Page 93 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Before Stokes could voice what was clearly in his mind, Montague continued, “Should the earl decline to identify the specific gentleman to Millhouse, then perhaps an approach at a more exalted level—for instance, Adair’s father, the Earl of Cothelstone, who is also widely known as one of the peers overseeing the Metropolitan Police—might be in order.” Montague’s lips twisted wryly. “However, experience suggests that Millhouse will have more luck, and that more rapidly. Noblemen like Corby have a tendency to believe that they should not divulge the names of those who lose to them to others of their station, but that the same prohibition does not apply to men of lesser station, such as Millhouse, especially not when, as I suspect he will, Millhouse suggests that the earl should furnish him with the name as a way of ensuring the taint of theft and consequent murder never comes anywhere near the earl’s good name.”

Barnaby chuckled. “You and your peers have a very fine appreciation of the nobility’s foibles.” He looked at Stokes. “Montague’s correct—Millhouse will have a better chance of getting that name than my father. If the pater approaches Corby, Corby will demand to know every little detail about the case before divulging the name, and if we’re trying for discretion—and we must not forget that, despite Walter’s sorry exploits, we have no evidence that Camberly, MP, is involved, nor Mortimer Halstead, Home Office official, either, much less the ladies—then telling Corby all in exchange for a name is not a good way to proceed.”

“Indeed,” Penelope said. “We do need to protect the innocents. This case is not going to end well for the family in any case, but the less speculation over who is actually guilty, the better.”

Stokes looked around the circle, then slumped back in his chair. “Very well.” After a moment, he cocked a brow at Barnaby and Penelope. “So exactly where are we in terms of identifying who, exactly, are the guilty parties here?”

Penelope promptly replied, “On two counts now—Runcorn’s murder and the man who gave Corby the stolen share certificate—we know the guilty party was a Halstead male.”

“We’ve ruled out Walter,” Violet said, “but in terms of who among the others is increasingly unlikely, I doubt William would have moved in Corby’s circles, and, truth be told, I’ve never heard that William gambles, not to any extent. He might not have a great deal of money, but at the level he’s chosen to live, he doesn’t really need much to get by.”

Stokes nodded. “Of the Halstead men, I agree that William is the least likely to have been involved.”

“That leaves us with Mortimer, Hayden, and Maurice as the most likely culprits,” Montague said.

“And as to that . . .” Barnaby shifted to better face them all. “After Montague sent word that it was Corby who now owned the shares, since I knew the earl to be a heavy gambler, I spent the day ambling around the gentleman’s clubs, those I suspected Corby frequents. Through chatting with the doormen and the concierges, I confirmed that the earl was a member and known to play at a number of establishments, and I subsequently inquired whether any Halstead or Camberly was a member of those clubs.”

“What a brilliant notion!” Penelope beamed at her spouse, then impatiently gestured. “And . . . ?”

Barnaby grinned at her. “And, as I was about to divulge, one of Corby’s favorite haunts does indeed boast a Halstead as a member.”

“Which Halstead?” Stokes demanded.

Barnaby met his eye. “The one we might have suspected—Maurice.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Violet said. “Maurice has always been the spendthrift, the profligate. He’s a peacock, and throughout the years I was with the family, everyone knew he gambled heavily.”

After a moment, Griselda said, “So does this mean Maurice is the murderer?”

Stokes grimaced. “From what I’ve seen and learned of him, he’s a devious, calculating sort—he could be behind all three killings. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“However,” Barnaby said, much in the manner of continuing Stokes’s train of thought, “given the issues with this family, and the twists in this case, we need to be wary of leaping to conclusions, of making judgment calls rather than relying solely on facts. Our judgment, in this case, might lead us astray. The facts won’t.”

“But,” Stokes said, “we are making progress. We are closing in.” He looked at Montague. “I want to know the instant you hear from Millhouse as to which Halstead handed Corby that share certificate.” Stokes snorted. “With this family, we can’t even take it for granted that the Halstead who handed Corby the certificate was the same Halstead who owed him the gambling debt.”

Penelope frowned. “This family gives me a headache—our final breakthrough can’t come fast enough.”

“Hear, hear,” came from all the others.

Mostyn chose that moment to bring in the tea tray and as a group they turned their attention to other things, but once the tea had been consumed and everyone rose as Stokes, Griselda, and Montague prepared to take their leave, their progress with the case again claimed their minds.

“I know I shouldn’t,” Stokes said, meeting Barnaby’s gaze, “yet I’m back to thinking we’ve been making this a lot more complicated than it needs to be.” He glanced at the others, his gaze touching all their faces. “The chances are that, once we confirm that it was Maurice who gave Corby the share certificate, we’ll have our man, and he’ll prove to have committed all three murders.” Stokes met Barnaby’s gaze. “You said it earlier—the murders were all about our man protecting himself from exposure over something, and now we know that something was the debt to Corby and the theft of that share certificate to cover it.”

“From all I’ve heard over the years,” Violet said, “Maurice is barely tolerated on the fringes of the social circles to which he aspires to belong.” She glanced at the others. “If it came out that he’d gambled with Corby and, after he’d lost, had stolen from his mother to cover the debt, and, more, had then passed off a stolen share certificate to Corby . . . well, he wouldn’t be welcomed even within the gentleman’s clubs, would he?”

“Exactly,” Stokes said. “We have sound motive, and the means, now all we need is the final proof. One man, one Halstead—despite all the distractions, we don’t need more than him to account for all the crimes.”

After a moment, Barnaby nodded. “Agreed. The possibility of a family conspiracy might be there, but we’ve found no evidence that such an unholy alliance actually occurred. One man, one Halstead—and Maurice Halstead seems to be our man.”

The six of them massed in the front hall, those departing putting on their coats and saying their good-byes.

Griselda had brought little Megan with her when she’d arrived earlier in the afternoon. Hettie, Oliver’s nursemaid, brought the sleeping bundle down from the nursery and gently placed her in Griselda’s arms.

“There now.” Smiling, Hettie stepped back. “She was right as rain the whole time. She and Master Oliver played for a while, then out like lights, they were.”

“Good.” Tucking a fold of the blanket over Megan’s dark head, Griselda smiled at Hettie. “Thank you for watching over her, Hettie.”

Hettie beamed, bobbed a curtsy, then went back up the stairs.