Page 52 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Montague rose and gave her his hand to assist her to her feet.

She thanked him with a smile that felt weak, then went around the table. She led Stokes and Adair out of the kitchen, into the rear of the front hall, then through a narrow archway under the stairs. Two turns and she halted in the short, dark corridor that ended in the side door. She nodded toward it. “That’s it.”

She stepped aside to let Stokes and Adair past. Stokes took one step down the corridor, then halted. Adair remained in the rear. “Light,” he said. “We need at least two lamps before we go any closer.”

Stokes nodded and turned to Violet. “I take it that door is usually locked?”

She glanced down the corridor at the shadowy panels. “Usually.”

“Who has the key?” Stokes asked.

“Lady Halstead has—had—a ring with the keys to all the doors. As far as I know, that ring is still in her dresser, where she usually left it. There’s a key to the side door there, and there’s a second one on the rack in the kitchen.” Without waiting to be asked, she went on, “The door is only occasionally used, mostly for deliveries from milliners, dressmakers, and shops like Hatchards. Food goes to the back door, but other deliveries were directed to the side door.”

“When was it last used?” Adair asked. “Do you know?”

Staring at the door, Violet cast her mind back. Eventually, she said, “As far as I know, it hasn’t been used for several months, possibly not since last Christmas.”

Stokes nodded and looked at Adair. “Let’s get those lamps.”

They did, then, with Violet holding one and Montague the other, Stokes and Adair carefully started down the corridor toward the door, meticulously searching the floor as they went.

Inch by inch, foot by foot, they progressed down the narrow hallway.

Six feet from the door, Adair, searching to the left with Violet holding the lamp over his shoulder, shining the beam ahead of him, paused, then glanced at her. “Can you angle the light into the skirting? Into the crevice between the skirting and the floor . . .”

As she did as he asked, he crouched and peered, then reached out with one finger. “Got you!”

Stokes swung around to look. He studied the single brown leaf Adair held up, balanced on the tip of one finger.

Adair met Stokes’s eyes. “And it’s still damp enough to stick.”

Stokes quivered like a powerful wolfhound on a leash but paused to glance at Violet. “You’re sure no one has come through that door this morning?”

She nodded. “I’m perfectly certain.”

The smile that curved Stokes’s lips was more menacing than comforting. “So,” he said, “we now know that the murderer is a Halstead male who has a key to the side door.”

Stokes and Adair examined the door, confirming there was no evidence it had been forced in any way, then, as a group, they returned to the kitchen. Walking ahead of the three men, Violet sensed a change in atmosphere, in them, as if previously they’d been unsure, uncertain, casting about, but now they’d caught the scent of their prey and were keen to follow the trail.

Their renewed determination spread and infected the others about the table as they resumed their seats and Stokes told the others of what they’d found.

Cook had withdrawn from the circle about the table but had made two fresh pots of tea; Violet sensed Cook was somewhat taken aback to find herself serving such company about her kitchen table. Adair had introduced his wife and Stokes’s wife when they’d arrived; at the time, Violet had been too distracted to properly register the strangeness of their presence. Yet both women had been sensible and supportive, and she’d been grateful for their warmth when all else about the day—barring only Montague’s presence—had left her feeling so cold. So isolated.

So alone.

They all paused to sip the tea Cook had dispensed. Violet could almost hear the thoughts whirling.

Then Stokes’s wife—Griselda, as she’d told Violet to call her—set down her cup, a faint frown tangling her black brows. “What I don’t understand is, why kill the maid? How could she possibly have been any threat to the murderer?” Griselda looked across the table at Violet. “Forgive me for asking, but she—the maid—couldn’t possibly have been in league with the murderer, could she?”

“Absolutely not!” came from both Violet and Cook, who had retreated to stand before the stove.

Adair added, “And I would have to agree. I simply cannot imagine that Tilly had any hand in her mistress’s murder, much less Runcorn’s.”

“Which,” Adair’s wife, Penelope, said, “brings us back to Griselda’s question. Why kill the maid?”

After a moment, Stokes said, “Perhaps it’s something similar to what happened with Henrietta Cynster.” He glanced at Violet. “Another recent case.”

“Hmm.” Eyes narrowing, Penelope set down her cup. “You mean that Tilly had seen something or knew something that, while of itself of no particular moment, if put together with other information—”