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

by Stephanie Laurens

  A puzzled silence fell. Constance Halstead was the first to turn her head and look across the room at Violet, sitting on the chaise flanked by Griselda and Penelope.

  Constance’s daughter, Caroline, noticed, and she, too turned to look.

  One by one, the others realized, and then all were staring at Violet, varying degrees of speculation verging on imminent accusation in their faces.

  “Why wear a veil?” Cynthia mused.

  Mortimer took her question at face value. “Obviously,” he retorted, “to conceal her identity.”

  Cynthia’s lips curved sarcastically as she glanced pityingly at Mortimer. “Precisely. Which suggests she expected to be recognized.” Cynthia lifted her gaze to Stokes’s face. “Does that not suggest, Inspector, that the veiled woman was in some way connected with my mother?”

  Constance Halstead turned from her pointed scrutiny of Violet to add, “Especially with the letter being such a close match to Mama-in-law’s hand.”

  “That,” Stokes gravely conceded, “is one possible interpretation, but as the police have already discounted the members of her ladyship’s immediate household, I would be interested in hearing of which other females linked to Lady Halstead you think might warrant further investigation.”

  Both Cynthia and Constance immediately pulled back. They exchanged glances but kept their lips shut.

  Wallace Camberly shifted restlessly. “To return to more pertinent issues, Inspector, how much was stolen from the account?”

  “I’m afraid,” Stokes smoothly replied, “that I am not yet at liberty to disclose that information.”

  Barnaby had been observing Walter and Hayden throughout; Walter continued to look puzzled, while Hayden had resorted to studying his fingernails.

  They’d decided to withhold the information that a gentleman fitting a description that matched five of the family had been seen at Runcorn’s office and outside the bank at the critical times, judging that if they revealed that card, the family would band together, put up their shields, and become even more defensive and unhelpful.

  They were unhelpful enough as it was.

  Stokes had been consulting his notebook. Now he raised his gaze and, his voice hardening, said, “I have also to inform you that, this morning, Tilly Westcott, her ladyship’s maid, was discovered murdered in her bed upstairs.”

  That jolted even Hayden into attentiveness; while his face revealed no sympathy, much less sorrow, his expression displayed a certain startled, prurient interest.

  Walter’s eyes had grown round, but he remained silent, allowing his parents, aunt, and uncles to put voice to the family’s response.

  Which could be summed up by an unvoiced What has that to do with us? Their expressions remained largely blank, some a touch bewildered, as if waiting for Stokes to explain the connection, to elucidate why they should be concerned with the maid’s death.

  Stokes obliged. “Miss Westcott was murdered in precisely the same manner as Lady Halstead.” He paused, then went on, “We—the police—therefore believe that Miss Westcott was most likely murdered by the same villain, and most likely because she knew something that, at some point, would have identified Lady Halstead’s killer.”

  Barnaby was rapidly losing interest in Walter Halstead and Hayden Camberly. All he was observing in either man was either bewilderment or curiosity. Neither showed any sign of knowing anything, of having any awareness at all, of any of the three murders.

  Wallace Camberly was frowning. “In that case, Inspector, is it not reasonable to suppose that this maid, having over the years no doubt learned much from her ladyship concerning her wealth, was an accomplice to her ladyship’s murder, and indirectly to that of her ladyship’s man-of-business, and then, in disguise, assisted in the theft of the funds from the bank, only to subsequently be murdered by her partner in crime?”

  “Indeed, Inspector.” Mortimer Halstead unbent enough to stiffly incline his head to his brother-in-law. “Such a scenario admirably accounts for the facts.” Mortimer raised his gaze to Stokes’s face and arched an arrogant brow. “It’s certainly more believable than any suggestion that any member of this family had anything to do with any criminal act.”

  Stokes held onto his temper and, his expression unreadable, blandly asked, “One aspect remains to be adequately explained, even by that scenario. Namely, how the murderer gained access to this house on two separate occasions via a key to the side door.” Stokes swept the family with a sharply questioning gaze. “As we’ve come to that point, allow me to ask: Who among you has keys to this house?”

  A ripple, not so much of unease as of annoyance, spread around the gathering.

  Camberly glanced sharply at his wife. “As far as I am aware, we don’t have one.”

  Cynthia’s lips compressed, as if the question had prodded a sore spot, but she nodded. “We don’t.” As if compelled, she looked up at Stokes and snippily added, “And as far as I know, no other among this family does, either.”

  Mortimer, too, appeared irritated. “My mother, Inspector, was . . . independently minded. Even after my father died and she elected to remain here alone, she did not, as far as I am aware, distribute keys to this house.” Mortimer again looked at Violet. “I daresay Miss Matcham can confirm that.”

  Across the width of the room, Violet met Stokes’s eyes and reluctantly nodded. “I’m not aware that Lady Halstead gave any of her family a key to this house—she told me she didn’t see the need.”

  “Precisely!” Cynthia nodded and looked at Stokes. “So you see, Inspector, there’s no question of any family member being involved.”

  “For once I must agree with my sister, Inspector.” Mortimer’s expression suggested that doing so was akin to sucking a lemon. “Which brings me to ask what the police are doing to catch this murderous thief.”

  Refusing to respond to the undisguised jab carried in the tone of Mortimer’s demand, Stokes smoothly replied, “The investigation is proceeding on several fronts. The family will be informed in due course of the outcome, but at this stage, our immediate next step is to establish the alibis of all those who are, by virtue of their association with the victim, potential suspects. Anyone who might, directly or indirectly, gain from her ladyship’s death is, in the eyes of the law, a potential suspect. Consequently, while I assume it will be a mere formality, I must ask each of you for an accounting of where you were on the three evenings on which the murders took place.”

  The gathering erupted in protest, the ladies feigning shock and incipient outrage, the three Halstead brothers blustering and disputing the necessity.

  Neither Walter Camberly nor Hayden Halstead added their voices to the clamor, but Barnaby noted that both looked uneasy. However, their wariness was focused on their respective mothers, which, Barnaby suspected, suggested guilt not over the murders but over something else. Something possibly entirely understandable and not at all villainous.

  Wallace Camberly, too, did not bother verbally protesting; he sat in the corner of one sofa, his lips compressed, his expression that of a man whose temper was being sorely tried. He radiated irritation and severe annoyance, but, unlike the others, he gave the impression he fully understood that, in this instance, there was nothing to be gained from resistance.

  Unruffled, stoic, Stokes waited out the protests, but Camberly reached the end of his patience first.

  “Inspector—I’m a very busy man.” Camberly straightened and met Stokes’s gaze. “As I can see you are bound and determined to take our alibis, might I ask that you take mine first? There’s a debate in Parliament later this afternoon that I wish to attend.”

  As all the other comments faded, Stokes inclined his head, but before he could say anything, Mortimer declared, “I, too, am expected elsewhere.” He caught Stokes’s eye. “I must return to my desk and my duties. The wheels of government will not pause for something as minor as domestic murder.”

  Barnaby suspected that Stokes, like he, might argue that last, but . .
.

  Stokes, no doubt quite pleased but hiding it, inclined his head to Mortimer, then glanced at Camberly. “Perhaps, Mr. Camberly, you would step this way?” Stokes waved to a round table with two chairs that sat in an alcove at the end of the long room. “And after I have your statement, I can deal with Mr. Halstead.”

  “Indeed.” Camberly rose, straightened his jacket, settled his sleeves, then followed Stokes to the end of the room.

  Mortimer Halstead watched them go.

  His wife and his sister drew deep breaths, then started to argue over which of them was most urgently expected elsewhere such that they, and not the other, should follow Mortimer in giving Stokes their alibis.

  Barnaby battled a grin. He glanced at Montague. Under cover of the din, Barnaby murmured, “Any insights?”

  Montague shook his head. “Both Camberly and Mortimer Halstead are too accustomed to guarding their expressions. They were too often blank, or held rigidly to blandness—I couldn’t identify any specific reaction to any of the revelations, or rather, none that would denote guilt.”

  Barnaby grimaced lightly. “Let’s hope the ladies had more luck.”

  Across the room, Penelope turned to Violet. “Did any of them behave in a manner you hadn’t expected?”

  Violet considered, then shook her head. “I was mildly surprised that Caroline actually spoke, but what she said wasn’t out of character. She, Hayden, and Walter usually attend this house under sufferance because their parents insist they must. They rarely contribute to any discussion and, I often think, are usually absorbed with thoughts of other things. Today . . . I would say all three were attending, concentrating on what was said, but . . .” She grimaced. “I sensed their interest stemmed more from curiosity—that sort of horrified fascination violent death tends to evoke.”

  Her gaze moving over the gathering before the fireplace, Griselda nodded. “Indeed—that’s precisely how I read it, too.” Glancing across Violet, she met Penelope’s gaze. “I didn’t detect any suspicious reaction, did you?”

  Penelope wrinkled her nose and looked back at Lady Halstead’s assembled family. “No.” After a moment, she added, “That said, having now seen and observed them all, and thus finally comprehending just how overwhelming their self-interest and self-absorption truly are, I’m even more convinced that someone here, someone presently in this room, is indeed the murderer”—she looked back at Violet and Griselda—“for the simple reason that I cannot imagine any other person having a sufficiently good motive for killing first Lady Halstead, then Runcorn, then Tilly the maid, and going one step further and attempting to murder Violet, too.” Penelope looked back at the Halsteads and Camberlys. “So it’s someone here, but which one?”

  “Perhaps their alibis will give us some clue.” Griselda studied her husband, presently seated at the round table writing in his notebook as Mortimer Halstead, with a patently dismissive air, recited his whereabouts on the nights in question. Wallace Camberly had completed his turn and, with a brief nod to his wife, had departed, leaving through the door one of the constables had opened for him; Griselda knew there were two more constables in the front hall, waiting to ensure the family members quit the house directly and weren’t tempted to stray into the sitting room or upstairs.

  Mortimer Halstead rose from the table; after surveying the room, his expression cold and closed, he headed for the door. His wife, Constance, replaced him at the table, having stolen a march on Cynthia, who had been delayed by her son, Walter; the pair stood together, heads bent close, by the fireplace. Observing the quality of their exchange, Griselda murmured, “I’d wager Cynthia is coaching Walter on what he should say.”

  Penelope considered the sight, then snorted. “As if Stokes and his men won’t check.”

  Constance rose from the table. Noticing, Cynthia whisked in to take her place, waving Caroline, who had intended to follow Constance, back. Although she scowled, Caroline gave way to her aunt and stepped back to wait her turn.

  Constance Halstead paused to study the room. Her gaze came to rest on Violet, protectively flanked by Penelope and Griselda, and, head rising, much in the manner of a frigate under full sail, Constance swept across the room, bearing down on the chaise. Halting before it, she looked down at Violet. Ignoring Penelope and Griselda to either side, her expression that of a matron dealing with a household chore, Constance stated, “Miss Matcham, I believe you are better placed than any of the family to undertake the responsibility of dealing with this unfortunate occurrence of Miss Westcott’s death. Indeed, I suspect it falls within the scope of your duties to her ladyship to do so.”

  Looking into Mrs. Halstead’s face, taking in her somewhat petulant tone, Violet bit her tongue at that “unfortunate occurrence”; after a moment’s consideration, she stiffly inclined her head. “As you say, Mrs. Halstead, on her ladyship’s behalf I will contact Miss Westcott’s family.” She certainly wouldn’t want to leave the matter of making sure Tilly’s body and effects were properly dealt with to any of the Halstead brood. Glancing at Stokes, she saw him still busy writing as Cynthia rose from her seat at the table and Caroline swiftly took her place. Looking back at Constance, Violet amended, “Or at least, I will liaise with the police as to what should be done in that regard.”

  Constance’s expression turned peevish. “I’m sure I don’t know why the police are making themselves so busy over this latest murder—it’s hardly of any great import.”

  Before Violet, Penelope, or Griselda could voice any of the retorts that leapt to their tongues, Cynthia Camberly halted beside her sister-in-law in a swish of stylishly subdued skirts. All three ladies of the family—Constance, Caroline, and Cynthia—had made some attempt to dress appropriately for mourning, but, of course, their orders for new mourning gowns were still with their dressmakers.

  Unsmiling, her expression arrogantly superior, Cynthia looked down her nose at Violet. “As I’m sure you will understand, Miss Matcham, the family will wish to close up this house as soon as possible. Given her ladyship is gone, all reason for your continued employment has vanished, as, indeed, is true for the rest of the staff. Although her ladyship’s funeral will be held at St. Peter’s, we’ve agreed that it would be most convenient to host the wake here. After that, however, we would prefer to see the house closed.”

  “Indeed.” Constance Halstead nodded. “So if you could inform Cook that you and she will need to make other arrangements commencing from tomorrow evening?”

  “To ensure an appropriate standard, I will send my butler, two footmen, and a kitchen maid to assist with serving at the wake and with the subsequent clearing of the kitchen,” Cynthia added. “However, both you and Cook should consider your employment terminated as of the end of that day.”

  Keeping all reaction from her face, Violet studied the two harridans before her. She’d lived in the house, and had given exemplary service, for the past eight years, and Cook had done the same for even longer.

  Violet felt Penelope’s fingers tighten about her own in both support and warning; on her other side, Griselda shifted a fraction closer, without words signaling her support as well. Holding onto her composure with an iron grip, Violet stiffly inclined her head. As if from a distance, she heard herself say, “I will convey your instructions to Cook.”

  “Excellent.” With a nod of dismissal, Cynthia turned, as did Constance, as Caroline joined them.

  Constance and Caroline gathered their shawls and headed for the door.

  Cynthia remained standing for several moments, through narrowed eyes watching her brother Maurice take his turn at the table with Stokes. Then she audibly sniffed, turned on her heel, and, head rising high, followed her sister-in-law from the room.

  Griselda, Penelope, and Violet watched her go.

  After a moment, Penelope observed, “I cannot recall ever meeting such dislikeable people.”

  Griselda smothered a cynical laugh. She looked at those still in the room. “I have to admit it’s rare to meet such a un
iversally unattractive group—there’s not one my heart warms to.”

  “Are they always like that?” Penelope glanced at Violet. “Always so unlikeable?”

  She thought back over the years, then nodded. “Yes. I’ve known them all for eight years, and they’ve always been as they are—coldly self-serving.”

  So self-serving she was going to have to find a new roof over her head . . . just the thought of trying to sleep upstairs, of being in this house when night again fell, sent a shiver down her spine.

  Violet looked up and found Montague watching her; even across the room, she sensed his concern.

  Once the ladies had departed, it didn’t take long for the remaining men to give Stokes their alibis; as the last, Hayden, took himself off, Stokes rose and walked up the room.

  Barnaby and Montague, who had hung back by the fireplace, observing the men, stirred and came forward to join the group as Stokes halted before the chaise Violet, Penelope, and Griselda still graced.

  “Anything?” Barnaby asked, nodding at the notebook Stokes was perusing.

  Stokes cast him a jaundiced look. “I asked for alibis for all three murders as well as the morning when the money was taken from the bank. With regard to the evenings, the ladies, unsurprisingly, have alibis of a social nature—messy, but they can be checked. However, as we’ve all agreed no female killed Runcorn or Tilly, and it was a male who met the woman from the bank, then our ladies are largely irrelevant.” Stokes flipped over a leaf of his notebook. “The gentlemen’s alibis are rather less specific, and much less easy to verify. For instance, all of them claim to have been either in bed, or walking in the park, or generally about on the morning when the money was taken from the bank. Their evening alibis are this club or that, this hell or that, this party or that. It’s highly unlikely we’ll be able to easily verify any of those.” Stokes looked down the page and snorted. “William Halstead’s alibis, while overtly the weakest, are probably going to be the easiest to confirm—he says he was drinking in a tavern by the docks on all three nights.”