Page 14 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Tilly, taller and closer to the bed, had a clearer view. “Oh, my God!”

A sharp rattle of crockery broke the silence as Tilly shook and the cup on the tray rattled. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” In a fluster, Tilly swung around, saw the tallboy, and rushed to set the tray down upon it. Then she whirled and hurried to the bed—just as Violet did the same on the other side.

Stunned, shocked, barely able to breathe, Violet looked down at Lady Halstead. The old lady’s eyes were closed, but her mouth was open, her jaws wide, as if she’d been shouting. Or screaming.

Her arms, Violet saw, were oddly splayed, and her hands lay lax on the covers, gnarled fingers crooked, as if she’d been clutching, seizing. Her legs, too, weak though they’d been, had churned beneath the sheets.

That Lady Halstead was dead Violet did not doubt. But her ladyship hadn’t died peacefully.

Tilly put Violet’s thoughts into words. “I knew she’d go, and probably soon, but I didn’t think she’d go like this.”

Violet forced herself to look, to see what was before her. “Tilly—this isn’t how she should look, is it? Not if she went quietly in her sleep.”

Tilly audibly gulped. Her eyes locked on her mistress’s face, she murmured, “You’re thinking the same as I am. She was murdered, wasn’t she?”

“Look at the top pillow. No—don’t touch. But see how it’s been stuffed under her head? That’s why her head is at that odd angle. But she never sleeps with that many pillows—she wouldn’t have put it there herself.” Violet glanced at the chair by the bed. “When I left her last night, that pillow was on the chair.”

“We have to call the doctor.” Tilly wrapped her arms tightly about herself. “That’s what you’re supposed to do with a death these days.”

Violet’s wits were whirling, but she knew well enough how matters would proceed. “If we just call the doctor”—looking up, she met Tilly’s wide eyes—“he’ll say she was old, that she died in her sleep, because he’ll know the family will be furious if he declares this a murder.”

Tilly blinked, then her jaw firmed and she nodded. “Aye, that he will, weak weasel that he is. And none of the family will care, will they?”

“No, they won’t. They won’t bother about getting justice for Lady Halstead—won’t care about finding her murderer. All they’ll care about is the will and the estate.”

“Getting their share of it—you don’t need to tell me. She’s known for years they’ve just been waiting for her to die.”

“Exactly. They’d seemed to be waiting patiently enough, but now . . .” Violet looked down at the gentle old lady she’d come to love. “We can’t let her murderer get away.” She glanced at Tilly. “I don’t think I could live with myself if I . . . just let this be swept under the carpet.”

“Nor me.” Tilly paused, then asked, “So what do we do? Send a boy for the police? Chances are they’ll just have us send for the doctor anyway, and he’ll say what you said, and it’ll all come to nothing.”

Violet did not know where her certainty sprang from, did not know on what it was based, but she had no doubt whatever about her tack. “We send for Mr. Montague. Lady Halstead gave him a letter of authority—it’s reasonable for us to consult him over this. We’re only females, after all, and our sex is known to panic.” She looked at Tilly. “So we’re in a panic and we don’t know what to do—so we’ll summon Mr. Montague, because we know that her ladyship only very recently put her faith, and her trust, in him.”

Tilly blinked, then slowly nodded. “But will he know what’s best to do next?”

“Yes.” Violet thought of the solid assurance with which Montague moved through the world. “I’m sure of it.”

Tilly nodded more decisively. “Right, then—you write a note, and I’ll go and fetch a boy to take it.” Tilly glanced at her dead mistress, reached out, gently stroked the back of one crooked hand, then, jaw tightening, raised her head, turned, and headed for the door.

Her gaze on Lady Halstead, Violet slowly straightened, then, more slowly, more lingeringly, mimicked Tilly’s loving gesture, then followed the maid from the room.

Violet wrote the note in the sitting room, and was still sitting there in a daze when Montague arrived.

Rising to answer the door, she glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was barely nine o’clock; he must have raced to have got there so quickly.

Opening the front door, she registered the concern vivid in his face.

“What’s happened?” His gaze raced over her features, returning to her eyes. “Are you all right?”

“Lady Halstead is dead.” Violet heard her voice say the words, intonation flat, and she finally accepted it as real.

“Dead?” Montague’s features registered his shock. “But . . .” He searched her face, her eyes. “Did she die peacefully?”

Violet drew herself up, drew breath, and said, “I—we, Tilly and I—don’t think so.” She stepped back. “Please, come in.”

Stepping over the threshold, Montague felt an unexpected urge to take her in his arms, to comfort her. She was pale, her expression, judging from their previous encounters, uncharacteristically closed in.

Brittle. Fragile. In need of help.