Page 47 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Barnaby snorted. “I’d put the boot on the other foot—I seriously doubt Miss Matcham would have stooped to having anything to do with any of the Halstead males.”

Penelope frowned. “So where does that leave us?”

Stokes growled, “Wanting alibis from the lot of them for the nights of both murders.” He stirred, sitting straighter as Mostyn reached around him to remove his plate. “I’ll have to see them all again shortly and broach that topic, which will no doubt prove to be a minefield.”

Mostyn had silently worked around them, pouring wine and serving and removing courses. As he unobtrusively set out the cheese platter and a fruit trifle, Barnaby glanced at Penelope. “In your note you said the pair of you had had a wonderful day learning more about the Halsteads and the Camberlys. So what did you learn? And from whom?”

“I fear what we learned was more by way of background information than directly relevant fact.” Reaching to serve herself from the trifle, Penelope grinned. “Griselda can tell you about the first part, which was the most interesting, then I’ll fill you in on the rest.”

Griselda described their visit to the shops in Kensington High Street and related the gist of all they’d heard from the shop assistants. “In essence, the households of Mortimer Halstead and that of Cynthia Camberly, née Halstead, are engaged in a form of competition.”

“A cutthroat one, by all accounts.” Penelope was engaged in hunting out the raspberries in her bowl.

“Mind you,” Griselda said, “while the competition rages fiercely at the family level, the staffs view the antics of their betters with general amusement that borders on bemusement.”

Stokes frowned in open puzzlement. “Why would an adult brother and sister behave like that?”

“Ah.” Having emptied her bowl, Penelope set down her spoon. “Remember my earlier conjecture, based on, I might remind you, your own observations from your meeting with the family—that there was an intense competitiveness between Mortimer and Cynthia that I attributed to them being so close in age and therefore vying for their parents’ attention?”

When both Barnaby and Stokes nodded, Penelope grinned. “I was right about the competitiveness—although it’s even worse than I guessed—but I wasn’t entirely right about the reason for it. And despite the Halsteads and the Camberlys largely falling outside the sphere of the grandes dames, both Lady Osbaldestone and Caro had significant insights to share.”

Penelope proceeded to present a concise summation of the pertinent observations those ladies had imparted. “So, to bring it all down to a nutshell, it’s a combination of personal ambition and intense inter-sibling rivalry that drives all the Halstead children—Mortimer and Cynthia especially, but I doubt either Maurice or William are unaffected, at least with respect to the rivalry.”

Stokes and Barnaby had been following the ladies’ revelations with all due concentration.

After several moments, Stokes slowly nodded. He met Penelope’s eyes, then looked at Griselda. “Thank you. Courtesy of your efforts, we now have a very firm idea of what these people are like, of what’s important to them. And through that, you’ve solved one looming difficulty about motive—it’s rare for anyone to commit matricide, especially without any strong degree of personal animosity between mother and child. We know there was no strong antipathy between Lady Halstead and her children, so, if the family had been otherwise normal, it should have required a motive of immense weight to force one of her children to kill her. But they aren’t a normal family, and with the degree of parental neglect described by Lady Osbaldestone, the reason behind Lady Halstead’s murder at the hands of one of her children wouldn’t need to be so overwhelmingly powerful.” Stokes’s lips curved in almost feral anticipation. “Your information puts us on a much firmer footing with regard to the Halsteads. That’s going to be a considerable help when next we interview them and ask for their alibis—which is going to have to be soon.”

“Apropos of that next meeting,” Penelope said, “in light of the usefulness of the information Griselda and I gathered, I really think that, if at all possible, she and I should be present.” Undeterred when neither Stokes nor Barnaby looked enthused, Penelope stated, “We see more than you do.”

That was uncontestable. Stokes shifted. “I can’t imagine how we might arrange that—the family will question your presence.”

“Actually,” Penelope said, “Lady Halstead’s funeral is to be held the day after tomorrow. The notice was in The Times this morning. As far as I can see, there’s nothing to prevent me and Griselda from joining the mourners, or attending the wake afterward, and I’m sure if we have a word to Miss Matcham, we’ll be able to pass ourselves off as her supporters and, with any luck, attend the reading of the will as well.”

Barnaby eyed his wife’s irrepressible smile and inwardly shook his head. She had it all worked out, and as there was no danger involved . . . he glanced at Stokes. “It’s a good idea.” He could see in Stokes’s gray eyes that, despite his reservations, he agreed. Looking back at Penelope, Barnaby said, “If nothing else, you and Griselda will be able to monitor the family’s reactions and emotions while Stokes and I deal with the alibis.”

“Exactly,” Penelope beamed. She looked at Stokes. “So it’s settled. Griselda and I will accompany you to the funeral and the wake.”

I have to admit,” Penelope said, leading the way into their bedroom several hours later, “that I am very much looking forward to attending Lady Halstead’s funeral, and even more her wake.”

Following his wife into the room and shutting the door, Barnaby grinned. “Only you, my love, could say such a thing, and with such jubilant, jaunty expectation.”

Penelope shot him a grin of her own. “It’s . . . engaging to be involved in an investigation like this.” Turning to the mirror set above her dressing table, she started pulling pins from her dark hair, which had been anchored in a complicated knot on the top of her head. “I’d forgotten how enthralling it can be. Identifying a murderer, especially one in a case such as this, is such a complex puzzle, one made even more absorbing and challenging because one needs to learn about people, to understand them, their aspirations and motivations, and put those all together in order to find one’s way through the maze and reach the conclusion.”

Barnaby shrugged out of his coat and draped it over his dressing stand, then unknotted and unraveled his cravat. While he understood—few better—Penelope’s attraction to investigations, especially those of the criminal variety, he still wasn’t entirely sure of how he felt about her plunging back into that arena.

“I know Griselda and I helped a bit with that business with Henrietta and James, but that was primarily by way of planning and organizing, which is all very well but lacks the challenge of an investigation.” Her dark hair swinging loose, Penelope removed her necklace and earrings, then picked up her brush and started drawing it through her lush locks.

His shirt hanging open, Barnaby found himself, as ever, drawn by the sight. Walking slowly to stand behind her, he set his fingers to the long row of tiny buttons running down the back of her gown.

Feeling the tugs, after a moment Penelope set down her brush and stood straight and still, her hands on her hips, making it easier for him to slip the tiny loops over the rounded buttons.

“That said,” she declared, “we—Griselda and I—are both still feeling our way, at least as to how much of our time we are willing to devote to investigating. Clearly, there has to be a balance struck, a weighing up, if you will, between all the other things we value in our lives, against the intellectual stimulation we derive from investigations.”

He found knowing she was thinking along those lines comforting, yet . . . still engaged with her buttons, he murmured, “You and Griselda did well today.” After a moment of inner wrestling, he added, “I hadn’t realized you were going out again, that you had such an excursion in mind.”

“We hadn’t thought of it before you left, but once we did . . .” She shrugged. “It was something Griselda and I could do that you and Stokes couldn’t. And, even better, it required no special consideration.”

He frowned. “Special consideration?” The last button undone, he looked up.