Page 10 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Runcorn stepped back and waved to his office. “Of course.”

He ushered Montague into the office, and into a chair before the large and well-used desk. As Runcorn rounded it, making for his own chair, he offered, “The office was my father’s before me, of course. I’m the son.”

Montague found the young man’s enthusiasm infectious. “I had heard as much.” When Runcorn looked his question, Montague added, “From Lady Halstead.” Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew her letter of authority. “Before we proceed, you will need to read this.”

Sobering, Runcorn took the letter, unfolded it, read it, then, slowly refolding the sheet, he looked across the desk at Montague with a faint, puzzled frown.

Montague had no difficulty reading the thoughts passing through Runcorn’s head, not with such an open, expressive face; even the vague possibility of a suspicion he’d harbored that Runcorn might in some way be involved in the irregularities was rapidly fading. “Permit me to assure you that I am not here to poach your client, Mr. Runcorn.” Holding out his hand for the letter, when Runcorn surrendered it, Montague stowed it in his pocket once again.

“Then I admit I’m confused, sir.” Runcorn regarded him steadily. “Why are you here?”

“Lady Halstead requires . . . shall we say ‘reassurance’? . . . that whatever explanation you find for the irregularities in her bank account is the correct one. That is my focus and that alone. I will also state that I have no financial interest in this matter—I have agreed to provide my oversight purely out of professional curiosity.” Montague held Runcorn’s gaze. “I am quite intrigued, Mr. Runcorn, as to what the explanation for the unusual payments into her ladyship’s bank account might be.”

A moment passed, then Runcorn blinked and, as if assuring himself, said, “She wants reassurance . . . well, I can understand that. I haven’t been in this business for all that long, and . . .” After a second, he met Montague’s eyes. “To be candid, sir, I would greatly appreciate your guidance in this matter. I had thought the payments must be due to some old, long-forgotten investment, but they’re not—or, at least, that doesn’t appear to be the case.”

“No.” Montague hesitated, then added, “In fact, that’s what sparked my interest in this matter. I’ve been in this business for a very long time, yet I do not recognize the style of these payments. They don’t match any pattern I’ve seen before.”

“Exactly!” Runcorn held up his hands in a helpless gesture. “Pringle—he’s my clerk—and I have been wracking our brains trying to think of what they might be arising from, but as yet we’ve found no clue. And as the bank has noted the payments as cash deposits, it’s unlikely they’ll be able to shed light on the source, and”—Runcorn looked uncomfortable—“I didn’t think it wise to raise the issue with the bank at this time—not without Lady Halstead’s explicit permission, and not until we’ve eliminated all the more likely investment sources.”

Meeting Runcorn’s gaze, Montague nodded approvingly. “Indeed. We should only involve the bank once we’ve exhausted all other avenues of inquiry. No need to air our questions more widely than necessary.”

“So we thought.” Runcorn looked reassured. “Consequently, pursuing the angle that the payments relate to some forgotten investment, we’ve pulled the complete Halstead file—it goes back a good thirty years—and we’re combing through it page by page, but as yet we’ve had no luck.”

Montague considered, then nodded again. “At present, that’s the first question you must answer—regardless of appearances, are these payments in some way linked to some past investment? You are, indeed, taking the right tack.” He smiled at Runcorn’s expression of relief, which was almost immediately tempered by the realization of just what a huge undertaking lay before him. “Indeed,” Montague confirmed. “Learning the answer will take time and effort. However, as to my own approach, at this point I would be grateful if you would provide me with a copy of the statements of the bank account in question, going back to when these odd payments first appeared. Lady Halstead gave me her copy of the most recent statements, but I will need the earlier statements as well. In addition, I would like a list of all investments of any type, whether believed to be current or not, and all loans and deposits into interest-bearing securities.”

Runcorn was nodding; Lady Halstead’s letter gave Montague the authority to request such details and Runcorn permission to provide them. “We can give you a copy of the bank statements today—Pringle will have a spare. Likewise for the currently held investments, those that are presently paying income—we’ve been searching through those ourselves. But a listing of the wider investments—that will take a few days to compile.” He met Montague’s eyes. “To be sure we have the entire picture, all nearly thirty years’ worth of it.”

“That will be entirely satisfactory.” Montague smiled and rose. “I’m well aware that to survive, you must service your other clients as well.”

“Indeed.” Rising and coming around the desk to open the door, Runcorn grimaced. “It’s something of a juggling act at the moment, what with the Halstead review proving so much more time-consuming than anyone would have expected.”

Montague allowed himself to be ushered out and introduced to Pringle, who, on receiving Runcorn’s instructions, proved to be meticulously organized. He produced the required copies of the bank statements and the list of currently paying investments.

Pringle eyed a foot-high stack of papers on his desk. “As for the complete list of investments, that might take a few days.”

Montague nodded. “That’s entirely acceptable. It’s critically important in a case like this that the list be complete and accurate with respect to every detail. If that takes a few days more, so be it. An inaccurate list will get us nowhere.”

Pringle bowed. “Of course, sir. I’ll give it my best attention.”

Given what he had already noted of Pringle’s meticulousness, Montague had no doubt that that would prove more than adequate, and said so.

Leaving Pringle and his master both preening, he exited the office of Runcorn and Son and, with a spring in his step, set out to embark on his own researches.

Montague didn’t get a chance to return to the Halstead puzzle until late in the afternoon. On his return to his office, he’d been claimed by a succession of clients, interspersed with presentations from several different firms seeking capital.

Investment was the blood and bone of his business, so he’d had to put Lady Halstead and her mysterious payments aside.

Finally, as the light was fading from the sky beyond his window, he drew the thin file containing her ladyship’s bank statements and list of investments to the center of his blotter and opened it.

Two hours later, when Slocum tapped on his door to bid him good night, he’d reached the end of the laborious process of matching payments to investments, and found himself in complete agreement with Lady Halstead. Something extremely odd was going on with her bank account.

After farewelling Slocum, Montague sat back in his chair and stared at the papers spread out on the desk. Fingernail tapping on the chair arm, he finally let the explanation—the one possibility he hadn’t discounted—form in his brain.

“Concealment of funds.” He frowned. “But by whom, and why?”

In financial terms, concealment was the opposite of embezzlement but was almost always equally illegal in that money that needed to be concealed almost certainly had some element of illegality attached to it.

“So in pursuing the matter of these payments, I’m investigating what might reasonably be supposed to be the fruits of some crime.”