The Masterful Mr. Montague (29 page)

“Good
God,
” Wallace finally got out. He all but goggled. “Do you mean to say he’s the murderer? That he murdered his own grandmother?”

“We are presently checking his alibis for the nights in question.” Stokes turned to Cynthia. “If you have any information regarding your son’s whereabouts on those nights, ma’am, it would be best to tell me now.”

Cynthia’s eyes fractionally widened as she sat back, sat straighter. Her gaze shifted, rapidly passing from her husband, to Barnaby, then to Stokes, and back again—then she drew in a deep breath and held it for a second before saying, “I’m sorry, Inspector. I had thought I knew, but clearly”—she gestured—“I have no idea what my son has been about.”

Stokes paused to let the echo of her earlier comment color the silence, then he inclined his head. “If you say so, ma’am.”

No doubt scenting the subtle threat, Camberly stirred. “I’m sorry, Inspector, but you have to forgive me—indeed, us—if we appear somewhat discombobulated. We are, of course, totally dumbfounded by your news.” Reaching out, Camberly closed one hand about one of his wife’s and squeezed—in comfort, or as a signal? “We had no idea Walter was involved in any less-than-acceptable activity, much less anything illegal—indeed, criminal.”

“Much less murder.” Cynthia straightened, her back now poker-straight, her head held high. She’d patently decided that outraged matriarch was the most appropriate role for her to play. “I am shocked and saddened beyond measure, Inspector. To think that we have nurtured such a fiend, one who has murdered and committed such unspeakable crimes . . .” She glanced briefly at Camberly, then went on, “We can only pray that you will find your final proofs quickly, and that the matter can be dealt with as expeditiously as possible—this is going to be such a difficult time for the family. All the family. And all on top of Mama’s murder, too.”

Barnaby wasn’t at all surprised when, leaving one hand in Camberly’s clasp, with her other, Cynthia pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from her pocket and, bowing her head, touched the lace beneath her eyes. Dry though Barnaby would swear those eyes were.

Wallace shifted, drawing Barnaby’s and Stokes’s attention from the not-so-convincing show. “Is there anything more we can help you with, gentlemen? As my wife intimated, while the situation wounds us deeply, we, of course, hold ourselves ready to assist in whatever way we can.”

Stokes nodded. “We need to search Walter’s room. Other than that”—tucking his notebook back into his pocket, Stokes rose—“I don’t believe we require anything further from you or Mrs. Camberly at this point.”

Barnaby got to his feet, as did Camberly.

Camberly glanced at Cynthia, still seated with head bowed. “I’m busy at the moment, but my wife, I’m sure, will show you to Walter’s room.”

Cynthia raised her head, her face a mask of martyred duty. “Yes, of course.” She rose and waved to the door. “Come this way, Inspector. Mr. Adair.”

With nods to Camberly, Stokes and Barnaby followed Cynthia from the room and back into the front hall.

As they climbed the stairs behind her, she stated, “I am devastated, of course, but, in hindsight, Walter was always a secretive child, very quiet about his own actions. We had no inkling whatever of these hideous activities of his.” Gaining the first floor, she turned and led the way through a short gallery and on down a corridor. “Obviously, there’s nothing my husband or I can do to in any way put right the damage Walter has done.” Pausing outside a door, her hand on the knob, she swung to face them. “I can only pray, Inspector, that justice is served swiftly, and the damage to the Camberly name, and, indeed, that of the Halsteads, is minimized. There is, after all, no need for Walter’s trial to cause pain and harm to those who, through no fault of theirs, share his name but were entirely innocent of all knowledge of his crimes.”

She blinked, then her hard gaze fixed on Stokes’s face. “If I understood you correctly, Inspector, Walter has admitted to the bulk of your charges. Presumably, there’s no reason he can’t appear before a judge and be sentenced in camera, as it were.”

“As to that, ma’am, I’m sure I can’t say. That will be a matter for the judge.”

“I see. But if that were to come to pass, and Walter was dealt with adequately and removed, and you had proof of his guilt with respect to the murders, would there be any further need for another trial to settle the matter of the murders? You would already have dealt with the murderer—he would be transported, after all, would he not?”

Stokes remained silent; he honestly didn’t know how best to respond—wasn’t sure whether he could while remaining appropriately polite.

Barnaby stirred. “Again, ma’am, that’s a decision for the judiciary, rather than the police.”

Cynthia nodded. “Very well.” Opening the door, she set it swinging wide. “Search as you will, gentlemen.” She glanced once around the room. “Please remove anything you wish to preserve. After you’ve finished, we’ll be burning everything.”

Barnaby and Stokes stood back to let Cynthia leave; they watched as, walking swiftly, she returned to the stairs, then disappeared down them.

Stokes glanced at Barnaby. “I’ve never seen anyone disowned so quickly—or so ruthlessly. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but I actually feel almost sorry for Walter.”

Barnaby nodded. “Indeed.” He met Stokes’s eyes. “Lovely family.”

M
ontague joined the group of five he now regarded as his colleagues-in-investigation at the Adairs’ house for dinner that evening. Penelope had intended the dinner to be a celebration of their success, but, instead, they were all in a most peculiar mood—elated on the one hand, and disgruntled and deflated on the other.

“Walter is not the murderer.” Stokes sank into an armchair in the drawing room, a glass of Barnaby’s brandy in one hand.

After their initial exchange of disappointing information when they’d first gathered in the drawing room, they’d decided to postpone further discussion of the murders until after they’d eaten and their minds had had time to digest what they’d learned.

Stokes swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “We found the money—all of it—exactly where Walter said it would be, and although we searched every nook and cranny in that room, we didn’t find any key to Lady Halstead’s house.” He sipped, then went on, “And while I haven’t yet checked the alibis he’s now given us, those new alibis are detailed and, more, perfectly fit his story. Everything he’s told us hangs together as one cohesive whole—and that whole does not include the murders.”

Barnaby nodded. “I agree. And as Walter himself pointed out, he had no reason to murder Lady Halstead, and every reason not to. Her dying only further inconvenienced him by forcing him to stop using The Laurels.”

Violet sighed. “So Walter as the murderer makes no sense.”

Penelope pulled a horrendous face. After a moment, she said, “I hate to point this out, but we haven’t simply eliminated Walter as the murderer—we’ve also lost our motive. Walter and his doings have accounted for everything
except
the murders. Everything about the odd deposits into Lady Halstead’s accounts is now fully explained, as is the withdrawal of the money from that account. So the murders were never to do with that money.” She looked around the circle of faces—at Barnaby, Stokes, Griselda, Violet, and Montague. “So what was the motive for the murders?”

Stokes glanced at Montague. “Any hints yet?”

“Yes and no.” When Penelope, Griselda, and Violet all turned questioning faces his way, Montague explained, “If we go back and eliminate the odd payments from our deliberations, then regardless, we had assumed that Lady Halstead was murdered because someone in her family did not want her looking too closely into her financial affairs. That deduction still stands, and the motive behind the murderer’s actions has been to compromise any detailed financial review by killing Lady Halstead, and then Runcorn, the two people most familiar with the estate—and we have reason to believe that Runcorn’s murderer was one of the Halstead men.”

“We now know,” Barnaby said, “that it wasn’t Walter.”

Stokes nodded. “If we eliminate him, pending his alibis proving true, then that leaves Mortimer, Maurice, William, and Hayden. My men are still checking their alibis, none of which have proved straightforward bar William’s, and even his are questionable, not good enough to eliminate him.”

“Are you saying”—Violet looked at Montague—“that there’s something
else,
some evidence of some financial crime, buried in her ladyship’s or the estate’s accounts? Something Mortimer, Maurice, William, or Hayden might have killed to conceal?”

Montague nodded. “Most likely it’s something to do with the estate. Lady Halstead, and even Tilly, might have been murdered for other reasons, but there’s simply no reason to kill a man-of-business, especially not one as relatively unacquainted with his client as young Runcorn was, unless there is, indeed,
something
hidden in the accounts. Something that would have been uncovered during an extensive review—possibly something Lady Halstead would have known to question. And no”—Montague glanced at Penelope—“as yet I have no idea what that something might be.”

Penelope sighed heavily.

Griselda eyed her friend, then glanced at the others. “The girls we rescued last night have all settled in with Mrs. Quiverstone and her people at the Athena Agency. Mrs. Quiverstone is sure they’ll be able to find suitable and safe employment for all the girls.”

“I had no idea such places existed,” Violet said.

“Oh, the Athena Agency has been in business for . . . well, it must be nearly two decades now.” Montague glanced at Violet and smiled. “I recall being consulted over it by Deverell before he married his wife—Miss Phoebe Malleson, as she then was. It was she and her aunt who founded the agency, and it’s now supported by quite a large network of fashionable households.”

Reaching out, Stokes linked the fingers of one hand with Griselda’s. “Despite not having yet caught our murderer, we shouldn’t lose sight of what would otherwise rank as a signal success.” His gaze traveling the group, touching on each face, he raised his glass. “To us, to the girls we’ve rescued, to the good we’ve done, to the villains we have succeeded in putting behind bars.”

“Hear, hear,” Barnaby said, raising his glass in response.

The others drank, then all lowered their glasses.

A short silence followed, then Penelope said, “All right. Now let’s find the murderer.”

Chapter 15

T
he following morning, as soon as the last member of his staff had come through the door of Montague and Son, Montague called everyone into his office and explained his current thinking regarding the Halstead file.

“So,” he concluded, “we need to ascertain if any documents are missing, and if none are, we’ll need to cross-check everything to determine if there’s some other irregularity.”

“But there has to be, doesn’t there?” Gibbons said from the chair beside Montague’s desk. “If, as you say, Runcorn was murdered because of something to do with the accounts, then somewhere buried in all of that”—Gibbons nodded at the three large piles of documents sitting on Montague’s desk, the accumulated financial records of the Halsteads—“there must be some trace, some clue. No matter if the murderer did attempt to remove the evidence, no matter how thorough he thought he was, unless he was a man-of-business, too, he would have overlooked something.”

Phillip Foster nodded. “Quite a challenge, even for one of us, to eradicate all sign, all the footprints of any particular transaction.” Raising his gaze from the piles of documents, he met Montague’s. “So where are we at present with our searching?”

Montague glanced at Pringle.

Pringle grimaced self-deprecatingly. “I’m still less than halfway through reassembling the main file. I’ve been working backward, but thus far I haven’t found any document that’s missing.”

Slocum looked at Montague. “So where would you like us to start, sir?”

Montague considered, then said, “Let’s see what we can accomplish today. I need you and Foster to take on as much of our scheduled work as possible. Gibbons and I will need to attend any meetings we have scheduled, but beyond that . . .” Montague considered the stack of papers, then said, “Pringle can continue reassembling the file, searching for any missing document, working backward. Mr. Slater?”

Montague’s junior clerk straightened, his expression eager. “Yes, sir?”

“You will watch Mr. Pringle until you have the knack of what he is doing, how his numbering system works, then, under Mr. Slocum’s oversight, in the time in which he doesn’t require your services, you will commence reassembling the file, but working from the earliest documents forward.” Montague looked at Slocum and Pringle. “At this point, we have no notion of when in the timeline of the Halstead documents the vital clue resides, so by having Slater work through the documents from the other end, as it were, we should double our chances of discovering if any documents are missing, and subsequently which documents they are.”

Slocum, Pringle, and Slater all nodded.

Montague glanced at Foster. “Your first task, along with Slocum, is to keep the office functioning as usual, servicing all our other clients.”

Foster grinned and saluted.

“If you have any time left over after that, you can help Gibbons compile a complete listing of the Halsteads’ investments, past as well as present.” Montague glanced at Gibbons. “Fred, you’ll have to work with the file as Pringle reassembles it, and also with the earlier documents as Slater gets those in order.”

Gibbons nodded. “How detailed a list?”

“Everything you stumble on, regardless of whether it paid a dividend, was sold at a profit or a loss, or was simply held and forgotten about. Cross-check with the bank accounts, all of them.” Montague paused, then added, “Given there’s nothing obvious about this—given we have no idea what particular investment or even type of investment, or style of fund or instrument, was of interest to our murderer—then we have to cover absolutely everything. Something that may appear minor and of no real account to us might, for reasons we do not know, be of vital importance to him.”

“Right then.” Gibbons rose. “I’d better get started.”

“So what angle will you be tackling, sir?” Foster asked as he straightened away from the bookshelf he’d been leaning against.

Montague hid a wry smile; Phillip Foster was keen and eager to learn, something Montague was happy to encourage. “I’m going to work my way through the copies of the documents Runcorn had Pringle make for me. Those copied documents should at least touch on all the active sources of income to the Halstead estate.” He paused, then explained, “What I identify through income and expenditure should reconcile with what Gibbons and you put together. If we come up with any anomaly, then we’ll be on to something. But it’s possible we’ll end with a complete match, in which case, it’ll come down to whether Pringle and Slater find something missing. Essentially, I will be working on the money itself, while you and Gibbons identify the sources, and Slocum, Pringle, and Slater will analyze the documentary records. Somewhere in all that, there has to be something missing.”

“Indeed.” With a nod, Gibbons led the way out.

Slocum, Pringle, and Slater gathered the three large piles of documents in their arms and carried them back out into the main office.

Leaving Montague considering the smaller pile thus revealed—the copies Runcorn had had Pringle make for him. That pile might have been smaller than the others; regardless, combing through it wouldn’t be any small task, especially as he had no idea what he might be looking for.

Glancing at his appointment book, he confirmed he had a morning meeting with the Earl of Meredith, who was currently in town. As the earl spent most of his time at his estate in Somerset, that wasn’t an appointment that could easily be rescheduled.

Montague glanced at the pile of documents on his desk, then, with an inward sigh, rose, lifted his hat from the hat stand, plucked the current Meredith file from his shelves—he’d already reviewed it—and headed for the door.

H
e returned two hours later, unexpectedly more enthused. Hanging up his hat, then replacing the Meredith file—there had been no surprises there—he returned to his desk. Looking down at the Halstead papers, he went over the plan of attack that had popped into his head as he’d traveled back from Mayfair. The approach was sound. Reaching for the pile, he set it squarely on his blotter, pulled up his chair, sat, and proceeded to sort the documents.

Distantly, he heard the main door to the offices open. An instant later, Slocum said, “Good morning, Miss Matcham. Can I help you?”

Before he’d even thought, Montague was on his feet and striding to the door, propelled by a species of fizzy emotion he’d never felt before. To his rational mind’s surprise, he rather liked the feeling. Passing into the outer office, he saw Violet smiling at Slocum.

As he crossed the room, she turned to him and her smile changed—to something warmer, more personal. More for him.

“Miss Matcham. Violet.” He took the hand she extended, held it. His gaze searched her face; from the calmness investing her features, he knew there was nothing wrong. “Has there been some development?”

“No.” A faint frown swam through her fine eyes. “And that’s why I’m here.” She glanced around the office, at the evidence of their industry. “Stokes and Barnaby are off checking the men’s alibis, and Penelope and Griselda are doing the same with the ladies—we thought it wise to be complete. But”—she raised her hands, palms up—“that left me with nothing to do, no way to contribute.” She brought her gaze back to his face. “So I thought I would come here and see whether there’s anything I can do to help you with your researches.” She paused, then, head rising a trifle, said, “I’ve acted as a secretary for all my adult life, so I am good at reading and organizing documents.”

Montague immediately saw opportunity and moved to seize it. “As it happens”—he waved at the rest of the office, at all his staff, most of whom had glanced up to exchange a smile with her—“I have all these others working in teams, tackling the problem from different angles. I’ve just returned from a meeting and was about to start on my own pile of documents.” When her gaze returned to his face, he met her eyes. “I was going to handle it on my own, but coming back just now I realized there are two separate aspects, two different arms that I need to concurrently investigate—you could help me with one of those if you like?”

Her smile blossomed into delight, and she inclined her head. “I would be happy to assist.”

Ignoring the interested, faintly intrigued, looks from his staff, reining in his own smile as best he could, he ushered Violet into his office. After helping her remove her coat and hanging her bonnet opposite his hat on the hat stand, he settled her in a chair on the client side of his desk and cleared a space on its surface for her.

“Right, then.” Rounding the desk, he opened a drawer and retrieved several sheets of paper, as well as a handful of the sharpened pencils Slocum made sure were always there. Dividing the supplies between Violet’s impromptu blotter and his own, he sat in his chair and faced the Halstead papers anew. Then he looked at Violet, met her encouraging gaze. “These documents are the copies Runcorn sent me. They should contain information on all the dealings required to generate a comprehensive review of the Halstead estate—the financial side of it, certainly. What we—you and I—need to do is list every item of income and every item of expenditure, and link each to a specific source. Gibbons out there, aided by Foster, is combing through the original documents and making a list of all the investments—the sources.”

“So Gibbons’s list and ours should match?” Violet asked.

“Exactly.”

“And if they don’t . . . then whatever point on which they don’t match will be a clue?” When Montague nodded, Violet felt a surge of enthusiasm buoy her. Straightening the sheet of paper before her, she picked up a pencil. “So”—she met Montague’s eyes—“where do we start?”

He hesitated for only an instant. “You can list the income—that’s actually easier than determining what an expense might be. I’ll take care of the expenses.” Picking up the document on the top of the pile, he glanced at it, then replaced it and turned the entire pile upside down. “Pringle reordered these for me, and he put the most recent on top. For our purposes, it’ll be easier to work from the earliest records on. So.” Lifting the top sheet, he turned it over and handed it to her. “You start. Scan each document for any information on income. Whatever you find, note it down—where it was from, the date, and the amount—then hand the document on to me.”

Taking the sheet, Violet scanned it. It was the receipt for a deposit into a fund made by Sir Hugo over three decades previously. “No income here.” She handed the document to Montague.

He scanned it and smiled. “Correct.” He reached for his pencil and nodded at the pile in the center of the desk. “Help yourself.”

Feeling happily involved, Violet did.

They worked steadily through the papers. Mr. Slocum brought them tea and small cakes, which proved to be surprisingly delicious.

“There’s a tiny bakery tucked away at the end of Chapel Court,” Montague said in response to her query.

Licking crumbs from her fingers, Violet nodded and returned to the statement she was perusing. She felt no inhibition over asking questions, checking when an entry wasn’t, at least to her, clearly income or expense. The further through the pile they worked, the more she understood the purpose of what they were doing.

Income and expenditure. When it came down to it, that was all money truly was. All it meant.

When the City’s bells tolled twelve, Montague rose, went into the outer office to consult with his staff, then came back to inform her he’d sent his young clerk, Mr. Slater, and the office boy, Reginald Roberts, for sandwiches for the whole office.

Violet approved. “There is something of a sense of urgency, isn’t there?”

Dropping back into his chair, Montague nodded. “Indeed.” He didn’t add that, for him, the thrust of that urgency derived from his fear that, in seeking to protect himself, the murderer would continue to seek to silence Violet. Not for one moment had Montague forgotten the chill he’d felt when he’d learned that her bedroom door, too, had been opened on the night the blackguard had killed Tilly. He’d come to kill Violet, too, but had been thwarted.

The only way to permanently thwart such a villain was to expose him and catch him.

Lifting the next sheet he needed to scrutinize for expenses, he returned to that task.

The sandwiches came and were consumed in a silence broken only by the occasional rustle of paper.

Just before three o’clock, Gibbons tapped on the door frame and entered, carrying a sheaf of papers in one hand. He raised the papers. “All the investments and every last source of income. Foster and I have been through all the documents. Slocum, Pringle, and Slater have nearly met—they say they need another hour or two, but they will get the entire file re-sorted by day’s end.”

“Excellent.” Montague considered the documents he and Violet had yet to assess. With her helping, the pile had dwindled at literally twice the rate it would have had he had to do it on his own. “Another half hour, and we should be done.” He glanced at Gibbons. “I’ll call you when we are, then you and Foster can read through your list, while Violet and I check to confirm that we’ve got the expected income and expenses.”

Gibbons nodded. “Call when you’re ready. I’ve got a meeting at five o’clock—I’ll be preparing for that, but there’s not much I need to do for it.”

Montague nodded and turned back to his task with renewed mental vigor; reaching the end of his analysis of the Halstead accounts by the close of the day was a very real carrot.

Finally—
finally
—he slapped the last of the documents back on the pile. “Done!” He looked up at Violet; after finishing with the last document and handing it on to him, she’d risen, stretched, and walked over to look out of the window.

Turning to him, she smiled. “Now what?”

“Now . . .” He looked at the sheaf of papers stacked on her side of the desk and waggled his fingers. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

What she had was a neat list, ranging over several pages, of sources of income with the relevant amounts and dates of payment noted against each. And she’d organized the sources in alphabetical order.