Page 81 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Slocum, Pringle, and Slater gathered the three large piles of documents in their arms and carried them back out into the main office.

Leaving Montague considering the smaller pile thus revealed—the copies Runcorn had had Pringle make for him. That pile might have been smaller than the others; regardless, combing through it wouldn’t be any small task, especially as he had no idea what he might be looking for.

Glancing at his appointment book, he confirmed he had a morning meeting with the Earl of Meredith, who was currently in town. As the earl spent most of his time at his estate in Somerset, that wasn’t an appointment that could easily be rescheduled.

Montague glanced at the pile of documents on his desk, then, with an inward sigh, rose, lifted his hat from the hat stand, plucked the current Meredith file from his shelves—he’d already reviewed it—and headed for the door.

He returned two hours later, unexpectedly more enthused. Hanging up his hat, then replacing the Meredith file—there had been no surprises there—he returned to his desk. Looking down at the Halstead papers, he went over the plan of attack that had popped into his head as he’d traveled back from Mayfair. The approach was sound. Reaching for the pile, he set it squarely on his blotter, pulled up his chair, sat, and proceeded to sort the documents.

Distantly, he heard the main door to the offices open. An instant later, Slocum said, “Good morning, Miss Matcham. Can I help you?”

Before he’d even thought, Montague was on his feet and striding to the door, propelled by a species of fizzy emotion he’d never felt before. To his rational mind’s surprise, he rather liked the feeling. Passing into the outer office, he saw Violet smiling at Slocum.

As he crossed the room, she turned to him and her smile changed—to something warmer, more personal. More for him.

“Miss Matcham. Violet.” He took the hand she extended, held it. His gaze searched her face; from the calmness investing her features, he knew there was nothing wrong. “Has there been some development?”

“No.” A faint frown swam through her fine eyes. “And that’s why I’m here.” She glanced around the office, at the evidence of their industry. “Stokes and Barnaby are off checking the men’s alibis, and Penelope and Griselda are doing the same with the ladies—we thought it wise to be complete. But”—she raised her hands, palms up—“that left me with nothing to do, no way to contribute.” She brought her gaze back to his face. “So I thought I would come here and see whether there’s anything I can do to help you with your researches.” She paused, then, head rising a trifle, said, “I’ve acted as a secretary for all my adult life, so I am good at reading and organizing documents.”

Montague immediately saw opportunity and moved to seize it. “As it happens”—he waved at the rest of the office, at all his staff, most of whom had glanced up to exchange a smile with her—“I have all these others working in teams, tackling the problem from different angles. I’ve just returned from a meeting and was about to start on my own pile of documents.” When her gaze returned to his face, he met her eyes. “I was going to handle it on my own, but coming back just now I realized there are two separate aspects, two different arms that I need to concurrently investigate—you could help me with one of those if you like?”

Her smile blossomed into delight, and she inclined her head. “I would be happy to assist.”

Ignoring the interested, faintly intrigued, looks from his staff, reining in his own smile as best he could, he ushered Violet into his office. After helping her remove her coat and hanging her bonnet opposite his hat on the hat stand, he settled her in a chair on the client side of his desk and cleared a space on its surface for her.

“Right, then.” Rounding the desk, he opened a drawer and retrieved several sheets of paper, as well as a handful of the sharpened pencils Slocum made sure were always there. Dividing the supplies between Violet’s impromptu blotter and his own, he sat in his chair and faced the Halstead papers anew. Then he looked at Violet, met her encouraging gaze. “These documents are the copies Runcorn sent me. They should contain information on all the dealings required to generate a comprehensive review of the Halstead estate—the financial side of it, certainly. What we—you and I—need to do is list every item of income and every item of expenditure, and link each to a specific source. Gibbons out there, aided by Foster, is combing through the original documents and making a list of all the investments—the sources.”

“So Gibbons’s list and ours should match?” Violet asked.

“Exactly.”

“And if they don’t . . . then whatever point on which they don’t match will be a clue?” When Montague nodded, Violet felt a surge of enthusiasm buoy her. Straightening the sheet of paper before her, she picked up a pencil. “So”—she met Montague’s eyes—“where do we start?”

He hesitated for only an instant. “You can list the income—that’s actually easier than determining what an expense might be. I’ll take care of the expenses.” Picking up the document on the top of the pile, he glanced at it, then replaced it and turned the entire pile upside down. “Pringle reordered these for me, and he put the most recent on top. For our purposes, it’ll be easier to work from the earliest records on. So.” Lifting the top sheet, he turned it over and handed it to her. “You start. Scan each document for any information on income. Whatever you find, note it down—where it was from, the date, and the amount—then hand the document on to me.”

Taking the sheet, Violet scanned it. It was the receipt for a deposit into a fund made by Sir Hugo over three decades previously. “No income here.” She handed the document to Montague.

He scanned it and smiled. “Correct.” He reached for his pencil and nodded at the pile in the center of the desk. “Help yourself.”

Feeling happily involved, Violet did.

They worked steadily through the papers. Mr. Slocum brought them tea and small cakes, which proved to be surprisingly delicious.

“There’s a tiny bakery tucked away at the end of Chapel Court,” Montague said in response to her query.

Licking crumbs from her fingers, Violet nodded and returned to the statement she was perusing. She felt no inhibition over asking questions, checking when an entry wasn’t, at least to her, clearly income or expense. The further through the pile they worked, the more she understood the purpose of what they were doing.

Income and expenditure. When it came down to it, that was all money truly was. All it meant.

When the City’s bells tolled twelve, Montague rose, went into the outer office to consult with his staff, then came back to inform her he’d sent his young clerk, Mr. Slater, and the office boy, Reginald Roberts, for sandwiches for the whole office.

Violet approved. “There is something of a sense of urgency, isn’t there?”

Dropping back into his chair, Montague nodded. “Indeed.” He didn’t add that, for him, the thrust of that urgency derived from his fear that, in seeking to protect himself, the murderer would continue to seek to silence Violet. Not for one moment had Montague forgotten the chill he’d felt when he’d learned that her bedroom door, too, had been opened on the night the blackguard had killed Tilly. He’d come to kill Violet, too, but had been thwarted.

The only way to permanently thwart such a villain was to expose him and catch him.

Lifting the next sheet he needed to scrutinize for expenses, he returned to that task.