Page 31 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

On the words, the door swung open and Stokes strode in. He came straight to them. “What’s happened?”

Barnaby told him what they knew, and what they’d deduced, in a rapid-fire report.

Stokes took it all in without a word, his face giving nothing away. When Penelope introduced Pringle and explained his role, Stokes inclined his head, his gray gaze absorbing every little detail about Runcorn’s clerk.

“So,” Barnaby concluded, “other than having the police surgeon verify our deductions about how Runcorn was killed, the two most important clues we have are that length of silk cord and the documents.” He nodded to Pringle. “Pringle here will re-sort and tell us if anything’s been taken.”

Stokes nodded. “Good. Let me handle it.” Stepping past them, he walked with a powerful, prowling stride to the inner office.

The deep growl of Stokes’s voice reached them, but Barnaby couldn’t hear exactly what was said. In less than five minutes, however, Stokes walked out of the office, a foot-high pile of papers filling his arms, an envelope balanced atop them.

Stokes handed the documents to Pringle. “That’s everything that was on Runcorn’s desk. Scotland Yard have officially seized them as part of the investigation, and I’m now handing them to you to sort for us. Just so we’re clear, the papers are for the moment the property of the police, and not to be handed to anyone without my express authority.”

“Indeed, sir.” Pringle accepted the documents.

Stokes lifted the envelope from the top of the stack, held it up to Barnaby, then slid the envelope into his pocket. “The cord. Interesting find.”

“We can only hope it’ll prove useful,” Barnaby said.

Settling the roughly stacked documents on his desk, Pringle turned to Montague. “Sir—I’m not sure what to do.” He waved at the office. “There was no other partner, just Mr. Runcorn, and while I can manage the documents well enough, I can’t handle the clients, and some will surely turn up soon.”

Montague thought, then nodded. “Indeed.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a card. “I suggest you place a note in the window, stating that the office is closed and will remain so for the foreseeable future, but that clients of Mr. Runcorn can seek information at this address.” He handed Pringle his card. “Then take the Halstead papers, and . . .” Drawing a sheet of fresh paper from the pigeonhole along the top of Pringle’s desk, he drew out a pencil and wrote rapidly. “Take this letter to my office and give it to Mr. Slocum, my head clerk. He’ll find a desk for you. Your first task must be to re-sort the Halstead file and determine if any pages have been taken, and if so, which. If any of Mr. Runcorn’s clients appear, my junior assistant, a Mr. Phillip Foster, will assist you in dealing with them.” Reaching the end of his missive, Montague signed the letter, then tucked away his pencil, folded the sheet, and handed it to Pringle. “That will take care of business, as it were, for the moment. We can work out what’s to be done once this matter of murder is behind us.”

Pringle met his gaze, then bowed. “Thank you, sir.” Tucking away the letter, he looked at the mammoth task represented by the pile of papers on his desk. “I’ll get on to this straightaway.”

“Before you do,” Stokes said, “I need to ask you a few questions.”

Pringle nodded; straightening, he waited.

Stokes glanced at the others. “I’ve already sent constables to canvass the neighborhood, asking if anyone noticed anything.” Returning his gaze to Pringle, he said, “So first, I want you to think back to when you last saw Mr. Runcorn alive.” When Pringle nodded, Stokes asked, “When was that?”

“Yesterday evening, about seven o’clock. I went into his office to let him know I was leaving. He was still working through the Halstead file.”

“Was it normal for him to be working so late?”

Pringle nodded. “Often worked late, he did. Like I said, he was the only partner in the firm, so he had to handle everything I couldn’t.”

“Did he ever meet with clients late, after you’d left?”

Pringle wrinkled his nose. “Sometimes, but not often. Far as I know, he had no meetings arranged for last evening. If he’d had, the meeting would have been entered in the book, which I always check every morning so I can make sure he has the relevant file before I leave.”

“So we can be quite sure that whoever saw him last night—the murderer—did not have an appointment.” Stokes nodded rather grimly. “Was your master likely to have let anyone in who he didn’t know? Not just into the main office, but into his own office. It seems fairly clear that whoever was there with him, your master was relaxed enough to be sitting in his chair, with the murderer beside him, possibly looking over the papers, when he was attacked.”

Pringle paused, then shook his head. “I don’t know what I can say, Inspector. I never knew him to entertain any friends here. Only clients.”

Or, Stokes thought, clients’ relatives.

“When you left,” Barnaby asked, “did you see anyone at all? Did you pass anyone? Notice anyone, even if they’re people you might expect to see?”

Pringle blinked, clearly thinking back. “There was the usual crowd going in and out of the public house across the street, but I didn’t go that way. I walked down the street toward Broad Street and . . .” Pringle paused, staring into space, then more softly said, “There was a man I hadn’t seen before, standing under the overhang of the tobacconist’s next door. He was staring at the window, although, now I think of it, as the store was shut, I don’t know what he could have been looking at—Samuel, the tobacconist, always puts his wares away every night and leaves the shelves empty. But as for the man, I walked past him, but he had on a cloak and a broad-brimmed hat. The hat was tipped down, so I didn’t see much of his face.”

Stokes felt a familiar thrill go through him. “How tall was he?”

“Not that much taller than me,” Pringle said. “Maybe an inch or two, no more than that.”

“Medium to tall then. Did you see what color hair he had?”

Pringle squinted. “Not clearly, but it was at least brown. It wasn’t blond.” His gaze went to Barnaby’s curls. “Definitely not fair.”