Page 91 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

“Well,” Foster said, “other than that it was a gentleman the Earl of Corby deigned to gamble with.”

Eyes narrowing, Montague looked at Slocum. If he was remembering aright . . .

Slocum nodded. “The earl’s a big gambler, sir—known to care little about who he gambles with, as long as they can pay.”

Montague grimaced. “That was my understanding, too. So the fact that this gentleman owed the earl many thousands of pounds doesn’t actually tell us all that much about said gentleman.”

Slocum made a rude sound. “Other than that he was stupid enough to sit down with Corby and a pack of cards—the earl’s reputation for winning isn’t exactly a secret.”

“True.” Montague considered, then grimaced. “That still gets us no further. Any of the Halsteads, or Camberly, for that matter, might, for some reason, have been moved to engage with Corby.”

“What now?” Gibbons asked.

“Now . . .” Montague stared unseeing at his blotter for several moments, then, chin firming, he reached for a fresh sheet of paper. “Now I see just how persuasive I can be with regard to a competitor like Millhouse.”

Montague’s second letter to Millhouse took more than an hour to craft. He didn’t expect a reply that day, as it seemed fairly clear that Millhouse, if he deigned to pursue the matter at Montague’s behest, would need to consult with the earl.

Montague was therefore surprised when Slocum hurried—definitely rushed—into his office, waving—definitely waving—an envelope.

“A reply from Mr. Millhouse, sir.” Slocum laid the envelope on the desk as Montague reached for his letter-knife.

The rest of his staff congregated about the doorway; everyone had become infected with the scent of the chase.

Retrieving the short missive from the envelope, Montague scanned it. “Halstead.”

Cheers erupted from around the door.

Without looking up, Montague said, “Don’t get too carried away just yet. All Millhouse has written is a Mr. Halstead—he doesn’t know, or at least hasn’t said, which one.”

But from the tone of the letter, Montague could tell that he’d succeeded in engaging Millhouse’s curiosity with his previous missives and their tantalizing hints of a major Scotland Yard investigation.

Laying aside the letter, Montague glanced at Slocum. “Get Reginald—I want him to run a message back to Millhouse immediately.”

The gathering about the door scattered.

Montague’s next note was succinct and clearly intimated that he considered Millhouse a peer of equal standing—one equally interested in bringing miscreants who dabbled in their world of finance to justice. Especially miscreants who had any dealings with their major clients.

Quickly blotting the note, he was folding it as Slocum returned with Reginald in tow.

Montague grinned at the lad, who grinned back. He handed over the letter. “You know where to go?”

“Yessir—Mr. Slocum told me.”

“Right then, off you go. And this time inquire if there will be a reply, and if there is, wait and bring it back.” Millhouse would appreciate not having to use his own runner.

Montague watched Slocum usher Reginald out, seeing the boy down the stairs before shutting the door and returning to his desk.

For a moment, Montague dwelled in the moment, appreciating all that was right and good within it. The satisfaction of knowing their small group of investigators were on the right track—that it was one of the Halstead men behind the theft of the share certificate, and therefore most likely behind the murders. He savored the welling swell of familiar excitement—of being on the hunt, of scenting his financial prey. Yet in all the investigations he’d previously engaged in, he’d been involved at one remove, acting at the behest of one of his clients. This time, he was personally as well as professionally involved, and that heightened the emotions, setting a keen edge to the drive to find answers and see justice done.

To see justice triumph.

More immediately, he felt the engagement and support of his staff; their actions, their interest, made it very clear that they understood that commitment to justice, that they shared it and would stand behind him in seeing the job done.

Their understanding and support warmed him.

They sometimes made him smile, yet he knew how lucky he was in having such an intelligent and devoted group at his back.

He took a moment to appreciate them, and the blessings of his day, of his life, then he reopened the file he’d been assessing and settled to steadily work his way through it.