“That’s all right.” Stokes headed for the archway into the back hall. “Barnaby? The rest of you, please stay here.”
Together with Stokes, Barnaby searched, but there was no sign of anyone with damp shoes going deeper into the house from the back door. Not even the cook had left any visible trace.
As they returned to the kitchen, Stokes grimaced. “No luck, so that’s the doors ruled out—”
“No—there’s a side door.” When they all looked at her, Violet explained, “There’s a door to a narrow alley that runs between the street and the mews.” She pushed back her chair. “I’ll show you.”
Montague rose and gave her his hand to assist her to her feet.
She thanked him with a smile that felt weak, then went around the table. She led Stokes and Adair out of the kitchen, into the rear of the front hall, then through a narrow archway under the stairs. Two turns and she halted in the short, dark corridor that ended in the side door. She nodded toward it. “That’s it.”
She stepped aside to let Stokes and Adair past. Stokes took one step down the corridor, then halted. Adair remained in the rear. “Light,” he said. “We need at least two lamps before we go any closer.”
Stokes nodded and turned to Violet. “I take it that door is usually locked?”
She glanced down the corridor at the shadowy panels. “Usually.”
“Who has the key?” Stokes asked.
“Lady Halstead has—had—a ring with the keys to all the doors. As far as I know, that ring is still in her dresser, where she usually left it. There’s a key to the side door there, and there’s a second one on the rack in the kitchen.” Without waiting to be asked, she went on, “The door is only occasionally used, mostly for deliveries from milliners, dressmakers, and shops like Hatchards. Food goes to the back door, but other deliveries were directed to the side door.”
“When was it last used?” Adair asked. “Do you know?”
Staring at the door, Violet cast her mind back. Eventually, she said, “As far as I know, it hasn’t been used for several months, possibly not since last Christmas.”
Stokes nodded and looked at Adair. “Let’s get those lamps.”
They did, then, with Violet holding one and Montague the other, Stokes and Adair carefully started down the corridor toward the door, meticulously searching the floor as they went.
Inch by inch, foot by foot, they progressed down the narrow hallway.
Six feet from the door, Adair, searching to the left with Violet holding the lamp over his shoulder, shining the beam ahead of him, paused, then glanced at her. “Can you angle the light into the skirting? Into the crevice between the skirting and the floor . . .”
As she did as he asked, he crouched and peered, then reached out with one finger. “Got you!”
Stokes swung around to look. He studied the single brown leaf Adair held up, balanced on the tip of one finger.
Adair met Stokes’s eyes. “And it’s still damp enough to stick.”
Stokes quivered like a powerful wolfhound on a leash but paused to glance at Violet. “You’re sure no one has come through that door this morning?”
She nodded. “I’m perfectly certain.”
The smile that curved Stokes’s lips was more menacing than comforting. “So,” he said, “we now know that the murderer is a Halstead male who has a key to the side door.”
Stokes and Adair examined the door, confirming there was no evidence it had been forced in any way, then, as a group, they returned to the kitchen. Walking ahead of the three men, Violet sensed a change in atmosphere, in them, as if previously they’d been unsure, uncertain, casting about, but now they’d caught the scent of their prey and were keen to follow the trail.
Their renewed determination spread and infected the others about the table as they resumed their seats and Stokes told the others of what they’d found.
Cook had withdrawn from the circle about the table but had made two fresh pots of tea; Violet sensed Cook was somewhat taken aback to find herself serving such company about her kitchen table. Adair had introduced his wife and Stokes’s wife when they’d arrived; at the time, Violet had been too distracted to properly register the strangeness of their presence. Yet both women had been sensible and supportive, and she’d been grateful for their warmth when all else about the day—barring only Montague’s presence—had left her feeling so cold. So isolated.
So alone.
They all paused to sip the tea Cook had dispensed. Violet could almost hear the thoughts whirling.
Then Stokes’s wife—Griselda, as she’d told Violet to call her—set down her cup, a faint frown tangling her black brows. “What I don’t understand is, why kill the maid? How could she possibly have been any threat to the murderer?” Griselda looked across the table at Violet. “Forgive me for asking, but she—the maid—couldn’t possibly have been in league with the murderer, could she?”
“Absolutely not!” came from both Violet and Cook, who had retreated to stand before the stove.
Adair added, “And I would have to agree. I simply cannot imagine that Tilly had any hand in her mistress’s murder, much less Runcorn’s.”
“Which,” Adair’s wife, Penelope, said, “brings us back to Griselda’s question. Why kill the maid?”
After a moment, Stokes said, “Perhaps it’s something similar to what happened with Henrietta Cynster.” He glanced at Violet. “Another recent case.”
“Hmm.” Eyes narrowing, Penelope set down her cup. “You mean that Tilly had seen something or knew something that, while of itself of no particular moment, if put together with other information—”
“For instance,” Montague said, “the sort of information that might come out through Lady Halstead’s affairs being put in order.”
Penelope nodded. “Exactly—if put together with that, then what Tilly knew would assume much greater significance—”
“To whit, that it would point a finger at the murderer.” Somewhat grimly, Stokes nodded. “Yes, that’s what I meant. All things considered, I believe Tilly was murdered because she knew something the significance of which she had not yet realized.”
“He’s protecting himself,” Adair said. When they all looked at him, he went on, “All three murders can be explained by that—I don’t think we need to invoke any other motive. He used Lady Halstead’s account to hide the proceeds from his recent and ongoing involvement in some illegal enterprise, and in order to keep that illegal association concealed, he killed first Lady Halstead, then Runcorn, and now Tilly.”
Stokes regarded Adair for several moments, then nodded. Then he frowned, and his gaze shifted to Violet.
Before Stokes could ask the question clearly forming in his head, Montague placed a hand over Violet’s, where it rested on the table between them. “I think you must tell Stokes what you told me when I arrived.”
Violet looked at him; although she had to be aware that everyone else was now studying her, she held his gaze. In response to the uncertainty in her eyes, he nodded encouragingly. An instant passed, then, making no move to draw her hand from under his, she drew breath and looked across the table at Stokes. “Mr. Montague called yesterday evening and told me of the progress of your investigation. Specifically, he told me that Mr. Runcorn had been murdered.” She paused when Stokes glanced at Montague and arched one black brow.
Unapologetically meeting Stokes’s gaze, Montague gently pressed Violet’s hand, and she drew another shaky breath, reclaiming Stokes’s attention, and continued, “This morning, when Mr. Montague arrived, I mentioned how unsettled I had been after learning of Runcorn’s death—that I’d felt rattled enough to push my dresser across my door before I fell asleep last night.”
Montague felt Violet’s gaze briefly touch his face, then she faced Stokes again. “This morning, when I moved the dresser back, I discovered the door to my room was ajar.” She paused to allow the ripple of shock that traveled around the table to subside, then went on, “It was most defini
tely closed when I went to bed, but this morning . . .”
Her hand turned beneath his, her fingers convulsively clasping his as she drew in another tight breath and raised her chin. “I suspect that if Mr. Montague hadn’t told me of Mr. Runcorn’s death, and I hadn’t felt frightened enough to block my door, then I would now be as dead as Tilly.”
Unsurprisingly, that declaration prompted a round of shocked and concerned exclamations.
Penelope caught Violet’s gaze. “I don’t suppose you know what you know, so to speak?”
Violet shook her head. “Rest assured, if I knew anything that might identify Lady Halstead’s murderer, and now Runcorn’s and Tilly’s, too, I would instantly tell . . . well, anyone and everyone.”
Penelope grimaced. Various murmurs of support and conjecture floated around the table.
Stokes had been frowning blackly at the table; raising his head, he rapped a hand on its surface. When everyone quieted and looked at him, he grimly stated, “We now have three murders and a missing sum of cash, much of it likely ill-gotten gains. We have reason to suspect that the villain is a member of the Halstead family—not only was a man of a description that would fit several of the Halstead men seen in the vicinity of Runcorn’s office on the night of his murder, and also seen meeting the lady who removed the money in question from the bank, but we now know the murderer gained entrance to the house to kill Lady Halstead’s maid by using a key to the side door. Most likely he used the same entrance when he murdered Lady Halstead herself.” Stokes looked around the table, meeting everyone’s eyes. “I think,” he said, “that it’s time we interviewed the family again.”
Chapter 10
Stokes had sent formal requests for the Halsteads and the Camberlys to assemble at the Lowndes Street house at two o’clock that afternoon.
As Penelope had said, “At that hour, they can’t fob you off by saying they have to attend a luncheon, or any other pressing social event.”
Stokes wondered if it was the lack of a viable excuse that saw all the Halstead brood trooping into the drawing room at the appointed time—or curiosity. Watching the arrivals from the rear of the front hall, he murmured to Barnaby, standing beside him, “That rivalry of theirs could work to our advantage.”
Barnaby’s lips lifted in a cynical smile. “You mean they’ve come to learn what you’ve uncovered about the others?” Watching Constance Halstead whisper to her daughter, Caroline, as they passed through the door, he nodded. “You may well be right.”
After a moment, Stokes said, “I wish I could believe that Montague’s searching might give us the answer, but I can’t imagine our villain being silly enough to put his cash anywhere it might be found. Especially not after this business with her ladyship’s accounts.”
“No. He won’t be that stupid.” Montague had told them that it would take several days for him to hear back about the current state of the Halsteads’ bank accounts. “I agree with Montague that it’s one of those things we need to check, on the grounds that we would be stupid not to, just in case, but from the start this villain was cagey enough to know he needed to conceal that money—even more now than before, he’s not going to allow it to be found and connected with him.”
Stokes snorted. “If I were him, I’d put it in a tin under the bed.”
“On top of the wardrobe,” Barnaby murmured back. “Maids eventually find things hidden under beds.”
Stokes’s teeth flashed in a grin.
But he was severely sober when, with Barnaby and Montague, he walked into the drawing room. Violet, Penelope, and Griselda had gone into the room before any of the family had arrived; if anyone had questioned Penelope and Griselda’s presence, Penelope had intended to adopt her most haughty manner and inform them that she and Griselda were there supporting Violet. As Stokes noted all three ensconced on a chaise beneath the windows opposite the fireplace, a position that afforded a clear view of the family members gathered in the chairs and on the twin sofas flanking the hearth, he assumed that any who had dared dispute their right to be there had been duly put in their place.
The three ladies were specifically charged with observing, both the individual reactions and the family interactions; Stokes didn’t anticipate them contributing to the proceedings and fervently hoped they wouldn’t. Explaining why their wives were posing questions in an interview would, he felt, tax even Barnaby’s ingenuity.
After surveying the family and confirming all were present, Stokes crossed to take a position before the fireplace, from where he had an excellent view of all in the room. Barnaby and Montague followed; Barnaby halted on Stokes’s right, with Montague beyond him. They, too, could see everyone’s faces, could watch and note every reaction.
Two constables unobtrusively came into the room and, after quietly shutting the door, took up stations to either side.
They’d decided to use the drawing room rather than the dining room for this confrontation purely because the setting gave Stokes, and Barnaby and Montague, the advantage of height. They were standing, while, of course, the Halstead men had claimed prime positions on the sofas and in the armchairs.
Stokes was determined to shake the family and see what fell out of their tree.
“Well, Inspector,” Wallace Camberly said, “what news?”
“I do hope you’re here to tell us that the police have our mother’s murderer behind bars.” Mortimer Halstead all but sniffed. “God knows Peel’s force has been endowed with sufficient resources.”
Cynthia Camberly, née Halstead, smiled somewhat unctuously at Stokes. “Don’t mind my brother, Inspector—he tends to be rather bureaucratically minded. But I take it you have news to impart?”
Stokes had shifted his gaze from Wallace to Mortimer; now he allowed it to rest on Cynthia for a moment too long to be comfortable—for his scrutiny to edge into insultingly superior—then, slowly, he surveyed the circle of faces. Only when his visual claiming was complete did he say, “I’ve summoned you here to inform you that Mr. Andrew Runcorn, of Runcorn and Son, whom Lady Halstead had requested to review her affairs, was murdered two nights ago.”
Barnaby concentrated on the younger men—on Walter Camberly and Hayden Halstead—leaving Montague to watch their fathers, Wallace and Mortimer. As far as Barnaby could see, both young men’s reactions fitted with their characters and ages—Walter, some years older, looked faintly shocked and a touch puzzled, while Hayden, although noting the information, continued to look quietly, rather sullenly, bored. Walter hadn’t expected to hear such news and didn’t know what to make of it, while Hayden really didn’t care—Runcorn’s death meant nothing to him.
Whoever had murdered Runcorn, Barnaby decided, it wasn’t either of them.
After an initial moment of faintly shocked surprise, Cynthia leaned forward. Fixing Stokes with a commanding eye, she asked, “Are you suggesting, Inspector, that Mr. Runcorn’s murder was in some way associated with his work on my mother’s affairs?”
Again, Stokes was deliberately slow in answering, but eventually, he said, “As your mother’s papers were scattered over Mr. Runcorn’s desk and had obviously been searched, it’s difficult to avoid that conclusion, ma’am.”
“Well!” Constance Halstead’s bosom swelled. “I really cannot see why anyone would have any interest in Mama-in-law’s affairs. It must have been purely coincidental that her papers were on Mr. Runcorn’s desk at that time.”
“Indeed.” Wallace Camberly’s tone was clipped. “As her ladyship had requested Mr. Runcorn to review her affairs, I cannot see that there’s any great significance in her papers being on his desk at the time of his murder.” His gaze flat, Camberly met Stokes’s eyes. “I believe you are making too much of a deductive leap, Inspector. Runcorn doubtless had many clients, and who are we to say who he might or might not have crossed through his work? His murder might have come about through his association with any of those others. As far as I can see, there’s no reason whatever to suggest that his unfortunate murder w
as in any way connected with his work for Lady Halstead.”
Unperturbed and imperturbable, Stokes regarded Camberly for a long moment, then raised his gaze and again swept the gathering. “You might also be interested to learn that, on the morning following Mr. Runcorn’s murder, a large sum of money was withdrawn from Lady Halstead’s bank account.”
That caused a far more acute reaction.
“Who by?” Mortimer demanded.
“The devil!” Maurice shot upright in the corner of the sofa in which he’d been sprawled. “Do you mean that we—Mama—have been robbed?”
Cynthia’s expression shifted from shock to calculation. “How much was taken?”
“And how?” Wallace Camberly’s question was more in the nature of a peremptory demand. “Great heavens—the banks are supposed to have procedures in place to prevent this sort of thing.”
“Indeed—and they do.” Mortimer huffed. “Just what is going on here, Inspector? Is the bank itself somehow involved?”
Comments, conjecture, and speculation came from all quarters; even Caroline was moved to exclaim over the lost funds.
Stokes decided they’d gone on long enough—that his observers had had time enough to observe. He shifted—a single, forceful, menacing movement that instinctively had everyone glancing at him—then waited until the babbling ceased and their attention was once again his. “The police have established that the bank acted properly. They fulfilled a request submitted in writing by Lady Halstead. The bank was unaware that her ladyship was deceased. As Runcorn had not yet been informed of Lady Halstead’s murder, then he, as her ladyship’s man-of-business, had not yet informed the bank of the change in his client’s situation. On close inspection, the letter presented to the bank was discovered to be a forgery, but a very good one. Whoever wrote it was extremely well acquainted with her ladyship’s hand.”
“Who presented the letter to the bank?” William asked.
Stokes regarded him for a moment before replying, “A veiled woman, thought to be a lady, although her station was purely an assumption.”