Page 61 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Chapter 11

Lady Halstead’s funeral was held the following morning. Cynthia Camberly had prevailed, and the service was held at St. Peter’s Church in Grosvenor Street, with the interment following immediately afterward in the graveyard beside the church.

Violet was glad Cynthia had won that round; many of the parishioners had been acquainted with Lady Halstead, and they filled the church to overflowing, their voices swelling the three hymns with genuine sorrow. The principal eulogy was delivered by the minister who had known her ladyship well. The large number of others who crowded into the church—older ladies and gentlemen both, many, judging by the gentlemen’s unimpeachably conservative attire, from government and diplomatic circles—would have surprised Violet had Penelope not told her of the Halsteads’ past status in that sphere.

All in all, Violet felt the event was a fitting tribute to Lady Halstead and her life.

From the second pew, with Montague to her left, and Penelope on her right, with Griselda beyond her, and Cook in the corner, Violet watched the casket carried up the aisle on the shoulders of Lady Halstead’s sons, grandsons, and son-in-law.

Cynthia and Constance, both heavily veiled, followed, with Caroline, head dutifully bowed, close behind.

When the trio had passed, Montague stepped into the central aisle and gave Violet his hand.

She took it, felt his strength, that rock-solid certainty that was peculiarly his; she let her fingers curl, grasped, and let him anchor her.

He twined her arm in his, then escorted her up the aisle.

Penelope and Griselda, kindly supporting Cook between them, followed.

The interment was simple and rapidly done, laying Lady Halstead beside Sir Hugo in the family plot. Violet noted that Stokes, Adair, and several constables hung back at the fringes of the crowd; earlier they’d hovered at the rear of the church, watching and noting, although she hadn’t seen anything worthy of their attention.

All went smoothly, uneventfully, unmarred by any bickering among the Halstead brood, for which Violet gave due thanks; despite the circumstances, she wouldn’t have put creating a scene past any of them.

Then the first sod was cast by Mortimer—quickly followed by Cynthia.

Montague turned Violet away. “Come—let’s head to the house ahead of the rush.”

She nodded and allowed him to lead her down a side path to where their group had left their various carriages. Penelope and Griselda had already gone ahead with Cook in Penelope’s town carriage, leaving the Stokeses’ small black carriage for Montague and Violet.

As he handed her up, Violet murmured, “What about Stokes and Mr. Adair?”

“They’ve two carriages from Scotland Yard to ferry them and the constables.” Montague settled on the seat beside her. He waited until the carriage had pulled out into the stream of traffic before saying, “Incidentally, you should be present at the reading of the will.” When Violet looked at him, he met her gaze and nodded. “Lady Halstead clearly valued you, and Tilly and Cook, as well.”

Violet blinked, then softly snorted. “The family won’t be pleased.”

“The family can like it or lump it.” Montague felt uncharacteristically belligerent, but he rather liked the sensation. Rather liked the man he was discovering himself to be, courtesy of the lady by his side. Facing forward, he said, “I’ve seen the will—it’s legally watertight. Any challenge will be a waste of time.”

He felt Violet’s gaze on the side of his face. “Will you be reading the will?” she asked.

“Given the letter of authority from Lady Halstead and my more recent acquaintance with the family, her solicitor, a Mr. Entwaite, has asked me to do the honors.” He glanced at Violet. “Entwaite’s a sound man, but he dislikes dealing with forceful people and unnecessary confrontations.”

A smile curved her lips, dissipating some of the shadows that, today, had closed about her. Satisfied, he faced forward again and listened to the rattling of the wheels as they covered the short distance to Lowndes Street.

Once there, the volume of guests made it easy enough for their small band of investigators to gather in a corner of the drawing room without attracting undue attention.

Cook had retreated to her domain to oversee the presentation of the funeral meats. “She views it as her final duty for Lady Halstead,” Penelope reported.

Both the Camberly and Mortimer Halstead’s households had sent footmen to assist, but both had also sent their butlers. Inclining his head to where those two individuals were eyeing each other much in the vein of cocks about to fight, Montague murmured, “One can only hope the butlers don’t come to blows.”

Following his nod, the others looked, then Griselda, lips twitching, said, “Heaven help them if they do—can you imagine the apoplexy that would cause their mistresses?”

After an exchange of cutting looks, the butlers turned and stalked toward opposite sides of the room.

Penelope snorted. “Crisis averted. It looks like they’ve realized the limitations of their situations.”

“Speaking of situations”—Barnaby caught Montague’s eye—“what are the odds the family will ignore this crowd and, instead of acting as any manner of host, insist on having the will read immediately?”

Montague huffed. “That’s not much of a wager, but apropos of that”—he looked at Stokes—“as I mentioned to Violet, at their solicitor’s request and courtesy of that letter of authority, I will be reading the will. Violet and Cook should be present—the family can’t argue that, as both are minor beneficiaries. And as Lady Halstead was murdered, I will propose that a representative of Scotland Yard has reason to be there—I imagine you would wish to attend?”