Chapter 17 #2
“I know I shouldn’t,” Stokes said, meeting Barnaby’s gaze, “yet I’m back to thinking we’ve been making this a lot more complicated than it needs to be.
” He glanced at the others, his gaze touching all their faces.
“The chances are that, once we confirm that it was Maurice who gave Corby the share certificate, we’ll have our man, and he’ll prove to have committed all three murders.
” Stokes met Barnaby’s gaze. “You said it earlier—the murders were all about our man protecting himself from exposure over something, and now we know that something was the debt to Corby and the theft of that share certificate to cover it.”
“From all I’ve heard over the years,” Violet said, “Maurice is barely tolerated on the fringes of the social circles to which he aspires to belong.” She glanced at the others.
“If it came out that he’d gambled with Corby and, after he’d lost, had stolen from his mother to cover the debt, and, more, had then passed off a stolen share certificate to Corby .
. . well, he wouldn’t be welcomed even within the gentleman’s clubs, would he? ”
“Exactly,” Stokes said. “We have sound motive, and the means, now all we need is the final proof. One man, one Halstead—despite all the distractions, we don’t need more than him to account for all the crimes.”
After a moment, Barnaby nodded. “Agreed. The possibility of a family conspiracy might be there, but we’ve found no evidence that such an unholy alliance actually occurred. One man, one Halstead—and Maurice Halstead seems to be our man.”
The six of them massed in the front hall, those departing putting on their coats and saying their good-byes.
Griselda had brought little Megan with her when she’d arrived earlier in the afternoon. Hettie, Oliver’s nursemaid, brought the sleeping bundle down from the nursery and gently placed her in Griselda’s arms.
“There now.” Smiling, Hettie stepped back. “She was right as rain the whole time. She and Master Oliver played for a while, then out like lights, they were.”
“Good.” Tucking a fold of the blanket over Megan’s dark head, Griselda smiled at Hettie. “Thank you for watching over her, Hettie.”
Hettie beamed, bobbed a curtsy, then went back up the stairs.
Stokes, who had hovered at Griselda’s elbow, bent to check on his daughter, then, satisfied she was sleeping soundly, he straightened and turned to shake Barnaby’s hand and exchange a brief hug with Penelope, while Barnaby peeked at Megan and gave Griselda’s shoulders a gentle squeeze.
“Safe journey home,” Barnaby said. He nodded to Mostyn, who opened the front door.
Stokes shook Montague’s hand. “Let me know as soon as you hear.”
“I will,” Montague assured him.
With a smile and a salute for Violet, Stokes gathered Griselda, who had already touched cheeks with Penelope and Violet, within one arm and ushered her down the steps to their small black carriage, which was waiting by the curb.
Montague watched Stokes, a powerfully built man with considerable standing, hover protectively over his wife and daughter, and acknowledged the visceral tug, the deep-seated yearning, not a jealousy but the recognition of an emptiness he now knew he needed to fill.
He might be London’s most lauded man-of-business, but in the final weighing, his life would be worth very little if he didn’t make a push to secure and embrace all he’d thus far lived without.
Not out of choice so much as out of negligence. Of always having work to do.
Montague was about to turn to Violet, when Barnaby swung his way.
A chill breeze whisked through the door, and Mostyn quickly shut it.
“I have to admit,” Barnaby said, a touch of self-deprecation in his expression, “that I hadn’t truly registered that stealing the shares and having that come out might be sufficient motive for murder in and of itself, but for such as the Halsteads, with their social aspirations”—he glanced at Violet, who had drawn nearer with Penelope—“the threat of being identified as such a thief would loom exceedingly large.”
Montague nodded. He glanced around the faces. “Rest assured I’ll send word the instant I have confirmation.”
With a smile, Barnaby shook his hand; Penelope squeezed his arm, then stepped back. Leaving Montague to finally turn to Violet.
He discovered her tightening a warm shawl about her shoulders. She smiled. “Let me walk you out through the garden.”
His answering smile felt like sunshine on his face. “Thank you. I’d like that.”
With the briefest of nods to Barnaby and Penelope, he followed Violet into the garden parlor and out onto the side terrace.
They both paused on the terrace and looked up at the sky. It was chilly but crisp, a fine October night, with the scent of wood smoke on the air and a black velvet sky above.
“We’re nearly there, aren’t we?” Violet asked.
“Yes.” He offered his arm and she tucked her hand comfortably in the crook of his elbow.
As he steered her down the shallow steps to the lawn, he added, “After Barnaby’s discovery, the information from Corby will merely be the final confirmation—the last piece of evidence needed to convict Maurice Halstead. ”
She shivered. “They truly have proved to be a malignant brood. I will be glad to have this ended, to be able to face forward and look ahead without the specter of a villain lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce, hanging over me.” She glanced at him, her lips curving.
“I have realized that you—and the others, too—have been most assiduous in keeping me company whenever I step out of the house, out of Mostyn and company’s care. ”
He shrugged. “We value you. We . . .” He paused, then, voice lowering, went on, “I don’t want to lose you—not even to risk it.” He met her gaze. “Not now I’ve found you.”
Her smile grew more mysterious; as they strolled slowly down the side lawn toward the garden gate that gave onto Albemarle Street, she murmured, “Rest assured my sentiments are complementary.” She held his gaze. “I don’t want to lose you, either—not now I’ve found you.”
Their steps slowed even more. “Tell me,” he said, “what do you seek of life? Courtesy of Lady Halstead, you will shortly have sufficient funds to live comfortably for the rest of your days.”
She nodded, her expression serious as she said, “The one thing I would choose is to not live alone.” She glanced at him. “Not if I didn’t have to—not if there was someone I wished to share a life with.”
He halted, drawing her to face him. “You know I would gladly share my life with you—that out of all this, that’s the hope, the reward, that for me shines most strongly.”
“As it does for me.” Her sincerity rang in her tone, invested her expression. She paused, then, drawing breath, continued, “When this is ended—”
“The instant it is.”
She nodded, more confident, growing more assured.
“As soon as we are free of the tangle of the Halsteads, we—you and I—will . . .” Her hand slid from his elbow to his palm; they both looked down, watched as, driven by their unvoiced need, their fingers twined.
She looked up, and hope shone in her eyes.
Raising their linked hands, he brushed a kiss to her knuckles.
“We will speak, and talk, and discuss—and we will figure out the ways so that we can live together, so that we can grow together in the ways that best suit us. We are both our own people—we can do as we wish. But for the record, my dear Violet—”
“No!” Slipping her fingers from his, she placed them over his lips.
“Don’t say it.” Then she smiled, taking all sting from her words.
“I’m . . . a little superstitious. Saying it seems like tempting Fate, and with the likes of Maurice Halstead hovering .
. .” She blew out a breath. “My dearest Heathcote, I’d rather not risk it. ”
He laughed softly, eyes aglow with a joy she could see even in the shadows. “Very well—until it’s done, I will wait. But for not a minute longer.”
“No, indeed.” She nodded. “I hereby give you permission to speak the instant we are free of this coil.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” He didn’t let go of her hand. “But if I may ask a purely curious question, are you enjoying working for Penelope? Do your talents actually lie in that direction?”
She nodded. “To my surprise, they truly do—and, trust me, she truly is in need of the sort of help I can give.”
“Another pair of intelligent eyes.”
She smiled. “Something like that. I may not be able to translate the obscure languages that she can, but I do know how to keep an appointment book, and that is one skill Penelope sorely lacks. She nearly missed an important lecture that she’d agreed to give at the library today.
She’d forgotten to note it down, and if I hadn’t unearthed the letter confirming the date from the stacks on her desk, she would have embarrassed herself dreadfully.
So, yes, she does need my help on a continuing basis. ”
“Hmm . . . but, perhaps, not on a live-in basis.” He arched a hopeful brow.
Chuckling, she inclined her head. “No, indeed—I could quite easily travel here for a few days each week, and that would be sufficient.”
“And, after all, the City isn’t all that far. Just a short hackney ride.”
She tilted her head. “Is that where you live—in the City?”
He hesitated, then admitted, “I live in an apartment over the office. It’s quite spacious, and the nearness means I’m home very soon after the close of business every day, but—”
Again she placed her fingers over his lips. “No—don’t say anything else. You will have to show me this apartment of yours, and we’ll work things out from there.” She smiled. “I really don’t have any firm views against living in the City.”
He nodded. “Good. That will give me a chance to convince you.”
Her expression grew serious. “You won’t have to do that—where you are, wherever you choose to live, that place will contain the most important element I want—that I rather think I need—to make the rest of my life complete.”