Chapter 18 #2
Violet followed Constance Halstead into the dimness of the front hall of the Lowndes Street house. As had been the case when Violet had slipped in with Penelope and Griselda, and later with Montague, the house was dark, all the curtains drawn tight.
“Faugh!” Constance dropped the keys she’d used to unlock the door on the hall stand and reached up to untie the strings of her bonnet.
Violet noted that the keys were her old house keys; Montague must have sent them to the Halsteads. Deciding that she would rather keep her reticule, bonnet, gloves, and pelisse with her so she could more easily leave when the time came, she wondered, “Where should we start?”
She hadn’t really meant to speak aloud, but Constance glanced at the jeweled watch she wore pinned to her collar, then looked up the stairs. “I daresay we should start in Mama-in-law’s bedroom.”
A fraction of a second was enough consideration for Violet to verify her deep antipathy to going anywhere upstairs.
“Actually”—turning, she boldly led the way into the sitting room—“if you wish to make best use of my time, then we should start in here.” Crossing the room toward the windows, she glanced back at Constance, who had come to hover in the doorway.
“There’s far more of her ladyship’s things tucked away down here than there are in her bedroom. ”
Constance’s lips thinned. She looked as if she wanted very much to argue, but she couldn’t find any real grounds on which to do so.
Looking away, smiling to herself, Violet grasped the curtains and pulled them wide; enough light streamed in through the panes to allow them to work without lighting any lamps.
Returning to the sofa, she set down her reticule, then reached up, undid her bonnet strings, and lifted the bonnet from her head.
Setting it down on the sofa, she started unbuttoning her gloves.
The house had grown cold and somewhat damp; she decided to keep her coat on.
“So”—she looked at Constance—“where should we start? With the bureau, or the writing desk?”
Frowning, Constance came into the room. “The writing desk, I suppose.”
Inwardly shaking her head at the woman’s grudging tone, Violet turned to the desk, opened it, and started to pull out the top row of tiny drawers.
She tried not to listen to the ghosts of countless memories, of the happy times she, and often Tilly, too, had spent with Lady Halstead in this room, when her ladyship had been moved to show them the small trinkets she’d kept and tell them of her travels and the strange places she’d seen, the exotic adventures she’d had.
Lady Halstead had lived a full life, but she hadn’t deserved to have it end as it had.
At the hands of her son. Gasping her last under a pillow Maurice had held over her face.
A chill touched Violet’s heart, but then Constance joined her before the desk, and Violet dragged in a deeper breath and focused her mind on the task at hand—on fulfilling her last duty to her late employer.
Montague leapt from the hackney before it had halted, tossed the crown he’d had ready to the jarvey, then, hat in hand, strode up the steps of the Adairs’ house and rang the bell.
Mostyn opened the door and immediately stepped back. “Mr. Montague, sir.”
Montague strode across the threshold, eager to see Violet, to tell her the news—to learn what she thought of it. “Good morning, Mostyn. Miss Matcham, your master, and mistress—are they at home?”
“No, sir.” Closing the door, Mostyn faced him. “Mr. Adair went to the Yard to consult with Inspector Stokes, and Mrs. Adair went to meet with her sister, Mrs. Cynster, but I expect her back for luncheon.”
None of that surprised Montague, but . . . “And Miss Matcham?” Violet was supposed to have remained indoors, or alternatively have gone out only with those they trusted.
“A Mrs. Halstead called and asked Miss Matcham to go with her to the Lowndes Street house to help sort through the old lady’s things.
” A slight frown bloomed in Mostyn’s eyes.
“I did ask if that was wise, sir, but Miss Matcham assured me that Mrs. Halstead loathed Maurice Halstead—him who’s the murderer—and so she’d be safe with Mrs. Halstead. ”
Montague felt a chill touch his soul. Instinct reared, but not one he recognized. He was accustomed to dealing with intuition, with flashes of insight born of experience, of simply knowing through recognizing some pattern . . . but those familiar instincts involved money and investments.
This one told of life and death.
This one screamed of danger.
Of murder.
He swore and swung toward the door.
“Sir?” Mostyn instinctively reached for the doorknob.
Montague paused. His face felt graven, his mind awash with a torrent of emotions, of cascading thoughts and conjecture.
He dragged in a breath and forced himself to think; Violet might not survive if he made a mistake.
“Send word—urgently—to your master and to Inspector Stokes. Tell them to bring constables to the Lowndes Street house.” He swallowed, had to force the next words out.
“I believe the murderer has lured Miss Matcham there to do away with her.” He met Mostyn’s wide eyes. “I’m going there directly.”
He moved to the door. Mostyn opened it wide. “I’ll take the message myself, sir.”
Montague nodded, slapped his hat on his head. “Pray I’ll be in time.” With that muttered injunction, he hurried down the steps.
The jarvey who’d brought him from the City was on the verge of rolling on again. Montague hailed him. “Lowndes Street, Belgravia—at the best pace you can manage.” Opening the hackney door, he added, “A sovereign if you get me there in record time.”
The jarvey flashed him a grin. “Then hop in, guv, and hold onto your hat.”
Montague tumbled onto the seat, grabbed the door, and hauled it shut as, true to his word, the jarvey sent the carriage all but careening down the street.
Hanging onto the swinging strap, Montague ignored the mayhem left in their wake as the jarvey tacked and weaved and drove like a demon through the late morning traffic.
He didn’t care about causing a public ruckus; all he cared about—the entire focus of his being—was on reaching Violet and keeping her safe.
Giving Mostyn those orders had required a leap of faith. In truth, Montague had no notion if his call to action would be an embarrassing false alarm, but . . . he couldn’t take the chance.
Not when Violet’s life hung in the balance.
What did his dignity, his reputation, matter against that?
Clinging to the strap as the hackney veered dangerously around some dowager’s carriage, then rocketed ahead along Piccadilly, Montague suffered a moment of utter self-astonishment.
Of looking at himself and seeing . . . someone he hadn’t realized was there, lurking beneath his reserved, conservative, deliberately mild exterior.
He’d never thought of himself as a man of action, yet here he was, racing through Mayfair to rescue a lady.
Compelled to do so, even if it meant making an abject fool of himself.
He truly didn’t care.
All he cared about was Violet.
The thought, and all it meant, resonated in his brain.
Then he drew breath and grimly focused on the Lowndes Street house, and what he might find when he reached there.
They’d been in Lady Halstead’s house for barely half an hour when Violet saw Constance check her tiny watch for the third time.
They’d finished emptying the writing desk of its contents and had sorted the keepsakes into various piles.
In a rare burst of familial feeling, Constance had remarked that she supposed she’d better let Cynthia look at things before she threw anything away.
Of course, Constance had immediately marred her performance by making a snide, gloating comment about Cynthia no doubt having much to cope with in the wake of Walter’s spectacular fall from grace.
Ignoring the remarks, Violet had moved on to the bureau. It contained significantly more by way of personal mementos than the desk had. Three long, deep drawers’ and three smaller ones’ worth, to be precise.
She and Constance worked steadily through the drawers, top to bottom. They’d started on the first of the long drawers when Constance once again checked her watch.
Hands inside the drawer, Violet paused, assembling the words for a polite inquiry as to what Constance was waiting for, when the sound of the front door opening had them both looking up, then turning to face the sitting room door.
Violet in surprise, but, she immediately saw, Constance in relief.
“Thank heavens.” Constance went to the side table, where she’d left her reticule.
Before Violet could ask what was going on, the sitting room door opened and Mortimer Halstead walked in. He, too, was consulting his watch.
“About time!” Constance’s exasperation rang clearly. “I told you I was expected at noon for luncheon with Mrs. Denning, and that’s all the way out at Twickenham!”
Tucking his fob-watch back in his waistcoat pocket, Mortimer raised his gaze to his wife’s face. “Indeed. My apologies, but I was delayed by some accident at Hyde Park Corner—all the traffic is banked up.”
Violet experienced a sudden pang of memory; the detached, disconnected, subtly dismissive expression on Mortimer’s face—entirely usual for him—was one Lady Halstead had described as “Home Office neutral.” It told the world precisely nothing about what was going on in his mind—indeed, it raised the question of whether anything was going on in his mind at all.