Chapter 5
The rest of the copies of Lady Halstead’s financial documents that Montague had requested from Runcorn arrived just in time for Slocum to receive them before closing up for the day.
When Slocum carried the pile into his office, Montague was already tidying away the ducal accounts he’d been working through. There was nothing amiss in those ledgers; they could wait.
“Thank you, Slocum.” Taking the stack of documents, which was several inches thick, Montague placed the pile on his blotter, then looked at his senior clerk.
“It was lucky that I didn’t have any meetings scheduled earlier today.
” He’d arrived back in time for a late afternoon consultation with one of his newer clients.
“Given that unraveling Lady Halstead’s accounts has taken such a drastic and serious turn, I might well have to absent myself with little notice over the next several days.
What meetings have we scheduled? Are there any we should reschedule? ”
“Let me get the book.” Slocum went out to his desk and returned with his heavy office diary.
“Well, you’re in luck. Over the next week or so, you’ve only got meetings with second-tier clients, so Gibbons and Foster could deal with those.
” Slocum looked up, brows arching. “I’ll word them up in the morning, if you like? ”
“Who are the clients?” Montague listened as Slocum listed the names.
He considered, then nodded. “You can inform Gibbons and Foster they’ll be taking those meetings.
If I’m here, I’ll attend, but as an observer.
Gibbons and Foster can handle those meetings regardless—Gibbons to lead, Foster to support.
” Frederick Gibbons was a sound man who had been with Montague and Son for years, and Phillip Foster, although much less experienced, was shaping up nicely.
“It’ll be good experience for them both. ”
“I agree.” Slocum was scribbling notes in the big diary. “Never fear—between us we’ll take care of business.” Raising his head, Slocum glanced at the pile of papers on the blotter. “Looks like you’ll have your hands full combing through those.”
“Indeed.” Montague eyed the pile and couldn’t wait to plunge in. He glanced at Slocum. “Anything else?”
“No—that’s it.” Slocum closed the diary and saluted. “The others have already gone, so I’ll be off, too.”
“Good night.” Montague didn’t even wait for Slocum to leave before picking up the first document and starting to read.
The next hour ticked by. Only when the lamp on his desk started flickering and he realized the oil had burned low did he look up and through the window, and realize that evening had well and truly fallen.
A glance at the clock on the corner of his desk informed him that Mrs. Trewick would have his dinner ready and waiting upstairs; he tried not to inconvenience his housekeeper any more than was unavoidable.
He looked at the papers scattered over his desk.
The compulsion to pursue the explanation for the odd payments that had appeared in Lady Halstead’s account—which were possibly the motive behind her murder—was familiar to a point; in past cases, he’d often felt the call of professional duty, of a need to ensure that the laws were observed and justice was served in his chosen field.
This time, however, the impulse that drove him had a different feel, a sharper edge.
Violet Matcham was too close to the crime for his peace of mind.
He shied from looking too deeply at why that consideration should affect him so powerfully, yet he wasn’t about to deny that it did.
He needed to discover what in Lady Halstead’s accounts was worth murdering to conceal, and only when he had, and only when the murderer had been caught, would he be content that he’d done all he could.
That he’d accomplished what now seemed so vital: Protecting Violet from the murderer.
Keeping Violet safe.
He stared at the papers for a moment more, then rose, gathered them up, and with them tucked under his arm, he headed for the door, for his waiting dinner and his study upstairs.
That evening, Violet took her dinner with Tilly and Cook at the table in the kitchen. It was cozy there, and the warmth was much appreciated; upstairs, the house seemed to have grown unnaturally cold.
Cook, wispy red curls escaping from the edges of her white cap, huddled in her chair and poked at her perfectly tasty stew. “What if he comes back?”
Violet glanced up. “The murderer?”
“Aye.” Cook didn’t look up; she stared at her plate. “Just waltzed in here and killed the mistress, didn’t he? So what’s to stop him doing the same and smothering one of us in our beds?”
Violet glanced at Tilly and saw a similar anxiety in the maid’s eyes.
“I . . . can’t tell, of course.” She looked at Cook.
“Who can? But it does seem that there might be a reason behind her ladyship’s murder—those payments she was so exercised about—and if that’s true, then .
. . well, I can’t see any reason he would come back to kill any of us. ”
Tilly had lifted her glass of water. She took a sip, then, lowering the glass, cleared her throat and said, “Seems like, if he thought he had to kill her ladyship for a reason, and so far has got away with it, then the last place he’d think of coming back to would be here.”
“Yes, indeed.” Violet sat straighter. “And I’ve just remembered that the inspector told me that he’d left a man outside to keep an eye on the house. The constable inside has left, but for all we know, the man outside is still there.”
“Aye, well—here’s hoping he is.” Cook pushed her half-full plate away. “And that the blackguard, whoever he is, is more worried about hiding his face than bothering with us three here. It’s not as if we know anything.”
“Exactly.” Determined to steer talk away from the murder, and the murderer, Violet rose and lifted her plate. “I’ll help clear.”
It would keep her busy, keep her from dwelling on the fact that she wasn’t spending that evening in the sitting room reading to Lady Halstead. That she and Tilly wouldn’t have to help her ladyship up the stairs, and help her get ready for bed.
The big bedroom upstairs lay empty; the police had come and taken the body away for further examination.
Violet didn’t want to think about that. Once the dishes were done, she turned to Tilly. “Perhaps we can work on the mending.”
Both she and Tilly were excellent needlewomen; Cook sat for a while, silently staring at their flying fingers, then she humphed and went off to her bedroom beyond the kitchen.
Violet heard the door shut. A minute later, she heard a heavy thud, as if Cook had moved some piece of furniture up against the door.
Violet exchanged a glance with Tilly, who shrugged. “Can’t say as I blame her,” Tilly said. “Quite a shock today’s been.”
Lips twisting, Violet returned her gaze to the seam she was repairing.
Eventually, the mending all done and the lamps in the kitchen doused, each holding a flickering candle, Violet climbed the stairs with Tilly.
They parted on the first-floor landing, Tilly going along the corridor to the door to the staircase to the attic and her tiny dormer room.
Violet drew breath, then walked down the corridor in the opposite direction, past the door to Lady Halstead’s room, and further, to the door to her own small bedroom.
Opening it, she went in. Shutting the door, she studied the panels for several moments. Eventually, she turned away; there was no reason to allow fear to rule her.
Montague had assured her that, together with Stokes and Adair, he would work to see Lady Halstead avenged—to catch and bring her murderer to justice.
Placing trust and faith in the words of a man she barely knew would have seemed foolhardy a week ago; it didn’t now.
She believed him, had faith in his certainty.
Or was it that his faith fed her own?
Crossing to the chest of drawers, she set down the candlestick. Her thoughts continued to churn, freed, it seemed, by her finally being alone.
The fact that the villain was almost certainly one of Lady Halstead’s children, or their spouses, or possibly one of her grandchildren, was only now fully crystalizing in Violet’s mind.
That conclusion hadn’t been stated, not definitively, but the implication, the expectation, had colored the investigation thus far.
What to her was more damning was that it required near-impossible mental contortions to imagine that her ladyship’s murderer could be anyone else; other than her family, Lady Halstead had lived reclusively, increasingly so over the last two years.
Making a mental note to remember to mention that to Montague—or Adair or Stokes—Violet reached up and started unpinning her hair.
After brushing out the thick tresses, she undressed and donned her nightgown, a slight frown on her face, her mind revisiting all she’d ever witnessed of Lady Halstead interacting with her brood. Was there a hint there, somewhere, of which one was to blame?
As she slipped between the sheets, looking inward, she was somewhat surprised to discover a strength, a determination, she hadn’t known she possessed.
Despite the shock, despite the fact she wasn’t related to Lady Halstead in any way, she found a core of focused intention—she would see her ladyship’s killer caught.
The realization, the acknowledgment and acceptance of her instinctive commitment, that it was made, that it was there, that it would not waver, didn’t precisely soothe or calm her but rather gave her enough certainty, enough of a foundation on which to stand firm—and close her eyes.
To her surprise, sleep swiftly drew near. She must have been more exhausted than she’d realized.
As slumberous mists rolled into and through her mind, a face formed within them, strong and clear.
Behind him ranged two others, but they were less distinct.