m here to deliver my keys to Lady Halstead’s house to Mr. Montague. If he has a moment, I would prefer to give the keys into his hand.”

“Yes, of course, miss.” Slocum glanced over his shoulder at the door to Montague’s office, presently closed. “He’s with another client, but the meeting is in the nature of a lengthy review, so I will inquire if Mr. Montague can take a moment to meet with you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Slocum—a moment is all that I need,” Violet said.

Recognizing a familiar but unexpected face, Penelope left Violet and Griselda in the reception area before Slocum’s desk and crossed to the smaller desk to one side. The clerk working there had glanced up at their entrance but had gone back to his papers. Penelope halted before the desk. “Mr. Pringle, isn’t it?”

Pringle looked up and smiled a touch tiredly. “Yes, Mrs. Adair.”

Slocum had disappeared into Montague’s office; with a soft rustle of skirts, Violet and Griselda came to join Penelope. Turning to them, Penelope waved at Pringle. “Pringle was Mr. Runcorn’s clerk.” She looked back at Pringle. “You’re working here now?”

Pringle nodded. “Mr. Montague was kind enough to take me on. His practice is quite large and varied, so there’s plenty for me to help with—and I have to say it was a huge relief. Finding a new post at my age wouldn’t have been easy. So few employers value experience these days.”

“Indeed,” Violet said. “I’m Miss Matcham—I was Lady Halstead’s companion and met Mr. Runcorn several times. I was deeply saddened to learn of his death. Working alongside him, you must have felt the loss deeply—you have my sympathies.”

Both Griselda and Penelope echoed the sentiment.

Pringle gravely inclined his head. “Thank you, ma’am, ladies.” Drawing breath, he straightened. “As I said, in the circumstances it’s been a great boon to be kept busy, so I’m doubly grateful to Mr. Montague in that regard.”

Penelope angled her head, swiftly scanning the topmost documents. “So are you working on new clients, then?”

Pringle glanced down at the documents. “Not new ones as yet. My first task is to reassemble the Halstead file.”

“And how is that proceeding?” Penelope asked.

Pringle sighed. “Slowly, I’m sorry to say. I’m aware the information might prove useful to the investigation, but Sir Hugo had quite eclectic tastes in investments, and therefore the documents are very varied, and often not what one might expect. Properly reordering them will take some time.”

Behind them, the door to Montague’s office opened. The three ladies turned in time to see Montague follow Slocum into the main room. Montague’s gaze, Penelope noticed, locked on Violet.

“Violet?” Concern, restrained but ready to leap to the fore, colored Montague’s expression as he strode across the room. Then he noticed Penelope and Griselda, and, slowing, briefly inclined his head. “Penelope. Griselda.” Halting before them, he returned his gaze to Violet’s face; a fraction of a second passed before he asked, “What’s happened?”

Violet smiled reassuringly. “Nothing of any great import.” Raising a hand, she offered him the keys. “I remembered I hadn’t yet surrendered these. They’re the keys to the front and back doors of Lady Halstead’s house. I thought I might leave them with you, to pass on when appropriate.”

Montague took the keys. “Thank you. Yes, that would be best.” His imminent concern evaporating, he glanced at Penelope and Griselda, then once again at Violet. “And what have you three planned for your day?”

Penelope smiled sunnily and leapt in to deflect his attention from the suddenly blank looks on her companions’ faces. “Actually, we’re off for a short jaunt into the country, and we need to be off.”

“Indeed.” Violet had recovered her composure. “We won’t keep you any longer.” She extended her hand.

Montague took it, held it, but his gaze returned to Penelope’s face. “As it happens, my client of the moment”—he tipped his head toward his office—“is a relative of yours. Dexter. He’s your cousin, I believe. Would you like to have a word with him?”

Dexter
? Penelope’s smile grew wider; she waved the notion away. “No, no—no need to distract him.”

Dexter shared many similarities with her older brother, Luc; the two had been thick as thieves for most of their lives—they’d even married twin sisters. And, like Luc, on hearing that she, Penelope, was about to go for a drive in the country, Dexter would be instantly suspicious, and ask why, and where to, and what she thought to do there . . . and while Barnaby was well on the way to evolving into a modern man, one who didn’t feel the need to hem ladies like her in at every step, Luc and Dexter were throwbacks to a more primitive—and much more protective—age.

Keeping her smile bright, Penelope added, “I’ll see him at the next family dinner soon enough, but do give him my regards.” Tugging her gloves on tighter, she turned to Griselda and Violet. “But now we really must be off.”

The other two grasped her desire to leave; even though they didn’t fully understand, both sensed her wish to avoid Dexter, so they smiled and immediately joined with her in taking their leave of Montague.

Penelope was the first out of the door; she didn’t breathe easily until the carriage door was shut, the coach was moving, and they were safely on their way.

A more relaxed smile blooming, she leaned back against the squabs. “To Essex!” she declared.

“To Noak Hill,” Griselda added.

“To The Laurels,” Violet said, “and to whatever we find there.”

P
helps, Penelope’s coachman, had had to stop several times to allow the groom, Conner, to descend and ask for directions, but eventually the carriage rumbled up to a country crossroads and halted. Their last direction had come from the Bear Inn, less than half a mile back down the road, so this had to be it—Noak Hill.

The ladies peered out of the carriage windows. Griselda reported, “The signpost on this side says ‘To the Priory.’ ”

Penelope nodded in the opposite direction. “The rest of the village looks to lie this way.”

The carriage rocked as Conner jumped down. He came to the window and saluted; when Penelope let down the window, he asked, “Which way, ma’am? Church lies straight ahead, but most houses seem to be down there, to the left.”

Penelope debated. “We’re here to visit the vicar’s wife, and I assume she’ll be at the vicarage.”

Conner nodded. “Looks like the vicarage is next to the church just ahead.”

“Hmm, yes—but it would be useful to see if we can locate the Halsteads’ house, The Laurels, first. From the look of things, it most likely lies somewhere along the village lane.” Penelope looked at Conner. “Tell Phelps to drive slowly through the village, and if we spot the house—I would imagine it will have its name up somewhere—to roll past and come around again. We just want to get a good glimpse of it so we know what we’re talking about.”

Conner bobbed his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

He climbed up to the box seat. A minute later, the carriage ponderously rolled forward, rounded the corner, and bowled slowly and sedately along the lane.

Violet and Penelope peered out of the windows on one side of the coach, while Griselda looked out at the opposite side of the lane.

“Cottages,” Penelope reported.

“A set of three small terrace houses on this side,” Griselda said. “The sort estates are building for their farmworkers these days.”

They passed one larger house set back from the lane. “The Orchard.” Violet pointed to the name on a brass plate embedded in one gatepost.

Several more medium-sized houses in their own yards followed. They were nearing the end of the village when Griselda said, “There it is!”

Violet and Penelope scrambled to that side of the carriage. They stared out at a substantial, free-standing house built of red brick, set back from the lane in a garden plot that had in large part been allowed to run to seed.

“The lawn—such as it is—has been recently trimmed.” Penelope sat back as the house fell behind.

Across the carriage, Griselda met her eyes. “The curtains in several upstairs rooms are open, while in others the curtains are fully drawn.”

“Odd if the house was closed up,” Penelope observed. “I think it’s safe to accept that the vicar’s wife’s intelligence is sound—someone is living there.”

The house had been the last in the village. The carriage slowed, then turned as Phelps brought it around. Penelope rose and pushed up the trap in the coach’s ceiling. “Back to the vicarage, Phelps, but as slow as you can past the house on our left.”

Phelps complied, and, shifting to the other side of the coach, the three again peered out at the house. Ivy had completely overwhelmed a high, stone garden wall and was well on the way to claiming the tall wrought-iron gate set between a pair of pillars directly in front of the house’s front door. Above the gate, a decorative wrought-iron ribbon carried the name The Laurels.

“The ivy’s been cut back to reveal the name,” Violet said. “But they’ve left it growing over the gate itself.” She frowned. “How odd.”

Beyond the blocked gate, a straight gravel path led directly to the narrow sweep of drive before the front door. Weeds strewed the path, and the lawn had encroached over its edges.

As the carriage rolled on, they drew level with the gates to the drive; of similar design to the smaller gate and also in heavy wrought iron, the much wider gates stood ajar. A gravel drive, clear of weeds and in reasonable state, led to the house; it ran along the front before curling around the far side of the blocklike building.

Penelope glanced up at the house, then sighed and leaned back as it passed once more out of view. “Three stories—there’s dormers above that parapet around the top of the first floor. So it’s of reasonable size, but not large—exactly what one would expect of a family of the Halsteads’ means.”

“So,” Violet said, “the house itself holds no surprises—the only questions are who is using it, and for what.”

Penelope nodded. “Let’s hope Mrs. Findlayson can shed some light on those points.”

It was early afternoon when they walked up the path to the vicarage front door. At their request for an audience, Mrs. Findlayson came to the door; she proved to be a kindly-looking woman of generous girth, with curly white hair surrounding a soft-featured face from which aging blue eyes looked upon the world with a certain calm serenity.

Violet took the lead, making the introductions and explaining that she was calling on Lady Halstead’s behalf, having realized from Mrs. Findlayson’s recent letter that Mrs. Findlayson had known Lady Halstead well.

Mrs. Findlayson was delighted to receive them. She insisted they join her in the comfortably cheery parlor; once they were seated, she ordered tea, then turned to Violet. “And how is dear Lady Halstead?”

Violet broke the sad news as gently as she could.

Mrs. Findlayson grew sad, then sorrowful. “Oh, dear. Murdered, you say? How very dreadful, to be sure. Such evil there is in the world these days.”

The maid arrived with the tea tray and Penelope took charge, pouring a strong cup of tea and adding several lumps of sugar before handing it to Mrs. Findlayson.

The vicar’s wife accepted the cup and saucer in something of a daze.

Penelope and Griselda busied themselves pouring their cups and handing Violet hers.

Her gaze on Mrs. Findlayson’s face, Violet sipped, then murmured, “You knew her ladyship quite well, didn’t you?”

“Oh, indeed.” Her gaze unfocused, Mrs. Findlayson nodded. “We both came to the village at much the same time, both as new brides. We grew quite close over those early years, when she and Hugo spent more of their time here, but then he was posted overseas again, and they left the children—there were just the two then, Mortimer and Cynthia—at The Laurels with their nurses and a housekeeper and staff.” Mrs. Findlayson pursed her lips in mild disapproval. “Of course, Agatha didn’t wish to expose the youngsters to the dangers of life in all those dreadful foreign places Hugo used to have to go to, but over the years, I—well, all of us who knew them—did wonder if, after all, that decision was the right one.”

Mrs. Findlayson looked at Violet and managed a weak smile. “As you knew her, dear, you will agree that a gentler, kinder lady would be hard to find, and I always suspected Agatha intended to come home frequently to visit the children, but with Hugo always being sent so far away, and the ships taking so long to make the journey, well, they didn’t make it back, either of them, all that often.”

Nodding to herself, Mrs. Findlayson went on, “Agatha returned to have Maurice, but then left soon after, when he was still just a babe in arms. William was born overseas—in India, I believe—but Agatha and Hugo brought him home, saw him settled in the nursery, and then they were off again.”

Frowning, Mrs. Findlayson shifted in her chair. “I’m not one to speak ill of the dead, and heaven knew Agatha and I remained firm friends, but the way that poor mite howled for his mother—well, the whole village knew of it. And he ran away, several times if memory serves, but the tutors always went after him and caught him and dragged him back.” Lips thin, Mrs. Findlayson carefully set her cup back on its saucer. “As in any friendship, there were some things Agatha did that I couldn’t approve of, and that was one.” Drawing in a breath, she lifted her head and met Violet’s eyes, then glanced at Penelope and Griselda. “Against that, however, both Agatha and Hugo were delightful people and so very wedded to their duty to this country that it was all but impossible to hold such transgressions against them.”