Page 88 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

She nodded. “I believe that’s what Stokes and Barnaby think at present. And from what I know of them, I could readily imagine William and Maurice working together, or even William and Hayden. Or even William and both those two. As for the female half of the investigation, Penelope and I completed a very discreet review of the three Halstead and Camberly ladies’ alibis this morning. All appear to be sound, although as Penelope said, it’s still possible that one or other played some supporting role. Regardless, we no longer believe it would have been possible for any of the three ladies in question to have been present at any of the murder scenes at the times of the murders.”

Montague digested that. As they neared Penelope and Barnaby’s house, he murmured, “So it keeps coming back to the Halstead men—Mortimer, Maurice, William, and Hayden. Each of the three murders was committed by one of them.”

“Indeed.” Climbing the steps to the Adairs’ door, Violet plied the knocker, then turned to him. “And we still have yet to discover which one, or more, were involved.”

He nodded. “Whether there was more than one acting in concert, or whether the theft of the share certificate and all three murders can be laid at one man’s door.”

At that point, Mostyn opened the door. Meeting Violet’s eyes, Montague arched a brow and saw her smile in understanding; inwardly relishing the instinctive connection, feeling oddly domesticated, he followed her inside.

The following morning, Barnaby and Stokes called to see Montague.

As they settled in the chairs before Montague’s desk, Stokes put their first and most burning question. “Have you heard who owns those shares yet?”

Leaning back in the admiral’s chair on the opposite side of the desk, Montague grimaced. “No. But—damn it—that registrar will have to bend soon.” Montague studied Stokes. “Either that, or you’ll have to go up there and loom over him.”

Stokes grunted. “For his sake, I hope it won’t come to that.” He paused, then said, “Send word as soon as you do hear. This case is dragging on too long, and the Chief is getting anxious.”

Montague inclined his head. “So how goes your hunting?”

“Mixed,” Barnaby said. “Violet said she’d mentioned our progress with William’s alibis. Two—those for her ladyship’s murder and Tilly’s murder—we’re inclined to accept. We found several others as well as the tavern staff—others William hadn’t known about and who he doesn’t know well enough to bribe—who could confirm that he was there on those two nights, at times that make it implausible that he could have reached Lowndes Street in time to commit the murders.”

“But,” Stokes said, his voice turning darkly grim, “William’s alibi for the night of Runcorn’s murder is too reliant on good friends of questionable character to pass muster. And none of the others—not a one—have alibis that are sound for any of the three murders.” Stokes leaned forward; as if reading from a list, he recited, “Maurice Halstead says he was engaged with a lady whose name he declines to provide on two of the nights in question, and on the third, he believes he was visiting some den or hell, but he separated from the friends with whom he went there and can’t remember when he left, or with whom, or where he went after that.”

“In other words,” Barnaby dryly interjected, “he was inebriated to the point of having no clear memory of where he was or what he did, much less who he was with.”

“So Maurice remains a suspect for all three murders. Then we come to Mortimer Halstead—a fairly simple case, you might think. But no—Mortimer attended a dinner with his wife on two of the nights in question, but in both cases, his wife returned home in their carriage alone, leaving Mortimer in impromptu meetings that evolved out of the post-dinner conversations, and he subsequently made his way home on his own. On the night of Runcorn’s murder, Mortimer attended some formal embassy soiree that commenced early in the evening and to which his wife did not go. He says he was home in good time, but the Halsteads have separate bedrooms, so Mrs. Halstead cannot verify when her husband got to bed on that night, or on any other.”

“Hayden Halstead,” Barnaby said, “proved to live a rather more interesting life than he attempted to lead us, and his parents, to believe. His stated alibis were that he was at home on each of the three nights, and retired to bed and slept the sleep of the innocent all night long.” His expression serious, Barnaby shook his head. “I donned an everyman disguise and consorted with the Halstead footmen at the local public house. It seems all the Halstead staff are well aware that Hayden retires to his rooms—and then sneaks down the back stairs and goes out on the town. When we taxed Hayden with our insights, he wilted and corrected his statement.”

Stokes snorted. “But the alibis he gave this time are no better than the first lot—he was out with friends carousing, he has no idea where, and as for the time . . . not even the friends we hunted down and spoke with have any real clue.”

Barnaby grunted. “Indeed, the friends were so clueless it was impossible to be sure that Hayden remained with them each night, through the hours the murders were committed, nor is it possible to say whether Hayden was truly inebriated to the point of being incapable, because all his friends certainly were.”

Stokes shook his head. “You would think that with three separate murders and three different nights it would be an easy matter to discount at least one of them, but no. And, worse, given that they are all family, all related, in this case we have to allow for a very real possibility of some level of conspiracy.” Stokes straightened, exasperation clear in his face. “And if that’s the case, then we’re never going to be able to get far with these alibis.”

“And,” Barnaby said, “as soon as you start to entertain the possibility of a conspiracy—and yes, I absolutely agree we must—then you bring Camberly back into the picture.”

When Montague frowned, Barnaby explained, “We’d discounted Camberly as a suspect because of the involvement of a Halstead male in Runcorn’s murder, and because we assumed we were only dealing with one murderer. If there’s a conspiracy, then Camberly might have murdered Lady Halstead or Tilly.”

“We have Camberly’s alibis,” Stokes said, “but have yet to check them.”

“That said,” Barnaby countered, “Camberly’s alibis appear more substantial, or at least more likely to be able to be substantiated. He said he was in late sittings, or at meetings with other politicians, and those meetings do frequently run until four in the morning or later. His alibis might well be sound, but we haven’t yet checked.” He met Montague’s gaze. “That’s next on our list. But have you learned anything further regarding the Halsteads’ and Camberlys’ finances?”

Montague nodded. “I had word first thing this morning that a quiet perusal of the Halstead and Camberly bank accounts shows no large sums of a size that might be all, or even a large part, of any payment received for the shares.”

Stokes grimaced. “Well, that was a long shot.”

Montague shrugged. “Presumably whoever took the share certificate sold it and used the money for whatever reason he had for stealing the shares in the first place.”

Barnaby nodded. “He—at least one of the Halstead males—needed money desperately.”

“Maybe so,” Stokes said, “but why murder, not once but three times—”

“And try for a fourth victim in Violet,” Montague reminded him.

Stokes inclined his head. “Indeed—four times. So why is he so willing to murder again and again to hide . . . what? Stealing a share certificate from his mother?”

“No.” Barnaby’s blue gaze locked on Stokes’s face. “Not simply to hide the theft but to protect his station, his reputation—which the theft alone might threaten, but, even more, I’d wager he doesn’t want the reason he was forced to steal coming out.”