Page 21 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Cynthia huffed, then beneath her breath, but not quite softly enough, said, “At least let’s get Mama buried first.”

Constance colored. She drew in a huge breath, her bosom swelling dramatically. “The funeral—”

“Will be held at St. Peter’s, of course.” Cynthia’s tone had turned brittle.

“I would have thought St. George’s would be more appropriate,” Mortimer observed.

“Nonsense!” Cynthia sat bolt upright. “St. Peter’s is where Mama attended. It’s been the family’s church for decades, and just because you chose to move away—”

Violet turned and led the way to the door. Montague followed, and Stokes and Adair fell in behind. She paused before the door, allowing Montague to reach around her and open it. Stepping into the long front hall, she walked toward the front of the house.

Montague joined her, pacing alongside. “Is it always like that?” He tipped his head toward the dining room. “Them at each other’s throats, even about something like their mother’s funeral.”

“Always.” Halting before the sitting room door, Violet glanced back. Adair had followed close behind Montague, but Stokes had paused to instruct his constable—no doubt ensuring that the family obeyed his edict against removing items from the house. She looked at Montague, then Adair. “They are worse than squabbling infants. I doubt Lady Halstead’s passing will change anything—as far as I ever saw, their sniping wasn’t dependent on her presence but is simply their established way with each other, regardless of the subject.”

“Delightful people,” Adair murmured. “I suspect Stokes will want a short conference.” Adair indicated the sitting room door. “Can we speak privately in there?”

Violet nodded, opened the door, and led the way in.

She and Montague took the chintz-covered sofa, while Adair claimed one of the pair of armchairs facing them.

They’d just settled when Stokes walked through the door they’d left open. Shutting it, he said, “Camberly has excused himself—apparently there’s a parliamentary session he needs to attend—and William simply upped and left without a word. The rest are still hard at it, arguing the merits of this burial ground versus that.” Crossing the room, Stokes shook his head. “I’ve seen some difficult families in my time, but these people take the cake.”

Dropping into the second armchair, Stokes studied Violet. “From your lack of surprise, I take it such behavior is the norm for them.”

She nodded. “For the Halstead brood, that performance was entirely unremarkable.”

“I must say,” Adair drawled, “that I appreciated the nice touch of splitting your announcement—first stating that her ladyship was dead, and then subsequently mentioning that she was murdered. That gave us two chances to catch the murderer out, to see if he failed to react appropriately, but I, for one, saw nothing that would distinguish one from the other.”

He glanced at Violet and Montague. “Did either of you notice anything?”

Violet shook her head.

Montague grimaced. “What I did notice was that none of them appeared to care that her ladyship was dead—their attitude seemed to be that she was old, and she’d died, and that was that. But as for her being murdered, I got the impression the family as a whole viewed that as a great nuisance.”

“Sadly, that’s true.” Violet fought to maintain a suitably detached distance, tried hard not to think of Lady Halstead, not to dwell on the fact that she’d been killed, murdered, most likely by one of her poisonous brood. Remembering all the calm, gentle hours she’d spent with the old lady, who had rarely had even a grumpy word to say, much less any sharpness or ill temper, made it difficult to maintain her composure and not give in to the sweeping sadness.

“Tell me,” Stokes said, and, glancing up, Violet saw he was regarding her. “In all the time you’ve been with Lady Halstead, have you ever heard of any argument between her ladyship and one of her children or grandchildren?”

She cast her mind back over the years but, in the end, shook her head. “No.” She hesitated, then said, “But you shouldn’t be surprised by that. As far as possible, Lady Halstead kept them—her family—at a certain distance. For instance, I joined this household after Sir Hugo died, but none of the family was involved in hiring me. Normally, family members—daughters, daughters-in-law, even sons—take care to be there to vet whoever an older female relative takes on as a companion.” She shifted, then added, “I’ve only been interviewed for two positions—the one here with Lady Halstead, and my previous position with Lady Ogilvie—but with Lady Ogilvie, both her daughters were present, and from all I’ve heard that’s the norm.”

Montague was nodding, as were Stokes and Barnaby.

“To your knowledge, were any of the Halstead children ever involved in any of her ladyship’s financial decisions?” Montague asked.

“No. And I’m quite certain of that,” Violet replied. “Lady Halstead once made a comment about feeling much happier making her own decisions, and I know she rebuffed Mortimer, and also Maurice—both independently offered to assist her with managing her fortune, but she declared Sir Hugo had taken care of it all, and she was quite happy with the way things were.”

“Hmm.” Adair had a faraway look in his eyes, as if he was replaying the moments around the dining table. “One thing I noticed—and perhaps, Miss Matcham, you might confirm—but the impression I received is that the animosity, as witnessed by the tensions and tart comments flung across and down that table, lies primarily between Lady Halstead’s children, with supporting contributions from the two spouses.” Meeting Violet’s gaze, Adair arched his brows. “Was it always like that—them against each other—or was the animosity sometimes directed at Lady Halstead?”

“No,” Violet said. “Their sniping was never directed at her. It always amazed me that, during the dinners, her ladyship paid the strife no attention at all. She would eat and ignore them—unless they became too noisy. Then she would insist they ended it, but . . . no. Even at such times, their viciousness was never directed at her.”

Barnaby sighed and shifted his gaze to Stokes. “So out of that interlude, while we’ve established that the Halsteads are a highly unpleasant lot, overall we’ve got not one decent whiff of the murderer.”

Stokes inclined his head. “Maybe so, but what we did gain was confirmation that, regardless of their behavior toward each other, there is no suggestion of any personal motive—no hint that any of her ladyship’s family held a grudge against her, no evidence of arguments or disagreements between her and any of her children.”

Nodding, Montague picked up the train of thought. “And as we have reason to believe that the murderer is a family member, not just because of the apparent ease of entry to the house but also the timing of the murder so soon after her ladyship’s announcement that she intended to have her affairs looked into—”

“And”—Barnaby sat straighter—“as we also have every reason to believe that there is something illegal behind these payments into her ladyship’s account, we’re left with that, and only that, as a strong motive.” He looked at Stokes. “It’s money, simply money, behind this.”