The Masterful Mr. Montague (31 page)

Then, of course, the four of them had had to wait with mounting impatience for Stokes and Adair to arrive. Once they had . . .

In the end, they’d all stayed to dine, the discussion over the dinner table rife with supposition, hypothesis, and suggestions as to how they might best proceed. Everyone had agreed that the missing share certificate was a major clue and that they needed to learn who presently held it—who had received the recent large dividend—with all possible speed, but at that point, the group had divided into three camps. Stokes and Penelope had been all for barreling ahead regardless of how much noise and dust they raised. Montague and Barnaby, however, had urged caution and care in taking their next steps, while Violet and Griselda had sat back and weighed the merits of both arguments. Ultimately, it had been agreed that, despite the acknowledged urgency over identifying the villain—already a murderer three times over—before he either murdered again or, alternatively, fled, caution and circumspection were nevertheless required in dealing with such a matter.

As Barnaby had said, “The police marching into a share registry and demanding to see their books—even assuming you can—will only cause outrage and resistance on many fronts, none of which are pertinent to this investigation, and none of which will help us in the least.”

Montague had nodded. “Indeed. It may not seem so, but in such a case, asking one question at a time will get us further faster, without unnecessarily raising anyone’s hackles or alerting anyone beyond the most discreet officials to our inquiries.”

Reluctantly, the others had agreed and had left it to him to formulate and ask the questions about the shares.

Meanwhile, Stokes and Barnaby would pursue the alibis of Walter and the Halstead men, while Penelope, accompanied by Griselda, would confirm Constance Halstead’s, Caroline Halstead’s, and Cynthia Camberly’s alibis, purely to ensure they hadn’t missed some connection.

As Stokes had somewhat grimly growled, “After this business with Walter, I wouldn’t be surprised if we found some other irregularity within that family, something else that has nothing to do with the murders.”

That comment had strengthened the argument for care in pursuing the question of the missing share certificate. Once burned, twice shy; they had no reason to feel certain that the missing share certificate was, indeed, the critical issue behind the murders.

Of course, they all believed it was, but . . . pedantic caution and care had become their new watchwords.

The hackney rocked around a corner. Glancing through the window, Montague saw the familiar façade of Carlton House roll by, then the hackney headed smartly down Pall Mall.

He’d spent the last hours identifying the firm that held the registry for the Grand Junction Railway Company shares. Unhappily, that firm was located in Manchester; he’d drafted a formal query and had sent it off by courier. He couldn’t expect to hear back until at least the next day.

Now, as he’d promised, he was reporting his progress to Albemarle Street—to Violet, who had been designated their central contact. Although none of the others had voiced their concern, no one had wanted Violet to go out of the house alone.

The simple fact that she—and, it seemed, no one else still alive bar the murderer—had known where Lady Halstead’s share certificates had been kept had escalated their fears for her safety. Montague’s fears, certainly, and he’d seen a similar understanding in Stokes’s, Adair’s, Penelope’s, and Griselda’s eyes. None of them wished Violet to come to any harm; none of them wanted her to be unwittingly exposed to the murderer. If they could have, they would have hemmed her in with protections, but they were all rather too intelligent for that. Instead, they’d crafted a role for her that would keep her safely within the Adairs’ house, and Montague would have wagered his last guinea that Adair’s staff had been alerted to watch over her.

Montague was therefore unsurprised when, having climbed down from the hackney, paid the jarvey, and ascended the steps to the Adairs’ door, he was admitted by their majordomo, Mostyn, who greeted him with a knowing smile and the words “Miss Matcham is in the parlor, sir.”

“Thank you, Mostyn.” Handing over his hat and cane, Montague settled his cuffs. “No need to show me in—I know the way.”

“Indeed, sir.” Mostyn hesitated.

Montague cast him a questioning look.

“I was just thinking, sir,” Mostyn said, “that if you were so inclined, you might escort Miss Matcham for a walk in the park. Don’t want her feeling cooped up and deciding to go for a walk on her own.”

Montague arched his brows. “No, indeed.” He inclined his head. “Thank you for the suggestion, Mostyn. I believe I will take it up.”

As he walked down the corridor to the parlor, Montague noted that although the weather had been somewhat dismal of late, today the sun was doing its best to make an appearance, and there seemed little imminent threat of precipitation.

Violet was seated on one of the sofas plying her needle on some mending; she’d heard his footsteps and looked up. The expression that suffused her face, that lit her eyes, made him feel . . . special. Setting aside the mending, she rose. Smiling, she held out a hand. “Mr. Montague.”

As, halting before her, he closed his hand about her fingers, she studied his face. “Do you have news, sir?”

It wasn’t his news, or the investigation, that filled his mind. He looked down at her for several seconds, then quietly said, “My given name is Heathcote, although most call me Montague.” Indeed, there was no one still alive who called him Heathcote. “I wonder, Violet, if you could see your way to calling me Heathcote.”

She held his gaze, and through that simple connection told him that she, too, felt the link, the quiet but steady, unobtrusive but very real connection that was forming between them. Then she dipped her head in acquiescence. “I would be honored to call you Heathcote.”

Another second passed, then she drew her fingers from his clasp and waved him to a chair. “Please, sit, and tell me what has happened.”

“As to that, I wondered if you would care to take the air? We can talk as we walk. Green Park isn’t far, and, indeed, I have little to report.” Smiling a touch tentatively, he added, “It would be pleasant to get more from my journey here than just a few minutes of your time.”

She laughed, twin dimples appearing in her cheeks. “Indeed, sir, and I would welcome spending more minutes with you in a gentler setting.”

“We’re in agreement then.” Smiling more confidently, he offered his arm. “Let’s send Mostyn to find your coat and bonnet, then we’ll set out to indulge ourselves.”

Five minutes later, her hand tucked in the crook of Montague’s arm, Violet paced down Albemarle Street and around the corner into the busier thoroughfare of Piccadilly. The closeness engendered through their mutual endeavors of the previous day had developed further, and, it seemed, strengthened, and not just on her part, but on his—on Heathcote’s—too. She felt a silly, giddy recklessness at the feel of him so close, so protectively strong by her side, a sense of solid male that played, alluring and comforting at the same time, on her female senses. As for the implication of his request that she call him by his given name, she decided she couldn’t dwell on that—not while she was in public. Later, she would indulge, when she was on her own and there was no likelihood she might have to behave with any sense.

There were too many others strolling the pavements for them to safely speak of the investigation; instead, they walked, taking in the sights of the fashionable carriages that rattled over the cobbles, some ferrying ladies, others tooled by exquisites of varying degrees, all drawn by high-bred horses. They crossed Berkeley Street and paced past the long façade of Devonshire House, then at Clarges Street, they waited for an opening between the carriages and crossed the road, and walked on through the gate giving access to Green Park.

Immediately faced with the Reservoir, they turned right; eventually passing the fountain that marked the Reservoir’s western end, they headed into the quieter walks beyond. The trees lining the walks were large and old; their leaves had already turned, and many had fallen, creating a carpet of golds and browns.

After glancing around and confirming that there were no others near enough to overhear, she looked up at Montague. “So, my dear Heathcote, what information do you have to report?”

His lips lifted and his eyes met hers, and for a moment they indulged in an unvoiced understanding, but then he looked ahead and dutifully divulged, “As discussed last night, I’ve located the firm that holds the registry for those shares. Had they been a London firm, I would have had more to report today, but, sadly, they’re located in Manchester, so I’ve couriered a request to them.”

She arched her brows. “What, exactly, did you ask for—and how likely are they to respond with the information we need?”

He glanced at her. “You’re right—normally, a request to know who holds a particular share certificate wouldn’t get far. The firm would treat that as confidential information. However, I called their attention to the fact that Sir Hugo Halstead had previously owned that certificate, which is a fact they’ll be able to verify. Each certificate is numbered, so we are asking after a particular certificate—they are not interchangeable, like bank notes.” When she nodded her understanding, he went on, “I explained that consequent to Lady Halstead’s recent death, I was assisting in a review of the Halsteads’ affairs prior to the same being submitted to the court for probate, and that I needed to clarify and provide proof of the transfer of that share certificate.”

Meeting her eyes, he grinned. “No firm operating in the financial arena will unnecessarily allow their name to be cited in court proceedings, certainly not in relation to any unresolved question. They will want this matter clarified and dealt with before the estate is passed in for probate. I fully expect them to respond to my request with the name of the current owner, but, as they are in Manchester, that information won’t reach me until tomorrow at the earliest, and perhaps not until the next day.”

They strolled on; after several minutes, she asked, “Is there anything else you—we—might do to learn what happened to that share certificate?”

He shook his head. “It’s as I explained last night. If we start asking openly, trying to locate the current owner, we will almost certainly find that person alerted to our inquiries before we learn his name. If it’s the murderer who is the current owner, then we can all but guarantee he’ll flee, and that long before we can get to his door.” He glanced at her. “Asking in the way that I have, within the fraternity, so to speak, and we are, after all, a very discreet lot, then the Manchester firm will think to protect the current owner from having to deal with whatever court mess might otherwise ensue and so will give me his name, assuming I will then simply find proof of a chain of transfer, all legal and aboveboard, and no one will hear of the matter again.”

“Ah—I see.” After a moment, she met his eyes, quiet amusement showing clearly in her own. “I will be sure to repeat that to Penelope—who is certain to champ at the proverbial bit when she hears of the delay.”

He laughed and closed his hand over hers where it rested on his sleeve. In pleasant and mutual accord, they ambled on beneath the autumnal trees.

But by the time they turned and headed back toward Albemarle Street, along with a sense of regret over soon losing Montague’s—Heathcote’s—company, Violet’s mind had thrown up an even darker thought. And once she’d thought of it, it blossomed, overriding all else, all other considerations.

She waited until they were once more back in the front hall, and Mostyn left them, giving her privacy in which to bid Heathcote farewell. Holding out both hands to him, she caught his gaze as he took her fingers in his warm and comforting clasp. “These inquiries of yours . . .” She paused, then quietly said, “I cannot forget that Runcorn was murdered, and, it seems, the motive was to conceal who stole this certificate.” She let her concern—real and welling—show in her eyes, then simply said, “You will be careful, won’t you?” Feeling she’d pressed too far, she hurried to add, “I know it’s not my place, but—”

“On the contrary.” He held her gaze, then, very deliberately, he raised one of her hands and pressed a kiss—a gentle, warm, but entirely chaste kiss—to the backs of her fingers. “If there is any right in question, then, my dear Violet, I freely cede it to you.”

The ensuing moment grew intense. Locked in each other’s eyes, searching the other’s eyes, they each looked for, and saw, found . . .

He hesitated, then said, “Now is not the time. But after this is over and all is settled . . . ?”

She hesitated not at all. She nodded, and for good measure stated, “Yes. When this is all over . . . we will talk about this then.”

His lips eased into a slow, gentle smile.

She returned it. Her heart gave a silly little leap when, releasing her hands, he raised one finger and with its back lightly caressed her cheek.

The breath he drew in as he lowered his hand seemed tight. “I must go.”

Wordless, she nodded. As he set his hat on his head, she moved past him and opened the door.

As he crossed the threshold, she said, “I’ll be sure to pass the gist of all you said on to Barnaby, and Stokes, if he calls.”

Gaining the pavement, he turned and flashed her a smile. “And you’ll have to tell Penelope and Griselda, too, because if you don’t, they’ll drag it from you.”

Violet laughed. With a jaunty salute, Montague strode away down the street.

She watched him go, then closed the door on a happy sigh.

W
ell, well, well! Who would have thought it of Walter?”

He certainly hadn’t. He’d always imagined Cynthia’s get to be a mere cypher, little more than a stuffed doll—the expected heir—that she and Wallace trotted out for public consumption whenever a son’s existence might improve their standing.

“I would never have imagined that Walter would have the intestinal fortitude to do anything so wonderfully,
outrageously
criminal. And so very socially unacceptable! And now . . .” His smile knew no bounds. “Oh, how the mighty are fallen!”