“She was old and frail, after all,” Constance Halstead put in. “Are you certain she didn’t simply stop breathing?”
As expected, the family would much rather her ladyship’s death wasn’t declared a murder.
“Both Lady Halstead’s doctor, who was summoned to attend, and the police surgeon concur.” Stokes paused, then definitively stated, “There is no doubt whatever that her ladyship was murdered.”
Cynthia’s pinching lips testified to her irritation, but she said nothing more.
Constance grimaced and sat back.
“That being the case, Inspector, what progress has been made in apprehending the villain?” The question came from Maurice Halstead, according to Violet and all appearances the black-sheep-cum-rake-cum-roué of the family.
Maurice’s question, unsurprisingly, focused the attention of the rest of the family. They all looked to Stokes with varying degrees of haughty demand.
Stokes’s expression remained stoically uninformative. “Our investigations have only just begun. I called you here as a formal courtesy, to ensure you learned of the murder firsthand. We will be pursuing several avenues, and will speak with you all in due course.” Stokes had decided to postpone asking for alibis, explaining that he would rather each family member had a chance to concoct one, as a fabricated alibi, which the police usually found relatively easy to break, was a surer indication of guilt than the absence of an alibi.
“But you must have some idea,” Maurice pressed. “You said you had ‘avenues’ to follow.” His gaze shifted to rest heavily—meaningfully—on Violet. “It seems somewhat far-fetched to imagine some blackguard just happened to choose this house to break into and kill an old lady, apparently for no reason.”
Stokes showed his teeth. “Indeed. But equally, at present, we have no reason to suspect any particular person—nor to discount anyone, either.” He sent a raking gaze around the table. “My immediate question for everyone here is whether you know of or in any way suspect anyone of bearing ill will toward Lady Halstead. For any reason whatever.”
Silence ensued, then the Halsteads and Camberlys looked at each other; brows rose, but no one spoke.
Stokes nodded. “Very well. I will take that as a negative—that none of you know of any reason to suspect anyone of Lady Halstead’s murder.”
A fussy, civil-service frown had appeared on Mortimer’s face as he, too, now stared at Violet. “As you are investigating everyone, am I to take it that that includes females—for instance the three females who live in this house, all of whom could easily have entered my mother’s room, and any of whom might have had some reason, a reason known only to them, to wish my mother dead? My mother was weak and frail. It wouldn’t have taken much strength to overcome her.”
Stokes had warned Violet that such an accusation might well be made, and he had assured her that he, Adair, and Montague considered it without foundation. Despite the warning, she still felt the instinctive urge to violently rebut the notion, to defend not just herself but Tilly and Cook, too, against the scurrilous slur, but remembering Stokes’s caution against doing so, she literally bit her tongue and remained mute.
She did, however, hold Mortimer’s gaze unflinchingly, returning his suspicion with silent defiance.
Mortimer looked away first, glancing questioningly at Stokes.
Who had watched the exchange with unrelenting patience. “I am discounting no one. That includes everyone about this table, and anyone else who has had contact with her ladyship.” His expression mild, Stokes glanced to his left. “That even includes Mr. Montague, although considering his position in the City and his significant reputation, I cannot imagine I will have any difficulty confirming his alibi.”
Gravely sober, Montague inclined his head.
Turning back to the gathering, Stokes swept the faces with his steely gaze, then, his expression and tone growing harder, said, “Unless we gain some early indication of the murderer’s identity, you may expect to be interviewed at some point within the next few days. It would be helpful if you made a note of where you were throughout last night, and who, if anyone, can confirm your presence there.”
Easing back his chair, Stokes stood. “That will be all for now.” He inclined his head to Mortimer Halstead, then to Wallace Camberly. “We will, of course, inform the family once we have the murderer in custody.”
Barnaby, Montague, and Violet also rose.
Cynthia Halstead looked at Stokes. “One moment, Inspector. When may we view the body and make arrangements for the funeral?”
“Her ladyship’s body is presently at the morgue. I believe it will be released for burial the day after tomorrow, but you may send your undertaker there. He will know how to inquire.”
Cynthia’s face blanked. “That’s thoroughly inconvenient.”
Unmoved, Stokes responded, “That’s the way things are done.”
Cynthia sniffed and desisted.
“What about her things?” Constance Halstead asked. When Stokes looked at her, she waved. “In her room, in the sitting room, elsewhere in the house.”
“This house is a crime scene, Mrs. Halstead—no one will be permitted to remove anything from it until I give my permission, which I anticipate will be in a day or two. I will advise the family when they are free to come and go. Until such time, access to the house will be restricted.”
Constance pulled a face, and with a glance at her sister-in-law, mimicked her. “Exceedingly inconvenient.”
Cynthia huffed, then beneath her breath, but not quite softly enough, said, “At least let’s get Mama buried first.”
Constance colored. She drew in a huge breath, her bosom swelling dramatically. “The funeral—”
“Will be held at St. Peter’s, of course.” Cynthia’s tone had turned brittle.
“I would have thought St. George’s would be more appropriate,” Mortimer observed.
“Nonsense!” Cynthia sat bolt upright. “St. Peter’s is where Mama attended. It’s been the family’s church for decades, and just because you chose to move away—”
Violet turned and led the way to the door. Montague followed, and Stokes and Adair fell in behind. She paused before the door, allowing Montague to reach around her and open it. Stepping into the long front hall, she walked toward the front of the house.
Montague joined her, pacing alongside. “Is it always like that?” He tipped his head toward the dining room. “Them at each other’s throats, even about something like their mother’s funeral.”
“Always.” Halting before the sitting room door, Violet glanced back. Adair had followed close behind Montague, but Stokes had paused to instruct his constable—no doubt ensuring that the family obeyed his edict against removing items from the house. She looked at Montague, then Adair. “They are worse than squabbling infants. I doubt Lady Halstead’s passing will change anything—as far as I ever saw, their sniping wasn’t dependent on her presence but is simply their established way with each other, regardless of the subject.”
“Delightful people,” Adair murmured. “I suspect Stokes will want a short conference.” Adair indicated the sitting room door. “Can we speak privately in there?”
Violet nodded, opened the door, and led the way in.
She and Montague took the chintz-covered sofa, while Adair claimed one of the pair of armchairs facing them.
They’d just settled when Stokes walked through the door they’d left open. Shutting it, he said, “Camberly has excused himself—apparently there’s a parliamentary session he needs to attend—and William simply upped and left without a word. The rest are still hard at it, arguing the merits of this burial ground versus that.” Crossing the room, Stokes shook his head. “I’ve seen some difficult families in my time, but these people take the cake.”
Dropping into the second armchair, Stokes studied Violet. “From your lack of surprise, I take it such behavior is the norm for them.”
She nodded. “For the Halstead brood, that performance
was entirely unremarkable.”
“I must say,” Adair drawled, “that I appreciated the nice touch of splitting your announcement—first stating that her ladyship was dead, and then subsequently mentioning that she was murdered. That gave us two chances to catch the murderer out, to see if he failed to react appropriately, but I, for one, saw nothing that would distinguish one from the other.”
He glanced at Violet and Montague. “Did either of you notice anything?”
Violet shook her head.
Montague grimaced. “What I did notice was that none of them appeared to care that her ladyship was dead—their attitude seemed to be that she was old, and she’d died, and that was that. But as for her being murdered, I got the impression the family as a whole viewed that as a great nuisance.”
“Sadly, that’s true.” Violet fought to maintain a suitably detached distance, tried hard not to think of Lady Halstead, not to dwell on the fact that she’d been killed, murdered, most likely by one of her poisonous brood. Remembering all the calm, gentle hours she’d spent with the old lady, who had rarely had even a grumpy word to say, much less any sharpness or ill temper, made it difficult to maintain her composure and not give in to the sweeping sadness.
“Tell me,” Stokes said, and, glancing up, Violet saw he was regarding her. “In all the time you’ve been with Lady Halstead, have you ever heard of any argument between her ladyship and one of her children or grandchildren?”
She cast her mind back over the years but, in the end, shook her head. “No.” She hesitated, then said, “But you shouldn’t be surprised by that. As far as possible, Lady Halstead kept them—her family—at a certain distance. For instance, I joined this household after Sir Hugo died, but none of the family was involved in hiring me. Normally, family members—daughters, daughters-in-law, even sons—take care to be there to vet whoever an older female relative takes on as a companion.” She shifted, then added, “I’ve only been interviewed for two positions—the one here with Lady Halstead, and my previous position with Lady Ogilvie—but with Lady Ogilvie, both her daughters were present, and from all I’ve heard that’s the norm.”
Montague was nodding, as were Stokes and Barnaby.
“To your knowledge, were any of the Halstead children ever involved in any of her ladyship’s financial decisions?” Montague asked.
“No. And I’m quite certain of that,” Violet replied. “Lady Halstead once made a comment about feeling much happier making her own decisions, and I know she rebuffed Mortimer, and also Maurice—both independently offered to assist her with managing her fortune, but she declared Sir Hugo had taken care of it all, and she was quite happy with the way things were.”
“Hmm.” Adair had a faraway look in his eyes, as if he was replaying the moments around the dining table. “One thing I noticed—and perhaps, Miss Matcham, you might confirm—but the impression I received is that the animosity, as witnessed by the tensions and tart comments flung across and down that table, lies primarily between Lady Halstead’s children, with supporting contributions from the two spouses.” Meeting Violet’s gaze, Adair arched his brows. “Was it always like that—them against each other—or was the animosity sometimes directed at Lady Halstead?”
“No,” Violet said. “Their sniping was never directed at her. It always amazed me that, during the dinners, her ladyship paid the strife no attention at all. She would eat and ignore them—unless they became too noisy. Then she would insist they ended it, but . . . no. Even at such times, their viciousness was never directed at her.”
Barnaby sighed and shifted his gaze to Stokes. “So out of that interlude, while we’ve established that the Halsteads are a highly unpleasant lot, overall we’ve got not one decent whiff of the murderer.”
Stokes inclined his head. “Maybe so, but what we did gain was confirmation that, regardless of their behavior toward each other, there is no suggestion of any personal motive—no hint that any of her ladyship’s family held a grudge against her, no evidence of arguments or disagreements between her and any of her children.”
Nodding, Montague picked up the train of thought. “And as we have reason to believe that the murderer is a family member, not just because of the apparent ease of entry to the house but also the timing of the murder so soon after her ladyship’s announcement that she intended to have her affairs looked into—”
“And”—Barnaby sat straighter—“as we also have every reason to believe that there is something illegal behind these payments into her ladyship’s account, we’re left with that, and only that, as a strong motive.” He looked at Stokes. “It’s money, simply money, behind this.”
Gravely, Stokes nodded. “What we’ve established is that there is no suggestion of any other motive—no personal animosity, nothing about her will. It’s those payments, whatever they are. Keeping them hidden is the motive behind Lady Halstead’s murder, that and nothing else.” He glanced at Montague, then Violet, then Barnaby. “Until and unless we get information to the contrary, I suggest we should proceed on that understanding.”
Their small meeting broke up shortly afterward, with the three men making arrangements to meet the following morning at Montague’s office to examine the evidence he’d already assembled regarding the odd payments they all believed were behind Lady Halstead’s murder.
Violet accompanied the men into the front hall. She had felt not just accepted and appreciated but also reassured to have been included in the discussions thus far. Everything had happened so rapidly—the discovery of Lady Halstead’s body, the summoning of help, calming Tilly and Cook, coping with the doctor, and then the police, much less all the rest—that she hadn’t yet had time to grieve, to come to grips with her own roiling emotions. But of one thing she was instinctively sure: She wanted to help. She needed to do whatever she could to help catch the murderer and win justice for Lady Halstead. The violence of her feelings was unexpected and unsettling; she was relieved the three men seemed to understand without her having to explain.
On his way out of the front door, Stokes paused to tell her, “I’ve left a constable on guard inside the house, and there’s another outside—he’s out of sight, but he’s keeping an eye on the place.” Stokes hesitated, then added, “I meant to go into the kitchen and assure the maid and the cook that neither of them are suspects, not in our eyes. Perhaps you could tell them?”
Violet nodded. “Of course.”
Stokes left; with an encouraging look and a salute, Adair followed him down the steps. Realizing Montague had hung back in the hall, Violet closed the door and turned. Gently smiled.
With a brief, answering smile, Montague went forward. Greatly daring, he reached for one of Violet’s hands, lightly held it. “This has all happened very quickly.”
He wasn’t simply speaking of Lady Halstead’s death and the consequent happenings of the tumultuous day; he was still coming to grips with his feelings for Violet, with the intensity of his reaction to her being within the orbit of a murderer, and to the implicit, if nebulous, threat hovering over her. He looked into her eyes, studied her expression. “This was the first time you’ve met Stokes and Adair—I wanted to reassure you that you may have every confidence in them. The investigation couldn’t be in better hands. They will work tirelessly to bring Lady Halstead’s murderer to justice.” He held her soft blue gaze. “I know that’s important to you. I understand why. It’s much the same compulsion I experience when one of my clients is harmed, but, I imagine, you feel the need even more keenly, as clearly you were close to Lady Halstead.”
Violet felt her smile go awry. “She was a dear and didn’t deserve to be murdered.”
“No. But”—Montague inclined his head in a gesture that was a vow—“I, too, have an interest in this now, and with the four of us devoted to the cause, her ladyship will not go unavenged.” He held her gaze for a moment more, then bowed briefly and released her hand.
Violet turned to open the door. “Thank you for all your help today. I’m more gr
ateful than I can say.”
Pausing in the doorway, he met her gaze again, then dipped his head. “I’ll call when we have further news.”
She inclined her head and watched him go down the steps and out of the gate. Lingering in the doorway, she let her gaze follow him as he strode down the pavement, broad shoulders square, head held high, solid, masculine confidence in every powerful line.
When he rounded the corner and disappeared from her sight, Violet sighed, then, feeling the tug of the sadness waiting within, she closed the door and turned away, sternly telling herself that this was neither an appropriate nor useful time to discover she still possessed the ability to dream.
After quitting the Lowndes Street house, Barnaby and Stokes hailed a hackney, and after a brief discussion elected to journey to Stokes’s house in Greenbury Street, in St. John’s Wood, there to mull over their impressions and observations in peace and comfort.
Through the rocking, rattling trip they kept their private counsels, allowing their minds to freely pick over the accumulated observations, searching for fresh insights to share once they’d gained the quiet of Stokes’s sitting room. But on arriving in Greenbury Street and entering Stokes’s neat abode, they discovered their wives already in possession.
Both ladies were sitting on the floor, their skirts puffed about them, playing with young Oliver and the slightly younger Megan. Both babies were rolling on their backs, alert and chortling as they batted at toys their mothers dangled over them.
The sight brought Stokes and Barnaby to a halt in the doorway.
Barnaby felt as if something—some power—had punched him in the chest. He knew from the sudden stillness, the complete and utter absorption of the man beside him, that Stokes felt the same.
Penelope and Griselda had heard their footsteps—had seen them enter and had taken the moment of their stillness to study their faces and appreciate their reaction.