Read Online The Masterful Mr. Montague by Stephanie Laurens - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephanie Laurens
Tags: Romance, Literature & Fiction
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halted. “Tilly?”
“Lady Halstead’s maid—Tilly has been with her ladyship for more than twenty years.”
When he nodded and glanced around, Violet indicated a door along the corridor. “In there.”
Suppressing the impulse to ask why she thought Lady Halstead’s death was suspicious—was murder, even if she hadn’t used the word—Montague strode for the door. “Did anyone—you, or Tilly, or anyone else—move anything?”
“No. Other than opening the curtains and placing the tray on the tallboy, we haven’t moved or changed a thing.” Violet paused, then added as he opened the door, “It’s painfully obvious she’s dead.”
Montague walked into the room and saw what she meant. He halted a yard from the foot of the bed and surveyed the scene. A bare minute passed, then he said, “I concur. This was not a natural”— much less peaceful —“death.”
Violet had halted nearer the door. In a small voice, she asked, “So what should we do?” When he turned to face her, she nodded toward the old lady lying in the bed. “For her.” Meeting his eyes, voice strengthening, she stated, “We—Tilly, Cook, and I—want to see justice done. We want to see her murderer caught and held to account. She was a gentle old lady. She never harmed a soul. She might have been old, might even have been dying, but she didn’t deserve to die like this.”
Looking into her eyes, seeing the resolve behind the soft blue, he stated, “In that case, while we must at some point call for her doctor, we should first summon the police.”
A s matters transpired, Doctor Milborne arrived first.
After leaving Lady Halstead’s room, Montague had gone downstairs with Violet. In the kitchen, he had consulted with her, Tilly, and Cook, then he’d written an urgent note to Inspector Basil Stokes at Scotland Yard, sending it off via a local boy Tilly and Cook often engaged to run errands. Montague had assisted Stokes in several cases over recent years; he’d felt confident Stokes would return the favor.
They had then waited for as long as they’d dared—for as long as they would reasonably be able to explain—before dispatching a summons penned by Violet to the doctor. That note had been sent via the first boy’s brother at eleven o’clock.
The doctor knocked on the door half an hour later.
Subdued and somber, Violet greeted the man, saying only that she and Tilly believed that Lady Halstead had died during the night.
Standing behind Violet in the shadows of the front hall, Montague assessed the doctor; he was in his late thirties and, from the cut of his coat, appeared to be prospering.
Milborne assumed a suitably grave mien. “Of course, we knew this day would come. Nevertheless, you have my condolences, Miss Matcham. You must be overwrought.”
“As to that, sir . . .” Violet paused to draw in a breath that wasn’t entirely steady. Pressing her hands together, she tipped her head toward the stairs. “We believe we need you to view the body and give your opinion as to how her ladyship died.”
“Indeed, indeed.” Milborne glanced at the stairs. “In her room, is she?” He headed for the stairs. “I know the way.”
Violet and Montague ignored the implied dismissal and followed Milborne up the stairs; they were at his heels when he walked into the bedroom.
Milborne checked at the sight of Lady Halstead’s body, but then recovered and, rather more slowly, continued to the side of the bed.
Thinking, Montague decided; Milborne was thinking hard about how best to handle the situation—about which avenue promised the greatest benefit to him.
Milborne looked down at her ladyship’s face, jaw hinged wide, mouth agape, then he reached for her wrist and made a show of checking for a pulse there, and then at the side of the old lady’s neck. Then he raised her lids, first one, then the other, but he only gave a cursory glance at the staring eyes thus revealed.
He was going through the motions .
Violet
“Lady Halstead’s maid—Tilly has been with her ladyship for more than twenty years.”
When he nodded and glanced around, Violet indicated a door along the corridor. “In there.”
Suppressing the impulse to ask why she thought Lady Halstead’s death was suspicious—was murder, even if she hadn’t used the word—Montague strode for the door. “Did anyone—you, or Tilly, or anyone else—move anything?”
“No. Other than opening the curtains and placing the tray on the tallboy, we haven’t moved or changed a thing.” Violet paused, then added as he opened the door, “It’s painfully obvious she’s dead.”
Montague walked into the room and saw what she meant. He halted a yard from the foot of the bed and surveyed the scene. A bare minute passed, then he said, “I concur. This was not a natural”— much less peaceful —“death.”
Violet had halted nearer the door. In a small voice, she asked, “So what should we do?” When he turned to face her, she nodded toward the old lady lying in the bed. “For her.” Meeting his eyes, voice strengthening, she stated, “We—Tilly, Cook, and I—want to see justice done. We want to see her murderer caught and held to account. She was a gentle old lady. She never harmed a soul. She might have been old, might even have been dying, but she didn’t deserve to die like this.”
Looking into her eyes, seeing the resolve behind the soft blue, he stated, “In that case, while we must at some point call for her doctor, we should first summon the police.”
A s matters transpired, Doctor Milborne arrived first.
After leaving Lady Halstead’s room, Montague had gone downstairs with Violet. In the kitchen, he had consulted with her, Tilly, and Cook, then he’d written an urgent note to Inspector Basil Stokes at Scotland Yard, sending it off via a local boy Tilly and Cook often engaged to run errands. Montague had assisted Stokes in several cases over recent years; he’d felt confident Stokes would return the favor.
They had then waited for as long as they’d dared—for as long as they would reasonably be able to explain—before dispatching a summons penned by Violet to the doctor. That note had been sent via the first boy’s brother at eleven o’clock.
The doctor knocked on the door half an hour later.
Subdued and somber, Violet greeted the man, saying only that she and Tilly believed that Lady Halstead had died during the night.
Standing behind Violet in the shadows of the front hall, Montague assessed the doctor; he was in his late thirties and, from the cut of his coat, appeared to be prospering.
Milborne assumed a suitably grave mien. “Of course, we knew this day would come. Nevertheless, you have my condolences, Miss Matcham. You must be overwrought.”
“As to that, sir . . .” Violet paused to draw in a breath that wasn’t entirely steady. Pressing her hands together, she tipped her head toward the stairs. “We believe we need you to view the body and give your opinion as to how her ladyship died.”
“Indeed, indeed.” Milborne glanced at the stairs. “In her room, is she?” He headed for the stairs. “I know the way.”
Violet and Montague ignored the implied dismissal and followed Milborne up the stairs; they were at his heels when he walked into the bedroom.
Milborne checked at the sight of Lady Halstead’s body, but then recovered and, rather more slowly, continued to the side of the bed.
Thinking, Montague decided; Milborne was thinking hard about how best to handle the situation—about which avenue promised the greatest benefit to him.
Milborne looked down at her ladyship’s face, jaw hinged wide, mouth agape, then he reached for her wrist and made a show of checking for a pulse there, and then at the side of the old lady’s neck. Then he raised her lids, first one, then the other, but he only gave a cursory glance at the staring eyes thus revealed.
He was going through the motions .
Violet
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