The Masterful Mr. Montague by Stephanie Laurens

Halstead had written and signed; Stokes would lay odds Montague himself had dictated it—the letter gave him virtually unlimited authority to involve himself in Lady Halstead’s affairs. It was one reason why Montague was sitting at the table now; even had Stokes wished to exclude him, he wouldn’t have been able to. As it happened, given it had been Montague who had summoned him, and Stokes already knew the man, knew his caliber, Stokes was very happy to have him present—another pair of observant eyes and ears to call on.
    Montague nodded. “I needed the scope so I could freely investigate this matter of the odd payments into her account.”
    Montague opened his mouth to continue, but Stokes held up a staying hand. “One moment.” Looking at Violet Matcham, he said, “I know what you’re going to tell me, but I have to ask. No tensions between yourself and her ladyship, or between her ladyship and her maid or cook?”
    The look he got was predictably frosty. “No.” After a heartbeat’s pause, Miss Matcham added, “This was a very peaceful and contented household.” The past tense made it sound like a eulogy.
    Stokes nodded and looked at Montague. “Tell me about these odd payments.”
    Montague did, in concise and strictly chronological fashion, commencing from the moment he’d been approached by Violet Matcham on behalf of Lady Halstead. Stokes questioned how that had come about—how Lady Halstead had chosen Montague, someone she hadn’t previously dealt with. Consequently, they—Stokes, Adair, and Montague, too—learned of the enterprising notion the old lady had had of asking the question of The Times ’s columnist.
    Montague stared at the lady seated beside him. “So it was you who sent that question to The Times ?”
    “On behalf of Lady Halstead.” Miss Matcham colored. “I do apologize for any embarrassment or inconvenience the article might have caused, but it was the only way we could think of to quickly and reliably learn who would be best to approach over those odd payments.” She looked at Stokes. “Lady Halstead had grown seriously agitated and was in dire need of reassurance, and because of young Mr. Runcorn’s age, and therefore his inexperience, she didn’t feel able to place her faith in his findings alone.”
    Montague had explained about Runcorn, of Runcorn and Son, her ladyship’s man-of-business.
    Barnaby nodded. “I can understand that.” He met Stokes’s eye. “Old ladies can get distinctly querulous.”
    Having met the old ladies to whom Barnaby was alluding, Stokes suppressed a snort and returned his gaze across the table. “So it’s possible that her ladyship was murdered because of her sudden and, by all accounts quite dogged, interest in these odd payments.” He looked from Miss Matcham to Montague. “So who knew about her ladyship’s concerns? Who had she told about the payments?”
    Violet Matcham frowned. “Me. Tilly. And I suspect Cook would have heard me and Tilly talking.”
    “In my office,” Montague said, “only I know the reason for Lady Halstead consulting me. I haven’t confided in anyone else. Runcorn, of course, knows, and so does his clerk, Pringle, but there’s only the two of them there.” Montague frowned, clearly checking his memory, then stated, “I can’t think of anyone else who would know. I haven’t yet inquired directly of the bank, and Runcorn had done no more than ask for the statements, which is nothing out of the ordinary and shouldn’t have occasioned any alarm.”
    Stokes met Montague’s gaze. “Are you sure Runcorn himself isn’t responsible?”
    Montague returned his regard. “Professionally, that’s not a question I would prefer to answer, but if you insist that I reply yea or nay, then I would have to give it as my opinion that Runcorn is as honest as the day is long.”
    Violet Matcham nodded. “That would be my reading of him, too. He was quite sure, to begin with, that the payments must have come from