Page 50 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

“Oh-my-God. Oh-my-God.”

The horrified whisper dragged Violet back, into the moment. She looked at Cook. The normally ruddy woman was parchment pale; eyes wide, she had her hands pressed to her face and was whispering through her fingers.

Without looking back at the bed, Violet swallowed, dragged in a short breath—all she could manage—then put an arm around Cook’s shoulders and turned them both from the room, away from the doorway and the sight beyond. “There’s nothing we can do.” Her voice sounded far calmer, far more composed and controlled than she felt. “Come—let’s go downstairs and send for the authorities.”

There was nothing they could do for Tilly other than seek justice.

The journey back down the stairs and into the kitchen passed in a blur; when next her mind reengaged, Violet found herself in the kitchen, pouring cups of strong tea for herself and Cook, who had collapsed into her chair in a storm of noisy weeping.

Grabbing the rough pad of paper and the pencil Cook kept for making shopping lists, Violet sat at the table, took a gulp of her tea, then started to write.

Cook lifted her blotchy face from her folded arms. “Don’t you dare send for that idiot doctor—he’ll just say Tilly died of old age!”

“I’m not.” Violet hadn’t even considered sending for Milborne. She continued writing. “I’m sending for Inspector Stokes. And Mr. Montague—her ladyship trusted him, and I do, too.”

She had no idea if Montague could do anything to help, but . . . she wanted him there. She just needed to see him, to sense his rock-solid certainty again, to let it settle her and anchor her. Without that . . . the instant she stopped doing something specific, she felt like her mind would splinter apart.

Cook sniffed, then in a watery voice asked, “You need two boys?”

Eyes on her writing, Violet nodded. “One for Scotland Yard, and the other for Chapel Court in the City.”

Heaving a heavy sigh, Cook dabbed at her eyes with her apron, then pushed back from the table and got to her feet. “I’ll get Tommy and Alfie from next door. They’ll do it and be quick.”

“Thank you.” Violet kept writing. Kept her mind ruthlessly fixed on what she could do, rather than on what she couldn’t.

She couldn’t go back to the night before and confess to Tilly that she was afraid—afraid enough to put a dresser across her door.

Her fear had been the only thing that had saved her—but she hadn’t been brave enough to let it save Tilly.

Stokes could barely believe it. He stood in the open doorway of the tiny attic bedroom and stared—glared—at the body on the bed.

He’d brought the Yard’s surgeon, Pemberton, with him. At the side of the narrow bed, straightening from his first cursory examination, Pemberton shot Stokes a glance. “Same as the other one. Smothered with a pillow.” Pemberton waved at the pillow that had been tossed onto the wooden chair in the corner behind the door. “That one at a guess.”

Stokes humphed. “What’s your best guess as to when?”

Pemberton grimaced. “Sometime in the wee small hours, but that is just a guess.”

Stokes continued to stare at the bed. After a moment, he said, “The old lady was weak—this one wasn’t.”

“No.” Pemberton nodded. “The maid fought back as hard as she could, but whoever stood above her holding down the pillow was stronger than she was.”

“So in your opinion, the murderer’s unlikely to be a lady.”

“A female of any sort.” Pemberton glanced down the body, visually assessing the limbs partially revealed by the disarranged sheets. “This victim appears to have been a hale and hearty woman. She wouldn’t have been easily overcome.”

Stokes grunted. “Anything else you can tell me?”

Pemberton shook his head. “Nothing else you don’t already know.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Stokes had already searched the small room, but the murderer hadn’t helpfully left a calling card or anything else resembling a clue. The room was spare and held little in the way of possessions; he doubted the murderer had bothered rifling through them, and there were no overt signs that anything had been disturbed.

Descending the narrow stairs to the first floor, then heavily going down the long flight to the ground floor, Stokes shook his head and muttered to himself, “He came to murder her, that and nothing else. But why murder the maid?”

Reaching the hall, he crossed to the constable he’d left guarding the front door. “Anything or anyone?”

“Just Mr. Adair, sir, and his missus and yours, like you expected. They went back to the kitchen—said they’d wait for you there.”

Stokes nodded, rather surprised that Barnaby hadn’t come straight upstairs . . . but then, he’d had Penelope and Griselda with him, and if Barnaby had come up to view the body . . . so no, he shouldn’t be surprised that his friend had chosen the less disturbing path. “Pemberton’s crew will be along shortly, but at this point I’m not expecting anyone else. Let me know immediately if anyone arrives.”