Page 92 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Twenty minutes later, Reginald burst through the office door. He waved a letter, then, with a flourish, presented it to Slocum.

Who checked the direction, then rose and brought the missive to Montague.

The rest of the staff craned their necks to watch and listen.

Montague read the note, then called out for their benefit, “Millhouse will have to ask the earl directly, which, as he notes, will take a certain amount of finesse, but he—Millhouse—hopes to have an answer for me by sometime tomorrow. He can’t say when, but he doubts it will be before noon at the earliest.”

With a nod, Montague set the letter down and smiled at Reginald, then at Slocum. “It’s the best we could hope for—there’s really no way for Millhouse, or, indeed, anyone else, to extract that information other than from the earl—and Millhouse will get the answer easier, and sooner, than anyone else.”

The others absorbed that; Montague glanced through the open doorway, and from their expressions he knew both Gibbons and Foster were taking mental notes. They were learning the ways, as they should.

Slocum and Reginald retreated to the outer office, leaving Montague to repeat his words to himself.

Although he felt rather like a terrier must when wanting to maul a bone, he’d reached his present eminence in the fraternity of men-of-business in the great City of London precisely because he did know when he could push, and when pushing would be counterproductive.

Ultimately, if Millhouse couldn’t induce the earl to part with the required name, Barnaby would no doubt mobilize his father to approach the earl—earl to earl, as it would be—but that would necessitate explaining far more to the Earl of Corby than might be wise, and they had no notion of the relationship between the earl and whichever Halstead had circled within his orbit.

Montague spent several more minutes considering if there was any faster way forward, but none presented itself. He was about to send Stokes a missive but then recalled that, along with the others, he had been summoned to dinner in Albemarle Street that evening.

Smiling to himself, he settled back in his chair and returned to his work—to his files and their figures.

He would tell the others of the breakthrough in person.

Chapter 17

When Stokes and Barnaby walked into the drawing room, joining Penelope, Griselda, Violet, and Montague, who had arrived moments earlier, Penelope swept the gathering with an imperious eye and demanded, “Has anyone identified the murderer yet?”

When Stokes pulled a face, both negative and disgruntled, Barnaby shook his head, and Montague said, “Not yet,” Penelope paused with her gaze on Montague’s face, but then she waved her hands in a warding gesture and decreed, “No talking about the murder until after dinner. Let’s enjoy the meal first.”

No one argued; indeed, all six fell in with the suggestion, and a gentle, convivial dinner among friends followed.

Violet appreciated Penelope’s tack; even though she’d spent most of her day sorting Penelope’s correspondence, the murders had constantly lurked in the back of her mind, the question of the murderer’s identity nagging like a toothache. Penelope and Griselda had spent their day in non-investigative endeavors, Penelope attending a meeting at the British Library, and Griselda at her shop, but they, too, had confided that the murders had never been far from their minds.

By unvoiced consent, no one mentioned the murders or anything to do with the investigation until they had returned to the drawing room and settled in their now accustomed places on the sofas and chairs—Penelope and Griselda on one sofa, Montague and Violet on the sofa opposite, and Barnaby and Stokes in the armchairs flanking the fireplace, long legs stretched out before them, glasses of brandy in their hands.

“So,” Penelope finally said, “where are we now with this tiresome murderer? Have we unearthed any further clues?”

Lowering his glass, Stokes reported, “We haven’t got any further with their alibis—they’re the sort we can’t prove true or false, so they get us precisely nowhere.”

“But,” Griselda said, “alibis, the checking of them, has allowed us to confirm that Walter is not the murderer, that William did not murder either Lady Halstead or Tilly, and that none of the three ladies were actively involved in the murders.”

“Sadly,” Stokes said, “with this family, that doesn’t get us all that far. The only one of them we can definitely rule out of having any involvement in these murders is Walter. Any or all of the others, including the ladies, could have been involved as accomplices, and any of the remaining five men, Camberly included, could have been guilty of one or more of the murders.”

Penelope grimaced. “In general one assumes that it would be emotionally very difficult, and commensurately very unlikely, for a child to murder their mother, and the notion of a number of children conspiring to kill their mother seems even more far-fetched. In this case, however, given the lack of emotional connection between Lady Halstead and her children because of her long absences abroad . . . well, it’s possible that the normal, natural barriers against matricide might not have been there.”

“More,” Griselda softly said, “it’s possible Lady Halstead’s children, some of them, at least, might have resented a mother who put them so very far behind her husband and his career.”

Both Violet and Penelope nodded. The men soberly absorbed the insight.

After a moment, Barnaby stirred. “To return to specifics, for Runcorn’s murder, at least, the villain remains a Halstead male, so regardless of the existence of any family conspiracy, at least one Halstead male is involved.” He glanced at Montague. “Have you got any further as to who sold the shares to Corby?”

Montague nodded. “According to Corby’s man-of-business, the earl acquired the shares by way of payment of a gambling debt from a Mr. Halstead.”

“Good God, man!” Stokes sat upright. “Which one?”

But Montague had held up a staying hand. “Corby’s man-of-business, a Mr. Millhouse, knew only that Corby got the shares from a Mr. Halstead. However, Millhouse has agreed to inquire further of the earl, but it will be at least noon tomorrow before he expects to have any answer—and that, I suspect, depends on when he can get an audience with Corby.”

Stokes glanced at Barnaby.