Barnaby nodded. “If it’s his regular drinking hole, the barman and bargirls will know him and, most likely, be able to tell us if he was there.”
Grimly, Stokes nodded. “Exactly.” He glanced at the three ladies, then at Montague and Barnaby. “So other than predictably unhelpful alibis, what else did we learn from this exercise?”
Sliding his hands into his trouser pockets, Barnaby volunteered, “I doubt either Walter Camberly or Hayden Halstead is the murderer. Neither can yet control their expressions all that well—not like their elders—and neither reacted to the news of the deaths with any reaction that might suggest guilt.”
Penelope and Griselda exchanged glances. “The ladies,” Penelope reported, “also showed no consciousness or any awareness that would suggest they knew anything about the crimes.”
“Unfortunately,” Montague said, “the older males were impossible to read.” Montague met Stokes’s eyes. “In all my years of meeting with and assessing the reactions of clients, I have rarely met such . . . controlled façades.”
Stokes nodded. “Indeed. William Halstead appeared to be the easiest to read—he appeared unconcerned and detached throughout—but was that a mask, or was that reality? Given the artfully crafted faces Mortimer, Camberly, and Maurice all showed, I can’t have any confidence I read any of them aright.”
Montague sighed. “So in terms of flushing out the murderer, this exercise fell somewhat short of our mark.”
The others all rather glumly nodded.
Violet glanced at their faces, then rose. “I believe we can all do with some tea. Just let me have a word with Cook first—I have to tell her the family are letting us go and wish to close up this house tomorrow evening.”
Stokes arched his brows.
Montague looked concerned.
Leaving them all to follow, Violet headed for the kitchen.
Aye, well,” Cook said when Violet informed her that they would have to quit the house. “That’s no more nor less than what I’d expected from that lot, but, truth be told, wild horses couldn’t keep me under this roof a single night more.” Seeing the others coming into the kitchen, Cook turned to the stove, to the kettle she’d set boiling on the hob. She spoke over her shoulder as she filled the big teapot. “I’m off to me sister’s this afternoon. I’ll be back tomorrow morning to prepare the meats for the wake, but I’m already packed, and no amount of persuading will make me stay.”
Setting aside the kettle, Cook cradled the teapot in her large hands; swishing it, she turned and met Violet’s eyes. “You’d do well to do the same, Violet, m’dear—don’t you stay here another night. Even more’n me, you have reason to go somewhere safe—some place no murderer will come skulking to your door.”
Violet grimaced. Would that she had such a place . . . but just the thought of spending the night in the house alone was enough to stiffen her resolve. “Yes. You’re right. Perhaps I’ll find a small hotel nearby.”
Montague had held a chair at the table for Penelope, and did the same for Griselda; Barnaby and Stokes were chatting in the doorway, still swapping opinions on the Halsteads. Drawing out a chair for Violet, Montague inclined his head to Cook, then met Violet’s eyes as she moved to take the seat. “I agree with Cook. You must not remain here.” If it had been at all acceptable, he would have offered her room at his apartment; regardless, he wouldn’t be able to sleep if she attempted to remain at the Lowndes Street house. He eased the chair in as she sat. “If you need any assistance finding somewhere suitable to stay, I will be happy to escort you to any establishment you wish to consider.”
“As to that.” In the chair on the other side of Violet, Penelope shifted to face her. “I have a proposition to make.”
Violet widened her eyes, inviting Penelope to share.
Penelope smiled and accepted the cup of tea Cook handed her. “Thank you.” Setting down the cup and saucer, Penelope looked again at Violet. “I should first confess that, aside from occasionally involving myself in investigations, and, of course, seeing to my young son—Oliver is only eight months old—I am also something of a scholar. I specialize in ancient languages, and I correspond with other experts up and down the country. At the request of certain academic institutions, I occasionally take on translations of ancient texts. However, I’ve discovered that since the arrival of Oliver, my correspondence has sadly fallen by the wayside, to the point that I really do need the services of an amanuensis to keep track of things.” Penelope paused to sip her tea, then grimaced. “Believe me, this is not a fabricated need—both Barnaby and Griselda, let alone Mostyn, our majordomo, can verify that.”
Capturing Violet’s gaze, Penelope held it almost hopefully. “As I understand it, you are the daughter of a reverend and better trained in letters than is customary, and as part of your duties you acted as Lady Halstead’s secretary. So . . . I wondered if you would be willing to move to Albemarle Street and take up the position of my secretary?”
When Violet didn’t immediately respond, Penelope’s gaze grew beseeching. “At least on a trial basis? I won’t hold you to it if you find the work too onerous.”
Violet had to smile. After a moment more of studying Penelope’s eyes, and seeing nothing beyond sincerity in the chocolate-brown depths, she set down her teacup, hesitated, then asked, “You’re truly not inventing this position because I so obviously desperately need one?”
Penelope placed her right palm over her heart. “I swear I really do need your help.”
Across the table, Griselda leaned forward and caught Violet’s eye. “She really does need help. Her desk has literally disappeared under a pile of letters and papers and open books.”
“Besides”—Penelope’s gaze went past Violet to Montague, currently conducting a quiet conversation with Cook—“I think you’ll discover that your case is not anywhere near as desperate as you might suppose.” Meeting Violet’s eyes, Penelope smiled. “You have friends. We would help you regardless, but, as it happens, I really do need a secretary, and I suspect you’ll be perfect for the post.”
Griselda held up a hand. “I’ll second that. Aside from anything else, you’ve already demonstrated that you will question Penelope when the situation calls for it, and, trust me, too few of her acquaintance will do that.”
Penelope pulled a face at Griselda, but both women were smiling.
The chance to join with them, to be a part of a friendship that so effortlessly spanned the social strata, to have other ladies who understood her concerns and could sympathize . . . Violet blinked. When Penelope and Griselda both turned hopeful faces her way, she nodded and met Penelope’s eyes. “Very well. I’ll come to Albemarle Street and be your secretary.”
“Excellent.” Penelope drained her cup. “In that case, let’s go upstairs and help you pack.”
Violet paused to have a word with Cook, confirming that they would meet at the church the next day. Heading for the door, Violet was conscious of Montague’s gaze following her; he had been delighted by her decision to accept Penelope’s post, an emotion fueled rather transparently by relief. Relief that she would be safe.
While their husbands had joined Montague at the table to absentmindedly drink tea and chew over the investigation, Penelope and Griselda had waited for Violet by the kitchen door; climbing the stairs with the pair at her heels, Violet realized it had been a very long time since anyone had been concerned, personally concerned, over her safety. Since her father . . . despite her friendships with Lady Ogilvie and Lady Halstead, neither had been that close—in that way, to that degree.
Reaching the first floor and the door to her room, she led the way in. Her boxes and her small suitcase were stowed under her bed; it was the work of a minute to drag them out and wipe off the dust. Then Penelope and Griselda threw themselves into helping her gather all her belongings and pack them into the boxes and case.
Fifteen minutes saw it done. Violet paused, staring at the small pile of luggage assembled on her bed, her winter coat and
bonnet waiting alongside. The sense of emptiness that now pervaded the house impinged, sank in. She glanced at Penelope and Griselda. “Tilly’s things are in her room in the attic. She had even less than I. If you’re not in a rush to be off, it might be better to pack her things now and take them with us so . . .”
“So you never have to set foot upstairs in this house again?” Penelope’s glasses gleamed as she nodded. “An excellent idea.”
“And yes,” Griselda said, “we have time. We’ll help.”
Having the pair with her made climbing the attic stairs to the tiny bedroom tucked under the eaves somewhat easier. The door to Tilly’s room had been left propped open. Violet entered, then stood transfixed by the sight of the narrow cot, which remained exactly as it had been when the constables had carried Tilly’s body away, with the sheets dreadfully rumpled by Tilly’s last desperate battle, the pillow still holding the impression of her head. The reality of Tilly’s death rolled over Violet; a leaden weight settled on her shoulders, a chilly vise closed about her heart.
Tilly had been a good woman, a friendly face, a close colleague. A friend, albeit without the same sort of empathy Violet could already sense with Penelope and Griselda. Life was like that; some people were instantly within one’s inner circle, while others were frequent and near, yet remained friends at a certain remove.
One still felt their loss.
Without a word, Penelope and Griselda moved past Violet and started to strip the bed.
That broke the spell. Turning to the old washstand, Violet bent and pulled Tilly’s old, battered case from beneath it. Opening the case on the floor beside the dresser next to the washstand, Violet started transferring the contents of the dresser drawers.
She was emptying the middle drawer when footsteps, heavy and masculine, sounded on the stairs.
“Miss Matcham? Violet?”
Montague. “We’re in Tilly’s room,” she called.
He appeared in the doorway and took in the scene. Violet rose and went to him.
Without hesitation, he reached out and took her hands, one in each of his. His thumbs moved over the backs of her hands, stroking, comforting; ignoring Penelope and Griselda entirely, he studied her eyes. Then he pressed her hands gently. “We’ll find who did this—who killed Tilly, and Runcorn, and Lady Halstead. We”—with a tip of his head he included Penelope and Griselda, and by inference Stokes and Barnaby—“all of us, will not rest until he’s caught. Until Tilly, and Runcorn, and Lady Halstead are avenged.”
He held her hands for a moment more, then—to her intense surprise—he raised one and touched his lips to the backs of her fingers. Heat tingled where his lips brushed. Lowering her hand, he smiled faintly. “Have faith, my dear—we will find him.”
With that, he stepped back; his hands reluctantly released hers and she had to fight not to curl her fingers and hold onto him. His eyes held hers. “I must go, but I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Looking beyond her, he dipped his head to Penelope and Griselda. “Ladies.” Again, he met Violet’s eyes. “I’ll see you at the funeral.”
She nodded. With a last, lingering look, he turned and left.
For several moments, she stood listening to his footsteps retreat, then she drew in a deep breath, turned, and went back to packing poor Tilly’s belongings. Alongside her, Penelope and Griselda finished folding the covers and straightening the mattress and pillows, then, without waiting to be asked, they came to help her close Tilly’s case.
Our endeavors are evolving in ways I, for one, hadn’t expected.” Penelope, as usual, led the way into the elegant bedroom she and Barnaby somewhat unconventionally shared.
The evening was over and night had settled over Mayfair. Ambling in in Penelope’s wake, Barnaby paused to shut the door, watching as Penelope, after setting her reticule on her dressing table, glided to one set of long windows. Beyond the glass, the night sky was a muddle of dark grays, a chill fog rolling in off the Thames. Reaching up, Penelope drew the heavy curtains closed, sealing them in with the comfortable and familiar.
With the warmth of shared lives.
Earlier, in the late afternoon, when they’d returned to Albemarle Street with Violet, Penelope had bustled about settling her new secretary into the household. Barnaby had checked through and dealt with his correspondence, spoken with Mostyn, then retreated to the nursery to share his thoughts on recent events with Oliver. Eventually, Penelope had joined them; she’d been enthused, engaged, and more energized than she’d been since Oliver’s birth.
Leaving Violet to her own devices—something she’d assured them suited her perfectly—Penelope, Oliver, and Barnaby had spent the evening at a family gathering at Calverton House with the entire Ashford family, children and all, gathered about the long table, with Minerva, Dowager Viscountess Calverton, seated in the center and, gracious and delighted, presiding over all.
Everyone present had done all they could to please the ageing matriarch; Minerva had devoted her entire life to her brood, and in turn they were, one and all, devoted to her.
To Barnaby’s mind, the illustration of the Halsteads’ shortcomings could not have been more marked.
On returning from Mount Street, he and Penelope had settled a deeply sleeping Oliver into his crib, then had stood hand in hand looking down at their son for several of those precious minutes Barnaby was coming to treasure. Then, in silent accord, they’d turned away and come downstairs to their room.
With the curtains drawn over the second pair of windows, Penelope whirled, a delighted grin on her face. “But the excellent news is that we are, indeed, progressing.”
Shrugging out of his coat, Barnaby demurred. “I wouldn’t go so far as that—we’ve still no clue as to which of the Halstead men is the murderer.”
Pausing to set the necklace and earrings she’d removed on her dressing table, Penelope threw him a pitying look. “I didn’t mean progress with the investigation, but in how to manage investigating, how to balance it along with everything else.”
“Ah.” Barnaby nodded. “Your inspired idea of hiring Violet as your secretary.”
“Precisely. You have to admit it was a masterstroke—multiple birds killed with one stone.”
He smiled to himself, then confessed, “If you hadn’t suggested it, I would have. Mostyn has even complained to me about the dust enveloping your desk.”
She sighed. “Yes, well, I had no idea having a baby—or rather, said newborn itself—would prove such a very distracting distraction. You have to remember I’m the youngest of my family—I had no idea babies were so sweet and funny and altogether delightful. Oliver just has to start waving his hands and I’m enthralled, and an hour wings by before I even notice.”
He humphed. “You can’t claim any distinction on that score—I’m the same.” Reaching out as she passed, he looped an arm around her waist and drew her to him—into his arms, into a kiss.
She kissed him back, her lips moving with familiar and confident ease beneath his, then, as he did, she drew back.
He looked into her eyes, so dark in the muted lamplight that their expression was impossible to read, then, very much feeling his way, he murmured, “I wonder if the effect will still be the same once our second child comes along.”
Her hands gripping his upper arms, leaning comfortably back in his embrace, she studied his eyes, then her lips lightly quirked upward. “My guess would be probably not, for us—you and me—at any rate, but I daresay we’ll find out—in good time.”
Tilting her head, she went on, “I want to enjoy this time—this first time, with our first child—fully before we complicate matters further. I want to know, to feel confident that I’ve worked out this balance thing—that I’ve found the ways to organize all the facets of my life so that I can fully enjoy all of them, that I can get the most and give my best to each aspect without neglecting any other, rather than feeling as I have in recent times that all the aspects are constantly tugging at me, pulling in different direct
ions, and that although I’m trying as hard as I can, I’m failing to properly succeed with any of them.”
He studied her face. “I hadn’t realized it was that . . . problematic. That it—everything all together—was tearing you apart.”
She nodded, one of her usual decisive, definite nods. “That’s exactly how it felt—like a mental drawing and quartering.” She met his gaze, and her lips gently curved. Twining her hands at his nape, leaning back against his hold, she swayed a little, side to side. “But, as I said, we’re making progress, and, indeed, we’re well on the way to getting it right—to finding the way for me to keep my balance and be happy and satisfied in all areas of my life.”
“That’s why you’re so pleased to have Violet as your secretary—she’s a part of your plan.”
“Exactly. The weight of papers on my desk is not something Griselda can assist me with, but Violet can—and, indeed, I rather suspect she, too, is one who would feel shortchanged by life and ultimately unsatisfied if her skills weren’t appreciated and put to use.” Pausing, she studied his eyes. “But what of you? What do you think of the new order taking shape, of my new and better balanced life? For, of course, you are one of the areas of my life I’m seeking to better service.”
Knowing full well her choice of verb wasn’t in the least accidental—a fact underscored by her pressing closer and suggestively continuing the side-to-side sway of her hips against his upper thighs, her taut stomach, encased in sleek silk, stroking over his already significant erection—he couldn’t help but grin, yet he could see in her expression, tell from her watchfulness, that her question was serious and his answer important. He looked inward—and somewhat to his surprise found the truth waiting to be uttered, all but on his tongue. “I like it—I like having you beside me, mentally if not always physically, in an investigation.” He paused, then confessed, “I didn’t know how much I’d missed it—your involvement—not until you insisted and pressed, and forced your way back.” An idea—a truth—occurred to him; for an instant, he considered holding it back but then drew breath and, with her warm and vital in his arms, admitted, “I suspect—I believe—that I need your intelligence, your mind, engaged and committed, to strike the brightest sparks from mine.” His voice lowered; his next words came from somewhere so deep that their utterance felt like a catharsis. “Without you by my side, I will never be the best I can be.”
The Masterful Mr. Montague: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Novel Page 21