Chapter 13
So, you see, we have to act tonight.” Halting before her drawing room fireplace, Penelope looked from face to face around the circle of her assembled colleagues.
Barnaby and Stokes were present, along with Montague, each seated in one of the large armchairs, while Griselda and Violet had sat on the chaise, allowing Penelope to claim center stage as she’d paced before the fireplace and described in succinct and factual fashion all she, Griselda, and Violet had discovered that afternoon.
It was already early evening, and time was slipping away.
After racing back to town, they’d let Griselda down in Greenbury Street, then Penelope and Violet had driven straight on to Scotland Yard.
There, they’d found Stokes and Barnaby rechecking statements taken from witnesses about Runcorn’s murder.
After listening to a brief account of what the ladies had discovered, Stokes had sent a runner to summon Montague, and they’d repaired to Albemarle Street.
Griselda, with Megan and her nursemaid, Gloria, had arrived shortly after, closely followed by Montague.
In keeping with her new policy of balance, Penelope had decided that the proud fathers should entertain Oliver and Megan.
Leaving the gentlemen, supervised by Griselda and Violet, thus engaged, Penelope had consulted with Mostyn and organized a simple dinner of cold meats, bread, cheese, and fruits, which, given the early hour and the relaxed company, they’d consumed en famille in the dining room.
Once the meal had been consumed, and Oliver and Megan had been handed to their respective nursemaids, the company had regrouped and repaired to the more spacious drawing room.
There, aided by Violet and Griselda, Penelope had described all they’d discovered that day, from Violet’s recollection of the letter, to their brief visit to Lowndes Street, and their subsequent journey into Essex, capped by their unexpected discoveries at Noak Hill.
To her mind, and Violet’s and Griselda’s, the need to act now, tonight, was self-evident.
In response to her summation, Stokes exchanged a look with Barnaby, then looked back at her. “Tell me again the reasons you believe we must move on this place tonight.”
Penelope stared at Stokes, amazed that he hadn’t seen the obvious, but then she realized he wasn’t disputing her conclusion but instead was asking her to restate and reinforce the arguments he would need to convince and win over his superiors.
She blew out a breath; where to start? “Well, I suspect the first point we need to make is the intuitive connection Lady Halstead drew between what was going on at her country house, The Laurels, and the odd payments into her bank account.” Resuming her pacing, Penelope continued, “Although she subsequently downplayed it, that connection was instrumental in pushing her ladyship into having her affairs examined by Runcorn—and we are all in agreement that that action is what led to Lady Halstead’s, Runcorn’s, and Tilly’s murders.
So the strange entertainments, as Mrs. Findlayson terms them, being held at The Laurels appear critically connected, motive-wise, to the three murders. ”
Pausing, Penelope arched a brow at Stokes.
Fingers steepled before his face, he nodded. “That’s good as far as it goes. But why now—why tonight?”
“Because,” Penelope continued, “according to the signs the locals have noted, there will be another such entertainment held tonight. The timing of these entertainments appears to mirror the odd payments—another, more definite link—but, therefore, after tonight there will not be another such entertainment for another month. However”—she held up a finger—“we know that the murderer is aware that the police are now involved, so there is every reason to suppose that tonight’s event will be the last—his last hurrah, as it were, at least at The Laurels. ”
“Why,” Barnaby asked, taking on the role of devil’s advocate, “if he’s worried about police attention, would he even bother to hold an event tonight?”
Penelope looked at him, momentarily at a loss, but then she grimly smiled.
“Because he has wares to clear.” Confidence escalating, she looked at Montague.
“The items Montague has deduced he’s selling, each worth two hundred and fifty pounds.
” She looked back at Barnaby, then shifted her gaze to Stokes.
“And those items aren’t the sort one can lock in a cupboard and leave until later. ”
Stokes nodded. “Very good.” He was clearly formulating his approach to his superiors, an urgent request that, given all they’d learned, needed to succeed.
Barnaby glanced around at the others. The atmosphere in the room, between the six of them, had been progressively changing ever since their ladies had arrived back from Essex with their news.
The more he, Stokes, and Montague had heard of what Penelope, Griselda, and Violet had uncovered .
. . while some part of their initial response had been faint and, as far as they’d been able to manage, well-concealed horror at the ladies’ glib and apparently carefree plunge into active and independent investigation, none of the ladies’ actions had been reckless, and, at all times, as Penelope had promised, they’d had support and protection in the form of her coachman, groom, and footman—all men Barnaby himself had vetted and on whom he and Stokes knew they could rely.
Their initial instinctive horror had been quickly submerged by building excitement, by increased focus and eagerness.
Their ladies had found the key to the murders, and neither he, Stokes, nor, he judged, Montague, were the sort of men to deny approbation and applause where it was due, much less hesitate to seize the information the ladies had assembled and use it to push the investigation along.
And the ladies were with them every step of the way. This investigation was now very much a fully fledged joint effort involving all six of them; each of them had a personal interest, had committed themselves to seeing it through.
As a group, together.
It was a heady, exhilarating, stimulating situation.
Stokes looked up at Penelope. “If, as Barnaby and I have already reported, he—whoever he is—is primarily driven by a wish to keep his identity a secret, isn’t it likely that you three turning up at the door of The Laurels this afternoon will have put our bird to flight?
Why, knowing you had called—and you did state you were acquainted with the Halstead family—would he remain, waiting for the authorities to turn up and expose him?
Isn’t it more likely that he would take his wares and run? ”
“No, he can’t.” Barnaby couldn’t help himself; the excitement of pulling the strands together was too great a lure.
“The event has already been advertised.” He met Stokes’s eyes.
“All those carriages that turn up to every event—they’re not local.
They have to come from somewhere. Those people—his customers, if you will—have already been notified that there’s an event, a sale of some sort, on tonight.
He can’t just up and shift the location and time, not without risking a great deal, especially given that those he’s dealing with are unlikely to be your average merchant. ”
“Indeed.” Penelope sank onto the arm of Barnaby’s chair.
“And I believe you can be confident that although he—whoever he is—presumably knows by now that some lady is likely to pass on to the Halstead family the fact that someone is using The Laurels, he won’t imagine that lady will be moved to do so tonight, or even tomorrow, much less that her information will occasion immediate action by Scotland Yard.
” Raising her hands, palms up, she looked at Griselda and Violet.
“We were just three females, after all—hardly likely to be an imminent threat.”
Montague and Stokes both snorted.
“However,” Violet said, her clear voice a contrast to Penelope’s forceful tones, “I would wager that if you sent men up there tomorrow, they’ll find nothing more than an empty house.”
Barnaby nodded. “That’s all but certain.
” He met Stokes’s eyes. “He—whoever he is—is locked into holding his entertainment tonight. For multiple reasons, he can’t call it off, and although he must know by now that he won’t be able to continue with his business, at least not from The Laurels, from his point of view, his best—indeed, most obvious—course will be to continue with tonight’s event, and then relocate with all speed. ”
Stokes held his gaze, the expression in his gray eyes distant as he re-trod their case.
The case he would lay before his superiors in support of his request for the authority and men to mount a raid on The Laurels tonight.
Slowly, Stokes nodded. “So if we leave it, even until tomorrow, we’ll almost certainly lose him.
A man who has committed three murders—three murders the commissioners would like to see solved before the news sheets get wind of them and the Halsteads, and even more the Camberlys, come under public scrutiny.
The commissioners want a result, and this is clearly an excellent chance to leap ahead several steps in our investigation—all the way to identifying this not-so-easy-to-identify villain. ”
Barnaby tilted his head. “That should shift them, don’t you think?”
Stokes grimaced. “I hate politics—I’m sure all the commissioners as well as the Chief will want to agree and give the go-ahead, but .
. . I fear they’ll hesitate. Even with your father there, and Peel, too, the others will want to weigh up the pros and cons, to assess how the case weighs in the public scale.
And with Camberly and Halstead involved .
. .” Leaning forward, Stokes clasped his hands between his knees.
“If there was something—just one more thing that would be certain to keep the public on the police’s side, even if this raid proves to be a complete waste of time—”