Chapter 4 #3
She cast her mind back over the years but, in the end, shook her head.
“No.” She hesitated, then said, “But you shouldn’t be surprised by that.
As far as possible, Lady Halstead kept them—her family—at a certain distance.
For instance, I joined this household after Sir Hugo died, but none of the family was involved in hiring me.
Normally, family members—daughters, daughters-in-law, even sons—take care to be there to vet whoever an older female relative takes on as a companion.
” She shifted, then added, “I’ve only been interviewed for two positions—the one here with Lady Halstead, and my previous position with Lady Ogilvie—but with Lady Ogilvie, both her daughters were present, and from all I’ve heard that’s the norm. ”
Montague was nodding, as were Stokes and Barnaby.
“To your knowledge, were any of the Halstead children ever involved in any of her ladyship’s financial decisions?” Montague asked.
“No. And I’m quite certain of that,” Violet replied.
“Lady Halstead once made a comment about feeling much happier making her own decisions, and I know she rebuffed Mortimer, and also Maurice—both independently offered to assist her with managing her fortune, but she declared Sir Hugo had taken care of it all, and she was quite happy with the way things were.”
“Hmm.” Adair had a faraway look in his eyes, as if he was replaying the moments around the dining table.
“One thing I noticed—and perhaps, Miss Matcham, you might confirm—but the impression I received is that the animosity, as witnessed by the tensions and tart comments flung across and down that table, lies primarily between Lady Halstead’s children, with supporting contributions from the two spouses.
” Meeting Violet’s gaze, Adair arched his brows.
“Was it always like that—them against each other—or was the animosity sometimes directed at Lady Halstead?”
“No,” Violet said. “Their sniping was never directed at her. It always amazed me that, during the dinners, her ladyship paid the strife no attention at all. She would eat and ignore them—unless they became too noisy. Then she would insist they ended it, but . . . no. Even at such times, their viciousness was never directed at her.”
Barnaby sighed and shifted his gaze to Stokes. “So out of that interlude, while we’ve established that the Halsteads are a highly unpleasant lot, overall we’ve got not one decent whiff of the murderer.”
Stokes inclined his head. “Maybe so, but what we did gain was confirmation that, regardless of their behavior toward each other, there is no suggestion of any personal motive—no hint that any of her ladyship’s family held a grudge against her, no evidence of arguments or disagreements between her and any of her children. ”
Nodding, Montague picked up the train of thought.
“And as we have reason to believe that the murderer is a family member, not just because of the apparent ease of entry to the house but also the timing of the murder so soon after her ladyship’s announcement that she intended to have her affairs looked into—”
“And”—Barnaby sat straighter—“as we also have every reason to believe that there is something illegal behind these payments into her ladyship’s account, we’re left with that, and only that, as a strong motive.” He looked at Stokes. “It’s money, simply money, behind this.”
Gravely, Stokes nodded. “What we’ve established is that there is no suggestion of any other motive—no personal animosity, nothing about her will.
It’s those payments, whatever they are. Keeping them hidden is the motive behind Lady Halstead’s murder, that and nothing else.
” He glanced at Montague, then Violet, then Barnaby.
“Until and unless we get information to the contrary, I suggest we should proceed on that understanding.”
Their small meeting broke up shortly afterward, with the three men making arrangements to meet the following morning at Montague’s office to examine the evidence he’d already assembled regarding the odd payments they all believed were behind Lady Halstead’s murder.
Violet accompanied the men into the front hall.
She had felt not just accepted and appreciated but also reassured to have been included in the discussions thus far.
Everything had happened so rapidly—the discovery of Lady Halstead’s body, the summoning of help, calming Tilly and Cook, coping with the doctor, and then the police, much less all the rest—that she hadn’t yet had time to grieve, to come to grips with her own roiling emotions.
But of one thing she was instinctively sure: She wanted to help.
She needed to do whatever she could to help catch the murderer and win justice for Lady Halstead.
The violence of her feelings was unexpected and unsettling; she was relieved the three men seemed to understand without her having to explain.
On his way out of the front door, Stokes paused to tell her, “I’ve left a constable on guard inside the house, and there’s another outside—he’s out of sight, but he’s keeping an eye on the place.
” Stokes hesitated, then added, “I meant to go into the kitchen and assure the maid and the cook that neither of them are suspects, not in our eyes. Perhaps you could tell them?”
Violet nodded. “Of course.”
Stokes left; with an encouraging look and a salute, Adair followed him down the steps. Realizing Montague had hung back in the hall, Violet closed the door and turned. Gently smiled.
With a brief, answering smile, Montague went forward. Greatly daring, he reached for one of Violet’s hands, lightly held it. “This has all happened very quickly.”
He wasn’t simply speaking of Lady Halstead’s death and the consequent happenings of the tumultuous day; he was still coming to grips with his feelings for Violet, with the intensity of his reaction to her being within the orbit of a murderer, and to the implicit, if nebulous, threat hovering over her.
He looked into her eyes, studied her expression.
“This was the first time you’ve met Stokes and Adair—I wanted to reassure you that you may have every confidence in them.
The investigation couldn’t be in better hands.
They will work tirelessly to bring Lady Halstead’s murderer to justice.
” He held her soft blue gaze. “I know that’s important to you.
I understand why. It’s much the same compulsion I experience when one of my clients is harmed, but, I imagine, you feel the need even more keenly, as clearly you were close to Lady Halstead. ”
Violet felt her smile go awry. “She was a dear and didn’t deserve to be murdered.”
“No. But”—Montague inclined his head in a gesture that was a vow—“I, too, have an interest in this now, and with the four of us devoted to the cause, her ladyship will not go unavenged.” He held her gaze for a moment more, then bowed briefly and released her hand.
Violet turned to open the door. “Thank you for all your help today. I’m more grateful than I can say.”
Pausing in the doorway, he met her gaze again, then dipped his head. “I’ll call when we have further news.”
She inclined her head and watched him go down the steps and out of the gate. Lingering in the doorway, she let her gaze follow him as he strode down the pavement, broad shoulders square, head held high, solid, masculine confidence in every powerful line.
When he rounded the corner and disappeared from her sight, Violet sighed, then, feeling the tug of the sadness waiting within, she closed the door and turned away, sternly telling herself that this was neither an appropriate nor useful time to discover she still possessed the ability to dream.
After quitting the Lowndes Street house, Barnaby and Stokes hailed a hackney, and after a brief discussion elected to journey to Stokes’s house in Greenbury Street, in St. John’s Wood, there to mull over their impressions and observations in peace and comfort.
Through the rocking, rattling trip they kept their private counsels, allowing their minds to freely pick over the accumulated observations, searching for fresh insights to share once they’d gained the quiet of Stokes’s sitting room.
But on arriving in Greenbury Street and entering Stokes’s neat abode, they discovered their wives already in possession.
Both ladies were sitting on the floor, their skirts puffed about them, playing with young Oliver and the slightly younger Megan. Both babies were rolling on their backs, alert and chortling as they batted at toys their mothers dangled over them.
The sight brought Stokes and Barnaby to a halt in the doorway.
Barnaby felt as if something—some power—had punched him in the chest. He knew from the sudden stillness, the complete and utter absorption of the man beside him, that Stokes felt the same.
Penelope and Griselda had heard their footsteps—had seen them enter and had taken the moment of their stillness to study their faces and appreciate their reaction.
Then Penelope smiled and, with a flick of her wrist, sent the toy with which she’d been distracting Oliver flying at Barnaby’s chest.
Reflexively, he caught it. Spell broken, he glanced at her, met her dark, too-observant eyes.
Her smile deepened, edged with intent. “The investigators return—and clearly with some case afoot.” She waved to include the children. “So come and join us—and tell us all.”
Griselda, also smiling, nodded. “Indeed.” She threw the toy she’d been jiggling to Stokes. “Come and take over.” She started to get up. “I’ll have Mindy bring in the tea tray, and meanwhile you can sit, stretch your legs, and share the news about your latest case.”