Page 2 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

“Yes, yes.” Her fingers stilling under Violet’s, her frown lightening, Lady Halstead unbent enough to say to Runcorn, “You’ve been most precise. I have no fault to find with any other aspect, but that bank balance is not correct.”

“Perhaps,” Violet said, catching Runcorn’s eye, “you might recheck with the bank?”

Runcorn got the message; in the wider scheme of the Halstead estate, checking a bank balance was a minor thing. “Yes, of course. No difficulty at all.” He reached for his satchel and stowed the offending statement. “I’ll go around to the bank immediately.”

That was exactly the right thing to say. Lady Halstead calmed and graciously nodded. “Thank you, young man.”

With Violet’s help, Runcorn gathered the papers he’d brought, then very correctly took his leave of Lady Halstead.

Violet took pity on him and showed him out.

Somewhat to Violet’s surprise, by the time she returned from seeing Runcorn out, Lady Halstead appeared to have put the question of the bank account balance out of her mind; Violet got the impression that her ladyship was certain that, when Runcorn questioned the bank more thoroughly, he would receive a revised balance and all would be as her ladyship had expected.

Consequently, when Runcorn returned at three o’clock the next day with the news that the bank insisted the account balance as he’d originally reported it was correct, Violet was somewhat taken aback.

Having descended the stairs for luncheon, Lady Halstead was once again seated in her carver in the sitting room. On hearing Runcorn’s news, her expression grew oddly blank. “That’s . . . most unsettling.”

Runcorn hurried into speech. “My lady, I do assure you we—that is, my firm, Runcorn and Son—haven’t touched the account at all. The bank will confirm. Other than requesting statements from time to time, as per our duty as your agents, we have never drawn so much as a penny, I swear—”

“Young man!” Lady Halstead spoke with the authority of a woman who had sons; Runcorn’s panic had snapped her out of her abstraction. “Do compose yourself—and do sit down. I entertain no suspicion whatever of your honesty—I do not for a moment believe Runcorn and Son have stolen from me. That, sir, is not the problem.”

Subsiding onto the edge of a chair, Runcorn blinked. “It isn’t?”

“No, indeed. The problem with that account balance is that it is too much—significantly too much—not too little. Money is being paid into that account by someone, presumably for some reason, but who that someone is or what that reason might be, I have no notion.”

“Ah.” Rather than looking mystified, Runcorn’s expression lit with relief. “There must be some long-ago investment that has only recently started paying dividends—that happens quite frequently. Sir Hugo might have bought into some concern two decades ago and it’s only just started paying a return.” Reaching for his satchel, Runcorn rose and bowed, his youthful face radiating his signature eager earnestness. “Rest assured, my lady, that I will review the account, identify the unexpected payments, and trace them to their source.”

“Hmm.” Lady Halstead was frowning again. “I suppose it might be some mistake—that someone in the bank has mistaken the account.”

Runcorn dipped his head. “That, too, is possible, but considering the breadth of Sir Hugo’s investments, I suspect the former possibility will be found to be the case. Regardless, I shall analyze the account and make the appropriate inquiries, and will report to you once I have identified the source of the unexpected funds.”

Lady Halstead’s expression suggested she wasn’t quite as convinced as Runcorn of his prowess, but she graciously inclined her head and bade him a good day.

That evening, when Violet went to check on Lady Halstead before retiring to her own bed, she found her ladyship uncharacteristically fretful. Since Runcorn had left, she’d grown progressively more unsettled.

Straightening the coverlet over Lady Halstead’s gaunt form, Violet soothingly murmured, “Are you still worrying over that money in your bank account? I’m sure Mr. Runcorn will get to the bottom of it.”

Leaning forward to allow Violet to rearrange her pillows, Lady Halstead humphed. “Would that I had your confidence.” Then she sighed. “No, that’s not fair. The truth of it is that I do have confidence in Runcorn and Son, possibly more confidence than young Mr. Runcorn himself, and it’s precisely because of that that I cannot see how these payments could possibly be due to some overlooked investment.”

Sinking back onto her resettled pillows, Lady Halstead met Violet’s gaze. “I may not know everything about financial dealings, but I do know that investments have umpteen pieces of paper attached—certificates, notices, statements of their own. If some investment had started paying a return, Runcorn and his people would have known. They would have seen the notices or been advised in some way. Perhaps if we had changed our agent, something might have slipped past, but Runcorn and Son have been our agents since we returned to England, and that was nearly thirty years ago. I can’t imagine Hugo would have missed passing any advice of investment to Runcorn, so . . . well.” Lady Halstead spread her hands. “Where is this wretched money coming from?”

Soothingly, Violet murmured, “I daresay Mr. Runcorn will report in a few days, then we can see what he’s found. No need to borrow trouble, as my father always said.”

Lady Halstead grimaced. “The late reverend was no doubt wise, but that money isn’t the only odd thing.”

Detecting a certain grimness in Lady Halstead’s eyes, Violet realized that there was, indeed, something else contributing to her ladyship’s anxiety. “What else has happened?”

Lady Halstead regarded her as if debating whether or not to reveal what she so clearly wished to share. Then her lips firmed and she tipped her head toward the tallboy. “Bring me the writing desk.”

Violet obliged. When she set the cedar box with its sloping lid beside Lady Halstead and opened it, her ladyship reached in, rummaged for a second, then drew out a creased sheet covered in cramped writing. “This came a week ago. I still don’t know what to make of it.”

She paused, staring at the letter clasped in her gnarled fingers.

Half a minute ticked past, then Violet gently prompted, “Tell me. If it’s worrying you, perhaps we can work out what to do about it.”

Lady Halstead blinked, met Violet’s eyes, then smiled. “That’s why I mentioned it—you’re always one who will do what you can to make things better.” She glanced at the letter, then tucked it back in the box and closed the lid. “It’s from the vicar’s wife who lives near The Laurels, our country house. Even though I haven’t been back to the village since Sir Hugo passed, and the house has been closed up for all those years, she and I exchange letters every now and then. She wrote to tell me about the new occupants of the house, who are apparently reclusive, and to ask to whom we’d let the property, or whether we’d sold it.” Lady Halstead met Violet’s eyes. “I haven’t sold the property, and I haven’t leased it, either. As far as I was aware, the house was still closed up. So who is living there, and what are they using my house for?”

Violet held Lady Halstead’s anxious gaze. She had no reassuring answer to her ladyship’s question.