Page 57 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

“Are they always like that?” Penelope glanced at Violet. “Always so unlikeable?”

She thought back over the years, then nodded. “Yes. I’ve known them all for eight years, and they’ve always been as they are—coldly self-serving.”

So self-serving she was going to have to find a new roof over her head . . . just the thought of trying to sleep upstairs, of being in this house when night again fell, sent a shiver down her spine.

Violet looked up and found Montague watching her; even across the room, she sensed his concern.

Once the ladies had departed, it didn’t take long for the remaining men to give Stokes their alibis; as the last, Hayden, took himself off, Stokes rose and walked up the room.

Barnaby and Montague, who had hung back by the fireplace, observing the men, stirred and came forward to join the group as Stokes halted before the chaise Violet, Penelope, and Griselda still graced.

“Anything?” Barnaby asked, nodding at the notebook Stokes was perusing.

Stokes cast him a jaundiced look. “I asked for alibis for all three murders as well as the morning when the money was taken from the bank. With regard to the evenings, the ladies, unsurprisingly, have alibis of a social nature—messy, but they can be checked. However, as we’ve all agreed no female killed Runcorn or Tilly, and it was a male who met the woman from the bank, then our ladies are largely irrelevant.” Stokes flipped over a leaf of his notebook. “The gentlemen’s alibis are rather less specific, and much less easy to verify. For instance, all of them claim to have been either in bed, or walking in the park, or generally about on the morning when the money was taken from the bank. Their evening alibis are this club or that, this hell or that, this party or that. It’s highly unlikely we’ll be able to easily verify any of those.” Stokes looked down the page and snorted. “William Halstead’s alibis, while overtly the weakest, are probably going to be the easiest to confirm—he says he was drinking in a tavern by the docks on all three nights.”

Barnaby nodded. “If it’s his regular drinking hole, the barman and bargirls will know him and, most likely, be able to tell us if he was there.”

Grimly, Stokes nodded. “Exactly.” He glanced at the three ladies, then at Montague and Barnaby. “So other than predictably unhelpful alibis, what else did we learn from this exercise?”

Sliding his hands into his trouser pockets, Barnaby volunteered, “I doubt either Walter Camberly or Hayden Halstead is the murderer. Neither can yet control their expressions all that well—not like their elders—and neither reacted to the news of the deaths with any reaction that might suggest guilt.”

Penelope and Griselda exchanged glances. “The ladies,” Penelope reported, “also showed no consciousness or any awareness that would suggest they knew anything about the crimes.”

“Unfortunately,” Montague said, “the older males were impossible to read.” Montague met Stokes’s eyes. “In all my years of meeting with and assessing the reactions of clients, I have rarely met such . . . controlled façades.”

Stokes nodded. “Indeed. William Halstead appeared to be the easiest to read—he appeared unconcerned and detached throughout—but was that a mask, or was that reality? Given the artfully crafted faces Mortimer, Camberly, and Maurice all showed, I can’t have any confidence I read any of them aright.”

Montague sighed. “So in terms of flushing out the murderer, this exercise fell somewhat short of our mark.”

The others all rather glumly nodded.

Violet glanced at their faces, then rose. “I believe we can all do with some tea. Just let me have a word with Cook first—I have to tell her the family are letting us go and wish to close up this house tomorrow evening.”

Stokes arched his brows.

Montague looked concerned.

Leaving them all to follow, Violet headed for the kitchen.

Aye, well,” Cook said when Violet informed her that they would have to quit the house. “That’s no more nor less than what I’d expected from that lot, but, truth be told, wild horses couldn’t keep me under this roof a single night more.” Seeing the others coming into the kitchen, Cook turned to the stove, to the kettle she’d set boiling on the hob. She spoke over her shoulder as she filled the big teapot. “I’m off to me sister’s this afternoon. I’ll be back tomorrow morning to prepare the meats for the wake, but I’m already packed, and no amount of persuading will make me stay.”

Setting aside the kettle, Cook cradled the teapot in her large hands; swishing it, she turned and met Violet’s eyes. “You’d do well to do the same, Violet, m’dear—don’t you stay here another night. Even more’n me, you have reason to go somewhere safe—some place no murderer will come skulking to your door.”

Violet grimaced. Would that she had such a place . . . but just the thought of spending the night in the house alone was enough to stiffen her resolve. “Yes. You’re right. Perhaps I’ll find a small hotel nearby.”

Montague had held a chair at the table for Penelope, and did the same for Griselda; Barnaby and Stokes were chatting in the doorway, still swapping opinions on the Halsteads. Drawing out a chair for Violet, Montague inclined his head to Cook, then met Violet’s eyes as she moved to take the seat. “I agree with Cook. You must not remain here.” If it had been at all acceptable, he would have offered her room at his apartment; regardless, he wouldn’t be able to sleep if she attempted to remain at the Lowndes Street house. He eased the chair in as she sat. “If you need any assistance finding somewhere suitable to stay, I will be happy to escort you to any establishment you wish to consider.”

“As to that.” In the chair on the other side of Violet, Penelope shifted to face her. “I have a proposition to make.”

Violet widened her eyes, inviting Penelope to share.

Penelope smiled and accepted the cup of tea Cook handed her. “Thank you.” Setting down the cup and saucer, Penelope looked again at Violet. “I should first confess that, aside from occasionally involving myself in investigations, and, of course, seeing to my young son—Oliver is only eight months old—I am also something of a scholar. I specialize in ancient languages, and I correspond with other experts up and down the country. At the request of certain academic institutions, I occasionally take on translations of ancient texts. However, I’ve discovered that since the arrival of Oliver, my correspondence has sadly fallen by the wayside, to the point that I really do need the services of an amanuensis to keep track of things.” Penelope paused to sip her tea, then grimaced. “Believe me, this is not a fabricated need—both Barnaby and Griselda, let alone Mostyn, our majordomo, can verify that.”

Capturing Violet’s gaze, Penelope held it almost hopefully. “As I understand it, you are the daughter of a reverend and better trained in letters than is customary, and as part of your duties you acted as Lady Halstead’s secretary. So . . . I wondered if you would be willing to move to Albemarle Street and take up the position of my secretary?”

When Violet didn’t immediately respond, Penelope’s gaze grew beseeching. “At least on a trial basis? I won’t hold you to it if you find the work too onerous.”

Violet had to smile. After a moment more of studying Penelope’s eyes, and seeing nothing beyond sincerity in the chocolate-brown depths, she set down her teacup, hesitated, then asked, “You’re truly not inventing this position because I so obviously desperately need one?”