Page 55 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Both Cynthia and Constance immediately pulled back. They exchanged glances but kept their lips shut.

Wallace Camberly shifted restlessly. “To return to more pertinent issues, Inspector, how much was stolen from the account?”

“I’m afraid,” Stokes smoothly replied, “that I am not yet at liberty to disclose that information.”

Barnaby had been observing Walter and Hayden throughout; Walter continued to look puzzled, while Hayden had resorted to studying his fingernails.

They’d decided to withhold the information that a gentleman fitting a description that matched five of the family had been seen at Runcorn’s office and outside the bank at the critical times, judging that if they revealed that card, the family would band together, put up their shields, and become even more defensive and unhelpful.

They were unhelpful enough as it was.

Stokes had been consulting his notebook. Now he raised his gaze and, his voice hardening, said, “I have also to inform you that, this morning, Tilly Westcott, her ladyship’s maid, was discovered murdered in her bed upstairs.”

That jolted even Hayden into attentiveness; while his face revealed no sympathy, much less sorrow, his expression displayed a certain startled, prurient interest.

Walter’s eyes had grown round, but he remained silent, allowing his parents, aunt, and uncles to put voice to the family’s response.

Which could be summed up by an unvoiced What has that to do with us? Their expressions remained largely blank, some a touch bewildered, as if waiting for Stokes to explain the connection, to elucidate why they should be concerned with the maid’s death.

Stokes obliged. “Miss Westcott was murdered in precisely the same manner as Lady Halstead.” He paused, then went on, “We—the police—therefore believe that Miss Westcott was most likely murdered by the same villain, and most likely because she knew something that, at some point, would have identified Lady Halstead’s killer.”

Barnaby was rapidly losing interest in Walter Halstead and Hayden Camberly. All he was observing in either man was either bewilderment or curiosity. Neither showed any sign of knowing anything, of having any awareness at all, of any of the three murders.

Wallace Camberly was frowning. “In that case, Inspector, is it not reasonable to suppose that this maid, having over the years no doubt learned much from her ladyship concerning her wealth, was an accomplice to her ladyship’s murder, and indirectly to that of her ladyship’s man-of-business, and then, in disguise, assisted in the theft of the funds from the bank, only to subsequently be murdered by her partner in crime?”

“Indeed, Inspector.” Mortimer Halstead unbent enough to stiffly incline his head to his brother-in-law. “Such a scenario admirably accounts for the facts.” Mortimer raised his gaze to Stokes’s face and arched an arrogant brow. “It’s certainly more believable than any suggestion that any member of this family had anything to do with any criminal act.”

Stokes held onto his temper and, his expression unreadable, blandly asked, “One aspect remains to be adequately explained, even by that scenario. Namely, how the murderer gained access to this house on two separate occasions via a key to the side door.” Stokes swept the family with a sharply questioning gaze. “As we’ve come to that point, allow me to ask: Who among you has keys to this house?”

A ripple, not so much of unease as of annoyance, spread around the gathering.

Camberly glanced sharply at his wife. “As far as I am aware, we don’t have one.”

Cynthia’s lips compressed, as if the question had prodded a sore spot, but she nodded. “We don’t.” As if compelled, she looked up at Stokes and snippily added, “And as far as I know, no other among this family does, either.”

Mortimer, too, appeared irritated. “My mother, Inspector, was . . . independently minded. Even after my father died and she elected to remain here alone, she did not, as far as I am aware, distribute keys to this house.” Mortimer again looked at Violet. “I daresay Miss Matcham can confirm that.”

Across the width of the room, Violet met Stokes’s eyes and reluctantly nodded. “I’m not aware that Lady Halstead gave any of her family a key to this house—she told me she didn’t see the need.”

“Precisely!” Cynthia nodded and looked at Stokes. “So you see, Inspector, there’s no question of any family member being involved.”

“For once I must agree with my sister, Inspector.” Mortimer’s expression suggested that doing so was akin to sucking a lemon. “Which brings me to ask what the police are doing to catch this murderous thief.”

Refusing to respond to the undisguised jab carried in the tone of Mortimer’s demand, Stokes smoothly replied, “The investigation is proceeding on several fronts. The family will be informed in due course of the outcome, but at this stage, our immediate next step is to establish the alibis of all those who are, by virtue of their association with the victim, potential suspects. Anyone who might, directly or indirectly, gain from her ladyship’s death is, in the eyes of the law, a potential suspect. Consequently, while I assume it will be a mere formality, I must ask each of you for an accounting of where you were on the three evenings on which the murders took place.”

The gathering erupted in protest, the ladies feigning shock and incipient outrage, the three Halstead brothers blustering and disputing the necessity.

Neither Walter Camberly nor Hayden Halstead added their voices to the clamor, but Barnaby noted that both looked uneasy. However, their wariness was focused on their respective mothers, which, Barnaby suspected, suggested guilt not over the murders but over something else. Something possibly entirely understandable and not at all villainous.

Wallace Camberly, too, did not bother verbally protesting; he sat in the corner of one sofa, his lips compressed, his expression that of a man whose temper was being sorely tried. He radiated irritation and severe annoyance, but, unlike the others, he gave the impression he fully understood that, in this instance, there was nothing to be gained from resistance.

Unruffled, stoic, Stokes waited out the protests, but Camberly reached the end of his patience first.

“Inspector—I’m a very busy man.” Camberly straightened and met Stokes’s gaze. “As I can see you are bound and determined to take our alibis, might I ask that you take mine first? There’s a debate in Parliament later this afternoon that I wish to attend.”

As all the other comments faded, Stokes inclined his head, but before he could say anything, Mortimer declared, “I, too, am expected elsewhere.” He caught Stokes’s eye. “I must return to my desk and my duties. The wheels of government will not pause for something as minor as domestic murder.”

Barnaby suspected that Stokes, like he, might argue that last, but . . .