The Masterful Mr. Montague: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Novel

by Stephanie Laurens

  Stokes studied Walter’s eyes, then softly asked, “So why? Why did you do it?”

  Walter held Stokes’s gaze, then drew a shuddering breath. “Because it was the only way to make my parents see me. To get their attention.”

  Stokes sat back, his expression reflecting his lack of understanding.

  Immediately, Walter leaned forward, almost eagerly explaining, “You don’t know what it’s like—I’m nothing to them.” Bitterness drenched the words. Walter studied Stokes, then Barnaby and Montague. “You look in from outside and see what they want you—what they want all society—to see. The perfect family—father, mother, and son. It’s always been that way—it’s always been about my father’s ambition, which, of course, my mother fully shares. They don’t care a fig for me other than that I fill that last position, that I stand by their side like some”—contempt and disgust rising in his voice, he gestured—“shop mannequin. Not a real person, just the representation of one. I’m nothing more than a stage prop to them.”

  Slumping back in the chair, Walter sneered, although the expression was clearly not directed at Stokes, Barnaby, Montague, or anyone else in the room. “Let’s see how they deal with this—they won’t be able to simply not notice, will they?”

  Stokes inclined his head. “Probably not. So in that way, at least, you’ve got what you wanted.”

  Walter blinked, then slowly nodded. “Yes. I have, haven’t I?”

  But at what cost? Montague wondered.

  Stokes let a moment elapse, then said, “I’m curious about why you organized the payments as you did—why use your grandmother’s bank account?”

  Walter snorted. “I don’t exist other than as an extension of my parents, remember. I don’t have any income other than what my father allows me—and he gives me my allowance in cash every month, so I never have any decent amount, just enough to get by for the month.” Dropping his gaze to his hands, he raised a shoulder. “Why would they give me more? My tailor’s bills, every bill I have, has to go to my father. That way, he—and through him my mother—keeps complete control. They decide how I dress, what style of hat, what type of boots. As I said, I’m nothing more than a tailor’s dummy to them. But, of course, most importantly, by not giving me access to any decent amount of money, they limit what I can do socially—I can’t wager, I can’t go carousing with friends, I can’t go and visit anywhere or do anything unless I ask for and receive their explicit approval and extra funds. I can’t belong to any club because they don’t believe it necessary, and it might result in me making undesirable acquaintances.”

  Studying his hands, Walter went on, “The only life I had was what they allowed me.” He looked up and met Stokes’s eyes. “So I didn’t have a bank account. I never had the money to need one.” He paused, then added, “And when I did start getting money from the sales at The Laurels, I didn’t want to put it anywhere under my own name, in case it somehow got back to my father. It was clear the money would mount up, and I didn’t dare hide it in my room or anywhere in the house, so . . . I used Grandmama’s account.” He met Stokes’s eyes. “I didn’t think she’d notice. I didn’t think she would ever even look at the amount in there, and as I was only putting money in, and I never took any out, then she would always have her expected amount there. If there was more, even if she noticed, I didn’t think she’d worry—certainly not enough to look into it.”

  “How did you find out the details of her account?” Montague asked.

  Walter shrugged. “Easy enough. One evening when we were there for dinner, I slipped away and searched Grandmama’s desk in the sitting room. I found her account details as well as old letters she’d sent to the bank—instructions for withdrawals that had been paid out. I took several of the oldest letters so I’d be able to copy them and get my money out when I wanted it.”

  “As you did,” Barnaby said, “when you learned your grandmother had instructed Runcorn to review her affairs.” When Walter nodded, Barnaby clarified, “So you wrote a letter of withdrawal to close the account, removing all the funds in it, not just your money, and then . . . who was the woman who presented the letter and collected the cash?”

  “That was an actress I hired—I promised to pay her well, and I gave her the forged letter. I’d practiced copying Grandmama’s hand for months, off and on, so I was sure the letter would pass, and it did. I used the actress because, of course, I didn’t want to be seen, and if the letter had been genuine, then Violet would have been the one most likely to present it.”

  “Why take all the money,” Montague asked, “rather than just your own?”

  “I wrote the letter after Grandmama died—I’d meant to do it earlier, but with her gone, I knew I had to get my money out right away . . . and as she was gone, I thought I might as well have it all, rather than leaving it for the others.”

  “Did you like your grandmother?” Stokes asked.

  Walter arched his brows. “She was all right. I never spent much time with her, but she seemed a decent sort.” He shrugged again. “I didn’t know her that well.”

  “Which,” Stokes said, his tone growing grim, “presumably made it easier to murder her.”

  Walter’s eyes flew wide. “No! I told you.” Wild-eyed, he looked at Barnaby, then Montague. “I didn’t kill her. I had nothing to do with that—with any of the murders.” He glanced from one to the other, taking in their hard eyes, their grim faces. “Well, why would I? I had money of my own, and that was what I wanted. I didn’t have to kill her to get it!”

  A pause ensued, then Stokes looked at Barnaby, then at Montague. Then, slowly, he brought his gaze back to Walter’s face. “Why don’t you tell us exactly what you did?”

  With the threat of being blamed for the murders acting as a potent inducement, Walter recounted all the steps he’d taken, all his actions from the moment he’d learned at Lady Halstead’s last, fateful family dinner that her ladyship was intending to get her affairs in order.

  “I didn’t kill her. I didn’t kill any of them. I didn’t need to. It never even occurred to me.”

  He made a convincing case.

  And when he saw them still hesitating over exonerating him, at least with respect to the murders, he sighed, and said, “The money—all of it—is in a tin on the top of the wardrobe in my bedroom in my parents’ house in Belgrave Square.”

  Barnaby shot Stokes a glance. Stokes caught it and fractionally tipped his head to Barnaby.

  “As for the alibis I gave you . . .” Walter’s lips tightened. “My mother told me what to say, so what I told you before is rubbish. My real alibis are, on the night my grandmother was murdered, I was drinking in the public house on Grosvenor Street, The Royal, not far from my parents’ house. I’m a regular, and I stayed, as I usually do, until they closed at two o’clock.” Walter’s lips twisted. “Also as usual, I was utterly inebriated when I left—I was only just able to walk the short distance to my parents’ home before passing out. I would never have made it to my grandmother’s, much less been able to do . . . well, whatever was done.”

  Walter paused as Stokes, lips thin, pulled out his notebook and flipped to a new page. Stokes scribbled, then nodded, and Walter continued, “On the evening the man-of-business was murdered, I was at a small theater off Leicester Square—The Poulson. I went there to talk to and hire the actress. I was at the theater for the six o’clock show and stayed there, or with her, for most of the night. The actress’s name is Lily Cartwright—she can tell you the names of the stage manager and the theater owner, both of whom saw me. On the night the maid was murdered, I met Cromer in a tavern in Tothill Fields to plan last night’s sale.” Walter paused, then glanced at Stokes. “With my grandmother dead, it was clear we wouldn’t be able to use The Laurels anymore, so we needed to find some other place. We were at the tavern until the small hours—the barkeep and girls will remember us. We’d met there before.”

  Walter leaned further forward; when Stokes glanced up, Walter met his eyes. “Can�
��t you see? My grandmother’s death completely disrupted my dealings—my way to get sufficient funds to be shot of my parents’ prison forever. It was all going swimmingly. Yes, I had to move the money out of her account, but I now have sufficient funds to be able to open an account of my own, and through Cromer I’d learned how to do it under another name.” Walter spread his hands. “Why would I kill my grandmother? Let alone the other two?”

  Stokes held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded. “You’ll be charged with the offences arising out of your kidnapping and selling of the girls. If your alibis are sound, perhaps you’ll escape the gallows.” Rising, Stokes spoke to the sergeants. “Take him to the cells and tell the duty-sergeant I’ll file the papers later today.”

  Barnaby led the way out of the interrogation room; Stokes joined him, and Montague followed.

  They didn’t say anything until they were in Stokes’s office, sitting around his desk.

  Barnaby met Stokes’s eyes. “He’s not the murderer.”

  Stokes grimaced. “No, he’s not.”

  Montague was nodding. “But . . . where does that leave us?” He looked at Stokes, then at Barnaby. “What do we do next?”

  Stokes blew out a breath. “Next, we make sure he’s told us the truth. I’ll get his alibis checked and search his room—not just to retrieve the money but also to see if he has a key to the side door of the Lowndes Street house.”

  “I’d better assist with the latter.” Barnaby met Stokes’s eyes. “We’ll have to inform the Camberlys just what their son has been up to.”

  Stokes shook his head. “With families like this . . . it’s as if a rot got in at some point, and then it spreads, not just through one generation but into the next as well.” He noticed Montague’s frowning, somewhat distant expression. “What about you?”

  Montague met his gaze, then arched his brows. “Runcorn was murdered. When one considers the matter, killing Runcorn was far more risky for the murderer than his killing of either Lady Halstead or Tilly—and yet Runcorn was indeed murdered, almost certainly by the same man. Yet the only motive I can see for murdering Runcorn is the same motive we’ve had all along—the concealment of something in the accounts.”

  Barnaby was nodding. “We thought the mystery payments into Lady Halstead’s bank account was that something, but if, as seems to be the case, it isn’t that—”

  “Then there must be something else.” Montague lifted his hat from the corner of Stokes’s desk. “I’m going to go back to my office and think about what else might be hidden in her ladyship’s, or, more likely, the estate’s, accounts—and what the fastest way to uncover it will be.”

  Adair. Inspector.” Standing behind the desk in his study, Wallace Camberly nodded to both men, then waved to two chairs set before the desk. “Please be seated.”

  They’d only just settled when the door opened and Cynthia Camberly came in. They all rose again as she shut the door and came to join them.

  “Gentlemen.” She eyed them curiously, then glanced at her husband.

  Camberly waved her to an armchair to one side of the desk. As she moved to take it, he looked at Stokes. “I hope, gentlemen, that this won’t take long.” As they sat once more, Camberly continued, “As I daresay you know, Parliament is exceedingly busy at this time.”

  Cynthia leaned forward. “I take it you have news?”

  “As to that”—Stokes made a show of consulting the notebook he’d drawn from his pocket—“with regard to your son, Walter Camberly—”

  “Walter’s out of town, visiting friends.” When Stokes glanced up, Cynthia caught his gaze and smiled, although the gesture came nowhere near her eyes. “If there’s been some question about his alibis, I’m sure I can help.”

  Stokes held her gaze for an extended moment, then transferred his attention to Camberly. “Mr. Adair and I have come to inform you that, as of last night, your son, Walter Camberly, has been taken into police custody. He is charged with crimes relating to the abduction of at least seven girls, their subsequent imprisonment at the house known as The Laurels, in Noak Hill in Essex, a house owned by the late Lady Halstead, and with the attempted sale of said girls into prostitution, along with several other crimes relating to those activities.” Stokes paused to take in Camberly’s stunned, utterly stupefied expression, then glanced at Cynthia—and saw the same reaction, but also desperate calculation already emerging. Looking back at his notebook, he continued, “Your son has admitted to all the crimes with which he is presently charged.”

  Cynthia’s face contorted, but as if she was suppressing some scornful outburst rather than in any form of sympathy or concern.

  “Good God,” Wallace finally got out. He all but goggled. “Do you mean to say he’s the murderer? That he murdered his own grandmother?”

  “We are presently checking his alibis for the nights in question.” Stokes turned to Cynthia. “If you have any information regarding your son’s whereabouts on those nights, ma’am, it would be best to tell me now.”

  Cynthia’s eyes fractionally widened as she sat back, sat straighter. Her gaze shifted, rapidly passing from her husband, to Barnaby, then to Stokes, and back again—then she drew in a deep breath and held it for a second before saying, “I’m sorry, Inspector. I had thought I knew, but clearly”—she gestured—“I have no idea what my son has been about.”

  Stokes paused to let the echo of her earlier comment color the silence, then he inclined his head. “If you say so, ma’am.”

  No doubt scenting the subtle threat, Camberly stirred. “I’m sorry, Inspector, but you have to forgive me—indeed, us—if we appear somewhat discombobulated. We are, of course, totally dumbfounded by your news.” Reaching out, Camberly closed one hand about one of his wife’s and squeezed—in comfort, or as a signal? “We had no idea Walter was involved in any less-than-acceptable activity, much less anything illegal—indeed, criminal.”

  “Much less murder.” Cynthia straightened, her back now poker-straight, her head held high. She’d patently decided that outraged matriarch was the most appropriate role for her to play. “I am shocked and saddened beyond measure, Inspector. To think that we have nurtured such a fiend, one who has murdered and committed such unspeakable crimes . . .” She glanced briefly at Camberly, then went on, “We can only pray that you will find your final proofs quickly, and that the matter can be dealt with as expeditiously as possible—this is going to be such a difficult time for the family. All the family. And all on top of Mama’s murder, too.”

  Barnaby wasn’t at all surprised when, leaving one hand in Camberly’s clasp, with her other, Cynthia pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from her pocket and, bowing her head, touched the lace beneath her eyes. Dry though Barnaby would swear those eyes were.

  Wallace shifted, drawing Barnaby’s and Stokes’s attention from the not-so-convincing show. “Is there anything more we can help you with, gentlemen? As my wife intimated, while the situation wounds us deeply, we, of course, hold ourselves ready to assist in whatever way we can.”

  Stokes nodded. “We need to search Walter’s room. Other than that”—tucking his notebook back into his pocket, Stokes rose—“I don’t believe we require anything further from you or Mrs. Camberly at this point.”

  Barnaby got to his feet, as did Camberly.

  Camberly glanced at Cynthia, still seated with head bowed. “I’m busy at the moment, but my wife, I’m sure, will show you to Walter’s room.”

  Cynthia raised her head, her face a mask of martyred duty. “Yes, of course.” She rose and waved to the door. “Come this way, Inspector. Mr. Adair.”

  With nods to Camberly, Stokes and Barnaby followed Cynthia from the room and back into the front hall.

  As they climbed the stairs behind her, she stated, “I am devastated, of course, but, in hindsight, Walter was always a secretive child, very quiet about his own actions. We had no inkling whatever of these hideous activities of his.” Gaining the first floor, she turned and led the way through a sho
rt gallery and on down a corridor. “Obviously, there’s nothing my husband or I can do to in any way put right the damage Walter has done.” Pausing outside a door, her hand on the knob, she swung to face them. “I can only pray, Inspector, that justice is served swiftly, and the damage to the Camberly name, and, indeed, that of the Halsteads, is minimized. There is, after all, no need for Walter’s trial to cause pain and harm to those who, through no fault of theirs, share his name but were entirely innocent of all knowledge of his crimes.”

  She blinked, then her hard gaze fixed on Stokes’s face. “If I understood you correctly, Inspector, Walter has admitted to the bulk of your charges. Presumably, there’s no reason he can’t appear before a judge and be sentenced in camera, as it were.”

  “As to that, ma’am, I’m sure I can’t say. That will be a matter for the judge.”

  “I see. But if that were to come to pass, and Walter was dealt with adequately and removed, and you had proof of his guilt with respect to the murders, would there be any further need for another trial to settle the matter of the murders? You would already have dealt with the murderer—he would be transported, after all, would he not?”

  Stokes remained silent; he honestly didn’t know how best to respond—wasn’t sure whether he could while remaining appropriately polite.