Chapter 2 #2
Montague allowed himself to be ushered out and introduced to Pringle, who, on receiving Runcorn’s instructions, proved to be meticulously organized. He produced the required copies of the bank statements and the list of currently paying investments.
Pringle eyed a foot-high stack of papers on his desk. “As for the complete list of investments, that might take a few days.”
Montague nodded. “That’s entirely acceptable. It’s critically important in a case like this that the list be complete and accurate with respect to every detail. If that takes a few days more, so be it. An inaccurate list will get us nowhere.”
Pringle bowed. “Of course, sir. I’ll give it my best attention.”
Given what he had already noted of Pringle’s meticulousness, Montague had no doubt that that would prove more than adequate, and said so.
Leaving Pringle and his master both preening, he exited the office of Runcorn and Son and, with a spring in his step, set out to embark on his own researches.
Montague didn’t get a chance to return to the Halstead puzzle until late in the afternoon. On his return to his office, he’d been claimed by a succession of clients, interspersed with presentations from several different firms seeking capital.
Investment was the blood and bone of his business, so he’d had to put Lady Halstead and her mysterious payments aside.
Finally, as the light was fading from the sky beyond his window, he drew the thin file containing her ladyship’s bank statements and list of investments to the center of his blotter and opened it.
Two hours later, when Slocum tapped on his door to bid him good night, he’d reached the end of the laborious process of matching payments to investments, and found himself in complete agreement with Lady Halstead. Something extremely odd was going on with her bank account.
After farewelling Slocum, Montague sat back in his chair and stared at the papers spread out on the desk. Fingernail tapping on the chair arm, he finally let the explanation—the one possibility he hadn’t discounted—form in his brain.
“Concealment of funds.” He frowned. “But by whom, and why?”
In financial terms, concealment was the opposite of embezzlement but was almost always equally illegal in that money that needed to be concealed almost certainly had some element of illegality attached to it.
“So in pursuing the matter of these payments, I’m investigating what might reasonably be supposed to be the fruits of some crime.”
Should he involve the authorities?
He considered—in particular what he might report—and grimaced. “I can’t yet be certain that there is any crime—I certainly don’t have proof of one.”
And involving the police wouldn’t, he suspected, endear him to Lady Halstead and Miss Matcham. Not that such a consideration would stop him, but . . .
He tapped his finger more decisively. “If I had proof of a crime, my way would be clear, but until I do, the possibility exists that there’s some innocent explanation behind this.”
Scanning the documents splayed across his desk, he sifted through the possibilities of what he might do next. Tracing the payments, if that proved feasible, appeared to be the most direct route forward.
He had often assisted others with their investigations when said investigations had drifted into financial waters.
This, however, was the first time he had initiated such an investigation himself rather than contributing to someone else’s undertaking.
Courtesy of those previous, supporting roles, he now had connections, acquaintances who knew a great deal more about investigating than he did, who, he didn’t doubt, would be happy to assist him should he ask for their help.
“But at present this is an entirely financial matter, and when it comes to investigating finances . . .” He was the best man for the job. That was why, when it came to anything involving money, those others turned to him.
Huffing out a breath, he sat up and regathered all the documents. As he returned them to the Halstead file, he recalled his earlier restlessness, his wish for some new and more exciting project; apparently Fate had been listening.
Be careful what you wish for.
Even though she’d died when he’d been ten years old, he could still remember his mother telling him that.
On the other hand, his niggling inner voice—the voice of dissatisfaction—had been silent for the past few days, a definite improvement.
Leaving the Halstead file on his desk, he rose and turned down the lamp, then, by the light thrown through the windows from the flares in Chapel Court, he made his way through the outer office.
As he reached for the doorknob, the atmosphere—the anticipation—that filled that particular moment when the others in the office left for the day replayed in his mind.
Something he observed in others, not something he experienced.
He felt no happy eagerness as he opened the door, stepped through and locked it, then turned and ascended the stairs to the next floor.
He had bought the building in Chapel Court, off Bartholomew Lane, behind the Bank of England, over ten years ago, and had converted the floor above his office and the offices to either side into a comfortable apartment.
The proximity to his office suited him; if he thought of some question during the evening or night, it took only a minute to check a file, or make a note at his desk.
And this section of the City, although humming with activity during the day, grew quiet at night.
It wasn’t deserted by any means—what part of London was?
—but the denizens who lived in the area were by nature a sober, reserved lot.
Fishing his key out of his waistcoat pocket, he paused on the upper landing to unlock and open his front door.
The apartment was spacious, comprising a small foyer giving onto a long sitting room, with a dining room beyond, a small study he used as a library, and a master suite including a large bedroom, twin dressing rooms, and a bathroom with the latest accoutrements.
The apartment also contained a large kitchen and separate staff quarters, which were the domain of his housekeeper, Mrs. Trewick, and her husband, Trewick, who acted as general manservant.
The middle-aged couple had been with Montague for nearly twenty years and knew his habits and requirements to a T.
He walked into the sitting room, his footsteps faintly echoing.
“Dinner’s ready and waiting, sir!” Mrs. Trewick sang from the kitchen. “Just take your seat at the table and Trewick will bring it out.”
Montague smiled and did as he was bid. He exchanged the usual comments with Trewick as the man served the three courses of succulent and substantial fare; at the completion of the meal, as he usually did, Montague sent his compliments to Mrs. Trewick, which, as it always did, pleased Trewick no end.
In pleasant accord, he and his staff parted for the night, the pair to retreat to their quarters while he ambled into the study, then, book in hand, wandered into the sitting room, where the fire Trewick had stoked blazed, eradicating the chill of the evening.
Sinking into his favorite of the pair of armchairs angled before the fire, Montague reached for the small tantalus that sat on the side table. He poured himself a small glass of whisky, a drop he’d grown partial to since taking over the Earl of Glencrae’s accounts, then sat back and sipped.
For several moments, he simply sat, book closed in his lap, glass poised in one hand, and stared into the flames.
And heard again in his mind the contrast in sound between when his staff left the office for their homes, and when he did.
When his staff left, their expectations of pleasure, of simple joy, and their confidence in finding those things when they returned to their hearths, homes, and loved ones rang in their voices. When he left, all was silent, even within him.
Because he didn’t have anyone, no one dear to him, so he only had a house, not a home.
That, he knew, was the critical difference, and while it hadn’t previously bothered him—not over the long years during which he had striven to build his firm to its present preeminence—the silence, the emptiness of his house, the loneliness, all reached him now.
He’d achieved his goals, and more, but the triumph seemed hollow.
After a moment, his gaze drifted, coming to rest on the empty armchair opposite.
Unbidden, his mind supplied an image of Violet Matcham sitting there, the firelight glinting in her dark hair, her head tilted with that subtle grace that was peculiarly hers, a gentle smile curving her lips, lighting her blue eyes.
Montague considered the image for several minutes, then shook his head, dismissed the dream, opened his book, and settled to read.
Across London, in Albemarle Street in Mayfair, Penelope Adair sat at the foot of her dinner table and exchanged a meaningful look with her friend, Griselda Stokes, then both ladies turned their eyes upon the two gentlemen sharing the table with them.
“There must be some interesting case we can assist you with,” Penelope declared.
Barnaby Adair, seated at the head of the table, glanced at Basil Stokes, friend and colleague, then Barnaby straightened, negligently waved, and nonchalantly said, “There really isn’t much by way of ‘crimes-to-investigate’ plaguing the ton and Scotland Yard at this particular time.”
Aware of the oblique qualifications built into that statement, Penelope regarded her spouse through narrowing eyes. “It needn’t be anything expressly to do with the ton—you aren’t about to tell me that there aren’t any crimes to investigate in London at all, are you?”
“Hardly!” The spontaneous reply came from Stokes, lounging in his chair. He immediately recovered and stated, “However, Barnaby’s correct in that there are no drawing room dramas, so to speak, presently unsolved.”