Chapter 8
So,” Stokes said, slouching in one of the chairs facing Montague’s desk, “no one saw any woman who might have been our mysterious lady in the vicinity of Runcorn’s office.
I’m inclined to think that she may have been brought in, even hired, purely to withdraw the money from the bank.
” Stokes glanced at Barnaby, seated to his right.
“Did you learn any more in Threadneedle Street?”
“As it happened,” Barnaby said, “luck favored me, and in more ways than one. First, I can report that the payments in question were deposited using a courier service. The tellers who received them are experienced enough to recognize the signs, and have remembered because they thought it odd that couriers were making deposits into Lady Halstead’s account. ”
Stokes grunted. “That increases the odds that this is something illegal and, what’s more, being carried out by someone with a criminal connection.”
Montague nodded. “That also fits with something I’ve discovered, but before we get to that”—he looked at Barnaby—“what else did you find?”
Barnaby grinned. “A young and observant street-sweeper, who remembers seeing our veiled lady come along the street from the bank to where a coach was waiting, drawn up by the curb. The door opened and the boy saw a gentleman inside the coach help the lady in.”
“And could our observant tyke describe the gentleman?” Stokes asked.
“He saw enough to tell me that the gentleman in question didn’t have a beard but sideburns, that his face was roundish, and he had brown hair. He couldn’t tell me how tall he was, and wasn’t sure about age.”
Stokes looked grim. “It seems that every clue we uncover points to our villain being one of the Halsteads.”
“True.” Barnaby grimaced. “But that leaves us with five—Mortimer, Maurice, William, Walter, and Hayden—and thus far all five fit our bill.”
“And,” Stokes said, “we shouldn’t at this point discount the possibility that two or more are in this together.” He frowned. “If that proves so, it’s going to make our job a lot more difficult.”
“Hmm.” Barnaby frowned, too. “If one did the first murder, and another the second . . .”
Stokes shook his head. “I don’t even want to think about it.”
After a moment, Barnaby looked at Montague. “You said you’ve discovered something?”
Montague, who had been following Stokes’s and Barnaby’s somewhat dismal line of thought, shook himself back to the present.
Then smiled. “Yes, indeed.” He lifted the list of payments with his annotations from his blotter.
“We can thank my senior assistant, Gibbons, for the vital insight, but once he suggested that the payments looked like income from the sales of something, it was easy enough to work out.” Reaching over the desk, Montague handed the sheet to Stokes, who held it so he and Barnaby both could view it.
After giving them a moment to scan his sums, Montague explained, “If one assumes that our villain is selling items each of which nets him two hundred and fifty pounds, and that he sells between five and nine such items every month, and that he then pays one of the courier services their customary two to three percent for the delivery into Lady Halstead’s account”—leaning back, he concluded with some satisfaction—“then it’s possible to account for each and all of those payments. ”
Barnaby glanced at him, then looked back at the list. “Fourteen different payments, and they all fit that pattern.”
Stokes grunted. “I’m no expert with numbers, but even I would say that’s conclusive.” Looking at Montague, he waved the list. “Can I keep this?”
Montague nodded. “I’ve already made another copy.”
Folding the paper, Stokes shifted to stow it in his coat pocket.
“So at this point, we have a gentleman who appears to be one of the Halsteads, or Walter Camberly, who is selling, or causing to be sold, items valued at two hundred and fifty pounds each, and he sells five to nine such items a month on a regular basis. Given that he’s sought to conceal his activities by using Lady Halstead’s account to hide his cash, and also accepting that there aren’t that many legal items one can sell for two hundred and fifty pounds at such a steady rate, then it’s reasonable, I would say, for us to assume that whatever trade this gentleman is dabbling in is illegal. ”
“And that, presumably,” Barnaby said, “is why he’s sought to conceal the money. Which raises the interesting question of which of the Halstead males has most to lose from his illegal activities becoming known?”
Stokes considered, then said, “Correct me if I err, but for my money the answer to that question is Mortimer Halstead, tied neck and neck with Wallace Camberly—and given there’s the possibility his son may be acting in conspiracy with Camberly, I believe we have to include him, too, even if he’s not the actual murderer. ”
Barnaby nodded. “And after the two older men, I would list Hayden Halstead and Walter Camberly. Within their circles, both are sons of prominent men—if their involvement in some illicit scheme became known, it would cause a scandal.”
Montague frowned. “What about Maurice Halstead, and the youngest brother, William?” When Barnaby glanced his way, Montague lifted one shoulder.
“My impression of the pair is that neither would care all that much, not from the point of view of concealment. Were either of them the villain, they would be more worried about being caught and stopped by the authorities than about hiding their identity and avoiding scandal.”
Barnaby thought, then slowly nodded. “I would have to agree. I can’t see any reason why either Maurice or William would bother with using their mother’s account, much less using couriers to do so.
In fact, I can see at least two to three percent of earnings that would influence them not to do any such thing. ”
Stokes pulled a face. “It’s tempting to speculate that William, at least, and likely Maurice, too, are more likely than any of the others to know how to contact the courier services, but you’re right—they appear to have no pressing motive for doing so.”
For several minutes, the three of them silently mulled over all they’d learned, then Stokes rose, and Barnaby followed. “I should get back to the Yard,” Stokes said. He arched a brow at Barnaby.
“I want to have a word with the police surgeon, just to confirm there’s no more he can tell us. I’ll come up and see you if there is.” Barnaby and Stokes both looked at Montague.
He noticed and, frowning, met their eyes.
“There’s one more thing I ought to do, just to be complete.
The money taken from her ladyship’s account has to go somewhere.
” He glanced at the clock on his desk. “Although I doubt I’ll get any answer until tomorrow, I will make discreet inquiries as to whether any of the Halsteads, or the Camberlys, made any large deposit into any of the accounts they have access to.
” He met Stokes’s eyes and faintly smiled.
“I would prefer that you didn’t ask me how, but I can also arrange to be notified should such a deposit be made over the next week. ”
Stokes inclined his head. “As that would be useful to know, I’ll refrain from asking you about your methods.”
“Of course,” Barnaby said, “it’s unlikely there’ll be any trace of it, not after he used her ladyship’s account presumably to ensure the money never appeared in his, but”—saluting Montague, he turned for the door—“you’re right.
We do need to check, because when dealing with villains, you never do know when they’ll slip up—”
“And then we’ll have them.” Stokes tipped a raised finger to Montague in farewell and followed Barnaby from the office.
Rising, Montague went to stand in the doorway to the outer office. Once Stokes and Barnaby had left, and Slocum, who had shown them to the door, shut it and headed back to his desk, Montague called, “Slocum? I have some letters to dictate.”
After shutting up the office, Montague had intended to go upstairs, to his home, but the cool of a surprisingly pleasant evening drew him outside.
The lamps were just being lit, but there was still enough light to comfortably stroll and enjoy the blanket of quiet that descended over the City now the bustling hordes who worked within it had streamed home to their dinners.
It was harder to use the pleasantness of the evening to excuse his hailing of a hackney and his consequent journey across town to Lowndes Street.
He understood Stokes’s wish not to inform Violet of Runcorn’s murder and the involvement of a lady who some might imagine to be Violet herself in the removal of funds from Lady Halstead’s bank account.
He even agreed with Stokes to some extent, but over the past hours, Penelope’s and Griselda’s words had tirelessly replayed in the back of his brain.
Now . . . despite not wishing to further distress Violet, the notion of keeping her uninformed of what had occurred smacked too much of leaving her unnecessarily defenseless.
Some very determined part of him he didn’t entirely recognize couldn’t abide that.
The hackney pulled up outside the Halstead house. After paying off the driver, Montague opened the gate, walked up the path, and climbed the steps to the pillared front porch. Removing his hat, he knocked on the door.
And steadfastly refused to think of precisely what he was doing, and why.
Footsteps approached, then Violet—when had he stopped thinking of her as Miss Matcham?—opened the door. The instant she saw him her expression lightened. “Mr. Montague. Good evening.” Stepping back, she waved him in. “Do come inside, sir. I take it you have news?”
Stepping over the threshold, he replied, “Of a sort.” Now he was there, he had to think of all that he’d determinedly not thought of during the journey. “Ah . . . I hope I’m not interrupting your meal.”
She smiled and reached for his hat. “No—Lady Halstead preferred to dine late, and we’ve . . .” Her voice faded and she blinked.