Page 45 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

His fingers tightened about hers and he drew breath as if to speak, but then the wind howled outside, and he fell silent. After a moment of studying her face, he lightly squeezed her fingers, then released them. Rising, he gave her his hand to help her to her feet.

When she straightened, her head barely reached his chin. Again their gazes met; again she sensed he debated his next action. Then he took a small step back. “I really must go—I’ve interrupted your evening for long enough.”

She could have disabused him of any notion that she had tired of his company, but she suspected he lived some distance away, and from the sound of the wind the evening had turned vicious. “I’ll see you to the door.”

He followed her from the room and took his hat from her hand, but paused on the threshold. His gaze traveled her face before locking with hers for a last fleeting moment, then he inclined his head. “I will call again when we have news.”

Stepping outside, he placed his hat on his head, settled and buttoned his coat, then went down the steps.

Violet pushed the door almost shut, blocking the chill wind, but she remained peering out. Watching him stride away.

Only when he had passed into the square and out of her sight did she close the door. She stood staring at the panels for several moments, wondering, reliving in her mind the past minutes, the swirling eddies of emotion he, his presence, had evoked, the currents that both of them—she would swear—had been aware of, had been sensitive to. She’d never felt the like, that strange mutual awareness.

The wind shrieked and broke the spell.

Abruptly shaking herself, she reached up and threw the heavy bolt at the top of the door, then bent to slide the lower bolt into place as well. She doubted they would have any further callers; the night had turned dark and ominous outside.

Glancing into the sitting room, she checked that the fire would safely burn down without further tending, then closed the door and walked down the narrow hall to the green baize door at the rear. Pushing through, she continued to the kitchen.

Since Lady Halstead’s death—had it truly only been two nights ago?—the kitchen had become the hub of their small household. She, Tilly, and Cook gathered in the warmth, surrounded by the familiar smells of baking and roasting meats and vegetables, the better to hold the chill that had invaded the rest of the house at bay.

Truth be told, had it been at all possible, Violet would rather have slept in the kitchen than in her bedroom on the first floor, three doors from the room in which Lady Halstead had been killed.

Cook heard her footsteps and looked up, her ruddy face flushed as she ladled thick stew into three bowls. “There you are. Thought I’d have to send Tilly to fetch you. Who was it?”

“Mr. Montague.” Violet slipped into a chair on one side of the table. Although she’d attended formal dinners at her ladyship’s side, on all other occasions, she’d taken her meals in the kitchen with Tilly and Cook; the years had forged a strong bond between the three of them, one that stood them in good stead now.

“That special man-of-business her ladyship consulted?” Tilly was seated opposite Violet; she handed around the bowls as Cook filled them.

Violet nodded. “Yes, him.”

“What did he want, then? You sat with him for over half an hour.” Cook set her pot back on the stove, then took her seat at the table’s head.

Violet took her first mouthful of the savory stew, waited until the others did the same, then swallowed and said, “He had news to impart.”

Briefly, she told them of Runcorn’s murder, and of the lady who had taken the money from Lady Halstead’s account. She dwelled rather more on the sighting of a man who might have been one of the Halsteads near both Runcorn’s office and the bank. As both Tilly and Cook were convinced that it was one of Lady Halstead’s own family who had murdered her, they were very ready to focus on that aspect; neither saw the unwelcome possibility that Violet had—of either herself or Tilly being accused by the family of being involved in the crimes—and she saw no reason to point it out and cause Tilly and Cook more distress than the news of Runcorn’s murder already had.

“Cor.” Tilly shivered. “What happenings, to be sure.” Across the table, she searched Violet’s face. “But we’re safe, aren’t we? I mean, there’s no reason to think this madman will come back here?”

Violet considered. “I can’t see why he would. If this was about the money, then he’s got what he wanted.” She frowned, then shook her head. “It’s all too complicated for me, but Mr. Montague and that Inspector Stokes and Mr. Adair are all working on catching the murderer.”

“Aye, well.” Cook scooped up another mouthful of stew. “I say we leave the a-hunting of the murderer to them. The three of us—we’ve got more pressing concerns.” Cook looked at Tilly, then Violet. “We’ve been paid until quarter-day, but we’ll have to find new posts, won’t we, come the funeral and the family closing up this house?”

After a discussion with the police surgeon, during which he’d learned nothing of any significance that they hadn’t already known, Barnaby joined Stokes in his office.

Stokes looked up as Barnaby entered. “Anything?”

Barnaby shook his head. “It was as we’d thought—the villain clouted Runcorn with the bookend, then strangled him with the curtain cord, pulling him up and out of his chair as he did.”

Stokes grunted, then, sitting back, waved the note he’d been reading. “We’ve been summoned.”

“Oh?” Barnaby dropped into his accustomed chair angled before Stokes’s desk. “To where? For what? And by whom?”

“To Albemarle Street. To dinner. By your wife and mine.”

“Ah.” Barnaby nodded. “They want to pick our brains for every little fact we’ve managed to glean.”

“That,” Stokes conceded, consulting the note again, “but they also mention that they’ve had a wonderfully successful day learning more about the Halsteads and the Camberlys.”