Page 99 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Constance had been quick to attempt to evoke Violet’s guilt, but the precipitousness didn’t make the sentiment, once called into being, any less effective. Lady Halstead deserved to have her belongings treated with respect and a degree of understanding and compassion her children and their spouses unquestionably lacked. And while there seemed little doubt that Constance wanted to leave this drawing room, to quit what was for her a subtly unnerving stage, equally clearly she was determined to take Violet with her.

Inwardly sighing—knowing Constance’s stubbornness of old—Violet slowly inclined her head. “I can spare you—or rather, Lady Halstead—a few hours. But I will have to return here by one o’clock.”

Constance waved the qualification aside. “We can see how far we’ve got by then.” She turned toward the door. “But as you are pressed for time, I suggest we don’t waste any. My carriage is waiting outside.”

Resigning herself to spending the next two and more hours in Constance’s aggravating company, Violet turned and led the way to the door. Opening it, she let Constance precede her into the front hall.

Closing the door behind her, she caught Mostyn’s eyes. “Mostyn—I’m going to go to Lowndes Street, to Lady Halstead’s house, to assist Mrs. Halstead in sorting through her late ladyship’s things.”

“Indeed, miss.” Mostyn glanced at Constance, then looked back at Violet. “I’ll inform Mrs. Adair when she returns.”

“Please tell her I will be back by one o’clock.” Violet glanced at Constance. “If you’ll wait while I fetch my bonnet and pelisse.”

It wasn’t a question, but Constance replied, “I’ll wait in my carriage.” Turning to the door, she added, “Don’t be long.”

Raising her eyes to the heavens, Violet turned and went quickly upstairs.

Two minutes later, when she returned downstairs, her bonnet on her head, gloves and reticule in one hand, and her green pelisse neatly fastened over her pale green gown, Mostyn was waiting before the closed front door. “Are you sure this will be all right, miss? Going back to that house with one of that family?”

The thought had already occurred to Violet; she gave Mostyn the answer she’d given herself. “It seems all but certain that the murderer is Maurice Halstead—we’re only really waiting for confirmation—and believe me, Constance positively loathes Maurice, and I’ll be with her the whole time.” Pausing before the door, she met Mostyn’s gaze. “And Lady Halstead does, indeed, deserve to have her belongings dealt with by someone who loved her, rather than one of her noxious brood.”

Mostyn briefly studied her eyes, then bowed. “Indeed, miss.” Opening the door, he added, “I’ll keep an eye out for your return.”

Stepping outside into a gusty autumn breeze, Violet clamped her hat on her head and, lifting her skirts, hurried down the steps to where Constance Halstead’s carriage waited.

Millhouse’s runner appeared at Montague’s office a few minutes after the City’s bells had tolled eleven o’clock.

Montague, working at his desk, heard the boy’s voice pipe, “From Mr. Millhouse for Mr. Montague,” and only just restrained himself from leaping to his feet and striding out into the outer office.

Through the open doorway to his inner sanctum, he saw Slocum receive a simple missive. Noting the eager, inquisitive glances thrown his way by Gibbons and Foster, and the others, too, he jettisoned all attempts at nonchalance and, rising, met Slocum in the doorway.

Slocum handed over the packet.

Everyone in the office watched, breath bated, as Montague broke Millhouse’s simple seal, unfolded the single sheet, and read.

“Good God!” Head rising, Montague stared blankly across the room as he rearranged the pieces of the jigsaw in his mind . . . then, jaw firming, he nodded decisively. “Yes.” He looked back at the note. “That does fit.”

He had to tell Violet and the others.

Folding the note and slipping it into his pocket, he returned to his office for his hat, saying to Slocum as he did, “Send a brief note to Millhouse thanking him for his help. Tell him it’s been invaluable and I’ll be in touch to explain as soon as I’m able.” Noting Millhouse’s boy hovering by the door, eyes wide, Montague added, “And give the boy half a crown.”

“Yes, sir.” Slocum followed as Montague strode across the office, heading for the coat-stand by the door.

“Who was it?” Gibbons called out. “Don’t leave us in suspense.”

Shrugging on his greatcoat, Montague told them, adding, “I’m heading to Albemarle Street—depending on who is there, I’ll most likely go on to Scotland Yard.”

Leaving his staff speculating as to the ramifications of the truth, Montague went out of the door, clattered down the stairs, and, setting his hat on his head, strode into Bartholomew Lane in search of a hackney.

At last, they had their man.

Violet followed Constance Halstead into the dimness of the front hall of the Lowndes Street house. As had been the case when Violet had slipped in with Penelope and Griselda, and later with Montague, the house was dark, all the curtains drawn tight.

“Faugh!” Constance dropped the keys she’d used to unlock the door on the hall stand and reached up to untie the strings of her bonnet.

Violet noted that the keys were her old house keys; Montague must have sent them to the Halsteads. Deciding that she would rather keep her reticule, bonnet, gloves, and pelisse with her so she could more easily leave when the time came, she wondered, “Where should we start?”

She hadn’t really meant to speak aloud, but Constance glanced at the jeweled watch she wore pinned to her collar, then looked up the stairs. “I daresay we should start in Mama-in-law’s bedroom.”