Chapter 4 #2
“Both Lady Halstead’s doctor, who was summoned to attend, and the police surgeon concur.” Stokes paused, then definitively stated, “There is no doubt whatever that her ladyship was murdered.”
Cynthia’s pinching lips testified to her irritation, but she said nothing more.
Constance grimaced and sat back.
“That being the case, Inspector, what progress has been made in apprehending the villain?” The question came from Maurice Halstead, according to Violet and all appearances the black-sheep-cum-rake-cum-roué of the family.
Maurice’s question, unsurprisingly, focused the attention of the rest of the family. They all looked to Stokes with varying degrees of haughty demand.
Stokes’s expression remained stoically uninformative.
“Our investigations have only just begun. I called you here as a formal courtesy, to ensure you learned of the murder firsthand. We will be pursuing several avenues, and will speak with you all in due course.” Stokes had decided to postpone asking for alibis, explaining that he would rather each family member had a chance to concoct one, as a fabricated alibi, which the police usually found relatively easy to break, was a surer indication of guilt than the absence of an alibi.
“But you must have some idea,” Maurice pressed.
“You said you had ‘avenues’ to follow.” His gaze shifted to rest heavily—meaningfully—on Violet.
“It seems somewhat far-fetched to imagine some blackguard just happened to choose this house to break into and kill an old lady, apparently for no reason.”
Stokes showed his teeth. “Indeed. But equally, at present, we have no reason to suspect any particular person—nor to discount anyone, either.” He sent a raking gaze around the table.
“My immediate question for everyone here is whether you know of or in any way suspect anyone of bearing ill will toward Lady Halstead. For any reason whatever.”
Silence ensued, then the Halsteads and Camberlys looked at each other; brows rose, but no one spoke.
Stokes nodded. “Very well. I will take that as a negative—that none of you know of any reason to suspect anyone of Lady Halstead’s murder.”
A fussy, civil-service frown had appeared on Mortimer’s face as he, too, now stared at Violet.
“As you are investigating everyone, am I to take it that that includes females—for instance the three females who live in this house, all of whom could easily have entered my mother’s room, and any of whom might have had some reason, a reason known only to them, to wish my mother dead?
My mother was weak and frail. It wouldn’t have taken much strength to overcome her. ”
Stokes had warned Violet that such an accusation might well be made, and he had assured her that he, Adair, and Montague considered it without foundation.
Despite the warning, she still felt the instinctive urge to violently rebut the notion, to defend not just herself but Tilly and Cook, too, against the scurrilous slur, but remembering Stokes’s caution against doing so, she literally bit her tongue and remained mute.
She did, however, hold Mortimer’s gaze unflinchingly, returning his suspicion with silent defiance.
Mortimer looked away first, glancing questioningly at Stokes.
Who had watched the exchange with unrelenting patience.
“I am discounting no one. That includes everyone about this table, and anyone else who has had contact with her ladyship.” His expression mild, Stokes glanced to his left.
“That even includes Mr. Montague, although considering his position in the City and his significant reputation, I cannot imagine I will have any difficulty confirming his alibi.”
Gravely sober, Montague inclined his head.
Turning back to the gathering, Stokes swept the faces with his steely gaze, then, his expression and tone growing harder, said, “Unless we gain some early indication of the murderer’s identity, you may expect to be interviewed at some point within the next few days.
It would be helpful if you made a note of where you were throughout last night, and who, if anyone, can confirm your presence there. ”
Easing back his chair, Stokes stood. “That will be all for now.” He inclined his head to Mortimer Halstead, then to Wallace Camberly. “We will, of course, inform the family once we have the murderer in custody.”
Barnaby, Montague, and Violet also rose.
Cynthia Halstead looked at Stokes. “One moment, Inspector. When may we view the body and make arrangements for the funeral?”
“Her ladyship’s body is presently at the morgue. I believe it will be released for burial the day after tomorrow, but you may send your undertaker there. He will know how to inquire.”
Cynthia’s face blanked. “That’s thoroughly inconvenient.”
Unmoved, Stokes responded, “That’s the way things are done.”
Cynthia sniffed and desisted.
“What about her things?” Constance Halstead asked. When Stokes looked at her, she waved. “In her room, in the sitting room, elsewhere in the house.”
“This house is a crime scene, Mrs. Halstead—no one will be permitted to remove anything from it until I give my permission, which I anticipate will be in a day or two. I will advise the family when they are free to come and go. Until such time, access to the house will be restricted.”
Constance pulled a face, and with a glance at her sister-in-law, mimicked her. “Exceedingly inconvenient.”
Cynthia huffed, then beneath her breath, but not quite softly enough, said, “At least let’s get Mama buried first.”
Constance colored. She drew in a huge breath, her bosom swelling dramatically. “The funeral—”
“Will be held at St. Peter’s, of course.” Cynthia’s tone had turned brittle.
“I would have thought St. George’s would be more appropriate,” Mortimer observed.
“Nonsense!” Cynthia sat bolt upright. “St. Peter’s is where Mama attended. It’s been the family’s church for decades, and just because you chose to move away—”
Violet turned and led the way to the door. Montague followed, and Stokes and Adair fell in behind. She paused before the door, allowing Montague to reach around her and open it. Stepping into the long front hall, she walked toward the front of the house.
Montague joined her, pacing alongside. “Is it always like that?” He tipped his head toward the dining room. “Them at each other’s throats, even about something like their mother’s funeral.”
“Always.” Halting before the sitting room door, Violet glanced back.
Adair had followed close behind Montague, but Stokes had paused to instruct his constable—no doubt ensuring that the family obeyed his edict against removing items from the house.
She looked at Montague, then Adair. “They are worse than squabbling infants. I doubt Lady Halstead’s passing will change anything—as far as I ever saw, their sniping wasn’t dependent on her presence but is simply their established way with each other, regardless of the subject. ”
“Delightful people,” Adair murmured. “I suspect Stokes will want a short conference.” Adair indicated the sitting room door. “Can we speak privately in there?”
Violet nodded, opened the door, and led the way in.
She and Montague took the chintz-covered sofa, while Adair claimed one of the pair of armchairs facing them.
They’d just settled when Stokes walked through the door they’d left open.
Shutting it, he said, “Camberly has excused himself—apparently there’s a parliamentary session he needs to attend—and William simply upped and left without a word.
The rest are still hard at it, arguing the merits of this burial ground versus that.
” Crossing the room, Stokes shook his head.
“I’ve seen some difficult families in my time, but these people take the cake. ”
Dropping into the second armchair, Stokes studied Violet. “From your lack of surprise, I take it such behavior is the norm for them.”
She nodded. “For the Halstead brood, that performance was entirely unremarkable.”
“I must say,” Adair drawled, “that I appreciated the nice touch of splitting your announcement—first stating that her ladyship was dead, and then subsequently mentioning that she was murdered. That gave us two chances to catch the murderer out, to see if he failed to react appropriately, but I, for one, saw nothing that would distinguish one from the other.”
He glanced at Violet and Montague. “Did either of you notice anything?”
Violet shook her head.
Montague grimaced. “What I did notice was that none of them appeared to care that her ladyship was dead—their attitude seemed to be that she was old, and she’d died, and that was that. But as for her being murdered, I got the impression the family as a whole viewed that as a great nuisance.”
“Sadly, that’s true.” Violet fought to maintain a suitably detached distance, tried hard not to think of Lady Halstead, not to dwell on the fact that she’d been killed, murdered, most likely by one of her poisonous brood.
Remembering all the calm, gentle hours she’d spent with the old lady, who had rarely had even a grumpy word to say, much less any sharpness or ill temper, made it difficult to maintain her composure and not give in to the sweeping sadness.
“Tell me,” Stokes said, and, glancing up, Violet saw he was regarding her. “In all the time you’ve been with Lady Halstead, have you ever heard of any argument between her ladyship and one of her children or grandchildren?”