Chapter 15 #5
Meeting her eyes, he grinned. “No firm operating in the financial arena will unnecessarily allow their name to be cited in court proceedings, certainly not in relation to any unresolved question. They will want this matter clarified and dealt with before the estate is passed in for probate. I fully expect them to respond to my request with the name of the current owner, but, as they are in Manchester, that information won’t reach me until tomorrow at the earliest, and perhaps not until the next day. ”
They strolled on; after several minutes, she asked, “Is there anything else you—we—might do to learn what happened to that share certificate?”
He shook his head. “It’s as I explained last night.
If we start asking openly, trying to locate the current owner, we will almost certainly find that person alerted to our inquiries before we learn his name.
If it’s the murderer who is the current owner, then we can all but guarantee he’ll flee, and that long before we can get to his door.
” He glanced at her. “Asking in the way that I have, within the fraternity, so to speak, and we are, after all, a very discreet lot, then the Manchester firm will think to protect the current owner from having to deal with whatever court mess might otherwise ensue and so will give me his name, assuming I will then simply find proof of a chain of transfer, all legal and aboveboard, and no one will hear of the matter again.”
“Ah—I see.” After a moment, she met his eyes, quiet amusement showing clearly in her own. “I will be sure to repeat that to Penelope—who is certain to champ at the proverbial bit when she hears of the delay.”
He laughed and closed his hand over hers where it rested on his sleeve. In pleasant and mutual accord, they ambled on beneath the autumnal trees.
But by the time they turned and headed back toward Albemarle Street, along with a sense of regret over soon losing Montague’s—Heathcote’s—company, Violet’s mind had thrown up an even darker thought. And once she’d thought of it, it blossomed, overriding all else, all other considerations.
She waited until they were once more back in the front hall, and Mostyn left them, giving her privacy in which to bid Heathcote farewell.
Holding out both hands to him, she caught his gaze as he took her fingers in his warm and comforting clasp.
“These inquiries of yours . . .” She paused, then quietly said, “I cannot forget that Runcorn was murdered, and, it seems, the motive was to conceal who stole this certificate.” She let her concern—real and welling—show in her eyes, then simply said, “You will be careful, won’t you?
” Feeling she’d pressed too far, she hurried to add, “I know it’s not my place, but—”
“On the contrary.” He held her gaze, then, very deliberately, he raised one of her hands and pressed a kiss—a gentle, warm, but entirely chaste kiss—to the backs of her fingers. “If there is any right in question, then, my dear Violet, I freely cede it to you.”
The ensuing moment grew intense. Locked in each other’s eyes, searching the other’s eyes, they each looked for, and saw, found . . .
He hesitated, then said, “Now is not the time. But after this is over and all is settled . . . ?”
She hesitated not at all. She nodded, and for good measure stated, “Yes. When this is all over . . . we will talk about this then.”
His lips eased into a slow, gentle smile.
She returned it. Her heart gave a silly little leap when, releasing her hands, he raised one finger and with its back lightly caressed her cheek.
The breath he drew in as he lowered his hand seemed tight. “I must go.”
Wordless, she nodded. As he set his hat on his head, she moved past him and opened the door.
As he crossed the threshold, she said, “I’ll be sure to pass the gist of all you said on to Barnaby, and Stokes, if he calls.”
Gaining the pavement, he turned and flashed her a smile. “And you’ll have to tell Penelope and Griselda, too, because if you don’t, they’ll drag it from you.”
Violet laughed. With a jaunty salute, Montague strode away down the street.
She watched him go, then closed the door on a happy sigh.
Well, well, well! Who would have thought it of Walter?”
He certainly hadn’t. He’d always imagined Cynthia’s get to be a mere cypher, little more than a stuffed doll—the expected heir—that she and Wallace trotted out for public consumption whenever a son’s existence might improve their standing.
“I would never have imagined that Walter would have the intestinal fortitude to do anything so wonderfully, outrageously criminal. And so very socially unacceptable! And now . . .” His smile knew no bounds. “Oh, how the mighty are fallen!”
Even he could hear the gloating joy in his voice, the sound filling the quiet of his dressing room with openly malicious glee.
He reveled in it.
“And, oh, joy of joys, how terribly perfect if Walter is blamed for the murders, too!”
He honestly couldn’t imagine any happening that would more delight him.
It took several minutes before the euphoria engendered by that prospect drained sufficiently for his underlying, ever-present obsession to resurface. But once it had . . . he still wasn’t safe.
He had yet to fully secure his future.
He grimaced, but then turned thoughtful.
“With the police focusing on Walter, perhaps now is the time to silence Miss Matcham?” He considered his reflection in his shaving mirror, tipping his head as he considered.
“On the other hand, perhaps that’s a sign to hold back for just a little longer.
” Eyes narrowing, he murmured, “But it would be unwise to wait too long—best if Miss Matcham’s death can be made to appear connected in some way . . .”
Several minutes ticked by, then his expression started to lighten.
“Perhaps Miss Matcham might have an ‘accident’—something that will suggest that she might have killed herself out of remorse for the old lady’s and the maid’s murders .
. . what if Miss Matcham was the one who’d had a lover?
And that lover had, with Miss Matcham’s connivance, killed the old lady, the man-of-business, and the maid, but, in the end, the murders prove too much for Miss Matcham’s delicate sensibilities, so she kills herself, but takes the name of her lover to the grave .
. .” He smiled. “Oh, yes. That will do nicely.”
He stood before his mirror and watched himself think things through.
Miss Matcham had yet to remember anything relevant, or, at least, she had yet to say anything to the police, or they would have come knocking at his door asking very awkward questions.
He had no way of knowing whether the matter of the share certificate he’d stolen would ever surface, but if it did .
. . the maid had surprised him in the old lady’s room; she’d seen him going through the share certificates, so she had had to die.
Given Miss Matcham and the maid had been close, he had to assume that the maid had mentioned finding him doing something she didn’t understand with her mistress’s papers to her friend.
Hence, for his peace of mind, Miss Matcham, too, had to depart this earth.
Until she did, until he could be certain there was no threat of exposure hanging over his head, he would never be able to relax and enjoy the fruits of his considerable labors.
So Miss Matcham had to die. The only questions remaining were: When? And: How?