The Masterful Mr. Montague Read online

  That comment had strengthened the argument for care in pursuing the question of the missing share certificate. Once burned, twice shy; they had no reason to feel certain that the missing share certificate was, indeed, the critical issue behind the murders.

  Of course, they all believed it was, but . . . pedantic caution and care had become their new watchwords.

  The hackney rocked around a corner. Glancing through the window, Montague saw the familiar façade of Carlton House roll by, then the hackney headed smartly down Pall Mall.

  He’d spent the last hours identifying the firm that held the registry for the Grand Junction Railway Company shares. Unhappily, that firm was located in Manchester; he’d drafted a formal query and had sent it off by courier. He couldn’t expect to hear back until at least the next day.

  Now, as he’d promised, he was reporting his progress to Albemarle Street—to Violet, who had been designated their central contact. Although none of the others had voiced their concern, no one had wanted Violet to go out of the house alone.

  The simple fact that she—and, it seemed, no one else still alive bar the murderer—had known where Lady Halstead’s share certificates had been kept had escalated their fears for her safety. Montague’s fears, certainly, and he’d seen a similar understanding in Stokes’s, Adair’s, Penelope’s, and Griselda’s eyes. None of them wished Violet to come to any harm; none of them wanted her to be unwittingly exposed to the murderer. If they could have, they would have hemmed her in with protections, but they were all rather too intelligent for that. Instead, they’d crafted a role for her that would keep her safely within the Adairs’ house, and Montague would have wagered his last guinea that Adair’s staff had been alerted to watch over her.

  Montague was therefore unsurprised when, having climbed down from the hackney, paid the jarvey, and ascended the steps to the Adairs’ door, he was admitted by their majordomo, Mostyn, who greeted him with a knowing smile and the words “Miss Matcham is in the parlor, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mostyn.” Handing over his hat and cane, Montague settled his cuffs. “No need to show me in—I know the way.”

  “Indeed, sir.” Mostyn hesitated.

  Montague cast him a questioning look.

  “I was just thinking, sir,” Mostyn said, “that if you were so inclined, you might escort Miss Matcham for a walk in the park. Don’t want her feeling cooped up and deciding to go for a walk on her own.”

  Montague arched his brows. “No, indeed.” He inclined his head. “Thank you for the suggestion, Mostyn. I believe I will take it up.”

  As he walked down the corridor to the parlor, Montague noted that although the weather had been somewhat dismal of late, today the sun was doing its best to make an appearance, and there seemed little imminent threat of precipitation.

  Violet was seated on one of the sofas plying her needle on some mending; she’d heard his footsteps and looked up. The expression that suffused her face, that lit her eyes, made him feel . . . special. Setting aside the mending, she rose. Smiling, she held out a hand. “Mr. Montague.”

  As, halting before her, he closed his hand about her fingers, she studied his face. “Do you have news, sir?”

  It wasn’t his news, or the investigation, that filled his mind. He looked down at her for several seconds, then quietly said, “My given name is Heathcote, although most call me Montague.” Indeed, there was no one still alive who called him Heathcote. “I wonder, Violet, if you could see your way to calling me Heathcote.”

  She held his gaze, and through that simple connection told him that she, too, felt the link, the quiet but steady, unobtrusive but very real connection that was forming between them. Then she dipped her head in acquiescence. “I would be honored to call you Heathcote.”

  Another second passed, then she drew her fingers from his clasp and waved him to a chair. “Please, sit, and tell me what has happened.”

  “As to that, I wondered if you would care to take the air? We can talk as we walk. Green Park isn’t far, and, indeed, I have little to report.” Smiling a touch tentatively, he added, “It would be pleasant to get more from my journey here than just a few minutes of your time.”

  She laughed, twin dimples appearing in her cheeks. “Indeed, sir, and I would welcome spending more minutes with you in a gentler setting.”

  “We’re in agreement then.” Smiling more confidently, he offered his arm. “Let’s send Mostyn to find your coat and bonnet, then we’ll set out to indulge ourselves.”

  Five minutes later, her hand tucked in the crook of Montague’s arm, Violet paced down Albemarle Street and around the corner into the busier thoroughfare of Piccadilly. The closeness engendered through their mutual endeavors of the previous day had developed further, and, it seemed, strengthened, and not just on her part, but on his—on Heathcote’s—too. She felt a silly, giddy recklessness at the feel of him so close, so protectively strong by her side, a sense of solid male that played, alluring and comforting at the same time, on her female senses. As for the implication of his request that she call him by his given name, she decided she couldn’t dwell on that—not while she was in public. Later, she would indulge, when she was on her own and there was no likelihood she might have to behave with any sense.

  There were too many others strolling the pavements for them to safely speak of the investigation; instead, they walked, taking in the sights of the fashionable carriages that rattled over the cobbles, some ferrying ladies, others tooled by exquisites of varying degrees, all drawn by high-bred horses. They crossed Berkeley Street and paced past the long façade of Devonshire House, then at Clarges Street, they waited for an opening between the carriages and crossed the road, and walked on through the gate giving access to Green Park.

  Immediately faced with the Reservoir, they turned right; eventually passing the fountain that marked the Reservoir’s western end, they headed into the quieter walks beyond. The trees lining the walks were large and old; their leaves had already turned, and many had fallen, creating a carpet of golds and browns.

  After glancing around and confirming that there were no others near enough to overhear, she looked up at Montague. “So, my dear Heathcote, what information do you have to report?”

  His lips lifted and his eyes met hers, and for a moment they indulged in an unvoiced understanding, but then he looked ahead and dutifully divulged, “As discussed last night, I’ve located the firm that holds the registry for those shares. Had they been a London firm, I would have had more to report today, but, sadly, they’re located in Manchester, so I’ve couriered a request to them.”

  She arched her brows. “What, exactly, did you ask for—and how likely are they to respond with the information we need?”

  He glanced at her. “You’re right—normally, a request to know who holds a particular share certificate wouldn’t get far. The firm would treat that as confidential information. However, I called their attention to the fact that Sir Hugo Halstead had previously owned that certificate, which is a fact they’ll be able to verify. Each certificate is numbered, so we are asking after a particular certificate—they are not interchangeable, like bank notes.” When she nodded her understanding, he went on, “I explained that consequent to Lady Halstead’s recent death, I was assisting in a review of the Halsteads’ affairs prior to the same being submitted to the court for probate, and that I needed to clarify and provide proof of the transfer of that share certificate.”

  Meeting her eyes, he grinned. “No firm operating in the financial arena will unnecessarily allow their name to be cited in court proceedings, certainly not in relation to any unresolved question. They will want this matter clarified and dealt with before the estate is passed in for probate. I fully expect them to respond to my request with the name of the current owner, but, as they are in Manchester, that information won’t reach me until tomorrow at the earliest, and perhaps not until the next day.”

  They strolled on; after several minutes, she asked, “Is there anything e
lse you—we—might do to learn what happened to that share certificate?”

  He shook his head. “It’s as I explained last night. If we start asking openly, trying to locate the current owner, we will almost certainly find that person alerted to our inquiries before we learn his name. If it’s the murderer who is the current owner, then we can all but guarantee he’ll flee, and that long before we can get to his door.” He glanced at her. “Asking in the way that I have, within the fraternity, so to speak, and we are, after all, a very discreet lot, then the Manchester firm will think to protect the current owner from having to deal with whatever court mess might otherwise ensue and so will give me his name, assuming I will then simply find proof of a chain of transfer, all legal and aboveboard, and no one will hear of the matter again.”

  “Ah—I see.” After a moment, she met his eyes, quiet amusement showing clearly in her own. “I will be sure to repeat that to Penelope—who is certain to champ at the proverbial bit when she hears of the delay.”

  He laughed and closed his hand over hers where it rested on his sleeve. In pleasant and mutual accord, they ambled on beneath the autumnal trees.

  But by the time they turned and headed back toward Albemarle Street, along with a sense of regret over soon losing Montague’s—Heathcote’s—company, Violet’s mind had thrown up an even darker thought. And once she’d thought of it, it blossomed, overriding all else, all other considerations.

  She waited until they were once more back in the front hall, and Mostyn left them, giving her privacy in which to bid Heathcote farewell. Holding out both hands to him, she caught his gaze as he took her fingers in his warm and comforting clasp. “These inquiries of yours . . .” She paused, then quietly said, “I cannot forget that Runcorn was murdered, and, it seems, the motive was to conceal who stole this certificate.” She let her concern—real and welling—show in her eyes, then simply said, “You will be careful, won’t you?” Feeling she’d pressed too far, she hurried to add, “I know it’s not my place, but—”

  “On the contrary.” He held her gaze, then, very deliberately, he raised one of her hands and pressed a kiss—a gentle, warm, but entirely chaste kiss—to the backs of her fingers. “If there is any right in question, then, my dear Violet, I freely cede it to you.”

  The ensuing moment grew intense. Locked in each other’s eyes, searching the other’s eyes, they each looked for, and saw, found . . .

  He hesitated, then said, “Now is not the time. But after this is over and all is settled . . . ?”

  She hesitated not at all. She nodded, and for good measure stated, “Yes. When this is all over . . . we will talk about this then.”

  His lips eased into a slow, gentle smile.

  She returned it. Her heart gave a silly little leap when, releasing her hands, he raised one finger and with its back lightly caressed her cheek.

  The breath he drew in as he lowered his hand seemed tight. “I must go.”

  Wordless, she nodded. As he set his hat on his head, she moved past him and opened the door.

  As he crossed the threshold, she said, “I’ll be sure to pass the gist of all you said on to Barnaby, and Stokes, if he calls.”

  Gaining the pavement, he turned and flashed her a smile. “And you’ll have to tell Penelope and Griselda, too, because if you don’t, they’ll drag it from you.”

  Violet laughed. With a jaunty salute, Montague strode away down the street.

  She watched him go, then closed the door on a happy sigh.

  Well, well, well! Who would have thought it of Walter?”

  He certainly hadn’t. He’d always imagined Cynthia’s get to be a mere cypher, little more than a stuffed doll—the expected heir—that she and Wallace trotted out for public consumption whenever a son’s existence might improve their standing.

  “I would never have imagined that Walter would have the intestinal fortitude to do anything so wonderfully, outrageously criminal. And so very socially unacceptable! And now . . .” His smile knew no bounds. “Oh, how the mighty are fallen!”

  Even he could hear the gloating joy in his voice, the sound filling the quiet of his dressing room with openly malicious glee.

  He reveled in it.

  “And, oh, joy of joys, how terribly perfect if Walter is blamed for the murders, too!”

  He honestly couldn’t imagine any happening that would more delight him.

  It took several minutes before the euphoria engendered by that prospect drained sufficiently for his underlying, ever-present obsession to resurface. But once it had . . . he still wasn’t safe.

  He had yet to fully secure his future.

  He grimaced, but then turned thoughtful. “With the police focusing on Walter, perhaps now is the time to silence Miss Matcham?” He considered his reflection in his shaving mirror, tipping his head as he considered. “On the other hand, perhaps that’s a sign to hold back for just a little longer.” Eyes narrowing, he murmured, “But it would be unwise to wait too long—best if Miss Matcham’s death can be made to appear connected in some way . . .”

  Several minutes ticked by, then his expression started to lighten. “Perhaps Miss Matcham might have an ‘accident’—something that will suggest that she might have killed herself out of remorse for the old lady’s and the maid’s murders . . . what if Miss Matcham was the one who’d had a lover? And that lover had, with Miss Matcham’s connivance, killed the old lady, the man-of-business, and the maid, but, in the end, the murders prove too much for Miss Matcham’s delicate sensibilities, so she kills herself, but takes the name of her lover to the grave . . .” He smiled. “Oh, yes. That will do nicely.”

  He stood before his mirror and watched himself think things through.

  Miss Matcham had yet to remember anything relevant, or, at least, she had yet to say anything to the police, or they would have come knocking at his door asking very awkward questions. He had no way of knowing whether the matter of the share certificate he’d stolen would ever surface, but if it did . . . the maid had surprised him in the old lady’s room; she’d seen him going through the share certificates, so she had had to die.

  Given Miss Matcham and the maid had been close, he had to assume that the maid had mentioned finding him doing something she didn’t understand with her mistress’s papers to her friend.

  Hence, for his peace of mind, Miss Matcham, too, had to depart this earth.

  Until she did, until he could be certain there was no threat of exposure hanging over his head, he would never be able to relax and enjoy the fruits of his considerable labors.

  So Miss Matcham had to die. The only questions remaining were: When? And: How?

  Chapter 16

  Two days later, Montague called in Albemarle Street in the afternoon. As he’d secretly hoped, he found Violet alone, sorting through Penelope’s correspondence.

  When he halted before Penelope’s desk, Violet closed the leather-bound notebook she’d been jotting in and smiled delightedly up at him. “Penelope was summoned to bring Oliver to some family afternoon tea at her mother, Lady Calverton’s house, and Griselda seized the opportunity to catch up with her shop.” Violet surveyed the piles of letters haphazardly stacked all over Penelope’s desk. “I thought to make some inroads here, but it’s heavy going.”

  “Come for a stroll.” Montague held out a hand. “We can walk around Berkeley Square while we share our reports.”

  Violet’s eyes lit. “What an excellent idea!”

  Five minutes later, with her rugged up in her pelisse, her bonnet tied firmly over her hair, and a scarf wound about her throat to ward off the brisk chill in the breeze, they set off along the pavement.

  As they neared the square, she glanced at Montague—Heathcote. “Have you heard anything, learned anything more about the share certificate?” She was impatient to get on, to reach the end of the investigation so they could turn their minds to more personal pursuits, and she sensed, very clearly, that he felt the same.

  He grimaced. “Not re
ally. Initially, the share registry helpfully confirmed that I was correct in thinking that the Halsteads no longer owned those shares, but the registrar imparted nothing more. It required further, rather delicate, persuasion, including invoking the specter of an official demand from Scotland Yard, to convince the registrar to divulge who currently holds those shares.” Pausing to open the gate to the park that filled the center of Berkeley Square, he waited until they were strolling the gravel walks, side by side, with her hand tucked in the crook of his arm, before continuing, “I trust I’ve now achieved that task—it was rather like chipping away at a stone, but I’m hopeful the next communication I receive from Manchester will contain the critical information. That said”—he met her eyes—“I seriously doubt the murderer will be the current owner.”

  “You think he’ll have sold the shares?”

  “I can’t see why he would have taken the certificate if he wasn’t after the money. And to convert the certificate to cash, he has to have sold it.”

  For several minutes, they paced in silence, then she asked, “Is there any way you can trace such a sale?”

  “Courtesy of the share registry, I’ve confirmed that the Halsteads’ ownership of the shares ceased approximately eleven months ago—meaning the new owner presented the certificate and registered the transfer of ownership at that point. But he might have bought the certificate earlier—not everyone is prompt in registering such things, and as there were no dividends paid until very recently, I can’t tell from anything in the Halsteads’ accounts exactly when the certificate passed out of their hands.”

  “When it was stolen.”

  “Correct.” He hesitated, then said, “What I have done—the only thing I could think of to do to advance our cause while waiting for news from Manchester—is to estimate how much money the shares might have been exchanged for, and I am presently engaged in checking whether any such sum was deposited into any of the Halstead or Camberly accounts between fifteen months and nine months ago.”

  “Do you think they—the murderer, whoever they are—would have put the money into one of their accounts?”