“He exists, all right, and there’s nothing havey-cavey about us being here. We rent the place, all right and proper.”
“No, you don’t,” Penelope stated. “I’m acquainted with the Halsteads, the owners of this house, and they know nothing about your tenancy.”
That piece of information rocked the man; he pulled back for an instant, then, jaw clenching, growled, “You don’t know what you’re talking about, but I can tell you this—you’re trespassing! And I don’t have to answer to trespassers!”
With that, he slammed the door shut.
Immediately, they heard the bolts rammed home.
Penelope stared at the door. “Well!” She swung around and, leading the way, marched back down the two shallow steps and headed across the gravel to the waiting coach.
Griselda and Violet had fallen in behind. They were halfway across the stretch of gravel when Griselda murmured, “Don’t turn around and look, but there’s a girl at the first-floor window at the far end—I think she’s trying to attract our attention.”
“Indeed?” Penelope tossed her head as if flinging the comment over her shoulder. As she faced forward again, pausing before the carriage steps to sweep up her skirts and take James’s hand to steady her, she said, “Yes—I saw.”
Violet followed Penelope into the carriage; sinking onto the seat, she looked for the girl, but from where she was, the light reflected off the window. “Damn!” she muttered. “I can’t see past the glass.”
Penelope looked across the carriage at Griselda, who met her gaze. James shut the door, then the carriage dipped as he and Conner climbed up.
With a sharp crack of Phelps’s whip, the carriage started rolling, slowly turning, gravel crunching loudly under the wheels.
Penelope ducked her head and peered up at the house again, then sat back. Again she met Griselda’s now very serious and sober gaze. Penelope waited until the carriage rolled out of the gates and was bowling freely down the lane before nodding. “Yes, I saw—the poor thing looked quite desperate.”
“Indeed,” Griselda rather grimly said. “And I just realized something else. All the windows had bars—not just the downstairs windows but the first-floor windows as well.”
Penelope stilled. “We’re so used to seeing bars on windows in Mayfair that we don’t register them anymore.”
“But,” Violet said, her expression turning as grim as Griselda’s, “why would they have bars on windows in the country?”
“And even more to the point,” Penelope said, “why does one have bars on windows on an upper floor?”
The three women exchanged glances, then Penelope stood and pushed up the trap in the ceiling. “Phelps?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Back to London with all speed—don’t spare the horses.” Penelope exchanged another look with Griselda and Violet. “We need to alert the Inspector and your master that there’s something very wrong going on up here.”
Chapter 13
So, you see, we have to act tonight.” Halting before her drawing room fireplace, Penelope looked from face to face around the circle of her assembled colleagues. Barnaby and Stokes were present, along with Montague, each seated in one of the large armchairs, while Griselda and Violet had sat on the chaise, allowing Penelope to claim center stage as she’d paced before the fireplace and described in succinct and factual fashion all she, Griselda, and Violet had discovered that afternoon.
It was already early evening, and time was slipping away.
After racing back to town, they’d let Griselda down in Greenbury Street, then Penelope and Violet had driven straight on to Scotland Yard. There, they’d found Stokes and Barnaby rechecking statements taken from witnesses about Runcorn’s murder. After listening to a brief account of what the ladies had discovered, Stokes had sent a runner to summon Montague, and they’d repaired to Albemarle Street.
Griselda, with Megan and her nursemaid, Gloria, had arrived shortly after, closely followed by Montague. In keeping with her new policy of balance, Penelope had decided that the proud fathers should entertain Oliver and Megan. Leaving the gentlemen, supervised by Griselda and Violet, thus engaged, Penelope had consulted with Mostyn and organized a simple dinner of cold meats, bread, cheese, and fruits, which, given the early hour and the relaxed company, they’d consumed en famille in the dining room.
Once the meal had been consumed, and Oliver and Megan had been handed to their respective nursemaids, the company had regrouped and repaired to the more spacious drawing room. There, aided by Violet and Griselda, Penelope had described all they’d discovered that day, from Violet’s recollection of the letter, to their brief visit to Lowndes Street, and their subsequent journey into Essex, capped by their unexpected discoveries at Noak Hill.
To her mind, and Violet’s and Griselda’s, the need to act now, tonight, was self-evident.
In response to her summation, Stokes exchanged a look with Barnaby, then looked back at her. “Tell me again the reasons you believe we must move on this place tonight.”
Penelope stared at Stokes, amazed that he hadn’t seen the obvious, but then she realized he wasn’t disputing her conclusion but instead was asking her to restate and reinforce the arguments he would need to convince and win over his superiors.
She blew out a breath; where to start? “Well, I suspect the first point we need to make is the intuitive connection Lady Halstead drew between what was going on at her country house, The Laurels, and the odd payments into her bank account.” Resuming her pacing, Penelope continued, “Although she subsequently downplayed it, that connection was instrumental in pushing her ladyship into having her affairs examined by Runcorn—and we are all in agreement that that action is what led to Lady Halstead’s, Runcorn’s, and Tilly’s murders. So the strange entertainments, as Mrs. Findlayson terms them, being held at The Laurels appear critically connected, motive-wise, to the three murders.”
Pausing, Penelope arched a brow at Stokes.
Fingers steepled before his face, he nodded. “That’s good as far as it goes. But why now—why tonight?”
“Because,” Penelope continued, “according to the signs the locals have noted, there will be another such entertainment held tonight. The timing of these entertainments appears to mirror the odd payments—another, more definite link—but, therefore, after tonight there will not be another such entertainment for another month. However”—she held up a finger—“we know that the murderer is aware that the police are now involved, so there is every reason to suppose that tonight’s event will be the last—his last hurrah, as it were, at least at The Laurels.”
“Why,” Barnaby asked, taking on the role of devil’s advocate, “if he’s worried about police attention, would he even bother to hold an event tonight?”
Penelope looked at him, momentarily at a loss, but then she grimly smiled. “Because he has wares to clear.” Confidence escalating, she looked at Montague. “The items Montague has deduced he’s selling, each worth two hundred and fifty pounds.” She looked back at Barnaby, then shifted her gaze to Stokes. “And those items aren’t the sort one can lock in a cupboard and leave until later.”
Stokes nodded. “Very good.” He was clearly formulating his approach to his superiors, an urgent request that, given all they’d learned, needed to succeed.
Barnaby glanced around at the others. The atmosphere in the room, between the six of them, had been progressively changing ever since their ladies had arrived back from Essex with their news. The more he, Stokes, and Montague had heard of what Penelope, Griselda, and Violet had uncovered . . . while some part of their initial response had been faint and, as far as they’d been able to manage, well-concealed horror at the ladies’ glib and apparently carefree plunge into active and independent investigation, none of the ladies’ actions had been reckless, and, at all times, as Penelope had promised, they’d had support and protection in the form of her coachman, groom, and footman—all men Barnaby himself had vetted and on whom he and St
okes knew they could rely. Their initial instinctive horror had been quickly submerged by building excitement, by increased focus and eagerness.
Their ladies had found the key to the murders, and neither he, Stokes, nor, he judged, Montague, were the sort of men to deny approbation and applause where it was due, much less hesitate to seize the information the ladies had assembled and use it to push the investigation along.
And the ladies were with them every step of the way. This investigation was now very much a fully fledged joint effort involving all six of them; each of them had a personal interest, had committed themselves to seeing it through.
As a group, together.
It was a heady, exhilarating, stimulating situation.
Stokes looked up at Penelope. “If, as Barnaby and I have already reported, he—whoever he is—is primarily driven by a wish to keep his identity a secret, isn’t it likely that you three turning up at the door of The Laurels this afternoon will have put our bird to flight? Why, knowing you had called—and you did state you were acquainted with the Halstead family—would he remain, waiting for the authorities to turn up and expose him? Isn’t it more likely that he would take his wares and run?”
“No, he can’t.” Barnaby couldn’t help himself; the excitement of pulling the strands together was too great a lure. “The event has already been advertised.” He met Stokes’s eyes. “All those carriages that turn up to every event—they’re not local. They have to come from somewhere. Those people—his customers, if you will—have already been notified that there’s an event, a sale of some sort, on tonight. He can’t just up and shift the location and time, not without risking a great deal, especially given that those he’s dealing with are unlikely to be your average merchant.”
“Indeed.” Penelope sank onto the arm of Barnaby’s chair. “And I believe you can be confident that although he—whoever he is—presumably knows by now that some lady is likely to pass on to the Halstead family the fact that someone is using The Laurels, he won’t imagine that lady will be moved to do so tonight, or even tomorrow, much less that her information will occasion immediate action by Scotland Yard.” Raising her hands, palms up, she looked at Griselda and Violet. “We were just three females, after all—hardly likely to be an imminent threat.”
Montague and Stokes both snorted.
“However,” Violet said, her clear voice a contrast to Penelope’s forceful tones, “I would wager that if you sent men up there tomorrow, they’ll find nothing more than an empty house.”
Barnaby nodded. “That’s all but certain.” He met Stokes’s eyes. “He—whoever he is—is locked into holding his entertainment tonight. For multiple reasons, he can’t call it off, and although he must know by now that he won’t be able to continue with his business, at least not from The Laurels, from his point of view, his best—indeed, most obvious—course will be to continue with tonight’s event, and then relocate with all speed.”
Stokes held his gaze, the expression in his gray eyes distant as he re-trod their case. The case he would lay before his superiors in support of his request for the authority and men to mount a raid on The Laurels tonight. Slowly, Stokes nodded. “So if we leave it, even until tomorrow, we’ll almost certainly lose him. A man who has committed three murders—three murders the commissioners would like to see solved before the news sheets get wind of them and the Halsteads, and even more the Camberlys, come under public scrutiny. The commissioners want a result, and this is clearly an excellent chance to leap ahead several steps in our investigation—all the way to identifying this not-so-easy-to-identify villain.”
Barnaby tilted his head. “That should shift them, don’t you think?”
Stokes grimaced. “I hate politics—I’m sure all the commissioners as well as the Chief will want to agree and give the go-ahead, but . . . I fear they’ll hesitate. Even with your father there, and Peel, too, the others will want to weigh up the pros and cons, to assess how the case weighs in the public scale. And with Camberly and Halstead involved . . .” Leaning forward, Stokes clasped his hands between his knees. “If there was something—just one more thing that would be certain to keep the public on the police’s side, even if this raid proves to be a complete waste of time—”
“There is.” It was Montague who spoke. When all eyes turned his way, he met their gazes gravely. “We haven’t dwelled on it, but all of us can guess what ‘items’ the villain is selling.” He looked at Griselda. “You saw one at the window—a young, desperate girl. According to my analysis of the sums he’s cleared every month, he’ll have at least four others in that house, very possibly more.” Montague swept the group with his steady hazel gaze. “And none of us have to think too hard to guess to whom he’s selling such wares.”
Stokes’s face slowly transformed into a mask of almost vicious, delighted triumph. “That’s perfect,” he growled. All but springing to his feet, he looked around at the others. “I’ll go to the Yard and—”
“Wait, wait, wait!” Rising, Penelope waved her hands. “We need to work out a plan first.” Hunting in a pocket, she drew out a crumpled sheet. Smoothing it, she shifted to show it to Stokes. Barnaby rose and looked over her other shoulder. “This,” Penelope explained, “is a map Griselda, Violet, and I drew of The Laurels—as much as we could deduce from what we could see of the house and the immediately surrounding areas. See”—she pointed—“there are thick woods on this side, which should be useful, and—”
Ten minutes later, with the plan for the raid on the late Lady Halstead’s country house fully detailed and defined, Stokes shrugged into his greatcoat and left to summon the commissioners, to lay out his case, gain their approval, and gather his constables, leaving Montague and Barnaby to arrange transportation for the rest of their company to the agreed rendezvous in the woods alongside The Laurels.
Waiting in the front hall for the carriages to be brought around, Penelope all but jigged with happiness. Not one of the men—not even Montague—had made any attempt to dissuade the ladies from attending, much less questioned their right to do so.
Their new investigating team was well on the way to becoming a fully functioning reality.
It was a cool night in Essex. A pale sliver of moon showed fleetingly through the canopy, concealed, then fitfully revealed by the low clouds scudding across the sky and the restlessly shifting branches of the tall trees in the wood. Although the majority of leaves had yet to fall, enough already had to provide a soft carpet underfoot, sufficiently thick to deaden the clomp of heavy boots as Stokes issued whispered orders and his men spread out, circling the house as silently as they could, as far as possible keeping under cover.
Violet wasn’t sure such caution was truly necessary. As arranged, they’d gathered in the wood at half past nine—the six of them, plus Penelope and Barnaby’s two coachmen and four grooms and footmen, as well as a good score and more of Scotland Yard’s finest. From what Violet had made out from the earlier whispered exchanges, several of the young Turks on the detective side of the force, all of whom clearly held Stokes in some awe, had volunteered to assist him. Stokes had organized his force into smaller groups, assigning two detectives to a cohort of constables; he was presently engaged in dispatching the groups to positions around the house.
As far as Violet could see, no one in the house was watching, was in any way on guard; no one was expecting any interruptions to their proceedings, whatever those were.
Their force had assembled before any carriages had appeared, but even then all the curtains in the house, on both upper and lower floors, had already been drawn. Light shone through them, softer lamplight upstairs, while the downstairs rooms appeared to be ablaze—exactly as if a major social gathering was underway.
The carriages, all black and heavily curtained, had started to arrive at ten minutes before the hour; by ten o’clock, nine had pulled up, had disgorged their passengers, then been drawn to a halt along one side of the drive. The coachmen, all of them, had tied up their teams and
gone inside, too, somewhat unexpectedly following their masters through the front door. The door had opened to every coachman’s knock but was always swiftly closed after every admittance.
After ten minutes passed and no further coaches had rattled along the lane and in at the gate, Stokes had started sending his men out from the cover of the wood.
From her vantage point perched on a sturdy branch high enough to see over the wall, more or less in line with the front porch, Violet, along with Penelope, Griselda, and Montague, all similarly clinging to branches and tree trunks, had studied the “guests” who had arrived in the nine carriages. Both men and women, roughly an equal number of each; all had climbed down and walked quickly but not hurriedly inside, sparing not so much as a glance at their surroundings.
Although the light was poor, all the attendees had appeared fashionably, even elegantly, dressed. The ladies had worn dark gowns; some had carried shawls and reticules. Most of the males had sported coats and cravats, and some had carried canes and fashionable hats.
The confidence, the assurance, with which each had approached and entered the house was, Violet thought, telling. Leaning closer to the trunk of the tree, closer to Montague, standing on a lower branch on the tree’s opposite side, she whispered, “All of those who arrived have been here before—probably many times.”
Through the dark shadows, Montague met her gaze; after a moment, he nodded. “Yes, you’re right.” He glanced back at the house. “Anyone who was new to the place would have glanced around, at the very least shown some sign of hesitation, of taking stock. None of them did.”
“Nor did their coachmen,” Penelope whispered from the next tree. She started wriggling along her branch, clearly intending to jump down. “Whoever they are, they’re all a part of this—there’s no innocent bystanders in that lot.”
Griselda humphed an agreement as she carefully stepped down, branch by sturdy branch, from her perch.