Stokes pulled a face. “It’s tempting to speculate that William, at least, and likely Maurice, too, are more likely than any of the others to know how to contact the courier services, but you’re right—they appear to have no pressing motive for doing so.”
For several minutes, the three of them silently mulled over all they’d learned, then Stokes rose, and Barnaby followed. “I should get back to the Yard,” Stokes said. He arched a brow at Barnaby.
“I want to have a word with the police surgeon, just to confirm there’s no more he can tell us. I’ll come up and see you if there is.” Barnaby and Stokes both looked at Montague.
He noticed and, frowning, met their eyes. “There’s one more thing I ought to do, just to be complete. The money taken from her ladyship’s account has to go somewhere.” He glanced at the clock on his desk. “Although I doubt I’ll get any answer until tomorrow, I will make discreet inquiries as to whether any of the Halsteads, or the Camberlys, made any large deposit into any of the accounts they have access to.” He met Stokes’s eyes and faintly smiled. “I would prefer that you didn’t ask me how, but I can also arrange to be notified should such a deposit be made over the next week.”
Stokes inclined his head. “As that would be useful to know, I’ll refrain from asking you about your methods.”
“Of course,” Barnaby said, “it’s unlikely there’ll be any trace of it, not after he used her ladyship’s account presumably to ensure the money never appeared in his, but”—saluting Montague, he turned for the door—“you’re right. We do need to check, because when dealing with villains, you never do know when they’ll slip up—”
“And then we’ll have them.” Stokes tipped a raised finger to Montague in farewell and followed Barnaby from the office.
Rising, Montague went to stand in the doorway to the outer office. Once Stokes and Barnaby had left, and Slocum, who had shown them to the door, shut it and headed back to his desk, Montague called, “Slocum? I have some letters to dictate.”
After shutting up the office, Montague had intended to go upstairs, to his home, but the cool of a surprisingly pleasant evening drew him outside. The lamps were just being lit, but there was still enough light to comfortably stroll and enjoy the blanket of quiet that descended over the City now the bustling hordes who worked within it had streamed home to their dinners.
It was harder to use the pleasantness of the evening to excuse his hailing of a hackney and his consequent journey across town to Lowndes Street.
He understood Stokes’s wish not to inform Violet of Runcorn’s murder and the involvement of a lady who some might imagine to be Violet herself in the removal of funds from Lady Halstead’s bank account. He even agreed with Stokes to some extent, but over the past hours, Penelope’s and Griselda’s words had tirelessly replayed in the back of his brain. Now . . . despite not wishing to further distress Violet, the notion of keeping her uninformed of what had occurred smacked too much of leaving her unnecessarily defenseless.
Some very determined part of him he didn’t entirely recognize couldn’t abide that.
The hackney pulled up outside the Halstead house. After paying off the driver, Montague opened the gate, walked up the path, and climbed the steps to the pillared front porch. Removing his hat, he knocked on the door.
And steadfastly refused to think of precisely what he was doing, and why.
Footsteps approached, then Violet—when had he stopped thinking of her as Miss Matcham?—opened the door. The instant she saw him her expression lightened. “Mr. Montague. Good evening.” Stepping back, she waved him in. “Do come inside, sir. I take it you have news?”
Stepping over the threshold, he replied, “Of a sort.” Now he was there, he had to think of all that he’d determinedly not thought of during the journey. “Ah . . . I hope I’m not interrupting your meal.”
She smiled and reached for his hat. “No—Lady Halstead preferred to dine late, and we’ve . . .” Her voice faded and she blinked.
He handed her his hat. She took it and turned away to hang it on the hat-tree.
When she turned back, her face was solemn, but composed. She waved him to the sitting room. “Please, come in, and let’s sit comfortably.”
He inclined his head and stepped back to allow her to lead the way. She did and he followed her into the sitting room, the same room that Lady Halstead had received him in. In contrast to the more formal drawing room, it felt pervasively lived in; a small fire sent busy fingers of flame leaping up from the grate, chasing away the chill that had closed in with the fading of the light.
“So”—Violet sank into one of the chairs before the hearth—“what news, sir? Does Inspector Stokes have any suspicions as to who the murderer is?”
Sitting on the sofa facing the fire, Montague took in the angle of her chin, saw the tension in the fingers she clasped in her lap. “As to that . . .” He hesitated, then said, “I regret I must inform you that when I called at Mr. Runcorn’s office this morning in company with Mr. Adair, we discovered poor Runcorn murdered.”
One hand rose to her throat. Her face blanched; her eyes seemed to grow huge. After an instant in which she seemed to cease breathing altogether, she hauled in a swift breath and blindly—instinctively—reached out with one hand, as if seeking support. “My God—was it because of this business? Because of Lady Halstead’s affairs?”
Montague didn’t think but simply reached across and closed his hand about her fingers. They were icy; shifting forward on the sofa, his eyes on her face, he chafed her hand between both of his. When her horrified gaze focused on his face, he inclined his head gravely. “Sadly, it appears that way. Lady Halstead’s papers were scattered over his desk—his clerk had left him working through the Halstead file, and we believe the documents had been searched.”
Her face, her fine features, registered a depth of sadness he hadn’t expected to see; he hadn’t thought she’d known Runcorn that well.
“That poor young man. He was so . . . eager and keen to make a go of his firm—you could see that just by looking at his face. Oh!” She looked down, her other hand rising to her lips, the fingers of the hand he still clasped clutching lightly. “I’m sorry. Pray forgive me . . .” She briefly waved.
“There’s nothing to forgive.” His voice had lowered, softened, affected by her reaction, and more, drawn by it to acknowledge a sense of loss he hadn’t yet allowed himself the time to feel.
Raising her head, blinking rapidly, she murmured, “It’s bad enough to lose someone like Lady Halstead to a murderer, but when the victim is young, innocent, and had so much potential, so much to live for, the loss is even more tragic.” She met his eyes; her lips twisted wryly. “I only met him three times, and briefly at that, but he seemed so earnest and . . . true, if you know what I mean.”
As if only then realizing they were holding hands, she gently drew back her fingers; reluctantly he allowed them to slip free of his grasp. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You must think me quite witless, being so affected by the death of someone I barely knew.”
“No. Not at all. I think you quite”—lovely, wonderful, glorious—“admirably sympathetic.” After a moment he added, gravely and sincerely, “Runcorn was a loss the world did not need.”
Her gaze had drifted to the flames, but at that she met his eyes directly. “Exactly. You do understand.”
He inclined his head.
She studied him for a moment, then prompted, “Is there anything more you can tell me? Are there any suspects in Runcorn’s murder?”
Montague hesitated, then mentally decided: Stokes be damned. “There was a man—a gentleman . . .” He told her about the Halstead-like male seen near Runcorn’s office before and after the murder, then went on to relate all they’d done, all they’d discovered through the day. He told her of his discovery of the likely meaning of the odd payments into Lady Halstead’s account; when he tried to heap praise on Gibbons, she seemed determined, while acknowledging Gibbons’s input, t
o focus on his own contribution . . . enough to have him wonder if this was what it felt like to be seduced.
By her words and the thoughts behind them, by the admiration he saw shining in her fine eyes.
He was careful not to give any real details about the veiled woman who had conspired with the murderer to remove the suspect funds and more from Lady Halstead’s account. But when he reached the end of his tale, Violet grew pensive, then proved that she was not at all lacking in intelligence. Meeting his eyes, she stated, “The family will try to say that it was me, that I was the woman who withdrew the money from Lady Halstead’s account. And by that reasoning, I am also guilty of her murder, or was at least an accomplice.”
There was something in her face, in the set of her chin, that warned him not to pretend he didn’t think the same.
Resigned, he sighed and inclined his head. “Stokes, Adair, and I believe so. Either you, or, failing that, her ladyship’s maid. However, I cannot sufficiently stress that none of us believe it, either of you or Tilly.”
She straightened, incrementally drawing back, drawing away.
Spurred by an instinct, an impulse he had no name for, he reached across to take both her hands, one in each of his; she surrendered them with no resistance. He caught her eyes. “Violet—if I may call you that?”
She held his gaze for a moment, then, almost as if it was against her better judgment, fractionally nodded.
He drew breath and rushed on. “You must believe that none of us—those of us investigating this case—believe you or Tilly are in any way involved in these crimes. To us, it makes no sense to suspect you, but we realize that the family will attempt to point the finger at anyone rather than at one of their own, so . . .” He paused to draw breath, and something in him calmed, grew more certain. “Stokes knows what he’s doing. He has standing, experience, and a great deal of discretion in what he consents to tell the family. A part of the reason he has not yet summoned them again, has not even as yet informed them of Runcorn’s murder, much less the situation with her ladyship’s account, is that he wishes to gather more facts and information before he does. The more knowledge we have of what occurred, the more obvious it will be that none of these crimes can be laid at your door.”
Holding her gaze, he went on, his voice lowering. “You must believe me when I say we are all working to catch the murderer, and parallel to that, to exonerate you.” It was suddenly very important that she did believe that. His eyes locked with hers, he murmured, “Trust me, Violet. Regardless of all else, I—we—will ensure that no harm comes to you.”
Violet looked into eyes that overflowed with sincerity. With such rock-solid certainty that she couldn’t deny what he asked of her—that she believe him. That she trust him.
She wasn’t sure how he had managed in so short a time to figure so highly in her regard, yet somehow, at some level she could not question yet didn’t understand, he had come to be her rock, the one person she could rely on.
“I do trust you.” The words fell from her lips in a tone that instantly brought warmth to her cheeks. She cleared her throat, strengthened her voice to quickly add, “And Inspector Stokes and Mr. Adair. I . . . do have faith that you’ll identify the murderer, or at least do your best—”
“We’ll find him.”
And there it was again—that unwavering certainty, the product, she sensed, of incorruptible devotion. From their earlier meetings, she’d recognized him as a cautious man who did not give his promises lightly, but when he did . . .
Looking into his eyes, meeting his certainty with the openness and directness she felt she owed him, she inclined her head. “Thank you.”
His fingers tightened about hers and he drew breath as if to speak, but then the wind howled outside, and he fell silent. After a moment of studying her face, he lightly squeezed her fingers, then released them. Rising, he gave her his hand to help her to her feet.
When she straightened, her head barely reached his chin. Again their gazes met; again she sensed he debated his next action. Then he took a small step back. “I really must go—I’ve interrupted your evening for long enough.”
She could have disabused him of any notion that she had tired of his company, but she suspected he lived some distance away, and from the sound of the wind the evening had turned vicious. “I’ll see you to the door.”
He followed her from the room and took his hat from her hand, but paused on the threshold. His gaze traveled her face before locking with hers for a last fleeting moment, then he inclined his head. “I will call again when we have news.”
Stepping outside, he placed his hat on his head, settled and buttoned his coat, then went down the steps.
Violet pushed the door almost shut, blocking the chill wind, but she remained peering out. Watching him stride away.
Only when he had passed into the square and out of her sight did she close the door. She stood staring at the panels for several moments, wondering, reliving in her mind the past minutes, the swirling eddies of emotion he, his presence, had evoked, the currents that both of them—she would swear—had been aware of, had been sensitive to. She’d never felt the like, that strange mutual awareness.
The wind shrieked and broke the spell.
Abruptly shaking herself, she reached up and threw the heavy bolt at the top of the door, then bent to slide the lower bolt into place as well. She doubted they would have any further callers; the night had turned dark and ominous outside.
Glancing into the sitting room, she checked that the fire would safely burn down without further tending, then closed the door and walked down the narrow hall to the green baize door at the rear. Pushing through, she continued to the kitchen.
Since Lady Halstead’s death—had it truly only been two nights ago?—the kitchen had become the hub of their small household. She, Tilly, and Cook gathered in the warmth, surrounded by the familiar smells of baking and roasting meats and vegetables, the better to hold the chill that had invaded the rest of the house at bay.
Truth be told, had it been at all possible, Violet would rather have slept in the kitchen than in her bedroom on the first floor, three doors from the room in which Lady Halstead had been killed.
Cook heard her footsteps and looked up, her ruddy face flushed as she ladled thick stew into three bowls. “There you are. Thought I’d have to send Tilly to fetch you. Who was it?”
“Mr. Montague.” Violet slipped into a chair on one side of the table. Although she’d attended formal dinners at her ladyship’s side, on all other occasions, she’d taken her meals in the kitchen with Tilly and Cook; the years had forged a strong bond between the three of them, one that stood them in good stead now.
“That special man-of-business her ladyship consulted?” Tilly was seated opposite Violet; she handed around the bowls as Cook filled them.
Violet nodded. “Yes, him.”
“What did he want, then? You sat with him for over half an hour.” Cook set her pot back on the stove, then took her seat at the table’s head.
Violet took her first mouthful of the savory stew, waited until the others did the same, then swallowed and said, “He had news to impart.”
Briefly, she told them of Runcorn’s murder, and of the lady who had taken the money from Lady Halstead’s account. She dwelled rather more on the sighting of a man who might have been one of the Halsteads near both Runcorn’s office and the bank. As both Tilly and Cook were convinced that it was one of Lady Halstead’s own family who had murdered her, they were very ready to focus on that aspect; neither saw the unwelcome possibility that Violet had—of either herself or Tilly being accused by the family of being involved in the crimes—and she saw no reason to point it out and cause Tilly and Cook more distress than the news of Runcorn’s murder already had.
“Cor.” Tilly shivered. “What happenings, to be sure.” Across the table, she searched Violet’s face. “But we’re safe, aren’t we? I mean, there’s no reason to think this madman will come back here?�
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Violet considered. “I can’t see why he would. If this was about the money, then he’s got what he wanted.” She frowned, then shook her head. “It’s all too complicated for me, but Mr. Montague and that Inspector Stokes and Mr. Adair are all working on catching the murderer.”
“Aye, well.” Cook scooped up another mouthful of stew. “I say we leave the a-hunting of the murderer to them. The three of us—we’ve got more pressing concerns.” Cook looked at Tilly, then Violet. “We’ve been paid until quarter-day, but we’ll have to find new posts, won’t we, come the funeral and the family closing up this house?”
After a discussion with the police surgeon, during which he’d learned nothing of any significance that they hadn’t already known, Barnaby joined Stokes in his office.
Stokes looked up as Barnaby entered. “Anything?”
Barnaby shook his head. “It was as we’d thought—the villain clouted Runcorn with the bookend, then strangled him with the curtain cord, pulling him up and out of his chair as he did.”
Stokes grunted, then, sitting back, waved the note he’d been reading. “We’ve been summoned.”
“Oh?” Barnaby dropped into his accustomed chair angled before Stokes’s desk. “To where? For what? And by whom?”
“To Albemarle Street. To dinner. By your wife and mine.”
“Ah.” Barnaby nodded. “They want to pick our brains for every little fact we’ve managed to glean.”
“That,” Stokes conceded, consulting the note again, “but they also mention that they’ve had a wonderfully successful day learning more about the Halsteads and the Camberlys.”
Barnaby widened his eyes. “Have they, indeed?” He blinked. “I wonder how.” After a moment of pondering, he met Stokes’s eyes. “Perhaps we’d better go and find out.”
“My thoughts precisely.” Stokes got to his feet and reached for his greatcoat. “I’ve nothing further to attend to, so . . .” He waved Barnaby out, then followed him into the corridor and shut the door.