Reaching the door to his apartment, he went in and instantly smelled the scents of roasting beef and baking. From the kitchen, Mrs. Trewick’s usual greeting floated out. “Dinner’s ready and waiting, sir! If you’ll take your seat at the table, Trewick will bring it out.”
Montague walked into the sitting room and halted. He looked around the room—the empty room devoid of all companionship—and vowed to himself that it wouldn’t remain so for long.
He’d waited long enough, and at last he’d found Violet.
As soon as they identified who the murderer was, and saw Lady Halstead, Runcorn, and Tilly avenged, he would ask Violet to be his.
He needed her here; he’d had enough of living alone.
The reply from Millhouse arrived at eleven o’clock the next morning. Reading the careful phrases, Montague couldn’t help a cynical smile; he would take an oath Millhouse had labored over his reply for even longer than he himself had worked on the phrasing of his request.
Slocum was hovering; Gibbons and Foster were leaning in the doorway.
Montague glanced their way, then said, “After various preliminaries, Millhouse writes that he understands that the share certificate in question was acquired by the earl when it was tendered in lieu in settlement of a debt of honor.”
Hands sliding into his pockets, Gibbons let out a low whistle. “Some debt!”
“Indeed.” Montague scanned the subsequent lines a second time and inwardly sighed. “And, as one might expect, Millhouse doesn’t know and therefore cannot answer as to the identity of the gentleman who surrendered the share certificate.”
“Well,” Foster said, “other than that it was a gentleman the Earl of Corby deigned to gamble with.”
Eyes narrowing, Montague looked at Slocum. If he was remembering aright . . .
Slocum nodded. “The earl’s a big gambler, sir—known to care little about who he gambles with, as long as they can pay.”
Montague grimaced. “That was my understanding, too. So the fact that this gentleman owed the earl many thousands of pounds doesn’t actually tell us all that much about said gentleman.”
Slocum made a rude sound. “Other than that he was stupid enough to sit down with Corby and a pack of cards—the earl’s reputation for winning isn’t exactly a secret.”
“True.” Montague considered, then grimaced. “That still gets us no further. Any of the Halsteads, or Camberly, for that matter, might, for some reason, have been moved to engage with Corby.”
“What now?” Gibbons asked.
“Now . . .” Montague stared unseeing at his blotter for several moments, then, chin firming, he reached for a fresh sheet of paper. “Now I see just how persuasive I can be with regard to a competitor like Millhouse.”
Montague’s second letter to Millhouse took more than an hour to craft. He didn’t expect a reply that day, as it seemed fairly clear that Millhouse, if he deigned to pursue the matter at Montague’s behest, would need to consult with the earl.
Montague was therefore surprised when Slocum hurried—definitely rushed—into his office, waving—definitely waving—an envelope.
“A reply from Mr. Millhouse, sir.” Slocum laid the envelope on the desk as Montague reached for his letter-knife.
The rest of his staff congregated about the doorway; everyone had become infected with the scent of the chase.
Retrieving the short missive from the envelope, Montague scanned it. “Halstead.”
Cheers erupted from around the door.
Without looking up, Montague said, “Don’t get too carried away just yet. All Millhouse has written is a Mr. Halstead—he doesn’t know, or at least hasn’t said, which one.”
But from the tone of the letter, Montague could tell that he’d succeeded in engaging Millhouse’s curiosity with his previous missives and their tantalizing hints of a major Scotland Yard investigation.
Laying aside the letter, Montague glanced at Slocum. “Get Reginald—I want him to run a message back to Millhouse immediately.”
The gathering about the door scattered.
Montague’s next note was succinct and clearly intimated that he considered Millhouse a peer of equal standing—one equally interested in bringing miscreants who dabbled in their world of finance to justice. Especially miscreants who had any dealings with their major clients.
Quickly blotting the note, he was folding it as Slocum returned with Reginald in tow.
Montague grinned at the lad, who grinned back. He handed over the letter. “You know where to go?”
“Yessir—Mr. Slocum told me.”
“Right then, off you go. And this time inquire if there will be a reply, and if there is, wait and bring it back.” Millhouse would appreciate not having to use his own runner.
Montague watched Slocum usher Reginald out, seeing the boy down the stairs before shutting the door and returning to his desk.
For a moment, Montague dwelled in the moment, appreciating all that was right and good within it. The satisfaction of knowing their small group of investigators were on the right track—that it was one of the Halstead men behind the theft of the share certificate, and therefore most likely behind the murders. He savored the welling swell of familiar excitement—of being on the hunt, of scenting his financial prey. Yet in all the investigations he’d previously engaged in, he’d been involved at one remove, acting at the behest of one of his clients. This time, he was personally as well as professionally involved, and that heightened the emotions, setting a keen edge to the drive to find answers and see justice done.
To see justice triumph.
More immediately, he felt the engagement and support of his staff; their actions, their interest, made it very clear that they understood that commitment to justice, that they shared it and would stand behind him in seeing the job done.
Their understanding and support warmed him.
They sometimes made him smile, yet he knew how lucky he was in having such an intelligent and devoted group at his back.
He took a moment to appreciate them, and the blessings of his day, of his life, then he reopened the file he’d been assessing and settled to steadily work his way through it.
Twenty minutes later, Reginald burst through the office door. He waved a letter, then, with a flourish, presented it to Slocum.
Who checked the direction, then rose and brought the missive to Montague.
The rest of the staff craned their necks to watch and listen.
Montague read the note, then called out for their benefit, “Millhouse will have to ask the earl directly, which, as he notes, will take a certain amount of finesse, but he—Millhouse—hopes to have an answer for me by sometime tomorrow. He can’t say when, but he doubts it will be before noon at the earliest.”
With a nod, Montague set the letter down and smiled at Reginald, then at Slocum. “It’s the best we could hope for—there’s really no way for Millhouse, or, indeed, anyone else, to extract that information other than from the earl—and Millhouse will get the answer easier, and sooner, than anyone else.”
The others absorbed that; Montague glanced through the open doorway, and from their expressions he knew both Gibbons and Foster were taking mental notes. They were learning the ways, as they should.
Slocum and Reginald retreated to the outer office, leaving Montague to repeat his words to himself.
Although he felt rather like a terrier must when wanting to maul a bone, he’d reached his present eminence in the fraternity of men-of-business in the great City of London precisely because he did know when he could push, and when pushing would be counterproductive.
Ultimately, if Millhouse couldn’t induce the earl to part with the required name, Barnaby would no doubt mobilize his father to approach the earl—earl to earl, as it would be—but that would necessitate explaining far more to the Earl of Corby than might be wise, and they had no notion of the relationship between the earl and whichever Halstead had circled within his orbit.
Montague
spent several more minutes considering if there was any faster way forward, but none presented itself. He was about to send Stokes a missive but then recalled that, along with the others, he had been summoned to dinner in Albemarle Street that evening.
Smiling to himself, he settled back in his chair and returned to his work—to his files and their figures.
He would tell the others of the breakthrough in person.
Chapter 17
When Stokes and Barnaby walked into the drawing room, joining Penelope, Griselda, Violet, and Montague, who had arrived moments earlier, Penelope swept the gathering with an imperious eye and demanded, “Has anyone identified the murderer yet?”
When Stokes pulled a face, both negative and disgruntled, Barnaby shook his head, and Montague said, “Not yet,” Penelope paused with her gaze on Montague’s face, but then she waved her hands in a warding gesture and decreed, “No talking about the murder until after dinner. Let’s enjoy the meal first.”
No one argued; indeed, all six fell in with the suggestion, and a gentle, convivial dinner among friends followed.
Violet appreciated Penelope’s tack; even though she’d spent most of her day sorting Penelope’s correspondence, the murders had constantly lurked in the back of her mind, the question of the murderer’s identity nagging like a toothache. Penelope and Griselda had spent their day in non-investigative endeavors, Penelope attending a meeting at the British Library, and Griselda at her shop, but they, too, had confided that the murders had never been far from their minds.
By unvoiced consent, no one mentioned the murders or anything to do with the investigation until they had returned to the drawing room and settled in their now accustomed places on the sofas and chairs—Penelope and Griselda on one sofa, Montague and Violet on the sofa opposite, and Barnaby and Stokes in the armchairs flanking the fireplace, long legs stretched out before them, glasses of brandy in their hands.
“So,” Penelope finally said, “where are we now with this tiresome murderer? Have we unearthed any further clues?”
Lowering his glass, Stokes reported, “We haven’t got any further with their alibis—they’re the sort we can’t prove true or false, so they get us precisely nowhere.”
“But,” Griselda said, “alibis, the checking of them, has allowed us to confirm that Walter is not the murderer, that William did not murder either Lady Halstead or Tilly, and that none of the three ladies were actively involved in the murders.”
“Sadly,” Stokes said, “with this family, that doesn’t get us all that far. The only one of them we can definitely rule out of having any involvement in these murders is Walter. Any or all of the others, including the ladies, could have been involved as accomplices, and any of the remaining five men, Camberly included, could have been guilty of one or more of the murders.”
Penelope grimaced. “In general one assumes that it would be emotionally very difficult, and commensurately very unlikely, for a child to murder their mother, and the notion of a number of children conspiring to kill their mother seems even more far-fetched. In this case, however, given the lack of emotional connection between Lady Halstead and her children because of her long absences abroad . . . well, it’s possible that the normal, natural barriers against matricide might not have been there.”
“More,” Griselda softly said, “it’s possible Lady Halstead’s children, some of them, at least, might have resented a mother who put them so very far behind her husband and his career.”
Both Violet and Penelope nodded. The men soberly absorbed the insight.
After a moment, Barnaby stirred. “To return to specifics, for Runcorn’s murder, at least, the villain remains a Halstead male, so regardless of the existence of any family conspiracy, at least one Halstead male is involved.” He glanced at Montague. “Have you got any further as to who sold the shares to Corby?”
Montague nodded. “According to Corby’s man-of-business, the earl acquired the shares by way of payment of a gambling debt from a Mr. Halstead.”
“Good God, man!” Stokes sat upright. “Which one?”
But Montague had held up a staying hand. “Corby’s man-of-business, a Mr. Millhouse, knew only that Corby got the shares from a Mr. Halstead. However, Millhouse has agreed to inquire further of the earl, but it will be at least noon tomorrow before he expects to have any answer—and that, I suspect, depends on when he can get an audience with Corby.”
Stokes glanced at Barnaby.
Before Stokes could voice what was clearly in his mind, Montague continued, “Should the earl decline to identify the specific gentleman to Millhouse, then perhaps an approach at a more exalted level—for instance, Adair’s father, the Earl of Cothelstone, who is also widely known as one of the peers overseeing the Metropolitan Police—might be in order.” Montague’s lips twisted wryly. “However, experience suggests that Millhouse will have more luck, and that more rapidly. Noblemen like Corby have a tendency to believe that they should not divulge the names of those who lose to them to others of their station, but that the same prohibition does not apply to men of lesser station, such as Millhouse, especially not when, as I suspect he will, Millhouse suggests that the earl should furnish him with the name as a way of ensuring the taint of theft and consequent murder never comes anywhere near the earl’s good name.”
Barnaby chuckled. “You and your peers have a very fine appreciation of the nobility’s foibles.” He looked at Stokes. “Montague’s correct—Millhouse will have a better chance of getting that name than my father. If the pater approaches Corby, Corby will demand to know every little detail about the case before divulging the name, and if we’re trying for discretion—and we must not forget that, despite Walter’s sorry exploits, we have no evidence that Camberly, MP, is involved, nor Mortimer Halstead, Home Office official, either, much less the ladies—then telling Corby all in exchange for a name is not a good way to proceed.”
“Indeed,” Penelope said. “We do need to protect the innocents. This case is not going to end well for the family in any case, but the less speculation over who is actually guilty, the better.”
Stokes looked around the circle, then slumped back in his chair. “Very well.” After a moment, he cocked a brow at Barnaby and Penelope. “So exactly where are we in terms of identifying who, exactly, are the guilty parties here?”
Penelope promptly replied, “On two counts now—Runcorn’s murder and the man who gave Corby the stolen share certificate—we know the guilty party was a Halstead male.”
“We’ve ruled out Walter,” Violet said, “but in terms of who among the others is increasingly unlikely, I doubt William would have moved in Corby’s circles, and, truth be told, I’ve never heard that William gambles, not to any extent. He might not have a great deal of money, but at the level he’s chosen to live, he doesn’t really need much to get by.”
Stokes nodded. “Of the Halstead men, I agree that William is the least likely to have been involved.”
“That leaves us with Mortimer, Hayden, and Maurice as the most likely culprits,” Montague said.
“And as to that . . .” Barnaby shifted to better face them all. “After Montague sent word that it was Corby who now owned the shares, since I knew the earl to be a heavy gambler, I spent the day ambling around the gentleman’s clubs, those I suspected Corby frequents. Through chatting with the doormen and the concierges, I confirmed that the earl was a member and known to play at a number of establishments, and I subsequently inquired whether any Halstead or Camberly was a member of those clubs.”
“What a brilliant notion!” Penelope beamed at her spouse, then impatiently gestured. “And . . . ?”
Barnaby grinned at her. “And, as I was about to divulge, one of Corby’s favorite haunts does indeed boast a Halstead as a member.”
“Which Halstead?” Stokes demanded.
Barnaby met his eye. “The one we might have suspected—Maurice.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Violet said. “Maurice has always been the
spendthrift, the profligate. He’s a peacock, and throughout the years I was with the family, everyone knew he gambled heavily.”
After a moment, Griselda said, “So does this mean Maurice is the murderer?”
Stokes grimaced. “From what I’ve seen and learned of him, he’s a devious, calculating sort—he could be behind all three killings. I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“However,” Barnaby said, much in the manner of continuing Stokes’s train of thought, “given the issues with this family, and the twists in this case, we need to be wary of leaping to conclusions, of making judgment calls rather than relying solely on facts. Our judgment, in this case, might lead us astray. The facts won’t.”
“But,” Stokes said, “we are making progress. We are closing in.” He looked at Montague. “I want to know the instant you hear from Millhouse as to which Halstead handed Corby that share certificate.” Stokes snorted. “With this family, we can’t even take it for granted that the Halstead who handed Corby the certificate was the same Halstead who owed him the gambling debt.”
Penelope frowned. “This family gives me a headache—our final breakthrough can’t come fast enough.”
“Hear, hear,” came from all the others.
Mostyn chose that moment to bring in the tea tray and as a group they turned their attention to other things, but once the tea had been consumed and everyone rose as Stokes, Griselda, and Montague prepared to take their leave, their progress with the case again claimed their minds.
“I know I shouldn’t,” Stokes said, meeting Barnaby’s gaze, “yet I’m back to thinking we’ve been making this a lot more complicated than it needs to be.” He glanced at the others, his gaze touching all their faces. “The chances are that, once we confirm that it was Maurice who gave Corby the share certificate, we’ll have our man, and he’ll prove to have committed all three murders.” Stokes met Barnaby’s gaze. “You said it earlier—the murders were all about our man protecting himself from exposure over something, and now we know that something was the debt to Corby and the theft of that share certificate to cover it.”