The Masterful Mr. Montague: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Novel

by Stephanie Laurens

  “And,” Stokes said, “the same can be said of the maid, Tilly Westcott. At a pinch, she could have been the woman who presented the letter at the bank, but she, too, is devoted to her ladyship.” He looked at Montague. “I take it there’s no suggestion that Lady Halstead was in arrears with their wages?”

  Montague took a second to bring the appropriate payments to mind, then shook his head. “No. We’re in the middle of a quarter, and all the staff were paid as expected to this point.”

  “Right, then.” Stokes stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. “I believe we can discount the notion that either Miss Matcham or Miss Westcott was the woman behind the veil—”

  “But we should perhaps accept that someone intended us to suspect them.” Adair glanced about the company. “Because whoever wrote the forged letter was almost certainly a family member.”

  “Indeed.” Stokes nodded. “And what’s more, I’ll lay odds the family will want to use the vague but suggestive description of the mystery woman to point the finger at Miss Matcham, or if not her, the maid.”

  “They’ve already tried that once,” Montague reminded the gathering.

  “And I’m quite sure they’ll do it again,” Penelope said, “if only because it’s easier than accepting the alternative—that the murderer is one of them.”

  “Which,” Stokes said, “brings us neatly back to the murderer, the gentleman seen by several people entering and later leaving Runcorn’s office. The description would fit, and certainly suggests one of the Halstead men, but which one?”

  Stokes, Adair, and Montague exchanged glances.

  Viewing their uncertainty, Penelope helpfully recited the description, concluding, “Neither Griselda nor I have seen the Halstead gentlemen, but surely those side-whiskers give you some clue.”

  Barnaby grimaced. “So one might think, but, sadly, that isn’t the case. They all have them, more or less to the same degree.” He hesitated, then continued, “For me, at least, that description doesn’t distinguish between the five males of Halstead blood—Mortimer, his son Hayden, Maurice, William, and Cynthia’s son Walter.” He glanced at the others. “In fact, if I encountered any of the Halstead men in the street at night, in poor light, I seriously doubt I would be able to tell one from the other. In good light, they are easy to distinguish, but in shadows . . .” Barnaby looked at Stokes. “Similar build, similar height, similar coloring, with key features, including the round cheeks, all similar, too. Even their dress is not wildly dissimilar.”

  Stokes slowly nodded. “It’s their eyes that are different—Hayden’s and Walter’s, and also Maurice’s, are all lighter—and there’s also a slight difference in the set of their lips, and possibly the prominence, although not the shape, of their noses. But unless you can see all those details”—he tipped his head to Barnaby—“I agree. Telling those five apart isn’t easy.”

  They pondered that fact, and its implications, in silence.

  Griselda broke it; slapping her palms on her thighs, she rose. “No, don’t get up. I’m going to organize some sandwiches for luncheon. You could all do with some food to fuel all this cogitating.”

  “I’ll help.” Penelope rose, too.

  When the ladies had disappeared deeper into the house, Stokes looked at Barnaby and Montague. “We need to very carefully think through how we’re to press forward with this. Especially with the complication of Camberly’s position—even if he isn’t a suspect, his son is—and we’ve also got Mortimer Halstead to contend with. My reading of him is that he will prove difficult over one of the family’s being our prime suspect.”

  “Oh, yes.” Barnaby nodded. “He’s exactly that sort. And given the astounding lack of loyalty to Lady Halstead—or rather their devotion to their own interests over seeking justice for her, which they’ve already amply demonstrated—dealing with this family while ferreting out the murderer in their midst is not going to be a simple matter.”

  Montague sighed. “One assumes that, in investigating a crime of any sort, those involved who are not the criminal will hold justice being served to have the highest priority, but, sadly, that’s often not the case.”

  A disaffected silence fell. It was broken by Penelope, who appeared in the open doorway to announce, “If you will come to the dining room, gentlemen, luncheon awaits.”

  The three men rose and followed Penelope into the dining room, where they took seats about the oval table. They passed around platters of sandwiches and cold meats. A young maid poured ale for the gentlemen and lemonade for the ladies.

  While they ate, they exchanged only the most minor comments.

  Stokes waited until the sandwiches were gone and, replete, they sat back, the men sipping their ale, before returning to what he saw as his dilemma. “We have to investigate the Halstead family, thoroughly and exhaustively. Whoever this murderer is—and l think we all agree that it’s one of the five males, with only Camberly thus far excluded—he isn’t stupid. He acted swiftly to, as he saw it, put a stop to Lady Halstead looking into her affairs, presumably because he knew she would notice the odd payments. He wasn’t to know she already had. And then, just to ensure the matter went no further, he eliminated Runcorn—again, in his eyes, the only other person who might have been in a position to raise a question about those odd payments. The murderer wasn’t to know—and still doesn’t know—that Montague already knows about the payments.”

  “Hmm.” Sitting forward, her elbows on the table, Penelope narrowed her eyes on Montague. “If all was as the murderer believes, and you didn’t know about those odd payments, how would this situation—her ladyship’s death, followed by Runcorn’s, followed by the withdrawal of the money by some mysterious lady apparently with her ladyship’s approval—be expected to play out?”

  Montague took a moment to think before saying, “If I didn’t know that there was anything odd about those payments . . . with both her ladyship and Runcorn removed, as well as the money, then barring the theft of the extra funds from the account this morning, everything should balance up nicely enough, at least as far as a cursory examination of the estate’s books would go. If we didn’t know about all the rest, this morning’s theft would be put down as a regrettable loss, and there would, therefore, be no reason the estate wouldn’t simply pass through probate without further question.”

  “So no further ripples or ructions from the murderer’s point of view.” Penelope nodded. “So at this point, he should be satisfied that he’s done all that’s necessary to obliterate his tracks.”

  “But,” Stokes said, “he might see Montague as a threat.” Slate gray eyes met Montague’s gaze. “He might come after you.”

  Montague arched his brows, then raised a shoulder. “I can’t see why he would—at least not over what we’ve let fall to this point. All he knows regarding me is that Lady Halstead recently gave me a letter of authority to oversee her financial affairs. He doesn’t know she specifically engaged me to look into the odd payments. He also doesn’t know that I have all the Halstead papers and am analyzing them for the police. If we don’t mention those things, there’s no reason for him to believe I or my office pose any active threat. For all he knows, my involvement in this is, and will remain, purely superficial.”

  Stokes’s lips slowly stretched in a predatory smile. “Which brings me back to the question of how to deal with the Halsteads.” He glanced around the table. “Given we believe the murderer is one of them, I intend to tell them as little as possible.”

  “Hear, hear,” Barnaby said. “As Montague just illustrated, the less they know, the better.”

  Stokes faintly grimaced. “In addition to that, however, at this juncture I think it will be best if Miss Matcham and Miss Westcott are also not informed of our progress. Even though we believe they’re entirely innocent, they are nevertheless suspects, at least in the family’s eyes, and”—he raised his shoulders in a slight shrug—“like it or not, we need to treat them as such.”

  Penelope didn�
��t share that view and said so. Somewhat tartly.

  Even though neither lady had yet met Violet Matcham or Tilly Westcott, Griselda agreed. “For all you know, they might be in danger, and not telling them of your findings might fail to put them on guard.”

  Montague cleared his throat. “As to that, I believe Miss Matcham’s intelligence is such that she is already well aware that the murderer is most likely a family member. That being so, I can’t see that telling her of Runcorn’s murder at this point will serve any purpose other than to add to her distress.” He met Stokes’s gaze. “She met Runcorn recently, several times, when he called upon Lady Halstead.”

  Stokes nodded. “So it’s agreed—we do our best to investigate the family while keeping our findings close to our collective chest.”

  The men all agreed; the ladies abstained but didn’t argue.

  “Right, then.” Stokes set down his empty ale mug. “I need to return to Runcorn’s office and finalize things there. And while I’m doing that, I’ll have the constables go around again and ask for any sightings of a veiled lady.” He met Adair’s, then Montague’s, gazes. “Just to ensure our mysterious lady hasn’t played a larger role in this drama.”

  Adair nodded. “And I rather think I should return to Grimshaws Bank and see if anyone noticed which way the lady went. You never know—that might give us some clues.”

  “While you’re there,” Montague said, eyes narrowing in thought, “you might ask to speak with the head clerk again and inquire as to how the payments were made. It’s a very long shot, especially with deposits made in cash, but one never knows—the tellers might recall.” He met Adair’s eyes and shrugged. “It’s worth asking. And if the head clerk doesn’t recall your connection to this matter”—he pulled out a card and handed it to Adair—“feel free to use my name.”

  Adair took the card, raised it in salute. “I will. It’s a good point.”

  “And I,” Montague stated, “will continue to seek information in my usual sphere. Those payments are puzzling. If I can’t get to the bottom of them by analyzing the Halstead accounts, I might call in a few favors and see if any of my colleagues have any suggestions.” He looked at Stokes. “All with the utmost discretion, of course.”

  Stokes nodded and pushed back his chair. “So we all have things to do.”

  Adair rose, too. “Matters to pursue, avenues to follow.”

  Montague hid a smile and got to his feet. With compliments and thanks to Griselda, and a bow to Penelope, he followed Stokes and Adair through the house, out of the front door, and out through the gate.

  Stokes paused on the pavement, met Adair’s, then Montague’s, eyes. “I suggest we meet again at your office in the City later this afternoon and pool what we’ve learned. We’ll need to see the family again, clearly, but I would like to have as much information as possible before we call them together again.”

  Adair nodded. So did Montague. With salutes, the trio parted and went their separate ways.

  Penelope stood at the front window of the sitting room and, with Griselda beside her, watched the three men stride away. “Off they go, busily investigating. What odds will you give me that they plan to meet later—just the three of them—to compare notes?”

  Griselda snorted. “That’s no wager—it’s a certainty.” Arms crossed beneath her bosom, she nodded toward the pavement. “That’s what that little gathering was about—setting a time and place.”

  “I suppose,” Penelope said, head tilting as she considered, “in the circumstances, the violence of murder can only be expected to make them more protective.”

  “Not that they weren’t protective enough to begin with, but I take your point.” Griselda glanced at Penelope. “Matters have changed, and adequate adjustments have yet to be made.”

  “Indeed.” Penelope nodded. “So they’ve headed off, and we know what they’re doing. What does that leave us to do?” After a second, she answered her own question. “I rather think we should see what we can learn about the Halstead family from a social perspective. The Halsteads, and the Camberlys, too.”

  “Oh,” Griselda said, her voice rising with interest and subtle excitement, “I know just where to start.” She met Penelope’s eyes, read her speculative, questioning gaze, and smiled. “Just let me have a word to Gloria and make sure Megan’s settled, then I’ll grab my bonnet and show you.”

  “Show me what?” Penelope asked.

  Griselda grinned. “The other side of fashionable shopping.”

  Penelope looked intrigued. She waved Griselda on, then followed on her heels. “I’ll get my coat and bonnet on and meet you at the door.”

  Chapter 7

  Stokes spent an hour and a half at Runcorn’s offices, finalizing details and overseeing the securing of the premises. “Just as a precaution,” he said to the local sergeant, “I want two men watching the place at all times, but there’s no need for them to make themselves visible. One can be inside, the other keeping an eye on the door and the street from the pub across the way.”

  The sergeant arched his brows. “Think he’ll come back?”

  “I think it’s a possibility.” Stokes looked up as the three constables he’d sent to ask around as to any veiled lady sighted in the area over the last days returned.

  They saluted. At Stokes’s questioning look, the more senior shook his head. “No luck, sir. We’ve asked up and down both legs of Winchester Street, even managed to catch that match-seller again—she’s an observant one—but no one’s seen any veiled lady loitering about.”

  Stokes nodded. “It was a long shot, but one we had to rule out. Good work.”

  Two minutes later, he left the sergeant and the constables to organize the details of the watch and headed back to Scotland Yard.

  Barnaby elected to question the bank staff first, before the head clerk had a chance to forget him. He produced Montague’s card anyway, judging that Montague’s reputation had more weight in this sphere than his own.

  “Mr. Montague suggested that some of your tellers might recall the means by which recent cash deposits into Lady Halstead’s account were presented.” He took care to affect a hopeful expression. “Any help you or the staff can give us would be much appreciated.”

  “Hmm.” The head clerk, a somewhat officious, self-important little man, pursed his lips, but then nodded. “While I can’t promise anything—this is a busy branch with many accounts—if you will give me a few minutes, I’ll see what I can learn.”

  Barnaby inclined his head and drifted to where a row of chairs stood against one wall. Sitting in one, he watched as the clerk returned to his desk, flipped through a stack of papers, and withdrew one—presumably another bank record of some sort. After perusing the document, the head clerk took it with him. He scanned the four tellers at their stations, then made his way to one particular teller, an older man at the last window along the counter.

  The clerk waited until the teller finished with the customer before him, then stepped in and, showing the teller the back record, pointed to it and asked a question. The two men exchanged words, then the teller nodded.

  Barnaby fought the urge to rise and go and see, to question the teller directly . . . he would need to speak to the man directly, regardless of what the head clerk thought or said.

  Luckily, the head clerk looked over and beckoned.

  When Barnaby came to the counter, the head clerk smiled with arrogant satisfaction. “Mr. Wadsworth recalls receiving the last cash deposit into Lady Halstead’s account clearly, and believes it was presented in the same manner as the previous cash deposits over the last year or so.”

  Barnaby inclined his head to the clerk. “Excellent.” He looked at the teller. “Can you remember who paid in the money?”

  “Indeed, sir,” Wadsworth said. “I and my colleagues noted it especially, as it seemed . . . well, out of character for what one might imagine for a lady of Lady Halstead’s standing.”

  Puzzled, Barnaby asked, “Out of chara
cter in what way?”

  The teller glanced at the head clerk, as if confirming he was permitted to speak. When the clerk nodded, Wadsworth returned his gaze to Barnaby. “It was a courier service, sir. Always a different person, but they have a valid deposit slip, all properly signed, so we have to accept the cash.”

  Barnaby hesitated; the news wasn’t at all what he’d anticipated, but . . . perhaps he should have. “A courier service—by that you mean the sort of service that criminals use for . . . shall we say, suspect payments?”

  Wadsworth nodded. “Exactly that sort of service, sir. We tellers get to recognize the couriers, and we certainly recognize their sort. It’s really rather obvious, of course, because they aren’t the sort of person one would imagine having the amount of cash they’re handing over the counter.”

  Barnaby nodded. “Thank you both. I’ll take this information back to Mr. Montague and Inspector Stokes.” He met both men’s eyes and lowered his voice. “I’m sure I don’t need to mention that this information is highly sensitive and needs to be kept under your hat.”

  “Of course not, sir,” Wadsworth said.

  The head clerk drew himself up. “We at Grimshaws Bank pride ourselves on our discretion.”

  Hiding a smile, Barnaby inclined his head. “Again, thank you. I bid you gentlemen a good day.”

  With polite nods all around, Barnaby left the counter and, suppressing the spring in his step, strode out to the pavement. “One matter accomplished.” He looked about. “Now for the second.”

  He spent the next hour in fruitless ambling along the streets surrounding the bank, asking any of those who were, for whatever reason, fixtures along the way if they had sighted the veiled lady earlier that morning. He’d almost given up hope—had almost accepted that one success a day was as much as he could expect—when he saw a boy of ten or so years wielding a broom at the corner of a lane just around the bend in Bishopsgate.