The Masterful Mr. Montague by Stephanie Laurens

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