The Masterful Mr. Montague (4 page)

The man seated next to Constance stirred. “What’s she got against the name Alexandrina, then?” William Halstead’s words were fractionally slurred.

If Maurice was the social black sheep, William was the family’s pariah. Violet was certain he attended Lady Halstead’s dinners in order to get at least one good meal a month, but even more because he knew his presence severely disturbed his brothers and sister, and their spouses, all of whom viewed William much as they would a cockroach, one they could sadly not squash.

The youngest of the Halstead children, William was always the most soberly dressed, in a plain black suit that was only just passable as suitable attire for a gentry dining table.

“Actually”—Wallace Camberly spoke for what Violet thought was the first time since they’d sat at the table—“I understand the boot’s on the other foot, so to speak, and it was more that she favors the name Victoria over all others.”

The reasonable and, coming from Camberly, most likely informed comment defused that topic, effectively ending it.

Seated beside Cynthia, Wallace Camberly was, Violet judged, even more ambitious than the lady he’d taken to wife. However, unlike Cynthia, he had no stake in the Halstead family’s internecine battles and largely remained aloof, commenting only when some subject interested him. As usual, he was quietly but fashionably dressed, as befitted his station. Violet knew him to be cold and utterly ruthless in pursuit of his goals, but he assiduously played by the rules as he perceived them—because that served him best in the long run, and if something did not benefit him, he didn’t waste time or energy on the matter.

The Halstead family sniping did nothing for him, so he ignored it.

Wallace’s lead was largely followed by his son, Walter Camberly, seated opposite, between Violet and William. Although already twenty-seven years old, Walter had yet to settle on any occupation; he drifted through life, apparently aimlessly. Violet wasn’t sure how Walter filled his days, but as Cynthia ruled that roost with an iron fist, Violet doubted that Walter derived much joy from his outwardly unfettered existence.

Like Violet, Walter kept his head down and let the conversational volleys fly past. The others of the younger generation—Mortimer and Constance’s children, Hayden, presently twenty-three years old, and his sister, Caroline, just twenty—likewise endured, rather than enjoyed, these evenings. They rarely made a comment of any sort. As far as Violet knew, the younger Halsteads were ordinary, unremarkable young people; if she had to guess, she would have said they found the Halstead dinners utterly boring but were too polite, and too reliant on their parents’ goodwill, to do anything but attend and remain silent. They spoke when spoken to but contributed little.

Then again, not attracting the attention of any of their Halstead elders was undeniably wise.

Mortimer fastidiously patted his lips with his napkin and again made a bid to seize the stage. “I believe we will be advising that the new queen meet with the Irish representatives at some point—I may have to travel to Ireland as part of the delegation.”

“Indeed?” Cynthia reached for the sauceboat. “Who knows? They may make you a permanent secretary over there.” She glanced at Constance. “My dear, you will have my sincerest sympathy if you are forced to relocate to Ireland.”

Mortimer’s face mottled. “Don’t be absurd! I’m held in far too high esteem, my opinions too highly valued for the Home Secretary to even contemplate burying me in Ireland.” Mortimer halted, belatedly realizing he’d risen to Cynthia’s bait. His gaze locked on his sister, lips compressing, he drew in a breath and held it for a second, as if pulling back from the brink of what, from experience, Violet knew could be a rapid descent into a cutting exchange of barbed insults. As the fraught moment passed, Mortimer shifted his pale gaze from Cynthia to Lady Halstead.

As usual, Lady Halstead remained unmoved by the vicious, almost violent undercurrents swirling about her table as she steadily sawed and ate her roast beef.

With a certain deliberation, Mortimer set aside his napkin. “How are you, Mother? I do hope the exertion of having us all to dine isn’t too draining.”

Lady Halstead’s brows faintly arched as she glanced up the table. “I’m well enough—as well as can be expected at my age. Thank you for asking, Mortimer.”

Cynthia immediately leapt in with a solicitous comment, one Constance then felt compelled to top. Not to be outdone, Maurice noted that Lady Halstead was looking a touch paler, but otherwise seemed to be “up to snuff.” For several minutes, Lady Halstead had to exert herself to fend off her children’s patently insincere interest.

Mortimer sought to end the discussion by stating, “I daresay, Mama, that you have many long years ahead of you yet.”

“Perhaps,” William said, now slouching in his chair, his hands sunk in his pockets. “But in any case, I hope you’ve got your affairs in order.” His dark gaze swept his siblings. “Heaven help us if there’s any question over the estate once you’re gone.”

Violet fully sympathized with the comment, but, of course, Mortimer, Cynthia, Constance, and even Maurice took it badly. The resulting furor broke over William’s head and looked set to last for quite some time—

Lady Halstead set down her cutlery and clapped her hands sharply. “Quiet! Oh, do be
quiet
.” As the voices faded, she picked up her cutlery again and returned her attention to her plate. “If you must know, I’ve asked Runcorn—the young man who has taken over from his father—to review my affairs and those of the estate and ensure that all is in order.” She glanced up briefly, her gaze bleakly severe. “Although I have no intention of dying just yet, rest assured that when I do, there will be no uncertainty concerning the estate.”

Silence held the table for a moment, then quiet mutterings rose, all to do with “young Runcorn” and whether he was up to the mark.

Violet glanced at Lady Halstead, then followed her lead in ignoring the rumblings.

As Tilly came in to clear the table prior to laying out the desserts, Violet wondered, as she had many times over the past eight years, how it came to be that a lady as kind and gentle as Lady Halstead had ended with a family like this, in which all the members were selfish and self-serving, albeit to variable degrees.

D
amn it!” He peered at the reflection in the round shaving mirror. With a vicious jerk of his wrist, he plucked the stray hair from his chin, then half straightened, turning his face from side to side, confirming that all was as he wished it to be.

Beyond his shoulders, the paneling of his dressing room was barely lit by the single lamp he’d brought in. He found the gloom comforting. This was his most private place, the place where he made his plans, refined and adjusted them.

In the mirror, he met his eyes. “She isn’t even close to dying. Here I’ve been patiently waiting for her to fade and pass on, and instead she’s rattling on . . . and now, damn it all, she’s got this young blighter looking into the estate’s finances.”

Straightening fully, he forced himself to think through this new, unexpected, and unsettling development. “Will he find it? That’s the question.”

After a minute, he went on, “If he does . . .”

Several moments later, he shook his head. “Even if he doesn’t realize,
she
will. He’ll bring it to her attention in some way, even if only by
not
including it on some list. And once she realizes, she’ll start asking questions—I know she will. She won’t simply let it rest.”

His escalating tension rendered the last words sharp enough to cut.

As the sound faded, he continued following his thoughts.

The pervasive silence of the night was broken only by the distant ticking of a clock.

Eventually, he drew himself up and, in the mirror, looked himself in the eye. “I can’t afford to have it come to light—not now, not ever. So I’ll have to take care of it. I won’t be able to breathe easily again until I’m safe. Obviously, there are others I’ll have to silence, too, but . . . one step at a time.”

That had been his private motto for as long as he could recall; thus far it had served him well.

Chapter 2

M
ontague hadn’t previously realized how satisfying bringing relief to those who found financial matters overwhelming could actually be. It was, he now saw, a facet of his professional activities that he had failed to appreciate but should acknowledge and, indeed, take more pride in.

After leaving the house in Lowndes Street, the satisfaction of having in some small part allayed Lady Halstead’s immediate anxiety had stayed with him through the rest of the day and the routinely uneventful evening that had followed, and had fired him to set out first thing that morning to consult with Lady Halstead’s man-of-business.

While her ladyship appeared to have no suspicions of Runcorn, Montague would make up his own mind. Had the matter been one of embezzlement, he would have been far more skeptical, not to say distrustful, but as he strode along the pavement, he was more curious than concerned.

An entire day and evening of allowing Lady Halstead’s “irregularities” to percolate in the deepest recesses of his brain had still not brought forth any possible solution. Far from being discouraged, he was even more enthused; it had been a long time since anything financial had managed to surprise him, much less intrigue him to this degree.

He almost felt like a new man as he swung around the corner from Broad Street into Winchester Street. Runcorn’s offices were some way along, on the ground floor of a building near the elbow where Winchester Street turned north. There was a public house across the road, in the opposite corner of the bend, but the office of Runcorn and Son was flanked by a small printer on one side and a tobacconist’s on the other.

The area was not as heavily dominated by businesses connected with finance as those streets and alleys close by the Bank of England, where Montague and his peers hung their plaques, yet Winchester Street was only a few blocks from that more established sector, and Runcorn’s office was a decent set of premises for a minor firm.

Pausing before the door, Montague studied the faded lettering above the single broad window giving onto the pavement, then looked through the glass in the door itself, unsurprised to see lamps burning inside. The window allowed some light to penetrate, but not enough for a business that relied on reading figures upon figures.

Opening the door, he went in. Pausing to shut the door, he surveyed the interior, more out of professional curiosity than anything else. Although poky, the office was very recognizable, at least to him; file boxes were piled high along the shelving occupying every square foot of wall, and formed a man-high stack in one corner. Papers were spread over the narrow desk behind which a clerk labored; the middle-aged man had looked up as Montague entered.

Soberly attired in the proper manner for a clerk, the man rose and came forward. “Can I help you, sir?”

Already reaching into his inner pocket, Montague withdrew his card case, extracted a card, and handed it to the clerk. “If Mr. Runcorn could spare me a few minutes of his time, I would like to consult him on the matter of the Halstead estate.”

The clerk read the script on the card and his eyes widened. “Yes, of course, sir.” He waved to a pair of chairs set before the window. “Please take a seat, Mr. Montague, and I’ll inform Mr. Runcorn of your arrival.”

Montague inclined his head and obligingly sat. He had no doubt Runcorn would see him. Even if the younger man had not been long enough in the business to recognize his name, the clerk certainly had and would duly inform his master.

The clerk tapped on an inner door, then entered, shutting the door behind him.

A moment later, the door opened again, and a man of some twenty-eight or so summers stood for a moment in the doorway, then came swiftly forward, Montague’s card in his hand.

Montague rose as he approached.

“Sir!” Runcorn Junior halted before him, his round face alight with childlike pleasure. He met Montague’s eyes, his own alive with an equal mixture of delight and conjecture, then he drew breath, reined in his excitement, and inclined his head. “It’s an honor, Mr. Montague, to welcome you to Runcorn and Son. How may we assist you?”

Montague smiled approvingly. “I have a matter to do with the Halstead estate that I would like to discuss with you. If you have the time?”

Runcorn stepped back and waved to his office. “Of course.”

He ushered Montague into the office, and into a chair before the large and well-used desk. As Runcorn rounded it, making for his own chair, he offered, “The office was my father’s before me, of course. I’m the son.”

Montague found the young man’s enthusiasm infectious. “I had heard as much.” When Runcorn looked his question, Montague added, “From Lady Halstead.” Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew her letter of authority. “Before we proceed, you will need to read this.”

Sobering, Runcorn took the letter, unfolded it, read it, then, slowly refolding the sheet, he looked across the desk at Montague with a faint, puzzled frown.

Montague had no difficulty reading the thoughts passing through Runcorn’s head, not with such an open, expressive face; even the vague possibility of a suspicion he’d harbored that Runcorn might in some way be involved in the irregularities was rapidly fading. “Permit me to assure you that I am not here to poach your client, Mr. Runcorn.” Holding out his hand for the letter, when Runcorn surrendered it, Montague stowed it in his pocket once again.

“Then I admit I’m confused, sir.” Runcorn regarded him steadily. “Why are you here?”

“Lady Halstead requires . . . shall we say ‘reassurance’? . . . that whatever explanation you find for the irregularities in her bank account is the correct one. That is my focus and that alone. I will also state that I have no financial interest in this matter—I have agreed to provide my oversight purely out of professional curiosity.” Montague held Runcorn’s gaze. “I am quite intrigued, Mr. Runcorn, as to what the explanation for the unusual payments into her ladyship’s bank account might be.”

A moment passed, then Runcorn blinked and, as if assuring himself, said, “She wants reassurance . . . well, I can understand that. I haven’t been in this business for all that long, and . . .” After a second, he met Montague’s eyes. “To be candid, sir, I would greatly appreciate your guidance in this matter. I had thought the payments must be due to some old, long-forgotten investment, but they’re not—or, at least, that doesn’t appear to be the case.”

“No.” Montague hesitated, then added, “In fact, that’s what sparked my interest in this matter. I’ve been in this business for a very long time, yet I do not recognize the style of these payments. They don’t match any pattern I’ve seen before.”

“Exactly!” Runcorn held up his hands in a helpless gesture. “Pringle—he’s my clerk—and I have been wracking our brains trying to think of what they might be arising from, but as yet we’ve found no clue. And as the bank has noted the payments as cash deposits, it’s unlikely they’ll be able to shed light on the source, and”—Runcorn looked uncomfortable—“I didn’t think it wise to raise the issue with the bank at this time—not without Lady Halstead’s explicit permission, and not until we’ve eliminated all the more likely investment sources.”

Meeting Runcorn’s gaze, Montague nodded approvingly. “Indeed. We should only involve the bank once we’ve exhausted all other avenues of inquiry. No need to air our questions more widely than necessary.”

“So we thought.” Runcorn looked reassured. “Consequently, pursuing the angle that the payments relate to some forgotten investment, we’ve pulled the complete Halstead file—it goes back a good thirty years—and we’re combing through it page by page, but as yet we’ve had no luck.”

Montague considered, then nodded again. “At present, that’s the first question you must answer—regardless of appearances, are these payments in some way linked to some past investment? You are, indeed, taking the right tack.” He smiled at Runcorn’s expression of relief, which was almost immediately tempered by the realization of just what a huge undertaking lay before him. “Indeed,” Montague confirmed. “Learning the answer will take time and effort. However, as to my own approach, at this point I would be grateful if you would provide me with a copy of the statements of the bank account in question, going back to when these odd payments first appeared. Lady Halstead gave me her copy of the most recent statements, but I will need the earlier statements as well. In addition, I would like a list of all investments of any type, whether believed to be current or not, and all loans and deposits into interest-bearing securities.”

Runcorn was nodding; Lady Halstead’s letter gave Montague the authority to request such details and Runcorn permission to provide them. “We can give you a copy of the bank statements today—Pringle will have a spare. Likewise for the currently held investments, those that are presently paying income—we’ve been searching through those ourselves. But a listing of the wider investments—that will take a few days to compile.” He met Montague’s eyes. “To be sure we have the entire picture, all nearly thirty years’ worth of it.”

“That will be entirely satisfactory.” Montague smiled and rose. “I’m well aware that to survive, you must service your other clients as well.”

“Indeed.” Rising and coming around the desk to open the door, Runcorn grimaced. “It’s something of a juggling act at the moment, what with the Halstead review proving so much more time-consuming than anyone would have expected.”

Montague allowed himself to be ushered out and introduced to Pringle, who, on receiving Runcorn’s instructions, proved to be meticulously organized. He produced the required copies of the bank statements and the list of currently paying investments.

Pringle eyed a foot-high stack of papers on his desk. “As for the complete list of investments, that might take a few days.”

Montague nodded. “That’s entirely acceptable. It’s critically important in a case like this that the list be complete and accurate with respect to every detail. If that takes a few days more, so be it. An inaccurate list will get us nowhere.”

Pringle bowed. “Of course, sir. I’ll give it my best attention.”

Given what he had already noted of Pringle’s meticulousness, Montague had no doubt that that would prove more than adequate, and said so.

Leaving Pringle and his master both preening, he exited the office of Runcorn and Son and, with a spring in his step, set out to embark on his own researches.

M
ontague didn’t get a chance to return to the Halstead puzzle until late in the afternoon. On his return to his office, he’d been claimed by a succession of clients, interspersed with presentations from several different firms seeking capital.

Investment was the blood and bone of his business, so he’d had to put Lady Halstead and her mysterious payments aside.

Finally, as the light was fading from the sky beyond his window, he drew the thin file containing her ladyship’s bank statements and list of investments to the center of his blotter and opened it.

Two hours later, when Slocum tapped on his door to bid him good night, he’d reached the end of the laborious process of matching payments to investments, and found himself in complete agreement with Lady Halstead. Something extremely odd was going on with her bank account.

After farewelling Slocum, Montague sat back in his chair and stared at the papers spread out on the desk. Fingernail tapping on the chair arm, he finally let the explanation—the one possibility he hadn’t discounted—form in his brain.

“Concealment of funds.” He frowned. “But by whom, and why?”

In financial terms, concealment was the opposite of embezzlement but was almost always equally illegal in that money that needed to be concealed almost certainly had some element of illegality attached to it.

“So in pursuing the matter of these payments, I’m investigating what might reasonably be supposed to be the fruits of some crime.”

Should he involve the authorities?

He considered—in particular what he might report—and grimaced. “I can’t yet be certain that there is any crime—I certainly don’t have proof of one.”

And involving the police wouldn’t, he suspected, endear him to Lady Halstead and Miss Matcham. Not that such a consideration would stop him, but . . .

He tapped his finger more decisively. “If I had proof of a crime, my way would be clear, but until I do, the possibility exists that there’s some innocent explanation behind this.”

Scanning the documents splayed across his desk, he sifted through the possibilities of what he might do next. Tracing the payments, if that proved feasible, appeared to be the most direct route forward.

He had often assisted others with their investigations when said investigations had drifted into financial waters. This, however, was the first time he had initiated such an investigation himself rather than contributing to someone else’s undertaking. Courtesy of those previous, supporting roles, he now had connections, acquaintances who knew a great deal more about investigating than he did, who, he didn’t doubt, would be happy to assist him should he ask for their help.

“But at present this is an entirely financial matter, and when it comes to investigating finances . . .” He was the best man for the job. That was why, when it came to anything involving money, those others turned to him.

Huffing out a breath, he sat up and regathered all the documents. As he returned them to the Halstead file, he recalled his earlier restlessness, his wish for some new and more exciting project; apparently Fate had been listening.

Be careful what you wish for.

Even though she’d died when he’d been ten years old, he could still remember his mother telling him that.

On the other hand, his niggling inner voice—the voice of dissatisfaction—had been silent for the past few days, a definite improvement.

Leaving the Halstead file on his desk, he rose and turned down the lamp, then, by the light thrown through the windows from the flares in Chapel Court, he made his way through the outer office. As he reached for the doorknob, the atmosphere—the anticipation—that filled that particular moment when the others in the office left for the day replayed in his mind.