The Masterful Mr. Montague (32 page)

Even he could hear the gloating joy in his voice, the sound filling the quiet of his dressing room with openly malicious glee.

He reveled in it.

“And, oh, joy of joys, how
terribly perfect
if Walter is blamed for the murders, too!”

He honestly couldn’t imagine any happening that would more delight him.

It took several minutes before the euphoria engendered by that prospect drained sufficiently for his underlying, ever-present obsession to resurface. But once it had . . . he still wasn’t safe.

He had yet to fully secure his future.

He grimaced, but then turned thoughtful. “With the police focusing on Walter, perhaps now is the time to silence Miss Matcham?” He considered his reflection in his shaving mirror, tipping his head as he considered. “On the other hand, perhaps that’s a sign to hold back for just a little longer.” Eyes narrowing, he murmured, “But it would be unwise to wait too long—best if Miss Matcham’s death can be made to appear connected in some way . . .”

Several minutes ticked by, then his expression started to lighten. “Perhaps Miss Matcham might have an ‘accident’—something that will suggest that she might have killed herself out of remorse for the old lady’s and the maid’s murders . . . what if Miss Matcham was the one who’d had a lover? And that lover had, with Miss Matcham’s connivance, killed the old lady, the man-of-business, and the maid, but, in the end, the murders prove too much for Miss Matcham’s delicate sensibilities, so she kills herself, but takes the name of her lover to the grave . . .” He smiled. “Oh, yes. That will do nicely.”

He stood before his mirror and watched himself think things through.

Miss Matcham had yet to remember anything relevant, or, at least, she had yet to say anything to the police, or they would have come knocking at his door asking very awkward questions. He had no way of knowing whether the matter of the share certificate he’d stolen would ever surface, but if it did . . . the maid had surprised him in the old lady’s room; she’d seen him going through the share certificates, so she had had to die.

Given Miss Matcham and the maid had been close, he had to assume that the maid had mentioned finding him doing something she didn’t understand with her mistress’s papers to her friend.

Hence, for his peace of mind, Miss Matcham, too, had to depart this earth.

Until she did, until he could be certain there was no threat of exposure hanging over his head, he would never be able to relax and enjoy the fruits of his considerable labors.

So Miss Matcham had to die. The only questions remaining were: When? And: How?

Chapter 16

T
wo days later, Montague called in Albemarle Street in the afternoon. As he’d secretly hoped, he found Violet alone, sorting through Penelope’s correspondence.

When he halted before Penelope’s desk, Violet closed the leather-bound notebook she’d been jotting in and smiled delightedly up at him. “Penelope was summoned to bring Oliver to some family afternoon tea at her mother, Lady Calverton’s house, and Griselda seized the opportunity to catch up with her shop.” Violet surveyed the piles of letters haphazardly stacked all over Penelope’s desk. “I thought to make some inroads here, but it’s heavy going.”

“Come for a stroll.” Montague held out a hand. “We can walk around Berkeley Square while we share our reports.”

Violet’s eyes lit. “What an excellent idea!”

Five minutes later, with her rugged up in her pelisse, her bonnet tied firmly over her hair, and a scarf wound about her throat to ward off the brisk chill in the breeze, they set off along the pavement.

As they neared the square, she glanced at Montague—Heathcote. “Have you heard anything, learned anything more about the share certificate?” She was impatient to get on, to reach the end of the investigation so they could turn their minds to more personal pursuits, and she sensed, very clearly, that he felt the same.

He grimaced. “Not really. Initially, the share registry helpfully confirmed that I was correct in thinking that the Halsteads no longer owned those shares, but the registrar imparted nothing more. It required further, rather delicate, persuasion, including invoking the specter of an official demand from Scotland Yard, to convince the registrar to divulge who currently holds those shares.” Pausing to open the gate to the park that filled the center of Berkeley Square, he waited until they were strolling the gravel walks, side by side, with her hand tucked in the crook of his arm, before continuing, “I trust I’ve now achieved that task—it was rather like chipping away at a stone, but I’m hopeful the next communication I receive from Manchester will contain the critical information. That said”—he met her eyes—“I seriously doubt the murderer will be the current owner.”

“You think he’ll have sold the shares?”

“I can’t see why he would have taken the certificate if he wasn’t after the money. And to convert the certificate to cash, he has to have sold it.”

For several minutes, they paced in silence, then she asked, “Is there any way you can trace such a sale?”

“Courtesy of the share registry, I’ve confirmed that the Halsteads’ ownership of the shares ceased approximately eleven months ago—meaning the new owner presented the certificate and registered the transfer of ownership at that point. But he might have bought the certificate earlier—not everyone is prompt in registering such things, and as there were no dividends paid until very recently, I can’t tell from anything in the Halsteads’ accounts exactly when the certificate passed out of their hands.”

“When it was stolen.”

“Correct.” He hesitated, then said, “What I have done—the only thing I could think of to do to advance our cause while waiting for news from Manchester—is to estimate how much money the shares might have been exchanged for, and I am presently engaged in checking whether any such sum was deposited into any of the Halstead or Camberly accounts between fifteen months and nine months ago.”

“Do you think they—the murderer, whoever they are—would have put the money into one of their accounts?”

He grimaced. “It’s a long shot, but given this family’s arrogance, I suspect they might not realize that bank accounts are records that can be searched, at least by the right people if approached in the right way.”

“And you know the ways.”

He nodded and met her eyes. “But don’t tell Stokes—or at least, don’t labor the point. He won’t be grateful.”

“Ah, I see.” She smiled, looking ahead, idly surveying the numerous nursemaids and their charges with whom they presently shared the park.

They’d circumnavigated the park; as they approached the gate through which they’d entered, he said, “You should probably warn the others that while I will check, I don’t expect to find any hint of the money in any of the family’s accounts.”

She studied his face as she passed through the gate he held for her. “You think they’ll have used the money for something else?”

Joining her on the pavement, he nodded. “I can’t see why they would have gone to the bother of stealing the certificate if they weren’t in need of the money they could raise with it—and if they needed money, then, presumably, there was a reason for that need, something that made it imperative for them to get their hands on that much cash.”

Tucking her hand once more in the crook of his arm—something in her delighting in the familiarity, that he expected and accepted that she should—she nodded. “That makes sense.”

He glanced at her, his gaze traveling her face. “So that’s my news. What of you and the others?”

She sighed; leaning on his arm, she tipped her head closer to his to say, “Sadly, the rest of us have even less to report. Stokes and Barnaby are now convinced that Walter’s alibis are sound for all three murders, so he has been officially struck from the list of suspects. And while they are not overly impressed by the caliber of his witnesses, they are inclined to believe William’s alibis for at least two of the murders.”

“So William is still a possible culprit if the murders were the result of a conspiracy—if it was more than one of them doing the killings.”

She nodded. “I believe that’s what Stokes and Barnaby think at present. And from what I know of them, I could readily imagine William and Maurice working together, or even William and Hayden. Or even William and both those two. As for the female half of the investigation, Penelope and I completed a very discreet review of the three Halstead and Camberly ladies’ alibis this morning. All appear to be sound, although as Penelope said, it’s still possible that one or other played some supporting role. Regardless, we no longer believe it would have been possible for any of the three ladies in question to have been present at any of the murder scenes at the times of the murders.”

Montague digested that. As they neared Penelope and Barnaby’s house, he murmured, “So it keeps coming back to the Halstead men—Mortimer, Maurice, William, and Hayden. Each of the three murders was committed by one of them.”

“Indeed.” Climbing the steps to the Adairs’ door, Violet plied the knocker, then turned to him. “And we still have yet to discover which one, or more, were involved.”

He nodded. “Whether there was more than one acting in concert, or whether the theft of the share certificate and all three murders can be laid at one man’s door.”

At that point, Mostyn opened the door. Meeting Violet’s eyes, Montague arched a brow and saw her smile in understanding; inwardly relishing the instinctive connection, feeling oddly domesticated, he followed her inside.

T
he following morning, Barnaby and Stokes called to see Montague.

As they settled in the chairs before Montague’s desk, Stokes put their first and most burning question. “Have you heard who owns those shares yet?”

Leaning back in the admiral’s chair on the opposite side of the desk, Montague grimaced. “No. But—damn it—that registrar will have to bend soon.” Montague studied Stokes. “Either that, or you’ll have to go up there and loom over him.”

Stokes grunted. “For his sake, I hope it won’t come to that.” He paused, then said, “Send word as soon as you do hear. This case is dragging on too long, and the Chief is getting anxious.”

Montague inclined his head. “So how goes your hunting?”

“Mixed,” Barnaby said. “Violet said she’d mentioned our progress with William’s alibis. Two—those for her ladyship’s murder and Tilly’s murder—we’re inclined to accept. We found several others as well as the tavern staff—others William hadn’t known about and who he doesn’t know well enough to bribe—who could confirm that he was there on those two nights, at times that make it implausible that he could have reached Lowndes Street in time to commit the murders.”

“But,” Stokes said, his voice turning darkly grim, “William’s alibi for the night of Runcorn’s murder is too reliant on good friends of questionable character to pass muster. And none of the others—not a one—have alibis that are sound for any of the three murders.” Stokes leaned forward; as if reading from a list, he recited, “Maurice Halstead says he was engaged with a lady whose name he declines to provide on two of the nights in question, and on the third, he believes he was visiting some den or hell, but he separated from the friends with whom he went there and can’t remember when he left, or with whom, or where he went after that.”

“In other words,” Barnaby dryly interjected, “he was inebriated to the point of having no clear memory of where he was or what he did, much less who he was with.”

“So Maurice remains a suspect for all three murders. Then we come to Mortimer Halstead—a fairly simple case, you might think. But no—Mortimer attended a dinner with his wife on two of the nights in question, but in both cases, his wife returned home in their carriage alone, leaving Mortimer in impromptu meetings that evolved out of the post-dinner conversations, and he subsequently made his way home on his own. On the night of Runcorn’s murder, Mortimer attended some formal embassy soiree that commenced early in the evening and to which his wife did not go. He says he was home in good time, but the Halsteads have separate bedrooms, so Mrs. Halstead cannot verify when her husband got to bed on that night, or on any other.”

“Hayden Halstead,” Barnaby said, “proved to live a rather more interesting life than he attempted to lead us, and his parents, to believe. His stated alibis were that he was at home on each of the three nights, and retired to bed and slept the sleep of the innocent all night long.” His expression serious, Barnaby shook his head. “I donned an everyman disguise and consorted with the Halstead footmen at the local public house. It seems all the Halstead staff are well aware that Hayden retires to his rooms—and then sneaks down the back stairs and goes out on the town. When we taxed Hayden with our insights, he wilted and corrected his statement.”

Stokes snorted. “But the alibis he gave this time are no better than the first lot—he was out with friends carousing, he has no idea where, and as for the time . . . not even the friends we hunted down and spoke with have any real clue.”

Barnaby grunted. “Indeed, the friends were so clueless it was impossible to be sure that Hayden remained with them each night, through the hours the murders were committed, nor is it possible to say whether Hayden was truly inebriated to the point of being incapable, because all his friends certainly were.”

Stokes shook his head. “You would think that with three separate murders and three different nights it would be an easy matter to discount at least one of them, but no. And, worse, given that they are all family, all related, in this case we have to allow for a very real possibility of some level of conspiracy.” Stokes straightened, exasperation clear in his face. “And if
that’s
the case, then we’re never going to be able to get far with these alibis.”

“And,” Barnaby said, “as soon as you start to entertain the possibility of a conspiracy—and yes, I absolutely agree we must—then you bring Camberly back into the picture.”

When Montague frowned, Barnaby explained, “We’d discounted Camberly as a suspect because of the involvement of a Halstead male in Runcorn’s murder, and because we assumed we were only dealing with one murderer. If there’s a conspiracy, then Camberly might have murdered Lady Halstead or Tilly.”

“We have Camberly’s alibis,” Stokes said, “but have yet to check them.”

“That said,” Barnaby countered, “Camberly’s alibis appear more substantial, or at least more likely to be able to be substantiated. He said he was in late sittings, or at meetings with other politicians, and those meetings do frequently run until four in the morning or later. His alibis might well be sound, but we haven’t yet checked.” He met Montague’s gaze. “That’s next on our list. But have you learned anything further regarding the Halsteads’ and Camberlys’ finances?”

Montague nodded. “I had word first thing this morning that a quiet perusal of the Halstead and Camberly bank accounts shows no large sums of a size that might be all, or even a large part, of any payment received for the shares.”

Stokes grimaced. “Well, that was a long shot.”

Montague shrugged. “Presumably whoever took the share certificate sold it and used the money for whatever reason he had for stealing the shares in the first place.”

Barnaby nodded. “He—at least one of the Halstead males—needed money desperately.”

“Maybe so,” Stokes said, “but why murder, not once but three times—”

“And try for a fourth victim in Violet,” Montague reminded him.

Stokes inclined his head. “Indeed—four times. So why is he so willing to murder again and again to hide . . . what? Stealing a share certificate from his mother?”

“No.” Barnaby’s blue gaze locked on Stokes’s face. “Not simply to hide the theft but to protect his station, his reputation—which the theft alone might threaten, but, even more, I’d wager he doesn’t want the reason he was forced to steal coming out.”

Stokes weighed the words, then nodded. “That sounds more like it. There’s something more than just the theft—there’s whatever necessitated it.”

“In one way, that motive’s reassuring.” When Stokes cocked a cynically disbelieving brow, Barnaby grinned. “It means that our murderer—indeed, all our suspects, all the actors in this drama—are unlikely to run away, much less vanish. Not when the principal motive for this murderer is to ensure he can cling to his social position, that nothing damages it.”

Montague said, “I don’t disagree, but such a motive makes it less likely that William is the murderer.”

“The principal murderer,” Barnaby conceded, “but it doesn’t mean that he, for whatever reason, didn’t help Maurice, or Mortimer, or Camberly, by killing Runcorn.”