Chapter 6
There it is.” Montague nodded across Winchester Street at the office of Runcorn and Son.
Beside him, Mrs. Adair—Penelope, as she’d insisted he call her—held up a gloved hand to screen her eyes. “Ah, yes. It looks decently prosperous.” Lowering her hand, she scanned the street. “I haven’t been in this area before. I’m always amazed by how immense London is.”
Striding along on her other side, Adair grinned but said nothing. He, too, was surveying the street, taking note of the area and the office.
The pair had arrived at Montague’s office for the meeting arranged the day before, bringing with them the news that Stokes had been summoned to a meeting on another case but hoped to join them within a few hours.
Adair had briefly explained his wife’s interest in the case, and that Stokes was aware of her involvement.
Having been exposed to ladies of Penelope Adair’s ilk through his association with various noble families, Montague took her presence—and her interest—in his stride.
He wasn’t foolish enough to underestimate her abilities, and he could easily imagine several ways in which her insights might prove valuable.
Consequently, he’d felt no reservations over sharing everything he’d thus far learned about Lady Halstead’s accounts, investments, and estate with Penelope as well as Adair.
Although he’d spent hours combing through the copies of Lady Halstead’s financial records, he had yet to find any hint of a legitimate source for the odd payments.
However, as he’d told the others, Sir Hugo Halstead had had his finger in a great many pies, and tracking, accounting for, and excluding every last possible avenue that might explain the odd payments was going to take considerable time.
The payments didn’t follow any recognizable pattern, but that didn’t mean some peculiar investment hadn’t been structured to pay out in such a fashion.
Until they excluded such a source—and that could only be done by exhaustive searching and analysis—that the payments were legitimate had to remain a possibility.
Against that, as Penelope had noted, stood the fact that her ladyship had been murdered all but coincident with her announcement that she was looking into her financial affairs.
Or rather, having them looked into.
They’d concluded that consulting with Runcorn as to whether he had a complete listing of the Halsteads’ investments, past as well as present, would be a helpful next step. Adair and Penelope had also been keen to meet the young man-of-business, in their eyes another player in the drama.
Crossing Winchester Street, they reached the door of Runcorn and Son. Opening the door, Montague stood back while Penelope and Adair entered, then Montague followed.
Only to walk into consternation.
An ashen-looking Pringle came hurrying up, waving his hands. “No, no—I’m sorry, ma’am, but the office is closed.”
Penelope blinked, then looked past the slight man at the two constables hovering about an inner door. “Why?”
Her question threw Pringle into an even greater fluster. “Ah . . .” Wringing his hands, he looked past Penelope to Adair, then further . . . and recognized Montague. “Oh, sir! Such a thing! It’s Mr. Runcorn, sir—he’s dead.”
“Dead?” All three of them echoed the word.
Adair threw Montague a glance.
“How?” Montague asked, moving forward to face Pringle.
“I’m . . . not sure.” Pringle looked unsteady on his feet. “If I had to guess, I’d say he was knocked on the head and strangled. Oh, my!”
“Here.” Penelope took Pringle’s arm and gently steered him to a chair—the one behind his raised desk, as it happened. “Sit and compose yourself.” She glanced around the small office. “Is there somewhere I could make you some tea?”
Pringle babbled his gratitude and pointed out the small door that led to a cramped service area. Penelope patted his arm and headed that way.
Montague studied Pringle’s face; if anything, the man had paled even more. He gentled his voice. “When did it happen, do you know?”
Pringle gulped. “I left him here as I usually do, about seven o’clock last night.
He was still searching through Lady Halstead’s file—he had all the documents spread out on his desk.
” Pringle looked toward the inner office.
“They’re still there. I saw them when I went in this morning .
. . and found him.” His voice broke. “Lying on the floor behind his desk . . . dead.” Pringle looked at Montague. “I knew he was dead right away.”
“Why did you go into the office?” Barnaby quietly asked. “Did something alert you?”
“No, no.” Pringle shook his head. “I went in to return the originals of the documents I’d copied for Mr. Montague.
I finished the copies late yesterday afternoon and hadn’t yet returned the originals to the Halstead box.
Mr. Runcorn had the box with him and was up to his eyeballs, so to speak, so rather than disturb him, I left the documents I had in my desk.
If he’d wanted them, he knew I had them and where they would be.
So this morning I thought he’d be finished with the box, and I went in with the documents to put them away .
. .” He swallowed. “And that’s when I found him. ”
“How very distressing.” Penelope arrived with a mug of strong tea. “Here—drink this, and try not to think about anything for a while.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Pringle accepted the cup, wrapping his thin hands around it. “You’re very kind.”
Barnaby waited for Pringle to take a sip of the tea—highly sugared, he had not a doubt; Penelope knew what was needed—then he asked, still speaking in a gentle tone, “After you found Mr. Runcorn, what did you do?”
Pringle sighed. “Didn’t know what to do, did I?
I panicked, dropped the documents on his desk, and rushed out into the street—and there were the two constables on their beat.
I dragged them in and showed them.” Without glancing at the inner office, he nodded that way.
“They’ve been in there ever since. I think they’ve sent for help from their station.
” He sipped, then glanced at the clock. “It hasn’t been that long.
I didn’t go into the office until after nine.
” He looked down. “I just thought he was in there working.”
Barnaby glanced at Montague, then walked toward the inner office. The door was fully open, but before he reached the doorway, a burly constable hove into view.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t come in here. Murder most foul. We’re waiting for the doctor and our sergeant—can’t let anything be touched until they say.”
“Indeed. I do hope you’ve touched as little as possible.
” Barnaby drew out a card case and flicked it open.
“I’m a consultant to the Metropolitan Police and am presently working on a case with Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard.
The case concerns a client of Mr. Runcorn.
She, too, was recently murdered. It’s therefore highly likely that Runcorn’s murder is linked to Stokes’s case.
That connection is why we”—with a wave, he indicated Penelope and Montague—“arrived to consult Mr. Runcorn.” Handing the constable one of Stokes’s cards, Barnaby added one of his own for good measure; there were times when being an “Honorable” could be helpful.
“I strongly suggest you send someone to summon Stokes immediately. He’s presently at the Yard in a meeting.
” Imagining Stokes’s response, Barnaby hid a wry smile.
“I can assure you he’ll want to be disturbed. ”
The constable frowned at the cards, then looked up at Barnaby and nodded. “Right. Thank you, sir. I’ll send my partner right away.”
Barnaby inclined his head and drifted back to rejoin the others. “Let’s give them a few minutes to get themselves organized.”
A few minutes was all it took; the burly constable sent his young, gangly partner off with orders to take a hackney to Scotland Yard and report to Inspector Stokes with all speed.
When the door shut behind the younger man, Barnaby arched his brows at Penelope and Montague, then ambled back, the other two following, to the inner office.
The burly constable saw them coming and straightened. “Sir?”
Knowing that the police surgeon for the district, harassed individuals though they always were, was likely to arrive before Stokes, Barnaby thought it wise to push a little.
“I wondered, Constable, if I might take a brief look. Our own investigations are pressing, and as what happened here was almost certainly an outcome of the earlier murder, if I could view the body, and even more the desk and the papers on it, we might be able to move matters forward at a better pace.”
From his expression, it was obvious the constable wasn’t sure he should agree but equally wasn’t sure of the wisdom of refusing.
In an understanding tone, Barnaby promised, “I won’t touch anything.”
The constable glanced past him at Penelope and Montague. “Just you?”
Penelope smiled reassuringly at the man. “We’ll wait in the doorway and just watch.”
The constable considered, then glanced at Barnaby. “All right, then. Just as long as you don’t move anything. Worth me job, that would be.”
Barnaby inclined his head and, sliding his hands into his greatcoat pockets, moved into the room. The constable watched from his station to one side of the open door. Penelope edged into the room, taking up position on the other side of the doorway while Montague hovered on the threshold.
While Adair slowly paced around the desk, Montague scanned the room, identifying what had changed since his previous visit.
Adair noticed. “Anything different?”