The Masterful Mr. Montague Read online

  “Was it normal for him to be working so late?”

  Pringle nodded. “Often worked late, he did. Like I said, he was the only partner in the firm, so he had to handle everything I couldn’t.”

  “Did he ever meet with clients late, after you’d left?”

  Pringle wrinkled his nose. “Sometimes, but not often. Far as I know, he had no meetings arranged for last evening. If he’d had, the meeting would have been entered in the book, which I always check every morning so I can make sure he has the relevant file before I leave.”

  “So we can be quite sure that whoever saw him last night—the murderer—did not have an appointment.” Stokes nodded rather grimly. “Was your master likely to have let anyone in who he didn’t know? Not just into the main office, but into his own office. It seems fairly clear that whoever was there with him, your master was relaxed enough to be sitting in his chair, with the murderer beside him, possibly looking over the papers, when he was attacked.”

  Pringle paused, then shook his head. “I don’t know what I can say, Inspector. I never knew him to entertain any friends here. Only clients.”

  Or, Stokes thought, clients’ relatives.

  “When you left,” Barnaby asked, “did you see anyone at all? Did you pass anyone? Notice anyone, even if they’re people you might expect to see?”

  Pringle blinked, clearly thinking back. “There was the usual crowd going in and out of the public house across the street, but I didn’t go that way. I walked down the street toward Broad Street and . . .” Pringle paused, staring into space, then more softly said, “There was a man I hadn’t seen before, standing under the overhang of the tobacconist’s next door. He was staring at the window, although, now I think of it, as the store was shut, I don’t know what he could have been looking at—Samuel, the tobacconist, always puts his wares away every night and leaves the shelves empty. But as for the man, I walked past him, but he had on a cloak and a broad-brimmed hat. The hat was tipped down, so I didn’t see much of his face.”

  Stokes felt a familiar thrill go through him. “How tall was he?”

  “Not that much taller than me,” Pringle said. “Maybe an inch or two, no more than that.”

  “Medium to tall then. Did you see what color hair he had?”

  Pringle squinted. “Not clearly, but it was at least brown. It wasn’t blond.” His gaze went to Barnaby’s curls. “Definitely not fair.”

  Stokes drew breath, and asked, “What about his face? Did you see it well enough to recognize him?” It was a long shot, but . . . stranger things had happened.

  But Pringle visibly deflated. “No.” His lips twisted in a grimace. “I’m sorry, Inspector, but I only caught a glimpse of his profile. All I can tell you is that he was clean shaven but had side-whiskers.” Pringle drew phantom whiskers on his own cheeks. “And his cheeks weren’t . . .” He looked at Stokes, then Barnaby. “Like yours—they were rounder.”

  Stokes nodded. “Thank you. You might not be able to identify him, but that’s still very helpful.”

  “I have a question.” Penelope’s softer, yet still commanding, voice was such a contrast that it focused all attention. They all looked at her, but she was studying Pringle. Capturing his gaze, she tilted her head and smiled encouragingly. “You see clients all the time. You’re used to dealing with lots of different sorts of people. You will know the answer to my question. When I put my question to you, I want you to think of the man you saw and answer immediately—the first answer that pops into your mind. All right?”

  Pringle looked a touch uneasy but nodded.

  “The man you saw outside the tobacconist’s—was he an aristocrat, a gentleman, a merchant, or a working man?”

  Pringle answered without hesitation. “A gentleman.” Then he blinked and looked surprised, but he didn’t retract the answer.

  Penelope beamed. “Thank you.”

  “Indeed,” Stokes said. “Thank you, Mr. Pringle, you’ve been of considerable help.” He nodded at the Halstead papers. “If you wish to put up that notice and take yourself off to Mr. Montague’s office, you’re free to leave.”

  Pringle half-bowed. “Thank you, Inspector. Ma’am. Sirs.”

  Turning to his desk, he started neatening the papers, then searching for string to tie them up.

  Stokes beckoned the other three closer to the door, but before he spoke, someone tapped on the glass.

  Stokes turned to see the constables he’d sent to ask questions around the neighborhood in a loose group on the pavement, clearly waiting to report. “One moment,” he said to the other three. Opening the door, he beckoned the sergeant in charge inside. “Well, Phipps? Anything?”

  “Bits and pieces, sir. Other than those at the pub, there weren’t that many people out and about. Dinnertime for many, so most were indoors. That said . . .” Portentously, the sergeant flicked open his notebook. “We’ve several people, most from the pub, but also a match-seller who has her spot just on the corner, who saw a gent going into this office, and then leaving again about half an hour later. Time seems right—all say it was after seven when he went in, and somewhere after the half hour when he left, and they can hear the bells easy from here.”

  “What description did they give?” Stokes asked.

  “Nothing definitive. No one who says they’d recognize the blighter.” Phipps proceeded to recite the descriptions given by five different people.

  The descriptions matched Pringles’s in every degree.

  “So,” Stokes said, “we have a gentleman—they’re all clear on that—clean shaven, but with shortish side-whiskers and rounded cheeks. Not tall, but a little above average height. Brown to dark hair.”

  “That sums it up, sir.” Phipps closed his notebook.

  “One question, Sergeant.” Again all eyes swung to Penelope. “These people who saw the man—did any of them mention the man giving any indication that he’d noticed them?”

  Phipps shook his head. “No one mentioned him noticing them, ma’am. All said he strode along, eyes forward. The match-seller did say that she was certain he hadn’t even seen her—marched right on by, his cloak swinging, as if he hadn’t registered her at all.”

  Penelope smiled and inclined her head. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  Phipps looked to Stokes, who nodded a dismissal.

  As the door swung shut behind the sergeant, Stokes lowered his voice and said, “So we have a description that, from memory, could fit any of the Halstead males.” He paused, then allowed, “I’m not sure if it fits all of them, but certainly some of them. More than one.”

  “I think,” Barnaby said, also lowering his voice in deference to Pringle, who was putting on his heavy coat and getting ready to leave, “that, all the evidence considered, it’s safe to assume that both Lady Halstead and Runcorn were murdered because of those irregularities in Lady Halstead’s account.”

  Montague started to nod, then froze. He blinked, then whirled. “Pringle—one thing.”

  Caught in the act of hefting the bound pile of papers into his arms, the clerk looked across. “Yes, Mr. Montague?”

  No one had mentioned Lady Halstead’s death in Pringle’s hearing. Montague asked, “Were Runcorn and Son notified of Lady Halstead’s death? Of her murder?”

  Pringle’s face told the tale. “Murder?” His eyes goggled. “Her ladyship, too?”

  If Runcorn hadn’t known, then . . . Montague swung around. “Good God! The money!” He strode for the door.

  The others stared for a second, then recovered and piled out of the door on his heels.

  They quickly caught up, even Penelope, holding up her skirts so she could hurry along. It was she who demanded, “What about the money?”

  Montague didn’t slow but forced himself to order his thoughts. “If we’re right about the payments being the motive for the murders, then the money is the murderer’s. Now that Lady Halstead is dead, sometime soon her account will be closed—normally Runcorn would have been advised of the death a
nd would have handled it—and the money will be bound over—”

  “—and the murderer will lose it.” Penelope went on, “So he has to get it out of the account as soon as he can.”

  “And,” Stokes grimly concluded, “if he hasn’t already done so, we have a chance to set up a watch and catch him when he comes for it.”

  “Which bank holds the account?” Adair asked, taking Penelope’s arm as they neared the busier thoroughfare of Broad Street.

  Montague rarely forgot such details. “Grimshaws in Threadneedle Street.”

  Threadneedle Street wasn’t far; there was no sense taking a hackney. This was Montague’s territory; he led the way past the Excise Office and down a narrower street, then they were on Threadneedle Street and the bank was just ahead of them.

  “Do you have that letter of authority?” Stokes asked.

  Montague patted his top pocket.

  “Good,” Stokes growled. “You lead, and I’ll hang back. Let’s not alert anyone to the murder unless we have to.”

  Montague nodded, opened the door to the bank, and led the way inside.

  His card ensured that his request to see the manager was instantly granted; few working in that square mile of the City did not recognize his name, did not know of his reputation.

  The letter of authority from Lady Halstead was duly produced and examined, then the manager called in the clerk of accounts, who quickly produced Lady Halstead’s register.

  The manager looked at it, then blinked and somewhat carefully turned it around so Montague could see the entries for himself.

  “Ah-hem.” The manager cleared his throat. “It appears, Mr. Montague, that Lady Halstead closed that account this morning, a little over an hour ago.”

  His face setting, Montague looked at the figure. “It was withdrawn in cash?”

  He glanced up at the clerk, who nodded. “Indeed, sir. I was consulted, of course, but everything seemed in order . . .”

  Montague grimaced, then glanced at the manager. “With your permission . . .” He looked at the clerk. “If you could ask the two gentlemen and the lady waiting just outside to join us, I believe you both need to be informed of some recent developments.”

  The manager’s eyes widened, but he nodded to the clerk, who went to the door and admitted Stokes, Adair, and Penelope.

  The manager and Montague stood. Montague performed the introductions, then, when chairs had been found and all but the clerk were seated, Stokes informed the manager, “I regret to inform you that Lady Halstead was murdered, sometime during the night two nights ago.” He shifted his gaze to the clerk. “We believe that the money in her ladyship’s account with this bank is a large part of the reason she was killed. I must therefore ask who withdrew the money, and what form of authority they presented to you to be able to do so.”

  At a curt nod from the manager, the clerk cleared his throat. “The money was withdrawn by a lady—because of the amount, I was summoned and attended to her myself.”

  “Please describe her,” Stokes said.

  The clerk hesitated, then said, “She was of average height, neither fat nor thin, but as to her face, she was wearing a hat with a fine veil. I could see her face, but not clearly.”

  “What color was her hair?” Penelope asked.

  “Brown—not dark.” The clerk’s gaze had risen to Penelope’s lustrous locks. “More a mid-brown. Ordinary brown.”

  “And,” Penelope continued, “how old would you say this lady was?”

  The clerk clearly thought back, then wiggled his head. “Not old—not middle-aged. But she wasn’t a young lady, either.”

  “Lady.” Penelope arched a brow. “Why did you think she was a lady?”

  “Well, she was well dressed and well spoken, ma’am. Easy to deal with and . . . well, confident, if you know what I mean.”

  Penelope nodded. “Thank you.” She sat back.

  “Do you have the withdrawal authority?” Montague asked. “I would like to examine it.”

  The clerk exchanged a look with the manager, then, receiving another terse nod, reached for the ledger still lying open before Montague and turned the page, revealing a handwritten letter. “This only happened an hour or so ago, so I haven’t had a chance to put it in the file.”

  Montague nodded as he picked up the letter. He read it, then handed it to Stokes, seated beside him. “It’s supposedly from Lady Halstead, authorizing the withdrawal, the bearer of the letter to be given the full sum of the monies in the account.”

  While Stokes scanned the letter, Montague again took out the letter of authority Lady Halstead had written for him. When Stokes reached the end of the withdrawal authority, Montague held out his letter. Stokes took it and held the two side by side.

  Montague leaned closer; Penelope, on Stokes’s other side, did the same. All three of them looked from one letter to the other, comparing.

  Eventually, Stokes sighed. Handing Montague back his letter, Stokes lowered the withdrawal authority and, across the bank manager’s desk, met the man’s eyes. “I’ll be keeping this, and I’ll also have to take the ledger. Both are now evidence of a crime.”

  The manager looked a trifle ill. “The letter?”

  “Is a forgery,” Penelope said. “But a very, very good one. Without having, as we have, a letter known to have been written by Lady Halstead to compare, I seriously doubt anyone could have spotted it.”

  “I don’t believe there will be any repercussions with respect to the bank or its employees,” Montague said. He glanced at Stokes.

  Stokes nodded. He slipped the withdrawal authority back into the ledger, then closed the book, picked it up, and rose. “Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll see ourselves out.”

  They halted on the pavement outside the bank and looked at each other.

  “What now?” Montague asked.

  “Now . . .” Stokes glanced at Adair, then Penelope, then looked back at Montague. “If you all have the time, I believe we should take an hour or so to revisit everything we’ve seen, heard, and learned this morning.”

  Penelope nodded decisively. “If we don’t, something vital might slip past us.” She looked at Stokes. “Speaking of which, might I suggest that we adjourn to Greenbury Street?” She glanced at Montague. “Stokes’s house. Griselda will be there, and as she’s the only one of us who hasn’t been through all the events of the morning, she’s the only one of us who is likely to have a truly detached view.” Penelope looked at all three men’s faces. “I vote we go to Greenbury Street and tell Griselda all.”

  Stokes met Adair’s eyes, then sighed and nodded. “Very well. Greenbury Street it is.”

  They took two hackneys and arrived in Greenbury Street as Griselda was pushing Megan’s perambulator up the front path, having just returned from taking her daughter for an airing in the nearby park.

  Griselda was delighted to see them. Grinning, Penelope touched cheeks, then bent to coo at Megan, who waved her chubby fists and chortled in reply. Barnaby greeted Griselda, then joined Penelope in admiring Megan.

  Stokes kissed his wife’s cheek, then considered the sight of his friends paying their dues to his daughter with a proud, paternal air.

  Montague hung back, watching the interaction between the two couples, noting the warmth and the strong friendship so openly on display. Then Stokes turned to him and drew him forward, introducing him to Mrs. Stokes—Griselda, as she, like Penelope, insisted he call her—and then to the small girl-child, who looked up at him with wide, curious eyes.

  “Careful,” Stokes murmured. “They wind you about their tiny fingers with looks like that.”

  Montague realized he was grinning in the same faintly besotted way Stokes was.

  Somewhat to his surprise, Montague found himself swept up in the camaraderie, in the wave of relaxed enthusiasm that carried them all inside to settle in a neat sitting room. They sank onto chairs and the sofa. After handing little Megan into her nurse’s care, Griselda joined them.


  Settling on the sofa alongside Penelope, Griselda commanded, “So! Tell me all.”

  They proceeded to do so, and in the telling consolidated and refined their collective understanding.

  By unvoiced agreement, they held to the facts as they knew them until they’d told the story to the end, to the moment when they’d left the bank, the forged letter of withdrawal in Stokes’s keeping.

  Only then did they turn their minds to the questions those facts raised, to speculation, to the possibilities.

  “The woman who presented the letter of withdrawal,” Stokes murmured. “Where did she get it? And what does that tell us about who she is?”

  Penelope straightened; as if taking up the challenge, she replied, “The letter is such a good forgery that it could only have been created by someone familiar with Lady Halstead’s hand.”

  “Or someone with access to letters her ladyship wrote,” Adair put in.

  Penelope inclined her head. “True. Which puts the companion, Miss Matcham, at the top of the list of possible suspects.” She held up her hand. “However, I have severe doubts that it was in fact her.”

  “Why?” Stokes asked, before Montague could.

  “Well, I haven’t yet met Miss Matcham, so I can only go by what you’ve said of her, but it strikes me that, if she was behind the withdrawal of the money, she’s intelligent enough to ensure no one would associate the withdrawal with her. The letter gave the money to ‘The Bearer,’ not to any named individual, so she could have dressed however she wished. She could have enlisted male assistance. Or—and this is what I would have done—she could have pretended to be male. It’s not that hard, especially for only a short time, with only a bank clerk to fool.” Penelope frowned. “Regardless, I have a strong suspicion that we’re intended to think it is Miss Matcham, to leap to that as the obvious conclusion—which, of course, means it’s untrue.”

  “There’s also the fact,” Montague said, “that Miss Matcham was, and still is, sincerely devoted to Lady Halstead. I really cannot see her condoning, much less doing, something that is, in effect, stealing from her late employer.”