Page 20 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Cynthia, Lady Halstead’s second child and only daughter, fixed her gaze on Stokes and rather chillingly inquired, “Are you certain, Inspector, that my mother was murdered? Could she not merely have died by some”—Cynthia waved—“misadventure?”

“She was old and frail, after all,” Constance Halstead put in. “Are you certain she didn’t simply stop breathing?”

As expected, the family would much rather her ladyship’s death wasn’t declared a murder.

“Both Lady Halstead’s doctor, who was summoned to attend, and the police surgeon concur.” Stokes paused, then definitively stated, “There is no doubt whatever that her ladyship was murdered.”

Cynthia’s pinching lips testified to her irritation, but she said nothing more.

Constance grimaced and sat back.

“That being the case, Inspector, what progress has been made in apprehending the villain?” The question came from Maurice Halstead, according to Violet and all appearances the black-sheep-cum-rake-cum-roué of the family.

Maurice’s question, unsurprisingly, focused the attention of the rest of the family. They all looked to Stokes with varying degrees of haughty demand.

Stokes’s expression remained stoically uninformative. “Our investigations have only just begun. I called you here as a formal courtesy, to ensure you learned of the murder firsthand. We will be pursuing several avenues, and will speak with you all in due course.” Stokes had decided to postpone asking for alibis, explaining that he would rather each family member had a chance to concoct one, as a fabricated alibi, which the police usually found relatively easy to break, was a surer indication of guilt than the absence of an alibi.

“But you must have some idea,” Maurice pressed. “You said you had ‘avenues’ to follow.” His gaze shifted to rest heavily—meaningfully—on Violet. “It seems somewhat far-fetched to imagine some blackguard just happened to choose this house to break into and kill an old lady, apparently for no reason.”

Stokes showed his teeth. “Indeed. But equally, at present, we have no reason to suspect any particular person—nor to discount anyone, either.” He sent a raking gaze around the table. “My immediate question for everyone here is whether you know of or in any way suspect anyone of bearing ill will toward Lady Halstead. For any reason whatever.”

Silence ensued, then the Halsteads and Camberlys looked at each other; brows rose, but no one spoke.

Stokes nodded. “Very well. I will take that as a negative—that none of you know of any reason to suspect anyone of Lady Halstead’s murder.”

A fussy, civil-service frown had appeared on Mortimer’s face as he, too, now stared at Violet. “As you are investigating everyone, am I to take it that that includes females—for instance the three females who live in this house, all of whom could easily have entered my mother’s room, and any of whom might have had some reason, a reason known only to them, to wish my mother dead? My mother was weak and frail. It wouldn’t have taken much strength to overcome her.”

Stokes had warned Violet that such an accusation might well be made, and he had assured her that he, Adair, and Montague considered it without foundation. Despite the warning, she still felt the instinctive urge to violently rebut the notion, to defend not just herself but Tilly and Cook, too, against the scurrilous slur, but remembering Stokes’s caution against doing so, she literally bit her tongue and remained mute.

She did, however, hold Mortimer’s gaze unflinchingly, returning his suspicion with silent defiance.

Mortimer looked away first, glancing questioningly at Stokes.

Who had watched the exchange with unrelenting patience. “I am discounting no one. That includes everyone about this table, and anyone else who has had contact with her ladyship.” His expression mild, Stokes glanced to his left. “That even includes Mr. Montague, although considering his position in the City and his significant reputation, I cannot imagine I will have any difficulty confirming his alibi.”

Gravely sober, Montague inclined his head.

Turning back to the gathering, Stokes swept the faces with his steely gaze, then, his expression and tone growing harder, said, “Unless we gain some early indication of the murderer’s identity, you may expect to be interviewed at some point within the next few days. It would be helpful if you made a note of where you were throughout last night, and who, if anyone, can confirm your presence there.”

Easing back his chair, Stokes stood. “That will be all for now.” He inclined his head to Mortimer Halstead, then to Wallace Camberly. “We will, of course, inform the family once we have the murderer in custody.”

Barnaby, Montague, and Violet also rose.

Cynthia Halstead looked at Stokes. “One moment, Inspector. When may we view the body and make arrangements for the funeral?”

“Her ladyship’s body is presently at the morgue. I believe it will be released for burial the day after tomorrow, but you may send your undertaker there. He will know how to inquire.”

Cynthia’s face blanked. “That’s thoroughly inconvenient.”

Unmoved, Stokes responded, “That’s the way things are done.”

Cynthia sniffed and desisted.

“What about her things?” Constance Halstead asked. When Stokes looked at her, she waved. “In her room, in the sitting room, elsewhere in the house.”

“This house is a crime scene, Mrs. Halstead—no one will be permitted to remove anything from it until I give my permission, which I anticipate will be in a day or two. I will advise the family when they are free to come and go. Until such time, access to the house will be restricted.”

Constance pulled a face, and with a glance at her sister-in-law, mimicked her. “Exceedingly inconvenient.”