The Masterful Mr. Montague (6 page)

Milborne blinked, now clearly uneasy. “I . . . see.”

Meaning he no longer had any idea of what was going on, or which way he should bend. Milborne glanced again at the bed, at the frail body lying in it.

A heavy knock sounded on the front door.

Montague looked at Violet.

“Tilly will get it,” she said.

That Tilly had, indeed, opened the front door was immediately apparent as a rumble of male voices in the hall downstairs reached them.

Several male voices. Stokes had brought others—at least two others—with him.

Straining his ears, Montague caught an inflection, a certain deep drawl, one rather more sophisticated than Stokes’s raspy growl, and wondered . . . suddenly hoped.

Sure enough, when, a bare minute later, Stokes walked into the room, the tall, elegant figure of Barnaby Adair appeared behind him.

If knowing Stokes had arrived had brought relief, Adair’s coming with him meant salvation was assured.

Violet watched the large, dark-haired, and dark-featured man pause just inside the doorway, his open greatcoat hanging from broad shoulders, his eyes—slate gray and oddly piercing—taking in the entire bedroom and all in it in one single, comprehensive glance. That glance ended on Montague, and the man inclined his head.

“Montague.”

Montague nodded back. “Inspector Stokes.” With one hand, Montague indicated Violet. “This is Miss Matcham, the late Lady Halstead’s companion of many years. And this”—Montague turned to the doctor—“is Doctor Milborne, who, I understand, has been overseeing her ladyship’s health for several years.”

“Ah—yes, about five years . . .” Milborne looked confused; he glanced from Stokes to Montague. “Did you say ‘Inspector’?”

“Yes—he was referring to me.” The dark-haired man—Stokes—moved toward the bed. “Inspector Basil Stokes of Scotland Yard. We”—Stokes glanced back at his companion, who had curly blond hair, was most definitely a gentleman by his dress, and was lingering in the doorway—“have reason to wish to satisfy ourselves as to the nature of her ladyship’s death.” The slate gray gaze returned to pin Milborne. “So, Doctor, what say you? Is this a natural death, or something the Yard needs to be aware of?”

“Ah . . .” Milborne was out of his depth and floundering; he patently did not know which way to leap. “I . . . ah, had thought it might be,
could
be, purely the result of old age. I mean, although she appears to have struggled, well, she might have been gasping her last, as it were, and—”

“Were her eyes closed, her lids lowered, when she was found?”

The question, uttered in an urbane voice that instantly commanded attention—and respect—came from the tall, blond man who had accompanied Stokes. Strolling into the room, he politely inclined his head to Violet, nodded briefly—as to a friend—to Montague, then glanced at Milborne, before halting by the bed and looking down at Lady Halstead’s face.

After an instant, the man glanced up at Milborne, then at Violet. “The Honorable Barnaby Adair. I’m a consultant to the Yard, and often work with Stokes. Especially”—his distinctly blue gaze returned to Lady Halstead’s face—“in cases involving members of society.”

It took Milborne another moment to digest that, then some of his tension left him. “In that case—”

Violet spoke over him. “Her eyes were shut—the lids lowered—when we found her.” At Adair’s cocked brow, she elaborated, “Tilly, her ladyship’s maid, and I came up to wake her as we usually did, and found her.” Violet nodded at the bed. “Just like that. We didn’t move her at all.”

“Excellent.” Adair crouched and looked at Lady Halstead’s face from close quarters, then angled a glance at Milborne. “Any bleeding in the eyes?”

Milborne shifted. “A little. But she’s old, and—” He broke off, then bent, raised one of the lids, and looked again. When he straightened, one could see that he’d paled. “Yes. There’s unnatural bleeding in the eyes.”

“Hmm.” Adair slowly straightened. “That’s usually a sign of suffocation, isn’t it?”

Milborne’s lips tightened, but he nodded. “Yes.”

Adair glanced at Violet. “Was there anything else in the room when you found her—or anything you’ve noticed that’s missing?”

Violet stepped forward and looked at Lady Halstead. “The only thing that’s wrong, that’s out of place, is that pillow. The one that’s been pushed under her head. Her ladyship never slept with that many pillows, but that one was left on that chair by the bed”—she nodded at the armchair—“because she needed it behind her when she sat up.”

“So,” Adair all but purred, “when you and her ladyship’s maid arrived with her breakfast tray, had it been a normal morning, you would have found Lady Halstead lying asleep on one less pillow, and the pillow presently beneath her head would have been waiting on the chair for you to place at her back when she sat up.” Adair slanted a quietly encouraging look at Violet. “Is that correct, Miss Matcham?”

Meeting his eyes, Violet raised her chin and nodded. “That’s precisely correct, Mr. Adair.”

Adair glanced at Stokes. “I believe that settles it.” He looked at Milborne. “So, Doctor, what’s your verdict?”

Milborne looked grim but dutifully intoned, “Death by suffocation by persons unknown.”

Violet glanced at Stokes and saw him smile a positively sharklike smile.

“Murder, then,” Stokes said.

Milborne grimaced. “As you will have it so, but I warn you the family aren’t going to like it.”

Stokes’s face darkened and his response came in a dark growl. “
I
don’t like it and I’m not even related. But I’m sure you’re not saying that the Halsteads are the sort of family who would happily sweep murder under the carpet in order to avoid a little inconvenience?”

Milborne shifted and reached for his black bag. “No. Of course not.” Lifting the bag, he moved to pass around Stokes. “If you have no further need of me, I’ll go downstairs and write the certificate, then take my leave.”

Stokes watched him go. As Milborne passed through the doorway, Stokes narrowed his eyes and raised his voice. “Just make sure you send the certificate to the Yard.”

R
ight, then.” Basil Stokes sank into a chair midway down one side of the dining table in Lady Halstead’s Lowndes Street house. Barnaby drew out the chair to his left as Montague, having seen Miss Violet Matcham to the chair opposite Stokes, settled into the chair opposite Barnaby.

Stokes regarded Violet Matcham with no expression but with a degree of sympathy. He was not a naturally empathetic man, yet it required little insight to comprehend that Miss Matcham had been sincerely fond of her late employer. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and the tip of her nose was a trifle pink, but she was making every effort to remain calm and composed. Something Stokes appreciated.

Once the doctor had quit the scene, Stokes had sent one of the constables he’d brought with him back to the Yard to summon their medical man to take charge of the body. He’d left the other constable on guard in the room, watching over the deceased and any evidence yet to come to light.

Stokes and Barnaby had accompanied Miss Matcham and Montague downstairs to the kitchen, and there had met the other two members of the small household—her ladyship’s maid and the cook. Both had exhibited a mixture of alarm and resolution; if Stokes was any judge—and he was—the alarm was caused more by the unexpected necessity of having anything to do with a crime and the police, while the resolution stemmed from the same devotion that was keeping Violet Matcham’s spine poker straight.

They’d all liked the old lady and wanted her murderer caught.

None of the three women showed even the vaguest sign of guilt, nor even any hint of an uneasy conscience.

Which suited Stokes; he was quite happy to cross them off his list of suspects. Although he would interview each of them, his focus would be on learning everything they knew that might be relevant.

Leaning forward, resting his forearms on the polished mahogany, he took a moment to order his thoughts, then fixed his gaze on Miss Matcham’s face. “I understand you’ve been with her ladyship for several years.”

She nodded. “Yes. Eight years this August.”

“And before?”

“I was companion to Lady Ogilvie in Bath. I was with her for five years—from soon after my father died.”

“And your father was?”

“The Reverend Edward Matcham of Woodborough—it’s in the Vale of Pewsey.” She hesitated, then added, “My mother had died several years previously, and I was left to find my way.”

Stokes appreciated her candor. “Thank you. With regard to her ladyship’s murder, the first question I must ask is whether you have any reason to suppose that anyone—anyone at all—might have wished the old lady dead.”

Violet hesitated, very aware of the two shrewd gazes trained on her—Stokes’s slate gray, hard and uncompromising, and Adair’s quietly observant blue—then she lifted her chin and firmly stated, “I have no reason to suspect that anyone bore her ladyship any degree of animosity. I’m not aware of any direct quarrel, recent or otherwise, much less any clash of the sort that might lead to murder. However”—she glanced at Montague, seated alongside her—“as Mr. Montague can explain in greater detail than I, Lady Halstead had become . . . concerned over a matter of unidentified payments into her bank account.” Returning her gaze to Stokes’s dark-featured face, she went on, “Over the past week, her ladyship had grown increasingly intent on learning what those payments were about—where they came from, who the money really belonged to, and why whoever it was was using her account.”

Stokes looked at Montague. “That’s the reason her ladyship gave you that letter?” Montague had already shown him the letter of authority Lady Halstead had written and signed; Stokes would lay odds Montague himself had dictated it—the letter gave him virtually unlimited authority to involve himself in Lady Halstead’s affairs. It was one reason why Montague was sitting at the table now; even had Stokes wished to exclude him, he wouldn’t have been able to. As it happened, given it had been Montague who had summoned him, and Stokes already knew the man, knew his caliber, Stokes was very happy to have him present—another pair of observant eyes and ears to call on.

Montague nodded. “I needed the scope so I could freely investigate this matter of the odd payments into her account.”

Montague opened his mouth to continue, but Stokes held up a staying hand. “One moment.” Looking at Violet Matcham, he said, “I know what you’re going to tell me, but I have to ask. No tensions between yourself and her ladyship, or between her ladyship and her maid or cook?”

The look he got was predictably frosty. “No.” After a heartbeat’s pause, Miss Matcham added, “This was a very peaceful and contented household.” The past tense made it sound like a eulogy.

Stokes nodded and looked at Montague. “Tell me about these odd payments.”

Montague did, in concise and strictly chronological fashion, commencing from the moment he’d been approached by Violet Matcham on behalf of Lady Halstead. Stokes questioned how that had come about—how Lady Halstead had chosen Montague, someone she hadn’t previously dealt with. Consequently, they—Stokes, Adair, and Montague, too—learned of the enterprising notion the old lady had had of asking the question of
The Times
’s columnist.

Montague stared at the lady seated beside him. “So it was you who sent that question to
The Times
?”

“On behalf of Lady Halstead.” Miss Matcham colored. “I do apologize for any embarrassment or inconvenience the article might have caused, but it was the only way we could think of to quickly and reliably learn who would be best to approach over those odd payments.” She looked at Stokes. “Lady Halstead had grown seriously agitated and was in dire need of reassurance, and because of young Mr. Runcorn’s age, and therefore his inexperience, she didn’t feel able to place her faith in his findings alone.”

Montague had explained about Runcorn, of Runcorn and Son, her ladyship’s man-of-business.

Barnaby nodded. “I can understand that.” He met Stokes’s eye. “Old ladies can get distinctly querulous.”

Having met the old ladies to whom Barnaby was alluding, Stokes suppressed a snort and returned his gaze across the table. “So it’s possible that her ladyship was murdered because of her sudden and, by all accounts quite dogged, interest in these odd payments.” He looked from Miss Matcham to Montague. “So who knew about her ladyship’s concerns? Who had she told about the payments?”

Violet Matcham frowned. “Me. Tilly. And I suspect Cook would have heard me and Tilly talking.”

“In my office,” Montague said, “only I know the reason for Lady Halstead consulting me. I haven’t confided in anyone else. Runcorn, of course, knows, and so does his clerk, Pringle, but there’s only the two of them there.” Montague frowned, clearly checking his memory, then stated, “I can’t think of anyone else who would know. I haven’t yet inquired directly of the bank, and Runcorn had done no more than ask for the statements, which is nothing out of the ordinary and shouldn’t have occasioned any alarm.”

Stokes met Montague’s gaze. “Are you sure Runcorn himself isn’t responsible?”

Montague returned his regard. “Professionally, that’s not a question I would prefer to answer, but if you insist that I reply yea or nay, then I would have to give it as my opinion that Runcorn is as honest as the day is long.”

Violet Matcham nodded. “That would be my reading of him, too. He was quite sure, to begin with, that the payments must have come from some investment.”

Stokes grimaced. “If her ladyship’s interest in these odd payments is the motive behind her murder, that doesn’t leave us with many possible suspects.”

Violet Matcham’s expression blanked, then her eyes widened. “No, wait—all the Halsteads knew.”

Barnaby straightened. “Her ladyship’s family?”

“They were here for dinner—that’s a regular monthly event.” Violet paused, then said, “But I have to qualify—Lady Halstead didn’t mention, not in any way, the odd payments, but she did say that she was having her affairs and those of the estate put in order so that when she eventually died, there would be no questions concerning the estate.”