Horatia, Celia, Louise, and Helena all exchanged looks. Lady Osbaldestone, meanwhile, was frowning in concentration, as if dredging the depths of her memories—memories that extended fathoms deep.
After glancing at Lady Osbaldestone, Helena met Penelope’s eyes. “Sadly, we can’t help—those people do not move in our circles. However, I suspect darling Caro would know at least something of them—she and Michael are still so very heavily involved in government circles.”
“And,” Celia said, “you might ask Heather, especially about the Camberlys. Now that Breckenridge—Brunswick, I should say—has acceded to the earldom and assumed his father’s seat in the Lords, he’s become much more heavily involved in politics.”
“Indeed.” Lady Osbaldestone nodded. “And now Michael Anstruther-Wetherby has his seat in the Commons, he would know something of Camberly, too.” Lady Osbaldstone’s black gaze settled on Penelope. “Of course, I used to move in both political as well as government circles, but that was long ago. I can’t tell you anything about Mortimer Halstead or the Camberlys, but I remember Sir Hugo Halstead quite well, and I’m sorry to hear of his wife’s death.”
Penelope looked her interest. “You knew them?”
“Not to say knew, but he was in the Foreign Office, so of course I met him. He was considered a very sound man.”
“Can you tell us more about him—about them?” Penelope asked.
Lady Osbaldestone faintly arched her brows. “He spent most of his active years in India—he was a large, quite jovial, agreeable gentleman who was one of those people others trusted on sight. You can imagine how helpful that was in dealing with the natives. He was seconded to the East India Company for many, many years, and also assisted the Office of the Governor-General. His wife—I’ve been trying to think of her name, and I think it was Agatha—was a quiet lady, but pleasant company and a good foil for him. She accompanied him on his postings and was by his side for most of his service. At the time of Sir Hugo’s retirement, they were considered an exemplary couple who had made a very real contribution to King and Country.” Lady Osbaldestone paused, frowning again. “The only comment I recall regarding the Halstead children was that they bred true for looks, but sadly not for character.”
The front doorbell pealed, then feminine voices echoed in the hall. A minute later, the door opened and a youthful-looking matron of middle years led in a bevy of others. “Our apologies, Mama-in-law—we were delayed leaving Osterly Park. I will leave it to you to guess by whom.”
Horatia laughed and accepted a kiss on her cheek, then signaled to Grantley to produce more chairs. “As it happens, my dears, you’ve arrived at precisely the right time. Penelope here, and Griselda—who is Inspector Stokes’s wife—have presented us with a social query that we are unable to answer but on which several of you might have some insight to offer.”
Griselda’s head whirled as introductions were made; as had happened with the older ladies, the younger matrons showed no awareness of any great distinction between her class and theirs, at least not in this setting.
Grantley and two footmen ferried in more chairs and two fresh teapots, and finally everyone was seated and supplied with tea and cakes. Horatia fixed the newcomers with a commanding eye. “Mortimer Halstead and his wife, Constance—he holds a senior position with the Home Office—plus son, Hayden, and daughter, Caroline. Also Mr. Wallace Camberly, MP, and his wife, and their son, Walter. Whatever you know of these people, do share.”
“Mrs. Camberly’s name is Cynthia, and she was a Halstead—she’s Mortimer’s sister,” Penelope explained. “And there’s also a Maurice Halstead, who someone here might have heard of, and also a William, the youngest brother.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of Maurice,” the lady who had led the others in, Patience Cynster, said. She frowned. “But heavens, that was long ago, when I was first out in society. I was warned he was one to avoid.”
Penelope nodded. “The description we have is of a rake, an ageing roué, definitely a gamester and general profligate, but he’s thought to be harmless enough and can be charming.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Louise put in. “I remember him in the sense of warning the twins away from him.” She frowned. “But as I recall, he tended to hover on the outskirts of society, as it were.”
Penelope nodded encouragingly. “That sounds right.”
Several of the younger matrons had met the Camberlys, albeit only in passing. “My impression, for what it’s worth,” Honoria, Duchess of St. Ives, seated to Griselda’s left, said, “is that they are both exceedingly ambitious. Camberly for himself, for his advancement, and his wife to assist him in securing that.”
“And through that, securing her own advancement in the social ranks.” The lady who spoke was the Caro who had been referred to earlier. She nodded at Penelope. “I’ve met the Camberlys several times, and there’s no doubt that Camberly is pushy, but I would also say he’s careful and intelligent enough not to overreach. He’s building a solid reputation but is greedy for every little crumb of kudos and status he can legitimately garner to bolster his name. I expect he thinks to push for an undersecretary’s post after the next election.”
“What are they like as people?” Penelope asked.
Caro wrinkled her nose, took a sip of her tea, then, lowering the cup, said, “Not the sort of people you wish to claim as friends. Camberly is ruthless. Behind his easy smile and polished-to-a-gloss manners, he is utterly fixed on his goal, and one senses he would have no qualms over doing whatever he must to achieve it. His wife is equally ruthless, but in addition there’s an element of pettiness and spite there . . .” Caro paused, then concluded, “I can’t quite put my finger on what it actually is, but it’s very much a case of her viewing everything through the prism of what it might mean for her. I’ve come across the son only once, and, as often happens with overbearing parents, he’s something of a cypher and fades into the background.”
Penelope looked hopeful. “And the Halsteads?”
Caro pulled a face. “I’ve only met them once, and that in passing at a major function, but I have heard whispers about them from others—the sort of gossipy comments that are always floating about within government departments. I can’t vouch for their veracity, but if it will help, and I suspect you have other sources to check what mine have related, then . . .” Caro drew breath and went on, “I’ve heard that Mortimer, and Constance, too, are also ambitious, but with less reason, and far less likelihood of it coming to anything. Mortimer Halstead is known as something of a mediocre man—a pedant who is not intelligent enough to respond to new or unexpected situations. He’s considered sound in the general sense, but everyone, except presumably he and his wife, believe that he’s reached his level of competence and did so long ago, and is unlikely to move further up the Home Office tree.”
Shifting her gaze to Lady Osbaldestone, Caro said, “I have heard some wonder why he didn’t follow in his father’s footsteps into the Foreign Office, where the name would have counted for more, but it seems that Mortimer has absolutely no wish to ever leave these shores.”
“Actually,” Penelope said, setting her teacup on her saucer, “from the descriptions Barnaby and Stokes, and also Barnaby’s father, have given us of the Halsteads and the Camberlys, which mesh with everything you’ve said, I hypothesized that for all four Halstead children, their characters and dispositions might be the result of overblown competitiveness between Mortimer and Cynthia, who are older and close in age, stemming perhaps from their childhood, and the consequent effects that might have had on Maurice, forcing him to take the position of black sheep to gain attention, which in turn made William—the youngest brother—step outside society altogether.”
Lady Osbaldestone viewed Penelope with something approaching pride. “How very astute of you, my dear—for I’ve just remembered the only criticism I ever heard leveled at the Halsteads, mère and père, and that was, in fact, that their offspring had been allowed by the Halsteads t
o develop as a group in a quite unhealthy way. The specific criticism was that the potential of the Halsteads, the fruit of their union as it were, had been allowed to disintegrate, to decay and come to nothing, through lack of attention, indeed, put even more bluntly, through parental neglect.
“You see”—Lady Osbaldestone fixed her black gaze on Penelope’s face—“while the Halsteads spent their productive years abroad, they left their children in England, in the care of nannies, governesses, and tutors at their country house, often for years at a time. For Sir Hugo, of course, had ambition, too, and his was all for his work, and Agatha supported him in that.”
Arching her brows, Lady Osbaldestone glanced at the other ladies. “It should hardly surprise anyone that, under such circumstances, with no parental hand to guide them and what is most likely an inherited ambitious streak, then, as Penelope suggested, rather than bonding together, the two older children vied for attention, for dominance, forcing the younger two to find other ways to make their mark, to stake their claim.”
Many heads nodded in agreement. “That sounds very right,” Caro said. “That would account for exactly the impressions I’ve received from both Cynthia Camberly and Mortimer Halstead.” Caro narrowed her eyes. “I’ve never met them together—as far as I know, I’ve never seen them in the same room—but I sensed in both of them that there was some deep drive to their desire to get ahead, that it was a need more than a wish.”
Again there was a round of murmured agreement.
Penelope glanced at Griselda and arched her brows. “I’m so glad we came.”
Griselda smiled, nodded, and finished her tea.
Soon after, Penelope rose, and she and Griselda took their leave.
Gaining the pavement, Penelope linked her arm in Griselda’s and they set off strolling slowly along the street; turning right into Grafton Street, and then right into Albemarle Street was the fastest route to Penelope’s house.
The afternoon was cool, soft gray clouds slowly drifting across the autumn sky, the sun already hidden by the buildings to the west. A light breeze threaded between the houses, flirting with the ribbons of Penelope’s bonnet and teasing strands of Griselda’s black hair free from her restrained topknot.
“Hmm,” Penelope murmured as they slowly paced. “I truly want—even need—to involve myself in investigations again, to give myself that additional purpose, but, at the same time, I have absolutely no intention of neglecting Oliver and any other children we might be blessed with.”
Griselda wasn’t surprised to hear her friend’s thoughts echo her own, yet her lips twisted in a wry smile as she admitted, “I was thinking the same, but, more, that it isn’t just a matter of us taking time away from them to do our investigating but also that, when it comes to the situations those investigations lead us into, it’s incumbent on us, our responsibility, as it were, to ensure we, ourselves, are never at risk.” She glanced at Penelope and met her dark eyes. “Our children can’t afford to lose us.”
Penelope nodded, one of her curt, definite, forceful nods. “No, indeed. I agree, and that’s the challenge—well, one aspect of the challenge—of us finding our way back into investigating and defining our roles with regard to the future. That’s something we need to work on.”
“And not just us,” Griselda murmured.
Penelope laughed, then, sobering, tilted her head. “In fact, if we extrapolate from what Lady Osbaldestone said—and what has happened with the Halsteads should, indeed, stand as a salutary lesson—then it’s not just us, you and me, who need to ensure that investigating doesn’t pull us away from our darlings for too long. The time we need to devote to our children may be greater than what Barnaby and Stokes need to give them, but they do need to give them some part of their time.”
“Some part of their life,” Griselda said.
“Exactly.” Penelope fell silent until they turned into Albemarle Street. Setting eyes on the door of her home, she said, “That’s the responsibility one must accept in bringing a child into the world—that we, both parents, need to give that child a defined, and real, and uncontestable place in our lives.”
Griselda echoed, “A defined, real, and uncontestable piece of our lives.”
Chapter 8
So,” Stokes said, slouching in one of the chairs facing Montague’s desk, “no one saw any woman who might have been our mysterious lady in the vicinity of Runcorn’s office. I’m inclined to think that she may have been brought in, even hired, purely to withdraw the money from the bank.” Stokes glanced at Barnaby, seated to his right. “Did you learn any more in Threadneedle Street?”
“As it happened,” Barnaby said, “luck favored me, and in more ways than one. First, I can report that the payments in question were deposited using a courier service. The tellers who received them are experienced enough to recognize the signs, and have remembered because they thought it odd that couriers were making deposits into Lady Halstead’s account.”
Stokes grunted. “That increases the odds that this is something illegal and, what’s more, being carried out by someone with a criminal connection.”
Montague nodded. “That also fits with something I’ve discovered, but before we get to that”—he looked at Barnaby—“what else did you find?”
Barnaby grinned. “A young and observant street-sweeper, who remembers seeing our veiled lady come along the street from the bank to where a coach was waiting, drawn up by the curb. The door opened and the boy saw a gentleman inside the coach help the lady in.”
“And could our observant tyke describe the gentleman?” Stokes asked.
“He saw enough to tell me that the gentleman in question didn’t have a beard but sideburns, that his face was roundish, and he had brown hair. He couldn’t tell me how tall he was, and wasn’t sure about age.”
Stokes looked grim. “It seems that every clue we uncover points to our villain being one of the Halsteads.”
“True.” Barnaby grimaced. “But that leaves us with five—Mortimer, Maurice, William, Walter, and Hayden—and thus far all five fit our bill.”
“And,” Stokes said, “we shouldn’t at this point discount the possibility that two or more are in this together.” He frowned. “If that proves so, it’s going to make our job a lot more difficult.”
“Hmm.” Barnaby frowned, too. “If one did the first murder, and another the second . . .”
Stokes shook his head. “I don’t even want to think about it.”
After a moment, Barnaby looked at Montague. “You said you’ve discovered something?”
Montague, who had been following Stokes’s and Barnaby’s somewhat dismal line of thought, shook himself back to the present. Then smiled. “Yes, indeed.” He lifted the list of payments with his annotations from his blotter. “We can thank my senior assistant, Gibbons, for the vital insight, but once he suggested that the payments looked like income from the sales of something, it was easy enough to work out.” Reaching over the desk, Montague handed the sheet to Stokes, who held it so he and Barnaby both could view it.
After giving them a moment to scan his sums, Montague explained, “If one assumes that our villain is selling items each of which nets him two hundred and fifty pounds, and that he sells between five and nine such items every month, and that he then pays one of the courier services their customary two to three percent for the delivery into Lady Halstead’s account”—leaning back, he concluded with some satisfaction—“then it’s possible to account for each and all of those payments.”
Barnaby glanced at him, then looked back at the list. “Fourteen different payments, and they all fit that pattern.”
Stokes grunted. “I’m no expert with numbers, but even I would say that’s conclusive.” Looking at Montague, he waved the list. “Can I keep this?”
Montague nodded. “I’ve already made another copy.”
Folding the paper, Stokes shifted to stow it in his coat pocket. “So at this point, we have a gentleman who appears to be one of the Halste
ads, or Walter Camberly, who is selling, or causing to be sold, items valued at two hundred and fifty pounds each, and he sells five to nine such items a month on a regular basis. Given that he’s sought to conceal his activities by using Lady Halstead’s account to hide his cash, and also accepting that there aren’t that many legal items one can sell for two hundred and fifty pounds at such a steady rate, then it’s reasonable, I would say, for us to assume that whatever trade this gentleman is dabbling in is illegal.”
“And that, presumably,” Barnaby said, “is why he’s sought to conceal the money. Which raises the interesting question of which of the Halstead males has most to lose from his illegal activities becoming known?”
Stokes considered, then said, “Correct me if I err, but for my money the answer to that question is Mortimer Halstead, tied neck and neck with Wallace Camberly—and given there’s the possibility his son may be acting in conspiracy with Camberly, I believe we have to include him, too, even if he’s not the actual murderer.”
Barnaby nodded. “And after the two older men, I would list Hayden Halstead and Walter Camberly. Within their circles, both are sons of prominent men—if their involvement in some illicit scheme became known, it would cause a scandal.”
Montague frowned. “What about Maurice Halstead, and the youngest brother, William?” When Barnaby glanced his way, Montague lifted one shoulder. “My impression of the pair is that neither would care all that much, not from the point of view of concealment. Were either of them the villain, they would be more worried about being caught and stopped by the authorities than about hiding their identity and avoiding scandal.”
Barnaby thought, then slowly nodded. “I would have to agree. I can’t see any reason why either Maurice or William would bother with using their mother’s account, much less using couriers to do so. In fact, I can see at least two to three percent of earnings that would influence them not to do any such thing.”