Chapter 8 #2
He handed her his hat. She took it and turned away to hang it on the hat-tree.
When she turned back, her face was solemn, but composed. She waved him to the sitting room. “Please, come in, and let’s sit comfortably.”
He inclined his head and stepped back to allow her to lead the way.
She did and he followed her into the sitting room, the same room that Lady Halstead had received him in.
In contrast to the more formal drawing room, it felt pervasively lived in; a small fire sent busy fingers of flame leaping up from the grate, chasing away the chill that had closed in with the fading of the light.
“So”—Violet sank into one of the chairs before the hearth—“what news, sir? Does Inspector Stokes have any suspicions as to who the murderer is?”
Sitting on the sofa facing the fire, Montague took in the angle of her chin, saw the tension in the fingers she clasped in her lap.
“As to that . . .” He hesitated, then said, “I regret I must inform you that when I called at Mr. Runcorn’s office this morning in company with Mr. Adair, we discovered poor Runcorn murdered. ”
One hand rose to her throat. Her face blanched; her eyes seemed to grow huge.
After an instant in which she seemed to cease breathing altogether, she hauled in a swift breath and blindly—instinctively—reached out with one hand, as if seeking support.
“My God—was it because of this business? Because of Lady Halstead’s affairs? ”
Montague didn’t think but simply reached across and closed his hand about her fingers.
They were icy; shifting forward on the sofa, his eyes on her face, he chafed her hand between both of his.
When her horrified gaze focused on his face, he inclined his head gravely.
“Sadly, it appears that way. Lady Halstead’s papers were scattered over his desk—his clerk had left him working through the Halstead file, and we believe the documents had been searched. ”
Her face, her fine features, registered a depth of sadness he hadn’t expected to see; he hadn’t thought she’d known Runcorn that well.
“That poor young man. He was so . . . eager and keen to make a go of his firm—you could see that just by looking at his face. Oh!” She looked down, her other hand rising to her lips, the fingers of the hand he still clasped clutching lightly. “I’m sorry. Pray forgive me . . .” She briefly waved.
“There’s nothing to forgive.” His voice had lowered, softened, affected by her reaction, and more, drawn by it to acknowledge a sense of loss he hadn’t yet allowed himself the time to feel.
Raising her head, blinking rapidly, she murmured, “It’s bad enough to lose someone like Lady Halstead to a murderer, but when the victim is young, innocent, and had so much potential, so much to live for, the loss is even more tragic.
” She met his eyes; her lips twisted wryly.
“I only met him three times, and briefly at that, but he seemed so earnest and . . . true, if you know what I mean.”
As if only then realizing they were holding hands, she gently drew back her fingers; reluctantly he allowed them to slip free of his grasp. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You must think me quite witless, being so affected by the death of someone I barely knew.”
“No. Not at all. I think you quite”—lovely, wonderful, glorious—“admirably sympathetic.” After a moment he added, gravely and sincerely, “Runcorn was a loss the world did not need.”
Her gaze had drifted to the flames, but at that she met his eyes directly. “Exactly. You do understand.”
He inclined his head.
She studied him for a moment, then prompted, “Is there anything more you can tell me? Are there any suspects in Runcorn’s murder?”
Montague hesitated, then mentally decided: Stokes be damned.
“There was a man—a gentleman . . .” He told her about the Halstead-like male seen near Runcorn’s office before and after the murder, then went on to relate all they’d done, all they’d discovered through the day.
He told her of his discovery of the likely meaning of the odd payments into Lady Halstead’s account; when he tried to heap praise on Gibbons, she seemed determined, while acknowledging Gibbons’s input, to focus on his own contribution .
. . enough to have him wonder if this was what it felt like to be seduced.
By her words and the thoughts behind them, by the admiration he saw shining in her fine eyes.
He was careful not to give any real details about the veiled woman who had conspired with the murderer to remove the suspect funds and more from Lady Halstead’s account.
But when he reached the end of his tale, Violet grew pensive, then proved that she was not at all lacking in intelligence.
Meeting his eyes, she stated, “The family will try to say that it was me, that I was the woman who withdrew the money from Lady Halstead’s account.
And by that reasoning, I am also guilty of her murder, or was at least an accomplice. ”
There was something in her face, in the set of her chin, that warned him not to pretend he didn’t think the same.
Resigned, he sighed and inclined his head. “Stokes, Adair, and I believe so. Either you, or, failing that, her ladyship’s maid. However, I cannot sufficiently stress that none of us believe it, either of you or Tilly.”
She straightened, incrementally drawing back, drawing away.
Spurred by an instinct, an impulse he had no name for, he reached across to take both her hands, one in each of his; she surrendered them with no resistance. He caught her eyes. “Violet—if I may call you that?”
She held his gaze for a moment, then, almost as if it was against her better judgment, fractionally nodded.
He drew breath and rushed on. “You must believe that none of us—those of us investigating this case—believe you or Tilly are in any way involved in these crimes. To us, it makes no sense to suspect you, but we realize that the family will attempt to point the finger at anyone rather than at one of their own, so . . .” He paused to draw breath, and something in him calmed, grew more certain.
“Stokes knows what he’s doing. He has standing, experience, and a great deal of discretion in what he consents to tell the family.
A part of the reason he has not yet summoned them again, has not even as yet informed them of Runcorn’s murder, much less the situation with her ladyship’s account, is that he wishes to gather more facts and information before he does.
The more knowledge we have of what occurred, the more obvious it will be that none of these crimes can be laid at your door. ”
Holding her gaze, he went on, his voice lowering.
“You must believe me when I say we are all working to catch the murderer, and parallel to that, to exonerate you.” It was suddenly very important that she did believe that.
His eyes locked with hers, he murmured, “Trust me, Violet. Regardless of all else, I—we—will ensure that no harm comes to you.”
Violet looked into eyes that overflowed with sincerity. With such rock-solid certainty that she couldn’t deny what he asked of her—that she believe him. That she trust him.
She wasn’t sure how he had managed in so short a time to figure so highly in her regard, yet somehow, at some level she could not question yet didn’t understand, he had come to be her rock, the one person she could rely on.
“I do trust you.” The words fell from her lips in a tone that instantly brought warmth to her cheeks. She cleared her throat, strengthened her voice to quickly add, “And Inspector Stokes and Mr. Adair. I . . . do have faith that you’ll identify the murderer, or at least do your best—”
“We’ll find him.”
And there it was again—that unwavering certainty, the product, she sensed, of incorruptible devotion. From their earlier meetings, she’d recognized him as a cautious man who did not give his promises lightly, but when he did . . .
Looking into his eyes, meeting his certainty with the openness and directness she felt she owed him, she inclined her head. “Thank you.”
His fingers tightened about hers and he drew breath as if to speak, but then the wind howled outside, and he fell silent. After a moment of studying her face, he lightly squeezed her fingers, then released them. Rising, he gave her his hand to help her to her feet.
When she straightened, her head barely reached his chin. Again their gazes met; again she sensed he debated his next action. Then he took a small step back. “I really must go—I’ve interrupted your evening for long enough.”
She could have disabused him of any notion that she had tired of his company, but she suspected he lived some distance away, and from the sound of the wind the evening had turned vicious. “I’ll see you to the door.”
He followed her from the room and took his hat from her hand, but paused on the threshold. His gaze traveled her face before locking with hers for a last fleeting moment, then he inclined his head. “I will call again when we have news.”
Stepping outside, he placed his hat on his head, settled and buttoned his coat, then went down the steps.
Violet pushed the door almost shut, blocking the chill wind, but she remained peering out. Watching him stride away.
Only when he had passed into the square and out of her sight did she close the door.
She stood staring at the panels for several moments, wondering, reliving in her mind the past minutes, the swirling eddies of emotion he, his presence, had evoked, the currents that both of them—she would swear—had been aware of, had been sensitive to.
She’d never felt the like, that strange mutual awareness.
The wind shrieked and broke the spell.
Abruptly shaking herself, she reached up and threw the heavy bolt at the top of the door, then bent to slide the lower bolt into place as well. She doubted they would have any further callers; the night had turned dark and ominous outside.