Chapter 10
Stokes had sent formal requests for the Halsteads and the Camberlys to assemble at the Lowndes Street house at two o’clock that afternoon.
As Penelope had said, “At that hour, they can’t fob you off by saying they have to attend a luncheon, or any other pressing social event.”
Stokes wondered if it was the lack of a viable excuse that saw all the Halstead brood trooping into the drawing room at the appointed time—or curiosity.
Watching the arrivals from the rear of the front hall, he murmured to Barnaby, standing beside him, “That rivalry of theirs could work to our advantage.”
Barnaby’s lips lifted in a cynical smile. “You mean they’ve come to learn what you’ve uncovered about the others?” Watching Constance Halstead whisper to her daughter, Caroline, as they passed through the door, he nodded. “You may well be right.”
After a moment, Stokes said, “I wish I could believe that Montague’s searching might give us the answer, but I can’t imagine our villain being silly enough to put his cash anywhere it might be found. Especially not after this business with her ladyship’s accounts.”
“No. He won’t be that stupid.” Montague had told them that it would take several days for him to hear back about the current state of the Halsteads’ bank accounts.
“I agree with Montague that it’s one of those things we need to check, on the grounds that we would be stupid not to, just in case, but from the start this villain was cagey enough to know he needed to conceal that money—even more now than before, he’s not going to allow it to be found and connected with him. ”
Stokes snorted. “If I were him, I’d put it in a tin under the bed.”
“On top of the wardrobe,” Barnaby murmured back. “Maids eventually find things hidden under beds.”
Stokes’s teeth flashed in a grin.
But he was severely sober when, with Barnaby and Montague, he walked into the drawing room.
Violet, Penelope, and Griselda had gone into the room before any of the family had arrived; if anyone had questioned Penelope and Griselda’s presence, Penelope had intended to adopt her most haughty manner and inform them that she and Griselda were there supporting Violet.
As Stokes noted all three ensconced on a chaise beneath the windows opposite the fireplace, a position that afforded a clear view of the family members gathered in the chairs and on the twin sofas flanking the hearth, he assumed that any who had dared dispute their right to be there had been duly put in their place.
The three ladies were specifically charged with observing, both the individual reactions and the family interactions; Stokes didn’t anticipate them contributing to the proceedings and fervently hoped they wouldn’t.
Explaining why their wives were posing questions in an interview would, he felt, tax even Barnaby’s ingenuity.
After surveying the family and confirming all were present, Stokes crossed to take a position before the fireplace, from where he had an excellent view of all in the room.
Barnaby and Montague followed; Barnaby halted on Stokes’s right, with Montague beyond him.
They, too, could see everyone’s faces, could watch and note every reaction.
Two constables unobtrusively came into the room and, after quietly shutting the door, took up stations to either side.
They’d decided to use the drawing room rather than the dining room for this confrontation purely because the setting gave Stokes, and Barnaby and Montague, the advantage of height. They were standing, while, of course, the Halstead men had claimed prime positions on the sofas and in the armchairs.
Stokes was determined to shake the family and see what fell out of their tree.
“Well, Inspector,” Wallace Camberly said, “what news?”
“I do hope you’re here to tell us that the police have our mother’s murderer behind bars.” Mortimer Halstead all but sniffed. “God knows Peel’s force has been endowed with sufficient resources.”
Cynthia Camberly, née Halstead, smiled somewhat unctuously at Stokes. “Don’t mind my brother, Inspector—he tends to be rather bureaucratically minded. But I take it you have news to impart?”
Stokes had shifted his gaze from Wallace to Mortimer; now he allowed it to rest on Cynthia for a moment too long to be comfortable—for his scrutiny to edge into insultingly superior—then, slowly, he surveyed the circle of faces.
Only when his visual claiming was complete did he say, “I’ve summoned you here to inform you that Mr. Andrew Runcorn, of Runcorn and Son, whom Lady Halstead had requested to review her affairs, was murdered two nights ago. ”
Barnaby concentrated on the younger men—on Walter Camberly and Hayden Halstead—leaving Montague to watch their fathers, Wallace and Mortimer.
As far as Barnaby could see, both young men’s reactions fitted with their characters and ages—Walter, some years older, looked faintly shocked and a touch puzzled, while Hayden, although noting the information, continued to look quietly, rather sullenly, bored.
Walter hadn’t expected to hear such news and didn’t know what to make of it, while Hayden really didn’t care—Runcorn’s death meant nothing to him.
Whoever had murdered Runcorn, Barnaby decided, it wasn’t either of them.
After an initial moment of faintly shocked surprise, Cynthia leaned forward. Fixing Stokes with a commanding eye, she asked, “Are you suggesting, Inspector, that Mr. Runcorn’s murder was in some way associated with his work on my mother’s affairs?”
Again, Stokes was deliberately slow in answering, but eventually, he said, “As your mother’s papers were scattered over Mr. Runcorn’s desk and had obviously been searched, it’s difficult to avoid that conclusion, ma’am.”
“Well!” Constance Halstead’s bosom swelled. “I really cannot see why anyone would have any interest in Mama-in-law’s affairs. It must have been purely coincidental that her papers were on Mr. Runcorn’s desk at that time.”
“Indeed.” Wallace Camberly’s tone was clipped.
“As her ladyship had requested Mr. Runcorn to review her affairs, I cannot see that there’s any great significance in her papers being on his desk at the time of his murder.
” His gaze flat, Camberly met Stokes’s eyes.
“I believe you are making too much of a deductive leap, Inspector. Runcorn doubtless had many clients, and who are we to say who he might or might not have crossed through his work? His murder might have come about through his association with any of those others. As far as I can see, there’s no reason whatever to suggest that his unfortunate murder was in any way connected with his work for Lady Halstead. ”
Unperturbed and imperturbable, Stokes regarded Camberly for a long moment, then raised his gaze and again swept the gathering. “You might also be interested to learn that, on the morning following Mr. Runcorn’s murder, a large sum of money was withdrawn from Lady Halstead’s bank account.”
That caused a far more acute reaction.
“Who by?” Mortimer demanded.
“The devil!” Maurice shot upright in the corner of the sofa in which he’d been sprawled. “Do you mean that we—Mama—have been robbed?”
Cynthia’s expression shifted from shock to calculation. “How much was taken?”
“And how?” Wallace Camberly’s question was more in the nature of a peremptory demand. “Great heavens—the banks are supposed to have procedures in place to prevent this sort of thing.”
“Indeed—and they do.” Mortimer huffed. “Just what is going on here, Inspector? Is the bank itself somehow involved?”
Comments, conjecture, and speculation came from all quarters; even Caroline was moved to exclaim over the lost funds.
Stokes decided they’d gone on long enough—that his observers had had time enough to observe.
He shifted—a single, forceful, menacing movement that instinctively had everyone glancing at him—then waited until the babbling ceased and their attention was once again his.
“The police have established that the bank acted properly. They fulfilled a request submitted in writing by Lady Halstead. The bank was unaware that her ladyship was deceased. As Runcorn had not yet been informed of Lady Halstead’s murder, then he, as her ladyship’s man-of-business, had not yet informed the bank of the change in his client’s situation.
On close inspection, the letter presented to the bank was discovered to be a forgery, but a very good one.
Whoever wrote it was extremely well acquainted with her ladyship’s hand. ”
“Who presented the letter to the bank?” William asked.
Stokes regarded him for a moment before replying, “A veiled woman, thought to be a lady, although her station was purely an assumption.”
A puzzled silence fell. Constance Halstead was the first to turn her head and look across the room at Violet, sitting on the chaise flanked by Griselda and Penelope.
Constance’s daughter, Caroline, noticed, and she, too turned to look.
One by one, the others realized, and then all were staring at Violet, varying degrees of speculation verging on imminent accusation in their faces.
“Why wear a veil?” Cynthia mused.
Mortimer took her question at face value. “Obviously,” he retorted, “to conceal her identity.”
Cynthia’s lips curved sarcastically as she glanced pityingly at Mortimer. “Precisely. Which suggests she expected to be recognized.” Cynthia lifted her gaze to Stokes’s face. “Does that not suggest, Inspector, that the veiled woman was in some way connected with my mother?”
Constance Halstead turned from her pointed scrutiny of Violet to add, “Especially with the letter being such a close match to Mama-in-law’s hand.”
“That,” Stokes gravely conceded, “is one possible interpretation, but as the police have already discounted the members of her ladyship’s immediate household, I would be interested in hearing of which other females linked to Lady Halstead you think might warrant further investigation.”