Page 10 of Marriage and Murder (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair #10)

CHAPTER 9

W ith Penelope, Barnaby entered the police station to see Mallard walking into the foyer to join Stokes, O’Donnell, Morgan, and Price, who were gathered about Jacobs. The jeweler had taken on a distinctly hangdog look, and if anything, that expression deepened at Mallard’s approach.

While bending an unrelentingly severe look on Jacobs, Mallard said to Stokes, “I was just about to head out to look for you. I’ve got some information on that other gent you asked about, but it can wait until you’ve heard what Jacobs here can offer. We’ve had our eye on him for quite some years, but never had a chance to put a finger on him.” Mallard looked more cheerful. “Perhaps our luck has turned, and today is the day.”

Jacobs’s expression grew increasingly despondent.

They waited while Mallard arranged for Jacobs to be officially signed into police custody, then followed Mallard and the hapless Jacobs down the stairs to the basement and into an interrogation room.

The room was small and, with their rather large party crowding in, grew distinctly cramped. Being below ground, the stone-walled chamber was decidedly chilly. A bare room, it boasted a simple narrow table over which a single lamp hung, and four hard wooden chairs were the only seating.

Mallard directed Jacobs to the chair at one end of the table and waved Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes to the three other chairs. Mallard himself retreated to stand against one wall, joining O’Donnell, Morgan, and Price, and with those others, settled to observe.

Jacobs had, by now, realized that Barnaby and Penelope were filling roles he didn’t understand.

Seeing his confusion, Stokes explained their presence as consultants to Scotland Yard, a piece of information that did nothing to ease Jacobs’s mounting concern. He stared at Stokes. “This can’t be about the aquamarines. Scotland Yard, let alone high-society consultants, don’t come knocking about such things.”

Rather than reply, Stokes drew out the pouch he’d retrieved from Madeline and laid out the bracelet and placed the aquamarines beside it, matching the various stones with the fakes currently in their settings.

As a simple, straightforward demonstration that the aquamarines were, indeed, the stones taken from the bracelet, the move was quietly effective.

After studying the bracelet and stones, Stokes looked at Jacobs. “Do you know the name of the lady to whom this bracelet belonged?” When Jacobs stared at the evidence and kept his lips shut, Stokes asked the obvious next question. “Did she instruct you to replace the stones with paste and sell the stones, as you admitted, on commission?”

Jacobs raised his gaze and looked at Stokes, but still said nothing.

Barnaby sighed as if bored. He flicked a finger at the bracelet and stones. “We can all see that the stones are a perfect match, and if need be, it will be easy to get another jeweler to confirm that.” To Jacobs, he said, “There is no chance that you will avoid the charge of stealing the aquamarines.”

Stokes had been studying Jacobs. “Would it help if I explained that the lady to whom this bracelet belongs—a Miss Viola Huntingdon—was recently murdered, strangled to death in her own parlor, and the man who brought you the bracelet, your untrustworthy charlatan, is our prime suspect?”

As Stokes’s revelation had unfolded, Jacobs’s eyes had grown wider and wider as all resistance vanished. “Murdered? Good Lord!”

“Indeed.” Stokes nodded. “Fencing a bit of this and that is one thing. Being an accessory to murder is something else again.”

Helpfully, Penelope added, “That’s a hanging offence.”

Thoroughly rattled, Jacobs looked from one to the other. “I don’t know anything about any murder. What do you want from me?”

Stokes promptly replied, “The name of the man who brought you the bracelet, asked you to copy it as a necklace and, at the same time, replace the aquamarines in the bracelet with paste. A clear and accurate description of him would also help your cause.”

Jacobs wet his lips. “I can do the description well enough. A gentleman, or so you’d take him to be, the way he carries himself, walks, the way he’s always dressed. He’s middling tall, a trifle taller than me but younger. Leaner. Athletic-looking. Handsome, too, with dark-brown hair, straightish and neatly cut, and blue eyes. He’s charming when he wants to be and a peevish, irritating beggar when he doesn’t, which is most of the time. He’s come to me on and off over the years—over the past decade and more—with similar requests to copy some piece and switch out stones for paste.” Jacobs shrugged. “I saw no reason not to do the work for him. For all I knew, he could have been a gentleman gradually replacing the stones in his wife’s jewelry to cover up his gambling debts and using the pretext of getting some new, matching piece made to engineer the opportunity to switch the stones.” Jacobs looked at Stokes, then glanced at Mallard. “Not my place to question, is it?”

Her tone flat, Penelope said, “So in your eyes, you were performing a helpful service.”

Jacobs wasn’t sure how to react to that. Warily, he murmured, “Yes.”

“So,” Barnaby said, reclaiming Jacobs’s attention, “who was this gentleman with the continual need for fake stones?”

Stokes helpfully prompted, “You can start with his name.”

Jacobs grimaced. “Farmer. He always said he was Mr. Farmer.”

When everyone else in the room stared in varying degrees of disbelief at Jacobs, he hung his head and admitted, “I know, I know. I never did think it was his real name, but that’s the one he always gave me, and I had no reason to go hunting for his real identity.”

Silence reigned as they all digested that—and that their great hope of learning the mysterious H’s name had vaporized before their very eyes.

Eventually, Stokes sighed and said, “You’re a shopkeeper—a jeweler. And you’ve interacted with this man many times over the years. You have to know more about him, so try harder with your description.”

“For instance,” Penelope said, “was he English? Did he have any particular accent?”

“Oh, he’s English through and through,” Jacobs said, “and as for accent, I’d say he was a local, born and bred. His roots have to lie close to Salisbury.”

“Anything distinctive about his dress?” Barnaby asked. “Did he wear a signet ring or carry a cane?”

“No ring, no cane.” Jacobs paused and was clearly consulting his memories. “In fact, I never saw any jewelry on him at all. No pin. Nothing. And he rarely wears a hat. As for his clothes, they were unquestionably a touch above average. Well-cut and tailored. From them alone, you would have said he was a gentleman, and he spoke like one, too.” Jacobs paused, then tipped his head toward Barnaby. “But he wasn’t as upper-class as you.”

To Penelope’s surprise, Jacobs transferred his gaze—now shrewd and calculating—to Stokes and added, “Or you, for that matter.”

More than anything else, that convinced her that Jacobs was telling them all he knew, and that his observations were acute and, most importantly, accurate. Very few would correctly detect Stokes’s background. A thought occurred, and she leaned forward, her gaze fixed on Jacobs’s face. “Do you have any reason to think that Mr. Farmer, whoever he is, isn’t actually a gentleman?”

Jacobs held her gaze for several seconds, then replied, “Not exactly that he isn’t a gentleman. His hands are those of a gentleman—never did a day’s hard labor, that one. But I always got the impression that he was…well, dancing on the edge, so to speak. Meaning the edge of the gentry. He was one of them, but he walked right on the edge of being a gentleman. He was never anything but polite to me, but he was always just a bit too arrogant with it.”

Stokes snorted. “There’s polite, and then there’s asking you to replace real stones with fakes.”

“How did that work, incidentally?” Penelope asked. “With the aquamarines, you said you were selling them on commission. For him? If so, do you have some arrangement with him to pass on the proceeds?”

Perhaps Jacobs could arrange a meeting.

But Jacobs shook his head. “He always knew the approximate price of the stones he had me replace, and we’d agree on a total that I could reasonably expect to make on their eventual sale, then from that, I deducted my price for making the new matching piece plus my fee, then I’d pay him the rest up front.”

“So,” Stokes said, “he’s been in the habit of bringing you jewelry and essentially trading it for cash for years?”

Jacobs shifted on the chair. “I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, but…yes, that’s more or less how we dealt.”

“How often did you do work for him?” Barnaby asked.

Jacobs shrugged. “He appears every four or five months with a new piece. All very different in style, but the same deal—replace the stones, make a matching piece, and give him the difference in cash.”

Barnaby exchanged a look with Penelope and Stokes, but there was nothing else they could think of to ask.

From his position by the wall, Mallard asked, “Do you have any idea where this Mr. Farmer lives?”

Jacobs started to shake his head, then stopped, and after a moment’s thought, offered, “Somewhere local, meaning somewhere around Salisbury. I’ve glimpsed him a few times over the years, walking in the streets.”

No one had any more questions. They pushed back from the table and rose.

Stokes glanced at Mallard and tipped his head toward Jacobs. “I take it you’ll be happy to arrange accommodation for Jacobs here?”

Mallard grinned like a shark. “It will be Salisbury City Police’s pleasure, Inspector.”

Jacobs deflated and slumped in the chair.

With Penelope and Stokes, Barnaby quit the interrogation room, leaving Mallard, O’Donnell, Morgan, and Price to escort Jacobs to a cell.

The three of them climbed the stairs, then gathered at one side of the foyer, exchanging glum and dispirited looks.

“We’ve hit a dead end, I fear,” Stokes rumbled.

“Of course the damned man used an alias!” Penelope looked disgusted.

“The interesting thing,” Barnaby observed, “is that he’s used the same alias for years. Possibly for more than a decade.”

Stokes growled, “This joker needs to be caught. There’s no telling how many other women he’s charmed out of their jewelry.”

Neither Penelope nor Barnaby disagreed. They stood and thought and searched for ways forward.

Eventually, Penelope sighed. “It feels as if we took a giant leap forward, but we didn’t land where we thought we would.”

Barnaby felt equally dejected, and Stokes’s expression said he felt the same.

And from Mallard’s, O’Donnell’s, Morgan’s, and Price’s faces as they slogged up the stairs and joined them, they felt just as flat.

Then Stokes turned to Mallard. “What was that information you had for us?”

“Oh yes.” Mallard perked up. “It’s about that cove, Pincer. I caught up with a few of the old-timers, and they remembered him. The whole family, really. Seems the Pincers were an old town family, gentry, and originally, well regarded and respected, but as the years rolled by, they fell on hard times, and the word is that the current Pincer is a layabout and a wastrel, a profligate who sweet-talks his way through life.”

Penelope looked intrigued. “Go on.”

Mallard obliged. “They said he was the sort who was forever hunting his fortune via some likely lass—he’s charming to the back teeth, apparently—but wise parents see through his blarney and steer their daughters well clear, and he never struck success by that route.”

“That fits with Madeline’s view of him,” Penelope said.

Mallard tugged at one earlobe. “The one strange thing is that your husband here said Pincer has been out of the country over the past years and only just got back, but the old-timers—and more than just one—say they’ve seen him here and about, just as always. They’re certain he’s been here all along, not away someplace else.”

“I see.” Stokes exchanged a look with Barnaby, then asked, “Where does Pincer live?”

“I was told,” Mallard said, “that the old Pincers had a big house in town, but they sold up and moved out to a cottage in Bowerchalke. Tiny little village, that is, and the oldies say that now the senior Pincers have passed on, the cottage is a run-down wreck of a place, Pincer the younger never being one to spend money on repairs.”

Eyes narrowing, Penelope said, “During the drive here, Madeline told us that she unexpectedly ran across Pincer last evening near her cottage, and Stokes had asked her to inquire where he lived, so she did, and he told her he was living in a house outside Bowerchalke. Note, house and outside the village.”

Mallard shook his head. “The old-timers are very sure Pincer’s home is a ramshackle, falling-down hovel of a place at the heart of the village.”

Barnaby added, “Pincer didn’t exactly lie to Madeline—he led her to think something other than the truth. But even more telling, he’s been here, in and around Salisbury, the whole time.”

Stokes looked grim. “He hasn’t spent the past decade overseas, and even more interestingly, he fits the description of Viola’s secret admirer, H .”

Penelope looked distinctly troubled. “After his history with Madeline—and it sounds as if she had a lucky escape—surely Pincer wouldn’t have set his sights on Viola. More to the point, Madeline said Viola knew about the association between Madeline and Pincer and why it ended, so Viola must have known better than to get involved with him.”

“Although his name doesn’t begin with H ,” Barnaby said, “it’s possible that if he’s also Jacobs’s Mr. Farmer, using aliases comes naturally to him.” He paused, then straightened. “We need to speak with Madeline. There are too many inconsistencies in Pincer’s stories—the several it seems he’s told.”

Stokes had been consulting his notebook. He snapped it shut and turned toward the door. “We also shouldn’t forget that based on physical description, Jacobs’s Mr. Farmer could easily be Monty Pincer, who might also be masquerading as our mysterious H . The descriptions are all the same.”

Barnaby and Penelope led the way to the door. Stokes strode at their heels, and Mallard fell in beside him.

Mallard glanced at Stokes. “You think Pincer’s the murderer?”

“Other than the name,” Stokes replied, “and with a man who commonly uses aliases, who knows what weight we should attach to that, there’s a case to be made that he is our man.” Pushing through the door behind Penelope and Barnaby, Stokes stated, “We need to speak with Madeline. Then we should find and interview Monty Pincer.”

Mallard hurried to keep up. “Laying hands on Pincer might not be straightforward, but where’s Miss Huntingdon?”

Penelope and Barnaby had already turned right along Endless Street. Over her shoulder, Penelope said, “Madeline went to St. Edmund’s Church to organize her sister’s funeral.”

Madeline came out of the church door, paused just outside, and closing her eyes, turned her face up to the weak sunshine.

In the wake of arranging for her sister’s funeral, she felt in need of warmth, of a reminder of life.

And then there was what the deacon—an older man who had known both sisters for many years—had told her.

Apparently, Viola had visited St. Edmund’s on Wednesday afternoon, the afternoon before she died.

The deacon hadn’t spoken to Viola, and Madeline couldn’t fathom what purpose had brought her sister there. Not on that day.

Frowning slightly, she opened her eyes and looked around and spotted Henry sitting on a gravestone and watching her. His expression was stern and rather somber.

Puzzled, for when she’d left him, he’d been quite relaxed and at ease, Madeline walked across the grass and halted before him. “What is it?”

Wordlessly, he rose and pointed to the grave opposite the one on which he’d been sitting.

Madeline turned, then bent to read the name inscribed on the headstone. “Harold Montgomery Pincer.” She checked the dates, then straightened. “That must be old Mr. Pincer, Monty’s father.”

“Indeed. Now look at that one.” Henry pointed to a grave two plots on.

Madeline walked across, crouched, and peered to read the headstone. It was older, more worn, and more difficult to make out. Then the words came into focus.

She sucked in a breath, rose, and stared at the grave as understanding dawned. “Montgomery Harold Pincer,” she slowly enunciated, “who must have been Monty’s grandfather.”

Henry had come to stand beside her. “And what are the odds that Monty’s full name is Montgomery Harold Pincer, like his grandfather?”

“If the family made a habit of alternating the names…” Eyes widening, Madeline turned to Henry. “I never knew his middle name.”

Henry held her gaze. “Do you think that, if he decided to approach your sister, he might have taken to using his middle name? Perhaps to distance himself from his previous association with you and emphasize that he was now a different man, a reformed character rather than a scoundrel she needed to keep at a distance.”

“To underscore that the past was finished and done with…” Madeline’s features firmed. “Oh yes. That’s exactly the sort of thing Monty would do. He was always remarkably effective in glossing over anything he didn’t want you to focus on.”

Henry nodded. “So he told your sister he was a changed man and now went by the name Harold.”

Madeline was nodding more and more definitely. “I can even hear Monty saying that—and what’s more, I can imagine Viola accepting whatever tale he told and giving him the benefit of the doubt. She’d been raised in the church, so to speak, and giving people a second chance, turning the cheek as it were, was an ingrained part of her nature.”

Suddenly sure and remembering what she’d so recently learned, Madeline gripped Henry’s arm. “And there’s more!” In a rush, she told him of what the deacon had just told her. “He saw Viola come out of that park across the street.” With her head, she indicated the plot filled with green lawn and old trees. “The deacon thought it rather odd, because from the way she behaved, he believed she’d been hiding behind some trees while watching two men talking, and one of the men matches the description we’ve had from so many others of our mysterious H—which also describes Monty.”

“Did the deacon see if she followed the men?”

“She didn’t. He said they left, and once they had, she came in here”—Madeline waved at the church—“and sat quietly for some time. The deacon said that she appeared shaken, even devastated, but also distracted, as if she had several things on her mind all competing for her attention. He would have spoken with her and offered comfort and support, but he had a meeting with parishioners about a baptism, and when he came out of the office, Viola had gone.”

Madeline turned to Henry. “Everything fits. It was Monty who was Viola’s secret admirer, and she overheard something in the park that made the scales fall from her eyes, and she’d also just learned that he’d stolen her aquamarines. She finally saw him as the snake he truly is.”

Madeline paused, assembling the scenario in her mind. “Viola would have seen all that, and she would have grown angry. She would have taxed him with his perfidy when he next called on her—on Thursday afternoon. When he realized she was furious and intended to expose him and have him taken up—and she did intend that, because she’d hidden the bracelet and necklace, her proof of his crimes—he killed her.”

“And then,” Henry said, captured by her urgency, “he ransacked the cottage, looking for the jewelry so it couldn’t be used to track him down.”

Madeline gripped Henry’s arm tighter. “We have to go and tell the others.”

Grim faced, Henry nodded. “My thoughts exactly. The sooner they hear of this, the better.”

He gave her his arm, and she took it, and together, they walked quickly down the path that led around the church to the lychgate.

In the park across the street from St. Edmund’s, Monty Pincer had spent the past ten minutes trying to convince Seamus O’Reilly’s principal henchman, Johnson, that very soon, Monty would be able to make a down payment on the large amount of money he owed O’Reilly.

O’Reilly was the major moneylender in the district and had been for years. Because O’Reilly, largely acting through Johnson, operated strictly within the confines of the law, the authorities turned a blind eye to O’Reilly’s “business” dealings.

Monty hadn’t wanted this meeting and, on one level, resented being forced to report to Johnson so frequently—essentially at the man’s beck and call—but he didn’t dare not turn up and then discover O’Reilly had foreclosed on the cottage in Bowerchalke, the only asset Monty possessed.

At least he’d been able to choose the venue for these over-frequent meetings. His family had once owned the house that bordered the park on the east, and Monty had spent many a childhood afternoon playing beneath these very trees. Being in the park evoked memories of happier, carefree days, before Monty had grown up and life had turned against him.

Now, he sat on a bench, screened by thick bushes from the street, and worked to convince Johnson to give him just a little more time. Sadly, charm had never swayed Johnson, which left Monty scrambling to cobble together a believable argument. “As I keep saying, the younger sister is the better bet for me, and she’s significantly wealthier, too.”

He strove for the right blend of confidence and outright assurance as he went on, “I even went to London to make sure of her wealth and discovered she’s a dark horse, indeed. I chatted up her maid, and it seems Madeline has not just the house in Bedford Place—which is much grander than she’d led me to believe—but she also has significant wealth tied up in investments managed by one of the premier firms in England.”

After meeting Madeline in the church on Wednesday, he’d attended another of these meetings with Johnson, and the man’s building impatience had spurred Monty into taking the train to London to confirm Madeline’s wealth. What he’d learned had sent his heart soaring, and when he’d returned on Thursday afternoon and ridden toward Lavender Cottage and spotted Madeline walking across the fields, he’d seized the chance to strengthen his hold on her.

Not that it had worked. And then she’d driven off with Lord Glossup!

The image of Madeline laughing at something his lordship had said rose in Monty’s mind and taunted him. Battling a frown, he thrust the vision aside and refocused on Johnson. Thinking of what he’d just revealed, and that Johnson might find it hard to swallow, plastering a quietly delighted smile on his lips, Monty shook his head and said, “I wouldn’t have believed it of a female, but I know her father was heavily involved in investing, so I expect she learned the knack from him.”

It was hard persuading Johnson of his chances of success when Monty himself was prey to a niggling inner fear that he wouldn’t be able to secure Madeline’s affections. His act of desperation in the wee hours of Friday morning had only sunk his hopes further—and what a close call that had been!

Summoning every ounce of sincerity he possessed, Monty pressed, “I tell you, it’s only a matter of time. Soon, she’ll be eating out of the palm of my hand, and the result will be well worth the wait for you and O’Reilly.”

Johnson was a large, heavyset man, not gentry, but he’d spent years with O’Reilly, who was, and some of the man’s polish had rubbed off on Johnson. He was always neatly and conservatively dressed and, despite his size, could readily pass unnoticed in a crowd. He had a large head and oval face and wore a brimmed hat, the rim of which shaded a pair of smallish but shrewd brown eyes. Johnson’s gaze was sharp, as was his mind, and he rarely missed anything said or seen.

Now, Johnson turned to look at Monty with an expression of deep skepticism wreathing his face. “Let me get this straight,” Johnson rumbled. “Wednesday last week, you told me you were off to pop the question to this rich spinster that you’ve been courting over the past months and that any day, you’d be able to make a sizeable down payment. Then on Saturday, you tell me it’s all off, because the spinster’s younger sister has turned up, and she’s even more wealthy, and so now, you’d ditched the older one and were focusing on the younger one, and because the younger one had always held a torch for you, it would all go smoothly. Then this Wednesday—two days ago—you told me all was on track with the younger one, and any minute now, I’d hear wedding bells. But now , you tell me you need yet more time to come up with even a small contribution.”

Monty struggled not to react to the menace rippling beneath Johnson’s even tones. He never raised his voice, yet just that tone sent visceral fear racing through Monty’s veins. He fought to preserve a calm, confident expression. “That’s right. I haven’t yet got the cash, but plainly, I’m good for it. Obviously, I can’t simply waltz up and ask the younger sister to marry me. I have to manage the transfer of my affections in a believable way. The last thing I need to do is make the younger sister suspicious, but I swear, she’s well and truly on my hook. After all, she’s nearly my age and still unwed. What does that say to you? And there’s no one else lining up to claim her hand, even though she’s a ripe plum just waiting to be plucked.”

“And squeezed, heh?” Johnson’s cynicism rang loud and clear. He studied Monty, then shook his head. “It never ceases to amaze me that spinster ladies don’t see right through men like you.”

Monty smiled. “It’s part of my charm.”

Johnson snorted. “No doubt.” He paused, clearly weighing the situation, then he huffed. “All right. I’ll give you until Sunday. Meet me here then, same time. And you’d better have some good news and something to put against your account.”

Hugely relieved, Monty assured him, “I will.”

Johnson clearly remained unconvinced. “Just remember, don’t try to scarper. Like I’ve said before, there’s no way you can outrun O’Reilly’s reach.”

The words sent a chill through Monty, and he vowed, “I have no intention of going anywhere. Fate, fickle female, has finally deigned to smile on me again, and for me, the fruit is lying on the ground here, not anywhere else.”

Johnson nodded his large head. “Just remember that.” He heaved his bulk from the bench and stood.

Monty followed suit, and side by side, they walked toward the park’s gate.

As they reached the gate, which was heavily shaded by the park’s trees, Johnson’s gaze locked on the church’s lychgate, directly across the road.

Monty noticed and looked that way and saw what Johnson was watching so intently.

The pair of them paused just inside the park as the lychgate opened, and Madeline stepped through. Whoever held the gate for her was obscured from view by the roof of the lychgate.

“Here.” Johnson tipped his head toward Madeline. “Isn’t that the lady you’re thinking to wed now? The younger sister?”

Monty’s blood chilled at the evidence that Johnson had been checking up on him enough to recognize his mark. “Yes,” he replied, wondering what to do even as, instinctively, he donned his most charming smile.

Then his heart leapt and started to pound as the man who’d held the gate for Madeline followed her onto the street. Madeline didn’t wait for Lord Glossup to offer his arm but looped her arm in his, and together, they walked rapidly toward the center of town, then his lordship gestured, and they crossed the road and continued walking together away from the park.

Monty stood frozen just inside the park gate. Madeline and his lordship were walking so close…just like a couple.

Johnson was regarding Monty through narrowed eyes. “That didn’t look to me as if she was waiting to be swept off her feet. I thought you told me there was no competition for her hand, so are you going to tell me that’s her brother?”

Fleetingly, Monty met Johnson’s gaze. Fear rose up and choked him, then he hauled in a breath, and desperation welled and hardened his features. “No—she doesn’t have a brother. But he’s no one special.” Monty didn’t have a choice. “Here.” He stepped out of the gate. “I’ll show you.”

Driven, determined, and desperate, he strode rapidly after Madeline.

With Madeline on his arm, Henry walked quickly along Bedwin Street, making for the intersection with Endless Street and the police station closer to the square.

Madeline kept pace, equally eager to take their news to Stokes and the Adairs.

Then firm footsteps coming up behind them had them exchanging a glance and slowing.

The man following reached them and impudently seized Madeline’s free hand. “Madeline, my dear! What a delightful surprise to find you here.”

Henry and Madeline halted. For an instant, Henry stared, astonished, at the tall, lean, dark-haired gentleman bowing over Madeline’s hand, then he realized who the man must be.

From the startled expression on Madeline’s face and the way she instinctively edged closer to Henry, she was equally stunned. This was the man she believed had killed her sister. Henry sensed the battle she was waging not to let that show in her face as Pincer—it had to be him—straightened.

“I was just up the road”—Pincer waved vaguely in the direction from which they’d come—“and saw you walking along. Naturally, I came to offer my escort.”

Pincer directed a challenging look of dismissal at Henry.

To buy Madeline time to come to grips with the outlandish situation, Henry pretended to have misinterpreted Pincer’s glare and, reaching across Madeline, held out his hand. “Good afternoon. I’m Lord Glossup. Friend of Madeline’s family. And I believe you’re Montgomery Pincer. Madeline has mentioned you.”

The approach threw Pincer off his stride, and ingrained manners had him grasping Henry’s hand.

They shook hands, and Henry could almost see Pincer’s brain working through Henry’s words and concluding that he might not pose any real threat to Pincer’s plans after all.

The hardness in Pincer’s face dissolved into charming cordiality, then Henry saw him direct a swift glance across the street. Following it, Henry saw a large man ambling slowly along and patently observing them.

Henry’s intervention had allowed Madeline time to gather her wits. She smiled at Monty. “Dear Monty, I didn’t expect to come across you here, either.” She waved ahead. “We were just heading for Endless Street.”

Henry, bless him, realized her intention and stated, “I have an appointment with my solicitor in his offices along there.”

As well as the police station, Endless Street played host to several of the larger legal chambers.

“Perhaps,” Henry went on, looking from Madeline to Pincer, “you might accompany us, Pincer, and keep Miss Huntingdon company while I’m closeted with my man.”

“I would be delighted.” Monty’s expression matched his words. He was beaming as he waved them onward. “Shall we?”

Madeline made no attempt to draw her arm from the safe harbor of Henry’s but was forced to allow Monty to wind her other arm in his. She held back her emotions and managed a wan smile for him, then as a trio, they walked on along the pavement.

She tried not to focus on the thought that the man who had strangled Viola to death was walking by her side, his arm anchoring hers. The important thing, she told herself, was to get Monty as close to the police station as possible. With any luck, they would see a constable coming to or leaving the building and be able to enlist his aid in seizing Monty.

Of course, Monty used the moments as they walked along to chatter and, beneath the mundanity of his comments, ask apparently artless yet prying questions. Henry proved adept at batting those away without revealing anything, and Madeline did her best to contribute and keep Monty’s attention diverted from where they were leading him.

Several times, she noticed that he glanced over his shoulder, and once, turning her head, she caught a glimpse of a large man walking along the pavement across the street. The man was hanging back but keeping pace as if he was watching to see what would happen. Madeline found that curious, but she didn’t have time to dwell on the point. As they approached Endless Street, a group of people came marching around the corner.

Madeline was hugely relieved to see Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes among the group, along with Price and several of Stokes’s men.

Henry, too, recognized the others and lengthened his stride, just as the oncoming group registered the three of them approaching and did the same.

Pincer had been looking over his shoulder again and was momentarily unbalanced by the sudden surge as he was propelled forward by Henry and Madeline. “Here, I say!” He stumbled, hurrying to get his feet moving faster. “Why the sudden rush?”

Then he looked ahead and saw the answer.

Pincer halted—simply planted his feet and stopped.

Before Henry and Madeline could yank him forward again, Pincer seized Madeline’s arm with both hands and hauled her roughly back, away from Henry. “No,” Pincer said, horrified desperation in his face. Then he started backpedaling, pulling Madeline, now stumbling herself, with him. “Stop!” With his gaze locked on the approaching police, he yelled, “Stay back!”

Led by Stokes, the group slowed, uncertain.

Henry heard their footsteps slow, then halt, but all his brain could focus on was that Pincer was hurting Madeline, twisting her arm and making her wince.

For quite the first time in his life, Henry saw red. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!”

He stepped around Madeline and plowed his fist into Pincer’s face.

“Ah!” Pincer squawked and reeled back, releasing Madeline to clutch his nose.

Henry drew Madeline to him and, wrapping his arms protectively around her, backed away.

Then Morgan, O’Donnell, and Price rushed in and seized Monty Pincer.

Madeline saw the constables grappling with Monty, and she slumped against Henry’s chest, where she felt safe and utterly secure. When, a moment later, the constables stepped back, revealing Monty with his hands secured behind his back and his nose streaming red, her mood lifted considerably.

Penelope bustled up with Barnaby. “Are you all right?”

Madeline nodded but made no move to leave the circle of Henry’s strong arms. “We were hoping to lead Monty to the police station, but this worked even better.”

Stokes and Mallard came up. Mallard was studying the man who’d been following Madeline, Henry, and Pincer along the opposite pavement. Large, heavyset, tending portly, and dressed in the manner of a quietly prosperous businessman, the man had halted and was openly watching the constables lead Pincer away.

Henry nodded toward the unknown man. “Pincer kept glancing in his direction.”

“Several times,” Madeline added.

“Did he?” Mallard glanced at Stokes. “That’s Johnson, O’Reilly’s man in town.”

“O’Reilly being?” Stokes asked.

“The biggest moneylender in these parts.” Mallard looked at the man across the street. “Let me have a word with Johnson and see if there’s anything he’s willing to share with us.” Mallard tipped his head to where the constables were chivvying Pincer along. “In the circumstances.”

Stokes nodded. “Good idea. We’ll wait here.”

They stood and watched as Mallard lumbered over to the opposite pavement and, after nodding to the man, whose expression had settled into one of quiet satisfaction, Mallard halted and simply said, “Johnson. Obviously, you know Pincer. I take it he’s one of your master’s clients.”

The group across the street could just hear Johnson’s rumbling reply. “Ex-client, I’m thinking.”

Mallard said, “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell us what you know of Pincer’s recent doings.”

His gaze on Pincer as he was marched around the corner into Endless Street on his way to the police station, Johnson clearly debated, then said, “In this case, I can’t see any reason why I shouldn’t.” He transferred his gaze to Mallard’s face. “You know the boss doesn’t hold with our clients doing anything that might land them on the wrong side of the law. This might serve as a warning to others, heh?”

“I’m all for keeping people on the straight and narrow,” Mallard said. “And who knows? Helping with this case might even get O’Reilly a little credit with the local bench.”

Johnson nodded. “Seems a decent outcome. I’ll take it.”

Mallard tipped his head toward Endless Street. “Come on, then. The inspector from Scotland Yard will want to hear it from your lips, direct.”

“Scotland Yard?” Johnson’s gaze landed on the group opposite and instantly singled out Stokes. Far from being reluctant, Johnson’s face lit with curiosity. “Seems Pincer’s gone up in the world. I’ve never spoken to a Scotland Yard inspector before.” Johnson smiled faintly as, with Mallard, he set off to cross the street. As they neared the others, he added, “Never had reason to before.”

Mallard snorted and waved the others on. They obediently turned and, increasingly eager to learn whatever details Johnson might divulge, strode off for Endless Street with Mallard and Johnson bringing up the rear.