The Masterful Mr. Montague Read online

  He grimaced. “It’s a long shot, but given this family’s arrogance, I suspect they might not realize that bank accounts are records that can be searched, at least by the right people if approached in the right way.”

  “And you know the ways.”

  He nodded and met her eyes. “But don’t tell Stokes—or at least, don’t labor the point. He won’t be grateful.”

  “Ah, I see.” She smiled, looking ahead, idly surveying the numerous nursemaids and their charges with whom they presently shared the park.

  They’d circumnavigated the park; as they approached the gate through which they’d entered, he said, “You should probably warn the others that while I will check, I don’t expect to find any hint of the money in any of the family’s accounts.”

  She studied his face as she passed through the gate he held for her. “You think they’ll have used the money for something else?”

  Joining her on the pavement, he nodded. “I can’t see why they would have gone to the bother of stealing the certificate if they weren’t in need of the money they could raise with it—and if they needed money, then, presumably, there was a reason for that need, something that made it imperative for them to get their hands on that much cash.”

  Tucking her hand once more in the crook of his arm—something in her delighting in the familiarity, that he expected and accepted that she should—she nodded. “That makes sense.”

  He glanced at her, his gaze traveling her face. “So that’s my news. What of you and the others?”

  She sighed; leaning on his arm, she tipped her head closer to his to say, “Sadly, the rest of us have even less to report. Stokes and Barnaby are now convinced that Walter’s alibis are sound for all three murders, so he has been officially struck from the list of suspects. And while they are not overly impressed by the caliber of his witnesses, they are inclined to believe William’s alibis for at least two of the murders.”

  “So William is still a possible culprit if the murders were the result of a conspiracy—if it was more than one of them doing the killings.”

  She nodded. “I believe that’s what Stokes and Barnaby think at present. And from what I know of them, I could readily imagine William and Maurice working together, or even William and Hayden. Or even William and both those two. As for the female half of the investigation, Penelope and I completed a very discreet review of the three Halstead and Camberly ladies’ alibis this morning. All appear to be sound, although as Penelope said, it’s still possible that one or other played some supporting role. Regardless, we no longer believe it would have been possible for any of the three ladies in question to have been present at any of the murder scenes at the times of the murders.”

  Montague digested that. As they neared Penelope and Barnaby’s house, he murmured, “So it keeps coming back to the Halstead men—Mortimer, Maurice, William, and Hayden. Each of the three murders was committed by one of them.”

  “Indeed.” Climbing the steps to the Adairs’ door, Violet plied the knocker, then turned to him. “And we still have yet to discover which one, or more, were involved.”

  He nodded. “Whether there was more than one acting in concert, or whether the theft of the share certificate and all three murders can be laid at one man’s door.”

  At that point, Mostyn opened the door. Meeting Violet’s eyes, Montague arched a brow and saw her smile in understanding; inwardly relishing the instinctive connection, feeling oddly domesticated, he followed her inside.

  The following morning, Barnaby and Stokes called to see Montague.

  As they settled in the chairs before Montague’s desk, Stokes put their first and most burning question. “Have you heard who owns those shares yet?”

  Leaning back in the admiral’s chair on the opposite side of the desk, Montague grimaced. “No. But—damn it—that registrar will have to bend soon.” Montague studied Stokes. “Either that, or you’ll have to go up there and loom over him.”

  Stokes grunted. “For his sake, I hope it won’t come to that.” He paused, then said, “Send word as soon as you do hear. This case is dragging on too long, and the Chief is getting anxious.”

  Montague inclined his head. “So how goes your hunting?”

  “Mixed,” Barnaby said. “Violet said she’d mentioned our progress with William’s alibis. Two—those for her ladyship’s murder and Tilly’s murder—we’re inclined to accept. We found several others as well as the tavern staff—others William hadn’t known about and who he doesn’t know well enough to bribe—who could confirm that he was there on those two nights, at times that make it implausible that he could have reached Lowndes Street in time to commit the murders.”

  “But,” Stokes said, his voice turning darkly grim, “William’s alibi for the night of Runcorn’s murder is too reliant on good friends of questionable character to pass muster. And none of the others—not a one—have alibis that are sound for any of the three murders.” Stokes leaned forward; as if reading from a list, he recited, “Maurice Halstead says he was engaged with a lady whose name he declines to provide on two of the nights in question, and on the third, he believes he was visiting some den or hell, but he separated from the friends with whom he went there and can’t remember when he left, or with whom, or where he went after that.”

  “In other words,” Barnaby dryly interjected, “he was inebriated to the point of having no clear memory of where he was or what he did, much less who he was with.”

  “So Maurice remains a suspect for all three murders. Then we come to Mortimer Halstead—a fairly simple case, you might think. But no—Mortimer attended a dinner with his wife on two of the nights in question, but in both cases, his wife returned home in their carriage alone, leaving Mortimer in impromptu meetings that evolved out of the post-dinner conversations, and he subsequently made his way home on his own. On the night of Runcorn’s murder, Mortimer attended some formal embassy soiree that commenced early in the evening and to which his wife did not go. He says he was home in good time, but the Halsteads have separate bedrooms, so Mrs. Halstead cannot verify when her husband got to bed on that night, or on any other.”

  “Hayden Halstead,” Barnaby said, “proved to live a rather more interesting life than he attempted to lead us, and his parents, to believe. His stated alibis were that he was at home on each of the three nights, and retired to bed and slept the sleep of the innocent all night long.” His expression serious, Barnaby shook his head. “I donned an everyman disguise and consorted with the Halstead footmen at the local public house. It seems all the Halstead staff are well aware that Hayden retires to his rooms—and then sneaks down the back stairs and goes out on the town. When we taxed Hayden with our insights, he wilted and corrected his statement.”

  Stokes snorted. “But the alibis he gave this time are no better than the first lot—he was out with friends carousing, he has no idea where, and as for the time . . . not even the friends we hunted down and spoke with have any real clue.”

  Barnaby grunted. “Indeed, the friends were so clueless it was impossible to be sure that Hayden remained with them each night, through the hours the murders were committed, nor is it possible to say whether Hayden was truly inebriated to the point of being incapable, because all his friends certainly were.”

  Stokes shook his head. “You would think that with three separate murders and three different nights it would be an easy matter to discount at least one of them, but no. And, worse, given that they are all family, all related, in this case we have to allow for a very real possibility of some level of conspiracy.” Stokes straightened, exasperation clear in his face. “And if that’s the case, then we’re never going to be able to get far with these alibis.”

  “And,” Barnaby said, “as soon as you start to entertain the possibility of a conspiracy—and yes, I absolutely agree we must—then you bring Camberly back into the picture.”

  When Montague frowned, Barnaby explained, “We’d discounted Camberly as a suspect because of the involvemen
t of a Halstead male in Runcorn’s murder, and because we assumed we were only dealing with one murderer. If there’s a conspiracy, then Camberly might have murdered Lady Halstead or Tilly.”

  “We have Camberly’s alibis,” Stokes said, “but have yet to check them.”

  “That said,” Barnaby countered, “Camberly’s alibis appear more substantial, or at least more likely to be able to be substantiated. He said he was in late sittings, or at meetings with other politicians, and those meetings do frequently run until four in the morning or later. His alibis might well be sound, but we haven’t yet checked.” He met Montague’s gaze. “That’s next on our list. But have you learned anything further regarding the Halsteads’ and Camberlys’ finances?”

  Montague nodded. “I had word first thing this morning that a quiet perusal of the Halstead and Camberly bank accounts shows no large sums of a size that might be all, or even a large part, of any payment received for the shares.”

  Stokes grimaced. “Well, that was a long shot.”

  Montague shrugged. “Presumably whoever took the share certificate sold it and used the money for whatever reason he had for stealing the shares in the first place.”

  Barnaby nodded. “He—at least one of the Halstead males—needed money desperately.”

  “Maybe so,” Stokes said, “but why murder, not once but three times—”

  “And try for a fourth victim in Violet,” Montague reminded him.

  Stokes inclined his head. “Indeed—four times. So why is he so willing to murder again and again to hide . . . what? Stealing a share certificate from his mother?”

  “No.” Barnaby’s blue gaze locked on Stokes’s face. “Not simply to hide the theft but to protect his station, his reputation—which the theft alone might threaten, but, even more, I’d wager he doesn’t want the reason he was forced to steal coming out.”

  Stokes weighed the words, then nodded. “That sounds more like it. There’s something more than just the theft—there’s whatever necessitated it.”

  “In one way, that motive’s reassuring.” When Stokes cocked a cynically disbelieving brow, Barnaby grinned. “It means that our murderer—indeed, all our suspects, all the actors in this drama—are unlikely to run away, much less vanish. Not when the principal motive for this murderer is to ensure he can cling to his social position, that nothing damages it.”

  Montague said, “I don’t disagree, but such a motive makes it less likely that William is the murderer.”

  “The principal murderer,” Barnaby conceded, “but it doesn’t mean that he, for whatever reason, didn’t help Maurice, or Mortimer, or Camberly, by killing Runcorn.”

  Stokes groaned. “My head’s spinning with this family and their alibis and the potential for conspiracy.” Heaving a sigh, he rose and looked at Barnaby. “Which, I suppose, means you and I better get back to sorting said alibis out.”

  With a matching sigh, Barnaby uncrossed his long legs and got to his feet. He looked at Montague, then at Stokes. “One way or another, we will get there—and given that he won’t run, we’ll catch him.”

  “Amen.” Stokes saluted Montague, then headed for the door.

  With a nod and a smile for Montague, Barnaby followed.

  Montague watched them go, then uttered his own sigh and, pulling forward the papers he’d pushed aside, got back to business.

  There was nothing more he could do, not until he heard back from Manchester. Hopefully this time the registrar would come through.

  The couriered message arrived at four o’clock that afternoon.

  Slocum, on receiving it, almost ran in his hurry to ferry it to Montague.

  Setting aside the ledger he’d been checking, Montague took the packet, picked up his letter knife, inserted the tip, and slit the envelope open.

  Withdrawing a single sheet, he unfolded it and scanned its contents. Then he blew out a breath and sat back, his gaze fixed on the name inscribed on the page.

  “Well?”

  Glancing up, Montague saw Gibbons—it was he who had spoken—standing behind Slocum, who was hovering by Montague’s desk. Foster looked over Gibbons’s shoulder, expectation in his face, while the rest of Montague and Son’s small staff were gathered about the doorway to the inner office, waiting to hear the news.

  Montague’s lips twitched; he looked back at the letter. “The registrar of the Grand Junction Railway Company formally verifies that the share certificate in question, that previously was the property of Agatha, Lady Halstead, is now registered to . . . the Earl of Corby.”

  Gibbons blinked. “Good God.”

  “Indeed.” Montague nodded, in complete accord with that sentiment. “Furthermore, the registrar states that the earl, or, rather, his man-of-business, registered the shares eleven months ago. Therefore, as far as the registry is concerned, the shares passed directly from Lady Halstead to the Earl of Corby, with no other owner being registered in between.”

  Montague set the letter on his blotter. He stared at it for several seconds, then said, “Slocum—”

  “I believe the Earl of Corby’s man-of-business is Mr. Millhouse, sir. His offices are just around the corner in Throgmorton Street.”

  “Excellent.” Montague glanced toward the door. “Reginald?”

  “Yessir!” The young office boy all but bounded into the room.

  Hiding a smile, Montague beckoned him forward. “Mr. Slater can deliver my letter to Mr. Millhouse, but before I write that, I need to send a message to Inspector Stokes at Scotland Yard.”

  Already scribbling, at the sudden silence, Montague glanced up—to discover Reginald standing stock-still before the desk, his eyes on stalks and his mouth agape.

  Foster, grinning, dropped a hand on Reginald’s shoulder. “No need to catch flies, Reggie. Do you know the way to the Yard?”

  Reginald blinked, then his expression tended toward panic.

  “Don’t worry,” Gibbons said. “It’s at the start of Whitehall. Mr. Slocum will give you directions.”

  Reginald perked up, then Montague handed him the folded note. “No need to wait for a reply. Once you’ve seen that into the hands of the sergeant on the front desk at Scotland Yard, you can hie away home.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Reginald took hold of the note as if it was solid gold. “I won’t let you down.”

  Montague smiled. “I’m sure you won’t. But hurry now—it needs to be there as soon as possible.”

  Reginald spun away and ran. Pausing only to drag on his coat and get directions from Slocum, he rushed out of the office.

  “Ah, the exuberance of youth.” With a nod, still smiling, Gibbons ambled out, followed by Foster. Slater and Pringle had already returned to their desks.

  Slocum looked in. “Just checked my book, sir—it is Mr. Millhouse, at number six, Throgmorton Street.”

  “Thank you, Slocum.” Montague set a fresh sheet on his blotter. “Tell Slater this might take a few minutes.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  It took him a full half hour before he was satisfied with the wording of his request to Mr. Millhouse. Millhouse was a few years younger than Montague, and while Montague was considered by most to be the preeminent man-of-business in London, there was a certain degree of professional courtesy and rivalry involved; striking the right note with his first communication on this matter with Millhouse was important. Especially as Montague fully expected the first communication would, inevitably, be followed by several others; getting all the answers he wanted couldn’t be done with a single note.

  If he baldly listed all the questions he—and Scotland Yard—needed answers to, Millhouse would balk, and his noble client would be even less inclined to be helpful.

  Reining in his own, very real, impatience wasn’t easy, but he’d been in business—had been dealing with business and the men involved—for too long not to play by the rules, unwritten though most of those were. Indeed, he’d built his considerable reputation on his precise understanding of those rules.


  So his letter to Mr. Millhouse of Throgmorton Street was a masterpiece of understated respect and carried within it a subtle invitation to Millhouse to join with Montague in unraveling a minor mystery as to the transference of the Grand Junction Railway Company share certificate in question.

  Rereading the missive, imagining Millhouse reading it and his reactions, Montague let his lips ease into a smile. “Done.” Carefully blotting his penmanship, he folded the letter, inscribed the direction on the front, then sealed it. “Slater!”

  Slater had clearly been waiting for the summons. He already had his coat on when he looked in through the doorway. “Ready?”

  Montague held out the letter. “Try and catch him before he leaves for the day, then go on home yourself. He won’t reply tonight.”

  Slater nodded, took the letter, and departed.

  Montague glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly six o’clock. He listened, and realized that most of the others had already left.

  As if to confirm, Slocum put his head through the doorway. “I’m off now, sir.”

  “Very good, Slocum.” Montague stood. “I believe I’ll go up myself.”

  He followed Slocum from the office. After locking the door, he turned and climbed the stairs to his apartment, very conscious of a wish to—like the rest of his staff—find that intangible thing called “home” waiting for him there.

  But Violet was in Albemarle Street, and although he wanted, very much, to share this latest discovery with her, to sit by her side, relax in the glow of what he’d accomplished that day and look forward to the challenges of the morrow, it was already six o’clock. By the time he reached Albemarle Street, it would be too close to dinnertime, and, besides, although he would be happy to share this latest development with the others, he didn’t want to share Violet’s company with them.

  That wasn’t what he craved.

  Reaching the door to his apartment, he went in and instantly smelled the scents of roasting beef and baking. From the kitchen, Mrs. Trewick’s usual greeting floated out. “Dinner’s ready and waiting, sir! If you’ll take your seat at the table, Trewick will bring it out.”