Penelope and Griselda had heard their footsteps—had seen them enter and had taken the moment of their stillness to study their faces and appreciate their reaction.
Then Penelope smiled and, with a flick of her wrist, sent the toy with which she’d been distracting Oliver flying at Barnaby’s chest.
Reflexively, he caught it. Spell broken, he glanced at her, met her dark, too-observant eyes.
Her smile deepened, edged with intent. “The investigators return—and clearly with some case afoot.” She waved to include the children. “So come and join us—and tell us all.”
Griselda, also smiling, nodded. “Indeed.” She threw the toy she’d been jiggling to Stokes. “Come and take over.” She started to get up. “I’ll have Mindy bring in the tea tray, and meanwhile you can sit, stretch your legs, and share the news about your latest case.”
They know us far too well. Resigning himself to the inevitable, Stokes helped his wife to her feet, lightly kissed her cheek, then let her go to the kitchen to arrange for the tea tray. Crouching, he looked into the smiling, laughing blue eyes of his tiny daughter—and promptly fell under her spell again.
Grinning and dutifully jiggling the toy over her, he didn’t feel so bad—quite so silly—when at the edge of his vision he saw Barnaby sprawling on the floor next to his rolling bundle of a son.
Penelope rose, looked down at them for a moment, then, apparently satisfied that they knew what they were doing, went to the sofa and sat. She said nothing, merely watched over them; Stokes got the impression she was overseeing to make sure he and Barnaby did nothing wrong.
Twenty minutes later, with the now drowsy children handed over to Gloria, Megan’s nursemaid, and carted off to the nursery, with the tea poured and slices of pound cake passed around, the four of them settled into the comfort of the well-padded chairs and, finally, with the air of one who had waited patiently and was now due all she wished, Penelope said, “So, gentlemen, what’s your new case?”
Stokes glanced at Barnaby; they’d been colleagues and friends for long enough now that he had little doubt about the thoughts, the considerations, rolling through Barnaby’s mind. It still surprised him, the easy rapport they shared—the son of an earl and the son of a merchant, albeit a merchant’s son with a better-than-average education. As for the friendship, real and true, that had formed between their wives, that was an even greater wonder—an ex-East-Ender-milliner-shopkeeper-cum-police inspector’s wife rubbing shoulders with the wife of the son of an earl, herself the daughter of a viscount and connected by marriage to several of the most powerful noble families in the land.
Yet there they all were, sipping tea and munching pound cake in his small but comfortable sitting room. And in the past, before their foray into motherhood, their wives had, indeed, been of significant help in several of their cases. He and Barnaby had both hoped that the advent of Oliver and Megan would permanently distract Penelope and Griselda from their earlier interest, but as that patently wasn’t to be, then the Halstead case was, perhaps, a gift horse he and Barnaby shouldn’t try to turn away.
A murder where the motive was solidly and simply financial transactions held far less risk of any danger.
Meeting Stokes’s gaze, Barnaby all but imperceptibly nodded—an encouragement to go ahead, to take the lead, with his blessing.
Stokes shifted his gaze to Penelope’s eager face. “It’s a matter of murder.” When she and Griselda only looked more interested, he went on, “This morning, a Lady Halstead, who lived in Lowndes Street, was found dead by her staff . . .” In his usual, bare-bones, policeman’s language, he described all that had happened that day.
Predictably, Penelope asked questions, and Griselda posed a few, too. Both focused on the people, insisting that Stokes, and Barnaby, too, report what they’d sensed, as well as what they’d seen and heard, of all those involved.
Stokes had forgotten that, unlike him and Barnaby, their wives tended to concentrate on people, their foibles and emotions first, and secondarily on facts and actions.
Penelope knew Montague; she gave Griselda a quick verbal sketch, ending with, “He’s utterly reliable and trustworthy. A real rock, the sort one can always rely on to behave . . . in the way that will best serve justice.” Penelope glanced at Stokes. “Montague’s amazingly astute about everything to do with money and finances, and his ability to get information on those subjects is nothing short of astounding.”
Stokes snorted. “I’ve heard tales enough of the information he can get. If it comes to that in this case, I won’t be asking questions about how or where he gets his facts.”
Penelope grinned. “Precisely.” She turned back to Griselda. “But the point I find most interesting is not that the companion, Violet Matcham, sent for Montague—the poor woman clearly had the family to rights and must have been desperate for a way to see her late mistress’s death properly investigated, so sending for Montague makes perfect sense—but that Montague dropped all his usual work and came. Now that I find quite fascinating.”
Barnaby eyed the light in his wife’s dark eyes and decided he wasn’t going to comment. Instead, he steered the conversation on. “We were in Smithfield when Montague’s message reached us, so by the time we got to Lowndes Street, the doctor had already arrived.” Going over all that had occurred and, in catering to Penelope’s and Griselda’s particular bent, having to describe the people and their reactions proved an excellent exercise in reviewing what they had actually seen, what they actually knew.
Unsurprisingly, the description of the family gathering consumed many long minutes as their wives extracted every last little detail Barnaby and Stokes had noticed about the Halsteads and Camberlys.
Penelope fixed Barnaby with a direct look. “Your father would know about Camberly. And your mother might know more about Mrs. Camberly and the son.”
Barnaby nodded. “I’ll ask.”
“We’re due there for dinner tonight, which will be the perfect opportunity.” Penelope looked at Griselda. “What do you make of the family? They seem . . . well, not quite right to me. They’re destructive rather than supportive.”
Her gaze abstracted, Griselda nodded. “But what makes them like that, what drives them . . .” She focused on Penelope. “Do you think it might have something to do with their ages?”
Barnaby straightened; he glanced at Stokes and saw his friend blink, then pay greater attention, too.
Frowning slightly, Penelope was slowly nodding. “I see your point—and, yes, that might well be it.”
When neither said anything more but just sat there cogitating deeply, Barnaby prompted, “ ‘It’ what?” When Penelope glanced up, he caught her eye. “What are you two thinking?”
“Well,” Penelope said, “it’s the sort of thing that can sometimes happen when two siblings are born close—a year or less apart. From what Miss Matcham told you, Mortimer is the eldest, but Cynthia is less than a year younger. People assume that children close in age will support each other and share a deeper bond, but it can also go the other way. Especially if the second child has a stronger, or even equally strong, character. Then you have competition, a battle for supremacy.” She glanced at Stokes, then back at Barnaby. “Is that what was happening across that table? Was it competitiveness? One-upmanship? That sort of thing?”
His gaze on her face, Barnaby nodded decisively. “That’s exactly what it was.”
“And if that’s so,” Griselda said, catching Penelope’s gaze, “that makes Maurice and William more understandable, too.” She glanced at Barnaby, then Stokes. “Imagine what it must have been like when all of them were children. Mortimer and Cynthia are fighting for dominance, most likely portraying themselves as the most perfect, the most successful, to gain the most praise and status. Maurice can’t compete, so, in a bid for attention, and even perhaps rebelling against his older siblings, he goes the other way. Because Mortimer and Cynthia are fighting over the perfectly correct end of social behavior, Maurice goes to the
other extreme and becomes a black sheep.”
“But”—Penelope held up a finger—“Maurice can go to the other extreme while still remaining within the social pale. But when William came along, he had nowhere to go—no way to distinguish himself within the social pale because both the perfect end and the imperfect end had already been claimed.”
Barnaby was nodding. “So William stepped beyond the pale and out of society altogether.”
“Exactly!” Penelope looked at Stokes. “So that’s why those four are as they are, and if you bear that in mind, you’ll have a much better chance of predicting their behavior and understanding the reasons behind what they say and do.”
Stokes digested that, then said, “One thing—you say that the characters the Halstead children have grown into came about because they were, each of them, seeking attention.” When Griselda and Penelope nodded, Stokes asked, “From whom?”
Penelope looked at Griselda, then Griselda turned to Stokes. “Most likely from their parents.”
All four of them paused to consider, then Barnaby mused, “According to Violet—Miss Matcham—both Lady Halstead and her husband were nice people. Which suggests this is one of those strange instances where perfectly decent parents raise a brood of much less acceptable children.”
Stokes humphed. “It happens.”
After a moment, Penelope sat back and asked, “So what are you planning to do next?”
Stokes exchanged a glance with Barnaby and saw in his friend’s expression the same acceptance he felt. Their ladies’ insights were proving useful, even potentially invaluable, and, really, with this case, there was no reason they couldn’t assist. He looked back at the pair seated on the sofa. “Our next move is to examine all the information Montague has thus far assembled about these mysterious payments, and then, I suspect, while he pursues them as only he can, we”—he inclined his head toward Barnaby—“will continue investigating the murder itself.”
“And the family,” Barnaby added.
“Hmm.” Penelope frowned into space. “You need to find out how the murderer got in.”
Barnaby grimaced. “To be thorough, we should search Lady Halstead’s papers in general to see if there’s any document that might shed light on either the payments or some other issue as yet unknown to us that might have been behind this.”
“Regarding the payments, you might see if there’s anything known about any member of the family being involved in anything nefarious,” Griselda suggested.
Stokes grunted and set down his cake plate. “Regardless, after what we’ve discussed, I feel a need to interview the family again, but before we do”—he met Barnaby’s eyes—“we need more details about these peculiar payments.”
Barnaby pulled a face but nodded. “Much as I would like to press them harder, with the caliber of people involved, I suspect you have that right.”
Chapter 5
The rest of the copies of Lady Halstead’s financial documents that Montague had requested from Runcorn arrived just in time for Slocum to receive them before closing up for the day.
When Slocum carried the pile into his office, Montague was already tidying away the ducal accounts he’d been working through. There was nothing amiss in those ledgers; they could wait.
“Thank you, Slocum.” Taking the stack of documents, which was several inches thick, Montague placed the pile on his blotter, then looked at his senior clerk. “It was lucky that I didn’t have any meetings scheduled earlier today.” He’d arrived back in time for a late afternoon consultation with one of his newer clients. “Given that unraveling Lady Halstead’s accounts has taken such a drastic and serious turn, I might well have to absent myself with little notice over the next several days. What meetings have we scheduled? Are there any we should reschedule?”
“Let me get the book.” Slocum went out to his desk and returned with his heavy office diary. “Well, you’re in luck. Over the next week or so, you’ve only got meetings with second-tier clients, so Gibbons and Foster could deal with those.” Slocum looked up, brows arching. “I’ll word them up in the morning, if you like?”
“Who are the clients?” Montague listened as Slocum listed the names. He considered, then nodded. “You can inform Gibbons and Foster they’ll be taking those meetings. If I’m here, I’ll attend, but as an observer. Gibbons and Foster can handle those meetings regardless—Gibbons to lead, Foster to support.” Frederick Gibbons was a sound man who had been with Montague and Son for years, and Phillip Foster, although much less experienced, was shaping up nicely. “It’ll be good experience for them both.”
“I agree.” Slocum was scribbling notes in the big diary. “Never fear—between us we’ll take care of business.” Raising his head, Slocum glanced at the pile of papers on the blotter. “Looks like you’ll have your hands full combing through those.”
“Indeed.” Montague eyed the pile and couldn’t wait to plunge in. He glanced at Slocum. “Anything else?”
“No—that’s it.” Slocum closed the diary and saluted. “The others have already gone, so I’ll be off, too.”
“Good night.” Montague didn’t even wait for Slocum to leave before picking up the first document and starting to read.
The next hour ticked by. Only when the lamp on his desk started flickering and he realized the oil had burned low did he look up and through the window, and realize that evening had well and truly fallen. A glance at the clock on the corner of his desk informed him that Mrs. Trewick would have his dinner ready and waiting upstairs; he tried not to inconvenience his housekeeper any more than was unavoidable.
He looked at the papers scattered over his desk. The compulsion to pursue the explanation for the odd payments that had appeared in Lady Halstead’s account—which were possibly the motive behind her murder—was familiar to a point; in past cases, he’d often felt the call of professional duty, of a need to ensure that the laws were observed and justice was served in his chosen field.
This time, however, the impulse that drove him had a different feel, a sharper edge.
Violet Matcham was too close to the crime for his peace of mind.
He shied from looking too deeply at why that consideration should affect him so powerfully, yet he wasn’t about to deny that it did. He needed to discover what in Lady Halstead’s accounts was worth murdering to conceal, and only when he had, and only when the murderer had been caught, would he be content that he’d done all he could.
That he’d accomplished what now seemed so vital: Protecting Violet from the murderer.
Keeping Violet safe.
He stared at the papers for a moment more, then rose, gathered them up, and with them tucked under his arm, he headed for the door, for his waiting dinner and his study upstairs.
That evening, Violet took her dinner with Tilly and Cook at the table in the kitchen. It was cozy there, and the warmth was much appreciated; upstairs, the house seemed to have grown unnaturally cold.
Cook, wispy red curls escaping from the edges of her white cap, huddled in her chair and poked at her perfectly tasty stew. “What if he comes back?”
Violet glanced up. “The murderer?”
“Aye.” Cook didn’t look up; she stared at her plate. “Just waltzed in here and killed the mistress, didn’t he? So what’s to stop him doing the same and smothering one of us in our beds?”
Violet glanced at Tilly and saw a similar anxiety in the maid’s eyes. “I . . . can’t tell, of course.” She looked at Cook. “Who can? But it does seem that there might be a reason behind her ladyship’s murder—those payments she was so exercised about—and if that’s true, then . . . well, I can’t see any reason he would come back to kill any of us.”
Tilly had lifted her glass of water. She took a sip, then, lowering the glass, cleared her throat and said, “Seems like, if he thought he had to kill her ladyship for a reason, and so far has got away with it, then the last place he’d think of coming back to would be here.”
“Yes, indeed.�
� Violet sat straighter. “And I’ve just remembered that the inspector told me that he’d left a man outside to keep an eye on the house. The constable inside has left, but for all we know, the man outside is still there.”
“Aye, well—here’s hoping he is.” Cook pushed her half-full plate away. “And that the blackguard, whoever he is, is more worried about hiding his face than bothering with us three here. It’s not as if we know anything.”
“Exactly.” Determined to steer talk away from the murder, and the murderer, Violet rose and lifted her plate. “I’ll help clear.”
It would keep her busy, keep her from dwelling on the fact that she wasn’t spending that evening in the sitting room reading to Lady Halstead. That she and Tilly wouldn’t have to help her ladyship up the stairs, and help her get ready for bed.
The big bedroom upstairs lay empty; the police had come and taken the body away for further examination.
Violet didn’t want to think about that. Once the dishes were done, she turned to Tilly. “Perhaps we can work on the mending.”
Both she and Tilly were excellent needlewomen; Cook sat for a while, silently staring at their flying fingers, then she humphed and went off to her bedroom beyond the kitchen.
Violet heard the door shut. A minute later, she heard a heavy thud, as if Cook had moved some piece of furniture up against the door.
Violet exchanged a glance with Tilly, who shrugged. “Can’t say as I blame her,” Tilly said. “Quite a shock today’s been.”
Lips twisting, Violet returned her gaze to the seam she was repairing.
Eventually, the mending all done and the lamps in the kitchen doused, each holding a flickering candle, Violet climbed the stairs with Tilly. They parted on the first-floor landing, Tilly going along the corridor to the door to the staircase to the attic and her tiny dormer room. Violet drew breath, then walked down the corridor in the opposite direction, past the door to Lady Halstead’s room, and further, to the door to her own small bedroom.
Opening it, she went in. Shutting the door, she studied the panels for several moments. Eventually, she turned away; there was no reason to allow fear to rule her.