Chapter 19
Everyone had agreed with Stokes’s suggestion, and plans were made for a celebratory dinner in Albemarle Street that evening.
In the interim, Stokes and Barnaby returned to Scotland Yard to put the final touches to their case, while Montague took Violet and Penelope for a celebratory luncheon, then returned them to Albemarle Street and journeyed on to the City, to his office, to tell his staff the news.
The intrepid investigators regathered at six o’clock in Penelope’s drawing room.
Oliver and Megan were present, and were placed on rugs on the floor the better to entertain and divert their proud fathers while Penelope and Griselda demanded and received a full report of all the day’s doings from Montague and Violet.
Like Penelope, Griselda was disappointed not to have witnessed the spectacular culmination of their investigation.
While Penelope had pieced together most of what had occurred from comments the others had let fall, she, too, wished to hear the sequence of events properly related by those who had experienced said events firsthand.
The two friends sat side by side on one of the sofas and interrogated Violet and Montague, extracting every last little detail of their thrilling, frightening, and ultimately wonderfully successful day.
Sitting beside each other on the other sofa, both still smiling, indeed, unable to stop, Montague and Violet bore with the inquisition with indulgent good cheer.
When they reached the end of their exciting tale, Griselda frowned. “Do you think Mrs. Halstead was . . . well, an accomplice? Did she know of Mortimer’s actions? Did she support them?”
Stokes looked up from the blocks he was stacking for Megan. “It seems not. She was utterly shocked when we informed her of her husband’s arrest, and I don’t think she was acting.”
“She came close to fainting when she realized that she had, however unwittingly, played a part in, as she subsequently described it, Mortimer’s foul scheme by persuading Violet to go with her to the Lowndes Street house.
” Barnaby glanced up briefly from the tussle he was having with Oliver over a rattle.
“I agree with Stokes. She was beyond aghast, and she wasn’t acting. ”
“To her credit, once she grasped the reality, her first thought was for her children—about how their father’s disgrace would affect them and their futures.
” Stokes grinned as, with one bat of her small hand, Megan set the tower he’d built crashing to the rug.
All but bouncing on her plump bottom, eyes bright with glee, she chortled and clapped.
Then she crawled to one of the blocks and retrieved it.
Stokes glanced at the others. “Incidentally, had there been any doubt as to who the murderer was, when we searched Halstead’s dressing room, we discovered a key to the side door of the Lowndes Street house.
It was made some years ago, so Mortimer has had some notion of stealing from his mother for at least that long. ”
“I noticed the keys he—or rather Mrs. Halstead—used to enter the house today were the ones I used to have,” Violet said.
Stokes nodded. “Exactly. And we didn’t find any other keys to the house, so his key to the side door—and it was well hidden, and why was that?
—was his secret way into and out of the house.
But to cap it all off”—Stokes’s grin brimmed with satisfaction—“the curtain cord he’d used to strangle Runcorn was cut from one of the cords in his dressing room. ”
Barnaby snorted. “Believe it or not, he’d deliberately scheduled a clash of meetings at the Home Office so one group thought he was in the other group’s meeting, and vice versa—and then he told his staff he’d been summoned by some ambassador and had to step out for an hour.”
Stokes’s chuckle was dark. “He’s been so busy planning things, there’s no chance he’ll be able to plead insanity.”
“So he will hang?” Violet asked. When Stokes glanced at her, she said, “I’m not normally so bloodthirsty, but he stole three lives.”
Stokes merely nodded, his gray gaze direct. “He’ll hang.”
“I fear I have to ask,” Penelope said. “How are the rest of Lady Halstead’s children reacting to the news?”
“With all speed,” Barnaby replied, his tone beyond cynical. “They are predictably horrified and cutting all ties, distancing themselves with all possible haste.”
Penelope feigned a shudder. “What a terrible brood. They are the antithesis of what a family should be.”
Barnaby arched his brows. “Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if this incident didn’t draw the other three closer.
Maurice and William were both truly shocked—and Cynthia seemed thoroughly shaken.
And with her and Camberly already reeling from the impact of Walter’s disgrace, well .
. .” After a moment, Barnaby shrugged. “I got the impression the shock might, this time, have shaken the three remaining enough to make them grow up. Enough to make them realize that, to survive, they’ll need to pull together, rather than pull apart. ”
A moment passed, then Griselda said, “For the sake of the Halstead children, I hope that proves to be the case.”
Gurgles and the patter of blocks on the floor diverted everyone’s attention. For the next several minutes, they all watched the antics of the pair of infants rolling and playing on the rug.
Montague watched as Violet, soft laughter and encouragement lighting her face, leaned forward to clasp little Megan’s hands and help the tiny tot, who had crawled to Violet’s feet, then had determinedly climbed, hand over hand, up Violet’s skirts until she was upright, stand on her own tiny feet.
Megan rocked back and forth, weaving, then, with one of her signature chortling gurgles, she fell back on her bottom, hands waving, then batting in delight.
Stretched out on his stomach, Oliver watched, big eyes curious and wondering.
Smiling, Violet sat back. She felt Heathcote’s gaze, turned her head, and saw him watching her, a curious, arrested look much like Oliver’s in his eyes.
It took her only a moment to realize what he was thinking—imagining. She blushed but didn’t look away. Instead, following his train of thought, she held his gaze, then, smiling still, reached out and lightly squeezed his hand.
Her message, one she felt sure he understood, was simple: They had so much to talk about, and now they could—but later.
Mostyn chose that moment to enter and announce that dinner was served. Hettie and Gloria followed at his heels, ready to retrieve their young charges and cart them off to bed.
The six stalwart investigators rose and, each couple arm in arm, went in to dine—to enjoy their celebratory dinner.
Penelope’s cook had been informed of their news and had responded appropriately; the fare was festive and delicious.
The conversation turned general, roaming freely from politics to the police force, to the continuing progress with the seven girls they’d rescued, to social news and around again to their families, their children.
To the future—a future built upon all that they already possessed.
When they reached the syllabub, Barnaby tapped his glass with his spoon.
At the tinkling, the others all looked up, looked his way.
“I have a toast,” he told them, raising his wineglass, “and a suggestion. First, the toast.” He lifted his glass high, let his gaze sweep their faces as they did the same.
“To us—to the six of us. Working together, we’ve successfully brought a triple-murderer to justice and avenged the three innocents he killed. So—to us!”
“Hear, hear!” Everyone murmured the refrain and drank.
“And now,” he said, lowering the glass, “to my suggestion.” He looked at Montague, seated to his right.
“Over the last years during which I’ve been a consultant to the Yard, Stokes and I have come upon several cases which have involved financial dealings, at least in part.
On some, we had your assistance, while with others we muddled through.
However, more than ever these days, criminal cases of the sort Stokes requires my help with are also those most likely to involve—” Barnaby gestured.
“Financial instruments of one sort or another?” Montague supplied.
Barnaby inclined his head. “Just so. Crimes within the upper echelons of society usually involve money, and ton money is rarely left under any bed.”
“Or in a tin on top of some wardrobe,” Stokes dryly added. While the others chuckled, Stokes met Montague’s eyes. “What I believe my friend and colleague here is trying to say is that we—he and I—would be honored if you would consent to join with us in solving whatever such cases come our way.”
Montague looked from Stokes to Barnaby, then glanced at Violet, seated opposite, and nodded. Looking back at Barnaby, he more formally inclined his head. “It is I who would be honored to join with you gentlemen in your endeavors.”
“In seeking justice.” Violet raised her glass. “To our three champions of justice.”
Penelope and Griselda promptly raised their glasses. “Our champions! Hear, hear!”
Barnaby grinned down the table. “As it happens, that was only half of my suggestion. The other half”—he looked at Violet, on Penelope’s right—“was to pay tribute to Violet’s contribution to the investigation, especially her insights into the people involved, and to ask, if I may, whether you are intending to continue as Penelope’s secretary? ”
Violet blinked and looked at Penelope.
Who reached out and closed her hand over Violet’s. “Oh, please, do say yes.” Penelope’s expression conveyed a hint of incipient desperation. “God alone knows what I might be forgetting these days—I do so need you, someone I trust, to take charge of things.”
Violet smiled and closed her other hand over Penelope’s, lightly squeezed. “Then of course I’ll remain in the post—I’d be delighted to continue working with you.”
“Excellent.” Penelope beamed, then looked up the table at her husband. “But why did you want to know that?”