Page 39 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Between them, Runcorn and Pringle had extracted, copied, and had delivered to Montague all the papers necessary for him to perform such a review, essentially to get both the Halstead estate’s affairs, as well as Lady Halstead’s personal affairs, in order.

“Which means,” Montague murmured, reaching out to check the numbers inscribed in Pringle’s neat hand at the bottom left corner of each page, “that somewhere in this pile should lay some sign of what the murderer has killed twice to conceal.”

Confirming via Pringle’s notations that the pile was assembled earliest to most recent, Montague lifted the top sheet and started at the beginning.

The clock on his desk stolidly ticked on. Immersed in the documents though he was, checking and making notes on past and present investments, he found his gaze drawn, again and again, to the list of the odd, unaccounted-for deposits that he’d made earlier and had laid aside.

An hour passed. Then another fifteen minutes and he could stand it no longer.

Setting aside the larger pile along with his notes to that point, he picked up the list of deposits, studied it one more time, then rose and went to his door. Looking over the outer office, he called, “Gibbons?”

When Frederick Gibbons looked up, Montague waved the list. “If you would, I’d like your opinion.”

Sometimes a fresh pair of eyes saw matters more clearly.

Gibbons promptly rose and followed Montague back into his office.

Returning to his chair, Montague waved Gibbons to a chair before the desk. He waited until Gibbons sat and leveled a curious look at him, before saying, “I want you to look over this list. It’s a set of deposits made into a bank account—I’ve listed both the amounts and the dates on which each deposit was made. I’m trying to identify what the source of these payments might be.”

With that, he extended the list.

Gibbons took it.

Montague watched as Gibbons scanned the amounts, noted the dates.

“It’s not payments from an investment—not quite regular enough in the timing, and the amounts vary too much . . .” Gibbons glanced up. “These look like deposits from trade of some sort—from sales of something.”

Montague blinked. He’d never dealt with trade accounts, but before he had joined Montague and Son, Gibbons had.

The list of figures he’d recently written flashed through his mind; reaching across the desk, he waved his hand for the list. “Give me that.”

Gibbons handed it over. Setting the list before him, Montague picked up a pencil and went to work, jotting amounts and sums alongside each of the deposits.

Figures were his forte; all his mind had needed was the clue Gibbons had provided and he had the solution.

Gibbons leaned forward, angling his head to read the sums Montague was writing down the side of the list.

Reaching the end of the list and finishing the calculation to account for the last payment, Montague picked up the list, scanned it again, then handed it back to Gibbons. “What do you think?”

Gibbons looked through the deposits, his eye following the line of Montague’s calculations. Reaching the list’s end, Gibbons nodded decisively. “That’s it. Each deposit is the payment from sales of between five and nine items, with each item being worth two hundred and fifty pounds, minus an amount of between two and three percent.” Gibbons glanced at Montague. “Were the deposits made by courier?”

“We don’t yet know—someone is checking that now—but most courier services charge between two and three percent.”

Gibbons was staring at the list again. “I’m trying to imagine what items one might sell at two hundred and fifty pounds each, and have such a level of consistent sales. Five minimum, month to month, reliable and regular.”

Montague thought, too, then shook his head. “It might be lucrative, but it’s almost certainly not legal.”

Gibbons snorted and handed back the list. “If it were legal, I wouldn’t mind getting into that trade myself. Nor would a host of others.”

“Indeed.” Taking back the list, Montague glanced at it again. “But this, it seems, is something someone has already killed twice to hide.”

“In that case”—Gibbons pushed back his chair and rose—“count me out. Is there anything else?”

Montague smiled. “No. Thank you, Frederick—you’ve been a great help.”

Gibbons grinned and saluted, then went back to his desk.

Montague studied the list and the notations he’d made. His smile turned grim. It was but a small breakthrough, but he felt they’d made headway. At least he’d have something to share with Stokes and Adair when they arrived later in the day.