Page 16 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Montague met her gaze, almost imperceptibly nodded in support. Then he looked at Milborne. “Am I to take it you intend to declare this a natural death?”

Milborne blinked, shifting his attention to Montague. “Well, in the circumstances . . .” Then he frowned. “I’m sorry—you are?”

“Heathcote Montague, of Montague and Son, in the City.” Montague said nothing more; they needed to delay Milborne, to keep him from issuing a death certificate declaring the death natural, until help, in the form of Stokes, arrived. Stokes would take one look at this scene and know there was nothing natural about the manner of Lady Halstead’s passing.

Milborne’s frown grew more puzzled. “I’m unclear as to what your interest in Lady Halstead’s demise might be.”

“Her ladyship recently engaged me as a financial consultant with wide-ranging authority to delve into all matters concerning her situation.” Montague let Milborne puzzle over that for a moment, then, when the man was clearly searching for the correct words with which to frame his next question, added, “Given the circumstances surrounding the initiation of my consultancy, and given the scope of the formal letter of authority Lady Halstead enacted, I believe her demise most definitely falls within my purview.”

Milborne blinked, now clearly uneasy. “I . . . see.”

Meaning he no longer had any idea of what was going on, or which way he should bend. Milborne glanced again at the bed, at the frail body lying in it.

A heavy knock sounded on the front door.

Montague looked at Violet.

“Tilly will get it,” she said.

That Tilly had, indeed, opened the front door was immediately apparent as a rumble of male voices in the hall downstairs reached them.

Several male voices. Stokes had brought others—at least two others—with him.

Straining his ears, Montague caught an inflection, a certain deep drawl, one rather more sophisticated than Stokes’s raspy growl, and wondered . . . suddenly hoped.

Sure enough, when, a bare minute later, Stokes walked into the room, the tall, elegant figure of Barnaby Adair appeared behind him.

If knowing Stokes had arrived had brought relief, Adair’s coming with him meant salvation was assured.

Violet watched the large, dark-haired, and dark-featured man pause just inside the doorway, his open greatcoat hanging from broad shoulders, his eyes—slate gray and oddly piercing—taking in the entire bedroom and all in it in one single, comprehensive glance. That glance ended on Montague, and the man inclined his head.

“Montague.”

Montague nodded back. “Inspector Stokes.” With one hand, Montague indicated Violet. “This is Miss Matcham, the late Lady Halstead’s companion of many years. And this”—Montague turned to the doctor—“is Doctor Milborne, who, I understand, has been overseeing her ladyship’s health for several years.”

“Ah—yes, about five years . . .” Milborne looked confused; he glanced from Stokes to Montague. “Did you say ‘Inspector’?”

“Yes—he was referring to me.” The dark-haired man—Stokes—moved toward the bed. “Inspector Basil Stokes of Scotland Yard. We”—Stokes glanced back at his companion, who had curly blond hair, was most definitely a gentleman by his dress, and was lingering in the doorway—“have reason to wish to satisfy ourselves as to the nature of her ladyship’s death.” The slate gray gaze returned to pin Milborne. “So, Doctor, what say you? Is this a natural death, or something the Yard needs to be aware of?”

“Ah . . .” Milborne was out of his depth and floundering; he patently did not know which way to leap. “I . . . ah, had thought it might be, could be, purely the result of old age. I mean, although she appears to have struggled, well, she might have been gasping her last, as it were, and—”

“Were her eyes closed, her lids lowered, when she was found?”

The question, uttered in an urbane voice that instantly commanded attention—and respect—came from the tall, blond man who had accompanied Stokes. Strolling into the room, he politely inclined his head to Violet, nodded briefly—as to a friend—to Montague, then glanced at Milborne, before halting by the bed and looking down at Lady Halstead’s face.

After an instant, the man glanced up at Milborne, then at Violet. “The Honorable Barnaby Adair. I’m a consultant to the Yard, and often work with Stokes. Especially”—his distinctly blue gaze returned to Lady Halstead’s face—“in cases involving members of society.”

It took Milborne another moment to digest that, then some of his tension left him. “In that case—”

Violet spoke over him. “Her eyes were shut—the lids lowered—when we found her.” At Adair’s cocked brow, she elaborated, “Tilly, her ladyship’s maid, and I came up to wake her as we usually did, and found her.” Violet nodded at the bed. “Just like that. We didn’t move her at all.”

“Excellent.” Adair crouched and looked at Lady Halstead’s face from close quarters, then angled a glance at Milborne. “Any bleeding in the eyes?”

Milborne shifted. “A little. But she’s old, and—” He broke off, then bent, raised one of the lids, and looked again. When he straightened, one could see that he’d paled. “Yes. There’s unnatural bleeding in the eyes.”

“Hmm.” Adair slowly straightened. “That’s usually a sign of suffocation, isn’t it?”

Milborne’s lips tightened, but he nodded. “Yes.”