Page 62 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Stokes nodded. “Most definitely.”

“Only one representative?” Barnaby asked, his tone a plaintive whine.

Montague turned his grin into a grimace. “Sadly, yes. One is easy to excuse, especially an inspector, but two is inviting the family to protest, and they could become difficult if they dig in their heels.” He met Stokes’s eyes. “My thinking is that there’s no reason we wish to delay the reading of the will.”

Stokes nodded. “The sooner the better. The more things that happen, and the more quickly they occur, the greater the pressure on our murderer. Who knows? There may be something in the will that casts some light, however murky, on his motives.”

“From what I’ve seen of the will, that’s unlikely—” Montague broke off, his eye caught by a beckoning wave from the ageing solicitor, who was standing in the doorway and craning his neck to look over the crowd. “Ah—here we go.” Montague met Barnaby’s eyes. “That didn’t take them long at all.”

To a chorus of “Good luck” from the others, Montague took Violet’s arm and steered her through the considerable crowd.

As he fell in at their backs, Stokes murmured, his deep voice so low only they would hear, “I would appreciate it if both of you could keep your eyes peeled for whatever reaction we get from the five men we consider suspects. Given there’s just the three of us in this meeting, let’s concentrate on them.”

Montague nodded. Glancing at Violet, he saw her jaw firm as she nodded, too.

The family had elected to use the sitting room for the reading of the will. As Montague ushered her through the door, Violet saw that the furniture had been rearranged. Lady Halstead’s writing desk now sat before the fireplace; a small, neat, precise man in the dark garb favored by solicitors was just slipping into the chair behind the narrow desk. Settling, he perched a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez on his nose, then rather nervously smoothed his thinning white hair over the sides of his head before somewhat trepidatiously surveying the family members seated in serried rows on more comfortable chairs set in an arc facing the desk.

Montague guided her past those chairs and on to two empty chairs set to one side of the bow window at the end of the room. As she whispered her thanks and sank down, she realized that the position, with the light streaming past her, gave her the best possible view of the family and the tableau before the fireplace.

Of course, the position also gave the family a clear view of her—and of Stokes, who took up a position standing to her left.

Having seen them installed, Montague went to the desk, to the second chair behind it.

Mortimer Halstead frowned at Montague. “What are you doing here?”

The solicitor—Entwaite—cleared his throat. “As Mr. Montague has a valid and wide-ranging letter of authority from my late client, and given his experience with complex estates, I have asked him to assist me in reading her ladyship’s will and explaining its provisions if such explanations are required.” Entwaite paused, then gravely added, “Such an arrangement is entirely within the scope of normal practice.”

Mortimer’s frown turned disgruntled.

“I believe,” Cynthia said, her gaze fixed on Violet and Stokes, “that the reading of my mother’s will should be restricted to the family.”

Picking up what was obviously the will, Montague calmly replied, “All named beneficiaries have a right to be present at the reading of a will. In addition, in this case, given that her ladyship was murdered, Scotland Yard’s interest in the contents of the will cannot be denied.”

Violet noted the glib turn of Montague’s phrases and, despite the occasion, inwardly smiled; all he had done was state the obvious, yet as he surveyed the assembled family, brows raised, clearly inviting any dissenter to speak up, although various family members shifted, none were so brave as to voice their opposition.

The door edged open and Cook slipped in, carefully closing the door behind her.

Montague smiled reassuringly and waved her in Violet’s direction.

Cook all but scuttled down the room; Stokes held the chair beside Violet for her, and Cook sank onto it gratefully.

Violet patted Cook’s hand. “Don’t worry,” she whispered.

“Very good.” Montague glanced at Entwaite. “Everyone is present, I believe?”

Entwaite nodded. “Indeed. We may proceed.”

Montague raised the will, transfixing the attention of every member of the family. In a clear, steady voice, he read the preamble, then passed on to the clauses giving effect to the distribution of the estate established under Sir Hugo’s will, followed by the provisions detailing the disbursement of Lady Halstead’s personal property.

Although he had read the will earlier in the day, he still had to pay attention to the words. He used the pause after each clause to quickly scan the faces turned his way.

There was nothing in the will to cause consternation; as expected, the combined wills of Sir Hugo and Lady Halstead stipulated that the bulk of the estate, being the residue after all disbursements to the minor beneficiaries, be divided equally between their four children.

Said children heard the news, and—as might be expected of the Halstead brood—each appeared disappointed that their mother hadn’t somehow favored them over their siblings.

Also as Montague had anticipated, the entire family paid close attention to what Lady Halstead had willed to others; when he named the sum of the annuity left to Violet—enough, if properly managed, to see her through the rest of her days in quiet but genteel comfort—the family threw darkling glances her way. The smaller annuities left to Tilly Westcott and Cook—Mrs. Edmonds, as she proved to be—elicited several mutters. He ignored the grumbling but took a moment to confirm aloud that, as Tilly had died after Lady Halstead, all that Lady Halstead had left to Tilly would pass on to Tilly’s heirs.

Entwaite helpfully capped the comment by stating that he had located Tilly’s brother, who was her legal heir.