Chapter 4
At two o’clock that afternoon, along with Stokes and Adair, Montague took one of the four chairs arranged about the head of the dining table in the Lowndes Street house.
Violet, who he had ushered into the room and seated in the chair alongside him, had described the family in detail, guided by questions from Adair, Stokes, and himself.
All three of them had instantly realized the difficulty they would face, the care they would have to exercise in interrogating and investigating a family that included a Member of Parliament and a high-ranking Home Office official, as well as both men’s wives.
Such men were wont to stand on their dignity and consider themselves above such things as police interrogations, and their wives would almost certainly support them in such a stance.
Consequently, Stokes, Adair, and Montague, aided by Violet’s insights, had discussed their best approach and had settled on an exploratory, relatively gentle, first foray.
After learning the structure of the family and confirming that all had been present at the recent dinner, and provided by Violet with a list of names and directions, Stokes had dispatched messages to each family member, stating only that a tragedy had occurred at the Lowndes Street house and Scotland Yard requested their attendance at the house at two o’clock.
When Montague and Violet, followed by Stokes and Adair, had entered the dining room, all of those summoned had already been seated about the table.
As Lady Halstead’s family took note of Violet’s appearance and their hushed whispers died, and they looked—puzzledly, expectantly, and with dawning suspicion—at Stokes, Adair, and himself, Montague found putting names to faces not at all difficult.
Stokes was no doubt discovering the same as he allowed his gaze to sweep the group.
If Montague’s assumptions were correct, Wallace Camberly sat to the left nearest the head of the table, with Mortimer Halstead opposite.
Both men were middle-aged, but while Camberly bore his years with hawkish grace, Mortimer wore the faintly harried air and quick-to-frown mien favored by many upper-level civil servants who considered their work—and therefore themselves—of supreme importance.
Camberly was dressed to project an image of conservative elegance eminently appropriate to a Member of Parliament, while Mortimer Halstead appeared fussily, rigidly correct, the cut of his dark coat lacking the flair that distinguished Camberly’s.
Next to each man sat his wife—Cynthia Camberly, née Halstead, alongside Wallace, and Constance Halstead beside Mortimer.
Both women were handsome enough, the former more slender than the latter.
Both were fashionably turned out, but neither radiated any warmth; their expressions appeared carefully controlled.
Next to Cynthia sat her son, Walter. An idle gentleman, according to Violet twenty-seven years old, Walter Camberly kept his chin sunk in his overblown cravat and otherwise watched and observed the rest of his family in silence.
Opposite Walter sat his cousin Hayden Halstead, Mortimer’s son, an unremarkable gentleman of twenty-three summers, and beside Hayden sat his equally unremarkable sister, Caroline, just twenty.
Completing the company about the table were Maurice Halstead, who lounged elegantly in the chair beyond his nephew Walter, and William Halstead, who had slumped in the chair at the end of the table with a black look and a faintly curling lip, not-so-subtly distancing himself from his siblings and their children.
As he settled on the chair, Montague found it difficult to imagine any of the three of the younger generation—Walter, Hayden, or Caroline—as their grandmother’s murderer; to his eyes, they lacked the requisite gumption. Their elders, however, were a different matter.
And as the constable who had carefully searched the house for signs of how and where the murderer had entered had reported no evidence of any door being forced or window latch being broken or tampered with, the suspicion that it was one of those seated about the table who had held a pillow over Lady Halstead’s face had gained considerable weight.
The last to take his seat, Stokes finally did, then baldly stated, “I am Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard. I regret to inform you that Lady Halstead was found dead this morning.” Stokes paused to let the inevitable exclamations roll through the room.
It was instructive to watch the reactions; the initial expressions of shock, of surprise, were all but immediately superseded by expressions of calculation, of speculation and consideration of what Lady Halstead’s death might mean for each individual.
Although he watched closely, Montague detected no suggestion of sorrow, even of simple sadness; Violet had warned them that the family were a self-centered lot, but even so, he hadn’t expected such a comprehensively detached response.
Across Stokes, Montague briefly met Adair’s blue eyes and saw the same realization—and the same instinctive disapprobation—reflected there.
Then Barnaby looked back at the assembled company, and Montague did, too.
If they were correct in their reasoning, then at least one person seated at the table had already known Lady Halstead was dead.
Yet given the singular lack of finer feelings on display, search though he did, Montague couldn’t say one member of the family was less affected by the news than any other.
Wallace Camberly shifted restlessly. After sharing a glance with his wife, Camberly looked at Stokes and somewhat peevishly remarked, “While that is, indeed, a tragedy, Inspector, I fail to see what interest Scotland Yard might have in this matter.”
“As to that, sir, permit me to inform you”—with his head, Stokes indicated all those about the table—“and the rest of those gathered here that Lady Halstead did not die peacefully. She was murdered.”
Once again exclamations of shock and surprise rang out, but, as before, it was impossible to label one person’s response less convincing than the others.
The reactions of all the family members lacked emotional depth; although all seemed genuinely surprised, even shocked, by the news, they displayed no strong emotional link to Lady Halstead.
Instead, their thoughts turned immediately to themselves—leaving no simple way to distinguish a murderer who had acted out of self-interest from the rest of the group.
That somewhat shocking superficiality of emotional connection with her ladyship was borne out by the next exchange.
“How did she die?” Constance Halstead asked, her tone making it clear that the question was prompted by curiosity, plus, perhaps, a realization that someone should ask.
Her query, however, was drowned out by her husband’s clipped and rather pompous observation, “Be that as it may, Inspector, I am unclear as to who these other gentlemen are, and what their interest in what is plainly a private family tragedy might be.”
Stokes looked first at Mrs. Halstead. “Her ladyship was smothered. A pillow was placed over her face while she slept, and held there until she died. Although frail, she struggled, but to no avail.”
Montague saw nothing beyond expressions of detached distaste pass across the family’s faces at that news.
Shifting his gaze to Mortimer, Stokes smoothly continued, “And as for my colleagues, this”—he gestured to Adair on his right—“is the Honorable Mr. Barnaby Adair, consultant investigator to Scotland Yard.” Stokes indicated Montague on his left.
“And this is Mr. Montague, of Montague and Son, whom Lady Halstead recently consulted. Mr. Montague holds a letter of authority from Lady Halstead giving him far-reaching powers with regard to her ladyship’s financial affairs.
I have viewed that letter and found it to be genuine and comprehensive.
Consequently, in this matter, Mr. Montague will be an observer, in effect nominated by Lady Halstead herself. ”
That news caused puzzlement and minor consternation as the family decided how they should react. Noting the assessing glances thrown his way, Montague felt certain that had Stokes not confirmed his good standing, his presence would have been challenged.
William Halstead, slouching deeper in his chair, his hands in his pockets, his dark eyes, his entire expression, cynically dour, drawled, “It seems Mama was more farsighted than any of us knew.”
Violet had described William as the family’s pariah; his appearance suggested he relished the position.
His dark suit had once been of good quality, but it was now irretrievably creased and showed patches shiny with wear; his jaw was shaven, but roughly, his eyes somewhat sunken, his lips appearing more likely to twist in a sneer than lift in a smile.
Viewed against the strictly conservative facade the rest of the family clearly took pains to project, William stood out. Stood alone.
The heads of all the rest of his family had swung William’s way, but after an instant of observing him, all returned to looking at each other, then, almost as one, they looked at Stokes, Adair, and Montague.
Experienced at assessing clients’ reactions, Montague understood that the consensus was that the family had more pressing matters to contend with than his presence.
Cynthia, Lady Halstead’s second child and only daughter, fixed her gaze on Stokes and rather chillingly inquired, “Are you certain, Inspector, that my mother was murdered? Could she not merely have died by some”—Cynthia waved—“misadventure?”
“She was old and frail, after all,” Constance Halstead put in. “Are you certain she didn’t simply stop breathing?”
As expected, the family would much rather her ladyship’s death wasn’t declared a murder.