The Masterful Mr. Montague (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair #3)

Prologue

London

I’m dying and I want to do the right thing.” Agatha, Lady Halstead, set her lips in a determined line.

Straightening from plumping Lady Halstead’s pillows, Violet Matcham laid a reassuring hand over her ladyship’s frail one where it lay atop the counterpane. “You’re in perfect health—you know you are. The doctor said so only last week.”

It was midmorning, and the curtains were tied back, allowing weak autumn sunshine to wash into the large bedroom. The soft light was kind to Lady Halstead’s papery, mottled skin, to the fine, silvery wisps of her thinning hair, to the milkiness that was dulling her once-bright blue eyes.

“And what would he know, heh?” Lady Halstead slanted a shrewd if peevish look at Violet.

“Young men—they always think they know. But I’m very old, Violet dear, and I feel the chill of death in my bones.

” Sinking back onto the pillows, Lady Halstead looked up at the ceiling.

“People used to say that, and I always thought it was pure fancy, but now I know what they meant—I feel it, too.” Without moving her head, Lady Halstead looked at Violet; turning her hand, she briefly—weakly—squeezed Violet’s fingers.

“Most of my friends are long gone, and it’s been nearly a decade since Sir Hugo, bless his soul, passed on.

I’m very ready to join him, my dear, but first I must do as he asked. ”

Accepting that no good would come of trying to jolly Lady Halstead out of her mood—indeed, she seemed sober and composed and as rational as ever—Violet inquired, “What did Sir Hugo ask of you?”

She’d been employed by her ladyship as her companion since shortly after Sir Hugo’s death; she’d therefore never met the gentleman—a paragon by all accounts—but she had heard so much of him from Lady Halstead that Violet almost felt that she knew him, certainly well enough to ask her question without fear the answer would be something nonsensical. And so it proved.

“The dear man made me promise that before my time came, I would ensure all my affairs—both my personal affairs and those of the estate—were in order. He set great store by such things.”

And, Violet thought, you treasure his memory, so it’s important to you that you do as he wished. Her previous employer, Lady Ogilvie, had been devoted to her late husband, too.

Lady Halstead raised her head, sitting straighter in the bed, her voice strengthening as she continued, “So despite my current health, as I know my time is approaching, I wish to ensure that all is as it should be regarding my will and the estate.”

Sir Hugo had made his fortune in India, and had been knighted for services rendered to the Crown on the subcontinent.

Consequently, the Halsteads inhabited that nebulous social stratum of upper gentry-lower aristocracy, and were, in common parlance, comfortably well off.

The Lowndes Street house reflected that; a highly respectable address in a well-to-do neighborhood.

Even Lady Halstead’s bedroom, with its large modern bed, damask curtains, matching upholstery and counterpane, and the well-polished, good-quality furniture, attested to the family’s standing.

Although she didn’t know the finer details of the Halstead estate, Violet understood that on his death, Sir Hugo’s holdings had passed entirely to Lady Halstead for her use through her lifetime; on her death, the estate would be divided according to the provisions of Sir Hugo’s will, which gave equal portions to each of the four Halstead children.

His request, therefore, and Lady Halstead’s desire made perfect sense.

Violet nodded. “Very well. What do you want me to do?”

Although her mind was still clear and surprisingly shrewd, Lady Halstead had grown increasingly frail and now remained abed for much of her days.

Managing the stairs was an effort, one she undertook only when she deemed it necessary.

Violet routinely managed the small household in Lowndes Street, just south of Lowndes Square.

With only herself, Lady Halstead, Tilly, her ladyship’s maid, and Cook, it wasn’t an onerous duty, especially as all four women got along well.

Violet’s years with Lady Halstead had been peaceful and untrammeled, a gentle, undemanding, if unexciting existence.

Sinking back once more, Lady Halstead sighed. “Sadly, old Runcorn, too, passed on last year, so I suppose we must summon that young son of his.” A frown passed over Lady Halstead’s face. “I really must decide if the boy is up to the task of managing my affairs.”

The late Arthur Runcorn had been the Halsteads’ man-of-business for many years.

Violet had only met Mr. Andrew Runcorn—the boy—once, when he’d come seeking her ladyship’s signature on some form; although young to the extent of being several years shy of Violet’s own thirty-four years, she’d formed a favorable impression of the earnest Mr. Runcorn Junior.

He’d seemed honest and sincere, and willing to please, but as to whether he was capable of managing finances, she had no way to judge.

Moving to the tallboy in which Lady Halstead’s traveling writing desk was stored, Violet bent and drew out the deep bottom drawer. “When would you like to see him?”

“Tomorrow.” As Violet straightened, the portable writing desk in her hands, Lady Halstead nodded decisively. “Write a note and ask him to call tomorrow morning. And he should bring a listing of all the properties and investments that make up the estate. Tell him I wish to conduct a full review.”

Violet carried the writing desk to the small table before the armchair on the other side of the bed. After laying out paper, ink, and pen, she looked at her ladyship. “Would you like to dictate?”

Lady Halstead waved the suggestion away. “No.” Her lips lifted in a smile. “You know how to phrase things better than I.”

Violet smiled back, dipped the nib in the ink, and bent to her task.

Lady Halstead had been frowning for the last five minutes.

In the sitting room downstairs, seated in an armchair to her ladyship’s right, Violet wondered what in Andrew Runcorn’s summation of Lady Halstead’s estate was at fault.

The young man-of-business had responded immediately to the summons Violet had dispatched yesterday with a brief note, and, today, had duly presented himself at the house on the dot of eleven o’clock, as requested.

Of medium build, with a boyishly round face, brown hair, and wide brown eyes, the younger Runcorn had lost none of the eager sincerity Violet recalled from earlier in the year, and to her ears, at least, his recitation of the details of Lady Halstead’s estate had sounded confident, and remarkably clear and concise.

He had, she’d thought, made a good fist of it, and, indeed, Lady Halstead had seemed to concur, nodding in gracious approval. But then her ladyship had asked to go over her current finances—the state of her various deposits in the Funds, and her account with Grimshaws Bank.

Seated bolt upright in the straight-backed carver she preferred, still frowning, Lady Halstead lifted one sheet from the five spread over her shawl-draped lap. “The balance of my bank account is not correct.”

Young Runcorn looked shocked. “It isn’t?” Lady Halstead held out the sheet and he took it, briefly perused it, then, slanting a glance at Violet, somewhat diffidently said, “This balance has been confirmed by the bank, my lady.”

Lady Halstead’s frown deepened. “I don’t care if some clerk said it’s right—it’s not.” She waved. “Go and get it checked properly.”

Detecting the querulous note in her ladyship’s voice that indicated true upset, Violet reached out and laid one hand over her ladyship’s fingers, now restlessly picking at the shawl. “Is everything else as you believe it should be?”

“Yes, yes.” Her fingers stilling under Violet’s, her frown lightening, Lady Halstead unbent enough to say to Runcorn, “You’ve been most precise. I have no fault to find with any other aspect, but that bank balance is not correct.”

“Perhaps,” Violet said, catching Runcorn’s eye, “you might recheck with the bank?”

Runcorn got the message; in the wider scheme of the Halstead estate, checking a bank balance was a minor thing. “Yes, of course. No difficulty at all.” He reached for his satchel and stowed the offending statement. “I’ll go around to the bank immediately.”

That was exactly the right thing to say. Lady Halstead calmed and graciously nodded. “Thank you, young man.”

With Violet’s help, Runcorn gathered the papers he’d brought, then very correctly took his leave of Lady Halstead.

Violet took pity on him and showed him out.

Somewhat to Violet’s surprise, by the time she returned from seeing Runcorn out, Lady Halstead appeared to have put the question of the bank account balance out of her mind; Violet got the impression that her ladyship was certain that, when Runcorn questioned the bank more thoroughly, he would receive a revised balance and all would be as her ladyship had expected.

Consequently, when Runcorn returned at three o’clock the next day with the news that the bank insisted the account balance as he’d originally reported it was correct, Violet was somewhat taken aback.

Having descended the stairs for luncheon, Lady Halstead was once again seated in her carver in the sitting room. On hearing Runcorn’s news, her expression grew oddly blank. “That’s . . . most unsettling.”

Runcorn hurried into speech. “My lady, I do assure you we—that is, my firm, Runcorn and Son—haven’t touched the account at all. The bank will confirm. Other than requesting statements from time to time, as per our duty as your agents, we have never drawn so much as a penny, I swear—”