Page 35 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Penelope inclined her head. “True. Which puts the companion, Miss Matcham, at the top of the list of possible suspects.” She held up her hand. “However, I have severe doubts that it was in fact her.”

“Why?” Stokes asked, before Montague could.

“Well, I haven’t yet met Miss Matcham, so I can only go by what you’ve said of her, but it strikes me that, if she was behind the withdrawal of the money, she’s intelligent enough to ensure no one would associate the withdrawal with her. The letter gave the money to ‘The Bearer,’ not to any named individual, so she could have dressed however she wished. She could have enlisted male assistance. Or—and this is what I would have done—she could have pretended to be male. It’s not that hard, especially for only a short time, with only a bank clerk to fool.” Penelope frowned. “Regardless, I have a strong suspicion that we’re intended to think it is Miss Matcham, to leap to that as the obvious conclusion—which, of course, means it’s untrue.”

“There’s also the fact,” Montague said, “that Miss Matcham was, and still is, sincerely devoted to Lady Halstead. I really cannot see her condoning, much less doing, something that is, in effect, stealing from her late employer.”

“And,” Stokes said, “the same can be said of the maid, Tilly Westcott. At a pinch, she could have been the woman who presented the letter at the bank, but she, too, is devoted to her ladyship.” He looked at Montague. “I take it there’s no suggestion that Lady Halstead was in arrears with their wages?”

Montague took a second to bring the appropriate payments to mind, then shook his head. “No. We’re in the middle of a quarter, and all the staff were paid as expected to this point.”

“Right, then.” Stokes stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. “I believe we can discount the notion that either Miss Matcham or Miss Westcott was the woman behind the veil—”

“But we should perhaps accept that someone intended us to suspect them.” Adair glanced about the company. “Because whoever wrote the forged letter was almost certainly a family member.”

“Indeed.” Stokes nodded. “And what’s more, I’ll lay odds the family will want to use the vague but suggestive description of the mystery woman to point the finger at Miss Matcham, or if not her, the maid.”

“They’ve already tried that once,” Montague reminded the gathering.

“And I’m quite sure they’ll do it again,” Penelope said, “if only because it’s easier than accepting the alternative—that the murderer is one of them.”

“Which,” Stokes said, “brings us neatly back to the murderer, the gentleman seen by several people entering and later leaving Runcorn’s office. The description would fit, and certainly suggests one of the Halstead men, but which one?”

Stokes, Adair, and Montague exchanged glances.

Viewing their uncertainty, Penelope helpfully recited the description, concluding, “Neither Griselda nor I have seen the Halstead gentlemen, but surely those side-whiskers give you some clue.”

Barnaby grimaced. “So one might think, but, sadly, that isn’t the case. They all have them, more or less to the same degree.” He hesitated, then continued, “For me, at least, that description doesn’t distinguish between the five males of Halstead blood—Mortimer, his son Hayden, Maurice, William, and Cynthia’s son Walter.” He glanced at the others. “In fact, if I encountered any of the Halstead men in the street at night, in poor light, I seriously doubt I would be able to tell one from the other. In good light, they are easy to distinguish, but in shadows . . .” Barnaby looked at Stokes. “Similar build, similar height, similar coloring, with key features, including the round cheeks, all similar, too. Even their dress is not wildly dissimilar.”

Stokes slowly nodded. “It’s their eyes that are different—Hayden’s and Walter’s, and also Maurice’s, are all lighter—and there’s also a slight difference in the set of their lips, and possibly the prominence, although not the shape, of their noses. But unless you can see all those details”—he tipped his head to Barnaby—“I agree. Telling those five apart isn’t easy.”

They pondered that fact, and its implications, in silence.

Griselda broke it; slapping her palms on her thighs, she rose. “No, don’t get up. I’m going to organize some sandwiches for luncheon. You could all do with some food to fuel all this cogitating.”

“I’ll help.” Penelope rose, too.

When the ladies had disappeared deeper into the house, Stokes looked at Barnaby and Montague. “We need to very carefully think through how we’re to press forward with this. Especially with the complication of Camberly’s position—even if he isn’t a suspect, his son is—and we’ve also got Mortimer Halstead to contend with. My reading of him is that he will prove difficult over one of the family’s being our prime suspect.”

“Oh, yes.” Barnaby nodded. “He’s exactly that sort. And given the astounding lack of loyalty to Lady Halstead—or rather their devotion to their own interests over seeking justice for her, which they’ve already amply demonstrated—dealing with this family while ferreting out the murderer in their midst is not going to be a simple matter.”

Montague sighed. “One assumes that, in investigating a crime of any sort, those involved who are not the criminal will hold justice being served to have the highest priority, but, sadly, that’s often not the case.”

A disaffected silence fell. It was broken by Penelope, who appeared in the open doorway to announce, “If you will come to the dining room, gentlemen, luncheon awaits.”

The three men rose and followed Penelope into the dining room, where they took seats about the oval table. They passed around platters of sandwiches and cold meats. A young maid poured ale for the gentlemen and lemonade for the ladies.

While they ate, they exchanged only the most minor comments.

Stokes waited until the sandwiches were gone and, replete, they sat back, the men sipping their ale, before returning to what he saw as his dilemma. “We have to investigate the Halstead family, thoroughly and exhaustively. Whoever this murderer is—and l think we all agree that it’s one of the five males, with only Camberly thus far excluded—he isn’t stupid. He acted swiftly to, as he saw it, put a stop to Lady Halstead looking into her affairs, presumably because he knew she would notice the odd payments. He wasn’t to know she already had. And then, just to ensure the matter went no further, he eliminated Runcorn—again, in his eyes, the only other person who might have been in a position to raise a question about those odd payments. The murderer wasn’t to know—and still doesn’t know—that Montague already knows about the payments.”

“Hmm.” Sitting forward, her elbows on the table, Penelope narrowed her eyes on Montague. “If all was as the murderer believes, and you didn’t know about those odd payments, how would this situation—her ladyship’s death, followed by Runcorn’s, followed by the withdrawal of the money by some mysterious lady apparently with her ladyship’s approval—be expected to play out?”

Montague took a moment to think before saying, “If I didn’t know that there was anything odd about those payments . . . with both her ladyship and Runcorn removed, as well as the money, then barring the theft of the extra funds from the account this morning, everything should balance up nicely enough, at least as far as a cursory examination of the estate’s books would go. If we didn’t know about all the rest, this morning’s theft would be put down as a regrettable loss, and there would, therefore, be no reason the estate wouldn’t simply pass through probate without further question.”

“So no further ripples or ructions from the murderer’s point of view.” Penelope nodded. “So at this point, he should be satisfied that he’s done all that’s necessary to obliterate his tracks.”

“But,” Stokes said, “he might see Montague as a threat.” Slate gray eyes met Montague’s gaze. “He might come after you.”