Page 32 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Stokes drew breath, and asked, “What about his face? Did you see it well enough to recognize him?” It was a long shot, but . . . stranger things had happened.

But Pringle visibly deflated. “No.” His lips twisted in a grimace. “I’m sorry, Inspector, but I only caught a glimpse of his profile. All I can tell you is that he was clean shaven but had side-whiskers.” Pringle drew phantom whiskers on his own cheeks. “And his cheeks weren’t . . .” He looked at Stokes, then Barnaby. “Like yours—they were rounder.”

Stokes nodded. “Thank you. You might not be able to identify him, but that’s still very helpful.”

“I have a question.” Penelope’s softer, yet still commanding, voice was such a contrast that it focused all attention. They all looked at her, but she was studying Pringle. Capturing his gaze, she tilted her head and smiled encouragingly. “You see clients all the time. You’re used to dealing with lots of different sorts of people. You will know the answer to my question. When I put my question to you, I want you to think of the man you saw and answer immediately—the first answer that pops into your mind. All right?”

Pringle looked a touch uneasy but nodded.

“The man you saw outside the tobacconist’s—was he an aristocrat, a gentleman, a merchant, or a working man?”

Pringle answered without hesitation. “A gentleman.” Then he blinked and looked surprised, but he didn’t retract the answer.

Penelope beamed. “Thank you.”

“Indeed,” Stokes said. “Thank you, Mr. Pringle, you’ve been of considerable help.” He nodded at the Halstead papers. “If you wish to put up that notice and take yourself off to Mr. Montague’s office, you’re free to leave.”

Pringle half-bowed. “Thank you, Inspector. Ma’am. Sirs.”

Turning to his desk, he started neatening the papers, then searching for string to tie them up.

Stokes beckoned the other three closer to the door, but before he spoke, someone tapped on the glass.

Stokes turned to see the constables he’d sent to ask questions around the neighborhood in a loose group on the pavement, clearly waiting to report. “One moment,” he said to the other three. Opening the door, he beckoned the sergeant in charge inside. “Well, Phipps? Anything?”

“Bits and pieces, sir. Other than those at the pub, there weren’t that many people out and about. Dinnertime for many, so most were indoors. That said . . .” Portentously, the sergeant flicked open his notebook. “We’ve several people, most from the pub, but also a match-seller who has her spot just on the corner, who saw a gent going into this office, and then leaving again about half an hour later. Time seems right—all say it was after seven when he went in, and somewhere after the half hour when he left, and they can hear the bells easy from here.”

“What description did they give?” Stokes asked.

“Nothing definitive. No one who says they’d recognize the blighter.” Phipps proceeded to recite the descriptions given by five different people.

The descriptions matched Pringles’s in every degree.

“So,” Stokes said, “we have a gentleman—they’re all clear on that—clean shaven, but with shortish side-whiskers and rounded cheeks. Not tall, but a little above average height. Brown to dark hair.”

“That sums it up, sir.” Phipps closed his notebook.

“One question, Sergeant.” Again all eyes swung to Penelope. “These people who saw the man—did any of them mention the man giving any indication that he’d noticed them?”

Phipps shook his head. “No one mentioned him noticing them, ma’am. All said he strode along, eyes forward. The match-seller did say that she was certain he hadn’t even seen her—marched right on by, his cloak swinging, as if he hadn’t registered her at all.”

Penelope smiled and inclined her head. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

Phipps looked to Stokes, who nodded a dismissal.

As the door swung shut behind the sergeant, Stokes lowered his voice and said, “So we have a description that, from memory, could fit any of the Halstead males.” He paused, then allowed, “I’m not sure if it fits all of them, but certainly some of them. More than one.”

“I think,” Barnaby said, also lowering his voice in deference to Pringle, who was putting on his heavy coat and getting ready to leave, “that, all the evidence considered, it’s safe to assume that both Lady Halstead and Runcorn were murdered because of those irregularities in Lady Halstead’s account.”

Montague started to nod, then froze. He blinked, then whirled. “Pringle—one thing.”

Caught in the act of hefting the bound pile of papers into his arms, the clerk looked across. “Yes, Mr. Montague?”

No one had mentioned Lady Halstead’s death in Pringle’s hearing. Montague asked, “Were Runcorn and Son notified of Lady Halstead’s death? Of her murder?”

Pringle’s face told the tale. “Murder?” His eyes goggled. “Her ladyship, too?”

If Runcorn hadn’t known, then . . . Montague swung around. “Good God! The money!” He strode for the door.