Page 79 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

“Much less murder.” Cynthia straightened, her back now poker-straight, her head held high. She’d patently decided that outraged matriarch was the most appropriate role for her to play. “I am shocked and saddened beyond measure, Inspector. To think that we have nurtured such a fiend, one who has murdered and committed such unspeakable crimes . . .” She glanced briefly at Camberly, then went on, “We can only pray that you will find your final proofs quickly, and that the matter can be dealt with as expeditiously as possible—this is going to be such a difficult time for the family. All the family. And all on top of Mama’s murder, too.”

Barnaby wasn’t at all surprised when, leaving one hand in Camberly’s clasp, with her other, Cynthia pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from her pocket and, bowing her head, touched the lace beneath her eyes. Dry though Barnaby would swear those eyes were.

Wallace shifted, drawing Barnaby’s and Stokes’s attention from the not-so-convincing show. “Is there anything more we can help you with, gentlemen? As my wife intimated, while the situation wounds us deeply, we, of course, hold ourselves ready to assist in whatever way we can.”

Stokes nodded. “We need to search Walter’s room. Other than that”—tucking his notebook back into his pocket, Stokes rose—“I don’t believe we require anything further from you or Mrs. Camberly at this point.”

Barnaby got to his feet, as did Camberly.

Camberly glanced at Cynthia, still seated with head bowed. “I’m busy at the moment, but my wife, I’m sure, will show you to Walter’s room.”

Cynthia raised her head, her face a mask of martyred duty. “Yes, of course.” She rose and waved to the door. “Come this way, Inspector. Mr. Adair.”

With nods to Camberly, Stokes and Barnaby followed Cynthia from the room and back into the front hall.

As they climbed the stairs behind her, she stated, “I am devastated, of course, but, in hindsight, Walter was always a secretive child, very quiet about his own actions. We had no inkling whatever of these hideous activities of his.” Gaining the first floor, she turned and led the way through a short gallery and on down a corridor. “Obviously, there’s nothing my husband or I can do to in any way put right the damage Walter has done.” Pausing outside a door, her hand on the knob, she swung to face them. “I can only pray, Inspector, that justice is served swiftly, and the damage to the Camberly name, and, indeed, that of the Halsteads, is minimized. There is, after all, no need for Walter’s trial to cause pain and harm to those who, through no fault of theirs, share his name but were entirely innocent of all knowledge of his crimes.”

She blinked, then her hard gaze fixed on Stokes’s face. “If I understood you correctly, Inspector, Walter has admitted to the bulk of your charges. Presumably, there’s no reason he can’t appear before a judge and be sentenced in camera, as it were.”

“As to that, ma’am, I’m sure I can’t say. That will be a matter for the judge.”

“I see. But if that were to come to pass, and Walter was dealt with adequately and removed, and you had proof of his guilt with respect to the murders, would there be any further need for another trial to settle the matter of the murders? You would already have dealt with the murderer—he would be transported, after all, would he not?”

Stokes remained silent; he honestly didn’t know how best to respond—wasn’t sure whether he could while remaining appropriately polite.

Barnaby stirred. “Again, ma’am, that’s a decision for the judiciary, rather than the police.”

Cynthia nodded. “Very well.” Opening the door, she set it swinging wide. “Search as you will, gentlemen.” She glanced once around the room. “Please remove anything you wish to preserve. After you’ve finished, we’ll be burning everything.”

Barnaby and Stokes stood back to let Cynthia leave; they watched as, walking swiftly, she returned to the stairs, then disappeared down them.

Stokes glanced at Barnaby. “I’ve never seen anyone disowned so quickly—or so ruthlessly. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but I actually feel almost sorry for Walter.”

Barnaby nodded. “Indeed.” He met Stokes’s eyes. “Lovely family.”

Montague joined the group of five he now regarded as his colleagues-in-investigation at the Adairs’ house for dinner that evening. Penelope had intended the dinner to be a celebration of their success, but, instead, they were all in a most peculiar mood—elated on the one hand, and disgruntled and deflated on the other.

“Walter is not the murderer.” Stokes sank into an armchair in the drawing room, a glass of Barnaby’s brandy in one hand.

After their initial exchange of disappointing information when they’d first gathered in the drawing room, they’d decided to postpone further discussion of the murders until after they’d eaten and their minds had had time to digest what they’d learned.

Stokes swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “We found the money—all of it—exactly where Walter said it would be, and although we searched every nook and cranny in that room, we didn’t find any key to Lady Halstead’s house.” He sipped, then went on, “And while I haven’t yet checked the alibis he’s now given us, those new alibis are detailed and, more, perfectly fit his story. Everything he’s told us hangs together as one cohesive whole—and that whole does not include the murders.”

Barnaby nodded. “I agree. And as Walter himself pointed out, he had no reason to murder Lady Halstead, and every reason not to. Her dying only further inconvenienced him by forcing him to stop using The Laurels.”

Violet sighed. “So Walter as the murderer makes no sense.”

Penelope pulled a horrendous face. After a moment, she said, “I hate to point this out, but we haven’t simply eliminated Walter as the murderer—we’ve also lost our motive. Walter and his doings have accounted for everything except the murders. Everything about the odd deposits into Lady Halstead’s accounts is now fully explained, as is the withdrawal of the money from that account. So the murders were never to do with that money.” She looked around the circle of faces—at Barnaby, Stokes, Griselda, Violet, and Montague. “So what was the motive for the murders?”

Stokes glanced at Montague. “Any hints yet?”

“Yes and no.” When Penelope, Griselda, and Violet all turned questioning faces his way, Montague explained, “If we go back and eliminate the odd payments from our deliberations, then regardless, we had assumed that Lady Halstead was murdered because someone in her family did not want her looking too closely into her financial affairs. That deduction still stands, and the motive behind the murderer’s actions has been to compromise any detailed financial review by killing Lady Halstead, and then Runcorn, the two people most familiar with the estate—and we have reason to believe that Runcorn’s murderer was one of the Halstead men.”

“We now know,” Barnaby said, “that it wasn’t Walter.”

Stokes nodded. “If we eliminate him, pending his alibis proving true, then that leaves Mortimer, Maurice, William, and Hayden. My men are still checking their alibis, none of which have proved straightforward bar William’s, and even his are questionable, not good enough to eliminate him.”

“Are you saying”—Violet looked at Montague—“that there’s something else, some evidence of some financial crime, buried in her ladyship’s or the estate’s accounts? Something Mortimer, Maurice, William, or Hayden might have killed to conceal?”