Page 67 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

After a moment, Griselda shook her head. “There’s no one here.”

“I didn’t really think there would be.” Violet turned to the stairs. “This is a family that simply doesn’t care about anything that isn’t their own.”

She led the way up the stairs. Penelope followed; Griselda brought up the rear.

Violet was grateful they were there, at her back, doing this with her. The deserted, empty, rather chill atmosphere that had spread through the house was unsettling. Faintly threatening. And made even worse by the dismal lack of light.

When they walked into Lady Halstead’s room, it was immediately apparent that her family had visited. Even with the curtains tightly drawn, enough light seeped past for them to note the empty spaces.

Penelope waved at the dressing table. “The big jewelry box is gone.”

“So are the silver-backed brushes and the ivory combs,” Griselda said. “Along with the crystal tray they sat on.”

“So—let’s see.” Violet went to the large chest of drawers, bent, and pulled out the deep bottom drawer. As the other two gathered around, she smiled. “As expected, they didn’t get this far.”

“Or simply weren’t interested.” Penelope stepped back as Violet straightened, the writing desk in her hands.

She walked to the bed and set the slanted-topped wooden box on the counterpane.

Griselda had already gone to the window; she eased one curtain back, allowing weak autumn sunlight to spill across the room to illuminate the bed and the writing desk.

“Thank you,” Violet murmured. Opening the lid, with its worn leather inset, she set it fully back, revealing what lay in the cavity beneath—a loose jumble of letters covered in a variety of spidery hands.

She reached for the creased sheet lying uppermost. “This should be it.”

Raising the letter, she angled it to the light, holding it so that all three of them could gather around and read.

The letter wasn’t overly long, and from the easy salutation and the comfortable tone, it appeared that the wife of the vicar of Noak Hill, a Mrs. Findlayson, had been a longtime acquaintance of Lady Halstead. She wrote that Lady Halstead’s Essex friends were somewhat curious about the fiercely reclusive people currently living in her ladyship’s house. While Mrs. Findlayson had written nothing specific about what, exactly, had incited the locals’ concerns, the implication that there was something of a dubious nature afoot came through clearly.

After perusing the letter twice, Penelope looked at Violet, then glanced at Griselda. “Noak Hill. I have no idea where that might be, precisely, but as it is in Essex, it can’t be all that far.”

“Perhaps,” Griselda said, “we might ask your coachman if he knows of it?”

Penelope nodded. “And, if so, how long it will take to get there.”

“And back,” Griselda said. “It’s already eleven o’clock, and we won’t want to be too late home.”

“No, indeed.” Penelope’s expression had taken on a certain steely quality. “But I do think, Violet dear, that as Mrs. Findlayson and her friends have very likely not yet learned of Lady Halstead’s death, you—accompanied by Griselda and me—should call on Mrs. Findlayson and let her know that her ladyship has passed on.”

Violet met Penelope’s gaze. “It would be the right thing to do. I’m sure Lady Halstead would wish me to inform her country friends of her death.”

“Well, from all we’ve seen, her family won’t bother,” Griselda put in. “So I, too, vote yes—we should, if we can manage it within the day, visit Noak Hill vicarage.”

“And, just possibly, pass by The Laurels, too.” Penelope turned to the door. There, she paused, waiting for Violet to close the writing desk and, retaining Mrs. Findlayson’s letter, return the desk to the chest of drawers. “Last item on this meeting’s agenda,” Penelope said as Violet straightened and Griselda closed the curtain again, plunging the room once more into gloom. “Do we tell Stokes, Barnaby, and Montague first, or later?”

Violet glanced at Griselda, then looked back at Penelope. “Actually, although the letter bothered her ladyship and she initially worried that the two issues might be connected, on reflection she decided that any problem at The Laurels was entirely separate from the odd deposits paid into her bank account—the sums involved were far too large to have been rent or anything like that. She decided that the people at The Laurels were most likely itinerants or something of the sort, and, relatively speaking, that that was a minor matter. As the bank account problem was her primary concern, she elected to concentrate—and have Runcorn and later Montague concentrate—on that, so she deliberately didn’t tell them about the problem at The Laurels—she didn’t want to distract them from the more pressing issue.”

Violet paused, then more slowly went on, “More importantly, she didn’t mention the letter or the problem at The Laurels to any of her family, so whatever the problem at The Laurels might be, it can’t have any connection to the murders.”

“Excellent!” Penelope said. “So as it’s a side issue, and as such one our men don’t have time to pursue, there’s no reason we shouldn’t, and see what we can learn. Especially”—turning, Penelope led the way out of the door and back toward the stairs—“as there’s no reason to suppose that the strange people at The Laurels have anything to do with the murders.”

“Regardless of what we might hope,” Griselda wryly added.

Penelope nodded. “Precisely.” She started down the stairs. “And anyway, it’s an uncontestable fact that the three of us will make a much better fist of interviewing Mrs. Findlayson, the vicar’s wife, than any man ever born.”

Chapter 12

Penelope led the way into the office of Montague and Son. Montague’s head clerk, Slocum, recognized her immediately and came forward with a smile.