Page 89 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Stokes weighed the words, then nodded. “That sounds more like it. There’s something more than just the theft—there’s whatever necessitated it.”

“In one way, that motive’s reassuring.” When Stokes cocked a cynically disbelieving brow, Barnaby grinned. “It means that our murderer—indeed, all our suspects, all the actors in this drama—are unlikely to run away, much less vanish. Not when the principal motive for this murderer is to ensure he can cling to his social position, that nothing damages it.”

Montague said, “I don’t disagree, but such a motive makes it less likely that William is the murderer.”

“The principal murderer,” Barnaby conceded, “but it doesn’t mean that he, for whatever reason, didn’t help Maurice, or Mortimer, or Camberly, by killing Runcorn.”

Stokes groaned. “My head’s spinning with this family and their alibis and the potential for conspiracy.” Heaving a sigh, he rose and looked at Barnaby. “Which, I suppose, means you and I better get back to sorting said alibis out.”

With a matching sigh, Barnaby uncrossed his long legs and got to his feet. He looked at Montague, then at Stokes. “One way or another, we will get there—and given that he won’t run, we’ll catch him.”

“Amen.” Stokes saluted Montague, then headed for the door.

With a nod and a smile for Montague, Barnaby followed.

Montague watched them go, then uttered his own sigh and, pulling forward the papers he’d pushed aside, got back to business.

There was nothing more he could do, not until he heard back from Manchester. Hopefully this time the registrar would come through.

The couriered message arrived at four o’clock that afternoon.

Slocum, on receiving it, almost ran in his hurry to ferry it to Montague.

Setting aside the ledger he’d been checking, Montague took the packet, picked up his letter knife, inserted the tip, and slit the envelope open.

Withdrawing a single sheet, he unfolded it and scanned its contents. Then he blew out a breath and sat back, his gaze fixed on the name inscribed on the page.

“Well?”

Glancing up, Montague saw Gibbons—it was he who had spoken—standing behind Slocum, who was hovering by Montague’s desk. Foster looked over Gibbons’s shoulder, expectation in his face, while the rest of Montague and Son’s small staff were gathered about the doorway to the inner office, waiting to hear the news.

Montague’s lips twitched; he looked back at the letter. “The registrar of the Grand Junction Railway Company formally verifies that the share certificate in question, that previously was the property of Agatha, Lady Halstead, is now registered to . . . the Earl of Corby.”

Gibbons blinked. “Good God.”

“Indeed.” Montague nodded, in complete accord with that sentiment. “Furthermore, the registrar states that the earl, or, rather, his man-of-business, registered the shares eleven months ago. Therefore, as far as the registry is concerned, the shares passed directly from Lady Halstead to the Earl of Corby, with no other owner being registered in between.”

Montague set the letter on his blotter. He stared at it for several seconds, then said, “Slocum—”

“I believe the Earl of Corby’s man-of-business is Mr. Millhouse, sir. His offices are just around the corner in Throgmorton Street.”

“Excellent.” Montague glanced toward the door. “Reginald?”

“Yessir!” The young office boy all but bounded into the room.

Hiding a smile, Montague beckoned him forward. “Mr. Slater can deliver my letter to Mr. Millhouse, but before I write that, I need to send a message to Inspector Stokes at Scotland Yard.”

Already scribbling, at the sudden silence, Montague glanced up—to discover Reginald standing stock-still before the desk, his eyes on stalks and his mouth agape.

Foster, grinning, dropped a hand on Reginald’s shoulder. “No need to catch flies, Reggie. Do you know the way to the Yard?”

Reginald blinked, then his expression tended toward panic.

“Don’t worry,” Gibbons said. “It’s at the start of Whitehall. Mr. Slocum will give you directions.”

Reginald perked up, then Montague handed him the folded note. “No need to wait for a reply. Once you’ve seen that into the hands of the sergeant on the front desk at Scotland Yard, you can hie away home.”

“Thank you, sir.” Reginald took hold of the note as if it was solid gold. “I won’t let you down.”