Chapter 18 #4
The faint curve of his lips chilled her blood.
“Simple. I’m running late for a meeting at the Home Office—I truly am.
Suddenly remembering that meeting, and knowing of no reason I couldn’t trust you, I left you here continuing to sort through my mother’s things for the rest of the time you could spare us. ”
Shaking her head, she eased back another step. “But then how did I die?”
His gaze flicked to the window at the end of the room, then returned to her face.
His smile grew even colder. “Again, what could be more simple? Overcome with guilt, because, of course, it was you all along—you who, with your lover-accomplice, stole the share certificate, then, when that threatened to come out, you let him in and he killed the old lady, and then Runcorn, and then Tilly. But in looking through my mother’s things, here in the room where you watched her die by your lover’s hands, guilt rose up and smothered you.
” He glanced at the pillow he held in his hand, and his smile grew.
“Literally smothered, and then, of course, you do what any self-respecting lady like you would do—you jump out of the window to your death. The cobbles below should ensure that no evidence of you being unconscious, or having struggled before you fell, remains.”
Such evil . . . Violet met his eyes and slowly shook her head. “It won’t work. Too many people know me too well—and even now they’re asking the Earl of Corby who he got that share certificate from. He’ll identify you, and you will be caught.”
Mortimer blinked; for an instant, the pedantic civil servant who was paranoid about his status, his social and professional standing, surfaced, but almost immediately he sank back behind the darker, somehow deader, almost certainly more genuine face of the murderer.
“Montague.” He paused, then shrugged. “I’ll take care of him later. ”
What? “No!” She hadn’t intended to point him toward Heathcote. “I mean, why add another murder to your list?”
Again, he shrugged. “Why not? Removing people one by one has proved easy enough thus far.” His fingers flexed on the pillow. “And instructive though our little discussion has been, Miss Matcham, I regret that meeting of mine won’t wait much longer.”
Raising the pillow, he came for her.
Violet whirled. Grabbing the poker from its stand by the hearth as she turned, she swung it up and around—straight for Mortimer’s head.
He saw the danger just in time to ward off her blow with the pillow.
Feathers flew. Mortimer cursed. Desperate, Violet yanked the poker free, hauled it back, and swung again.
Flinging the pillow aside, with both hands Mortimer caught the poker along the shaft.
Seizing it, he pulled.
Violet clung and refused to let go. If she did, she would die.
Mortimer cursed and hauled.
Locking her fingers about the handle, Violet grimly hung on, shifting to keep her feet as Mortimer tried to wrench the weapon from her.
He paused, clearly thinking of some way to dislodge her. Before he could, she kicked him in the knee.
Thunder rumbled.
Mortimer cursed and staggered but didn’t let go of the poker. Regaining his balance, he set his feet and braced his shoulders, his features contorting in a black snarl as he tensed to, once and for all, wrench the poker from her.
The floor shook. From the corner of her eye, Violet saw a flash of movement in the open doorway. Heard a curse—not from Mortimer.
Wholly focused on her, Mortimer didn’t register the intrusion. Jaw setting, he violently yanked—and wrenched the poker from Violet’s grasp.
Immediately, he swung it high over his head, clearly intending to strike her down.
With a roar, Montague charged across the room, driving his shoulder into Mortimer’s, barreling into him and knocking him away from Violet.
He and Mortimer ended on the floor, struggling in a heap beneath the window.
Vicious curses spewing forth, Mortimer struggled and fought to get free.
Montague wasn’t having that. Jaw clenched, propelled by a potent mix of fury and fear, with a strength he hadn’t known he possessed, he grabbed Mortimer by the lapels, and, twisting and shifting, he slammed the other man’s back—and the back of his head—to the floor.
Swinging over Mortimer, straddling him, Montague planted a hand on Mortimer’s heaving chest and held the man down while he prepared to rise—to check that Violet was all right.
It was her scream that saved him. “Heathcote—watch out!”
He saw the poker swinging at his head just in time.
Grabbing the iron bar in his left hand, he staved off the blow. Gritting his teeth, he held the poker back, raised his right fist, and slammed it into Mortimer’s jaw.
Something crunched. Even though his hand throbbed, Montague realized on a flash of savage satisfaction that it wasn’t his bones that had broken.
Mortimer groaned, then slumped, eyes closed.
Montague twisted the poker from Mortimer’s lax grip, then slowly—watching to make sure the man truly was unconscious—he eased up and rose to his feet.
He turned to Violet—as she rushed into his arms.
He closed them around her, felt her arms go around him and crush tight.
Tossing the poker onto the bed, he hugged her even tighter, setting his cheek to her hair.
“I was so frightened,” he confessed. “All the way from Albemarle Street, all I could think about was you—him hurting you. Possibly killing you. Then the carriage couldn’t get through, and I had to leave it and run .
. . I didn’t think I would get here in time. ”
He heard the emotion investing his words, heard the inherent vulnerability exposed, and didn’t care. Violet was in his arms, safe and whole, and nothing else mattered.
She tightened her arms, then eased her hold enough to lean back and look into his face.
She met his eyes, and her face, her smile, was everything any knight could ever hope for; radiant, joyous, she held his gaze, her love shining in her eyes.
“But you did arrive in time, and you saved me.” She studied his eyes and her smile softened.
“Actually, you did more than that. You lent me your strength so I could hold on until you came.”
He arched his brows. “I did?”
She nodded. “When it came to that fraught moment when I had to face the reality of possibly losing my life . . . I discovered I wanted to live—so much. I wanted to live, was determined to live, because of you. You lent me your strength, even though you weren’t here.
You gave me the will, and therefore the wherewithal, to fight, to resist, even though I had no idea anyone might arrive to help. But you did.”
Lacing the fingers of one hand with hers, he raised her hand to his lips and tenderly kissed her knuckles. “You fought, and held on, and I came, and so we’ve caught our murderer, and now we can go forward.”
She’d agreed he could speak the instant this was over.
Trapped in his gaze, Violet felt the moment close around them.
The sounds of arrivals downstairs reached them, but neither paid the impending interruption any heed.
Heathcote’s gaze moved lovingly over her face, then, almost tentatively, he lowered his head.
Violet stretched up and, inwardly joyous, set her lips to his.
Kissed him as he kissed her, in an inexpressibly sweet exchange, an acknowledgment that they were there, together beyond the danger, alive and unharmed, able and ready to go forward hand in hand.
That they had found each other, had saved each other, and valued and wanted and desired the other above all else in the world—that was what their simple kiss said.
Eventually, he raised his head and she lowered her heels to the floor.
Still locked in each other’s smiles, arms twined, they turned to the door—and found Stokes and Barnaby waiting, both trying to hide their smiles.
Keeping one arm around Violet, not even trying to hide his pride, Montague waved at Mortimer. “I”—he glanced at Violet, met her eyes, and amended—“we give you our murderer, gentlemen.”
Resuming his usual stern mien, Stokes stalked forward and looked down at Mortimer Halstead, who was beginning to stir, to groan. “Not Maurice?”
“No. Millhouse sent me word earlier.” Montague looked across the room at Barnaby. “You were right that it was Maurice who was a member of Corby’s club, but you don’t have to be a member to play at a club, much less lose to Corby.”
Barnaby nodded, then ambled around the bed to join them, allowing two large constables, who had been waiting by the door, to respond to Stokes’s beckoning; Stokes was still standing looking down at a semiconscious Mortimer.
Acknowledging Violet with a smile, Barnaby said, “And I suspect I know why he did it—why someone like Mortimer sat down to play with a notorious gambler like Corby. I’ve just been talking to the pater, and he mentioned that Corby was one of the peers sitting on an appointment board for the Home Office.
Mortimer was due to appear before it in a week’s time, seeking promotion. ”
Montague glanced at Mortimer, still stretched supine at Stokes’s feet. “So he what? Intended to lose, or thought to win?”
“In Mortimer’s eyes, I suspect either would have served,” Barnaby murmured. After a moment, he went on, “All of this, from start to finish, has been about currying favor with Corby to ensure Mortimer’s promotion.”
Another moment passed, then Violet shivered. “It almost beggars belief that anyone would be so . . . cold-bloodedly self-serving.”
A stir at the doorway had them all looking that way—to see Penelope poised on the threshold.
She took all the elements of the scene in in one glance, then she looked at Barnaby, Montague, and Violet, and wrinkled her nose.
“Damn! I’m too late.” Walking forward, she gestured widely.
“Clearly everyone is hale and whole, and, sadly for me, you appear to have everything well in hand.”
Barnaby laughed. He held out one hand, and when she reached for it, he twined their fingers and drew her close.
Penelope took it further and linked her arm with his, but her bright, dark gaze wasn’t distracted; it traveled to Violet’s face, then moved on to Montague’s.
Then Penelope smiled brilliantly; looking up, she met Barnaby’s gaze. “And, equally clearly, everything has worked out wonderfully all around!”
Barnaby grinned. Violet and Montague shared a smile. And Penelope continued to beam delightedly upon them all.
Unsurprisingly, Mortimer, once he regained consciousness, didn’t share Penelope’s view.
“This is nonsense!” Marched down the stairs with his wrists shackled, then thrust into a chair at the dining room table, he huffed and puffed.
“I’m an important senior Home Office official.
I’ll have you know that the Home Secretary himself is chairing a meeting at this very moment, one I’m supposed to be at, and instead—” With his bound hands, Mortimer gestured at Montague and Violet, who, along with Penelope and Barnaby, had followed Stokes and his men into the room, purely to see what transpired.
What sort of story Mortimer would concoct.
“Instead,” Mortimer all but spat, “I was set on by those two. I found them upstairs, rifling through my mother’s papers. Doubtless trying to find something to steal—or perhaps trying to conceal something.”
Stokes, who had halted, standing, at the head of the table, eyed Mortimer with a certain curiosity.
When Stokes made no response, Mortimer squirmed; his features contorted. “Get these shackles off me, I say! I’ve done nothing wrong!” With his head, he gestured to Montague and Violet. “It was them, I tell you!”
Stokes studied him some more, then in a perfectly equable tone asked, “Any more lies you’d like to get off your chest?”
When Mortimer glared at him, Stokes smiled his sharklike smile. “It’s no good, Halstead. We have Corby’s word, and when that’s combined with everything else, all the evidence we’ve accumulated, it’ll be more than enough to hang you.”
Mortimer looked belligerently recalcitrant. He dropped his gaze from Stokes’s face, but his eyes shifted back and forth, as if he was searching for some other way to excuse himself, or to talk his way out of his crimes.
Stokes arched his brows. “Nothing more to say?” When Mortimer didn’t respond, not even by a look, Stokes glanced at his constables.
“Take him to the Yard. Tell the desk he’ll be charged with the murders of Lady Halstead, Mr. Andrew Runcorn, and Miss Tilly Westcott.
Also the attempted murder of Miss Violet Matcham, and the theft of a share certificate from Lady Halstead.
” Stokes looked back at Mortimer; the man had hunched his shoulders and was looking down, occasionally shooting furtive glances to either side.
“I’ll be along shortly to finalize the charges.
Meanwhile, put him in a cell and tell the desk he stays there until the Chief says otherwise. ”
Both constables snapped off salutes. “Aye, sir.” With determined expressions, they closed in on Mortimer.
The others stood back and watched as, between them, the constables hauled Mortimer Halstead to his feet and marched him out of his mother’s house.
They all trailed behind. Halting in the dim front hall, through the open door, they watched as Mortimer was escorted down the path and out of the gate.
When the constables and their prisoner had passed out of sight, Stokes turned to Violet, Montague, Barnaby, and Penelope.
And grinned. “Got him. I’ll have to go and formalize the charges, but after that”—his gaze settled on Montague and Violet—“I believe a celebration is in order, on several counts.”