Defend and Betray (16 page)

They were sitting in Callandra's room, which could hardly be called a withdrawing room, since she would have received no formal visitors there. It was full of bright sunlight, desperately unfashionable, cluttered with books and papers, cushions thrown about for comfort, two discarded shawls and a sleeping cat which should have been white but was liberally dusted with soot.

Callandra herself, well into middle age, gray hair flying all over the place as if she were struggling against a high wind, her curious intelligent face long-nosed, full of humor, and quite out of fashion also, was sitting in the sunlight, which if it were habit might account for her indelicate complexion. She regarded Hester with amusement.

“My dear girl, do you not imagine Monk has already told me of the case? That was our bargain, if you recall. And quite naturally I have made considerable efforts to learn what I can of General Carlyon. And of his father. One may learn much of a man by knowing something of his parents—or of a woman, of course.” She scowled ferociously.”Really, that cat is quite perverse. God intended him to be white, so what does he do but climb up chimneys! It quite sets,my teeth on edge when I think that sooner or later he will lick all that out of his coat. I feel as if my own mouth were full of soot. But I can hardly bathe him, although I have thought of it—and told him so.”

“I should think a great deal of it will come off on your furniture,” Hester said without disquiet. She was used to Callandra, and she had quite an affection for the animal anyway.

“Probably,” Callandra agreed. “He is a refugee from the kitchen at the moment, and I must give the poor beast asylum.”

“Why? I thought his job was in the kitchen, to keep the mice down.”

“It is—but he is overfond of eggs.”

“Can the cook not spare him an egg now and again?”

“Of course. But when she doesn't he is apt to help himself. He has just looped his paw 'round half a dozen this morning and sent them all to the floor, where quite naturally they broke, and he was able to eat his fill. We shall not now be having souffle for dinner.” She rearranged herself rather more comfortably and the cat moved itself gently in its sleep and began to purr. “I presume you wish to know what I have heard about General Carlyon?” Callandra asked.

“Ofcourse.”

“It is not very interesting. Indeed he was a remarkably uninteresting man, correct to a degree which amounts to complete boredom—for me. His father purchased his commission in the Guards. He was able and obeyed the letter of the law, very popular with his fellows, most of them, and in due course obtained promotion, no doubt a great deal to do with family influence and a certain natural ability with a weapon. He knew how to command his men's absolute loyalty—and that counts for a lot. He was an excellent horseman, which also helped.”

“And his private reputation?” Hester said hopefully.

Callandra looked apologetic. “A complete blank,” she confessed. “He married Alexandra FitzWilliam after a brief courtship. It was most suitable and both families were happy with the arrangement, which since they were the ones who were largely responsible for it, is not surprising. They had one daughter, Sabella, and many years later, their only son, Cassian. The general was posted to the Indian army, and remained abroad for many years, mostly in Bengal, and I have spoken to a friend of mine who served there also, but he had never heard anything the least bit disreputable about Carlyon, either his military duties or his personal life. His men respected him, indeed some intensely so.

“I did hear one small story which seems to indicate the character of the man. One young lieutenant, only been in India a few weeks, made an awful mess of a patrol, got himself lost and half of his men wounded. Carlyon, a major at the time, rode out with a couple of volunteers to look for this young fellow, at considerable risk to himself, found him, looked after the wounded and fought off an attack of some sort. He got nearly all of them safely back to the post. Tore the young fellow to shreds himself, but lied like a trooper to save him from coming up on a charge for total incompetence. Which all seems very unselfish, until you realize how it enhances his own reputation, and how his men admired him for it. He seems to have counted the hero worship of his men more than his own preferment, although that came too.”

“Very human,” Hester said thoughtfully. “Not entirely admirable, but not hard to understand.”

“Not at all admirable,” Callandra said grimly. “Not in a military leader. A general should be above all trusted; that is a far calmer emotion than hero worship, and far more to be relied on when the going is really hard.”

“I suppose so—yes, of course.” Hester reasserted her common sense. It was the same with any great leader. Florence Nightingale was not an especially lovable woman, being far too autocratic, insensitive to the vanities and foibles of others, intolerant of weakness and yet highly eccentric herself. But she was a leader even those who most loathed her would still follow, and the men she served regarded her as a saint—but then perhaps most saints were not easy peo-pie.

“I asked with some hope if he had gambled excessively,” Callandra continued. “Been too rigid with discipline, espoused any barbaric sects of belief, earned any personal enemies, or had friendships that might lay him open to question—if you see what I mean?” She looked at Hester dubiously.

“Yes, I see what you mean,” Hester acknowledged with a wry smile. It was not a thought which had occurred to her, but it was a good one. What if the general's lover was not a woman, but a man? But it seemed that was not to be fruitful either. “What a pity—that would be a powerful motive.”

“Indeed.” Callandra's face tightened. “But I could find no evidence whatsoever. And the person to whom I spoke was one who would not have minced words and pretended he would not have heard of such things. I am afraid, my dear, that General Carlyon was of totally traditional behavior in every way—and not a man who seems to have given anyone cause to hate him or to fear him.”

Hester sighed. “Nor his father?”

“Much the same—very much the same, simply less successful. He served in the Peninsular War under the Duke of Wellington, and saw Waterloo—which one would think might make him interesting, but apparently it did not. The only difference between father and son seems to be that the colonel had his son first and his two daughters afterwards, whereas the general did it the other way 'round. And he reached a higher rank, no doubt because he had a father of influence to aid him. I'm sorry my enquiries have turned up so very little. It is most disappointing.”

And on that note, their conversation became more general, and they spent a most agreeable afternoon together until Hester rose to lake her leave and return to Major Tiplady and her duties.

* * * * *

At the same time as Hester was dining with the Carlyon family, Monk was paying his first visit to Dr. Charles Hargrave, both as someone unrelated to the Carlyon family who had attended the party that evening and as the medical officer who had first seen the body of the general.

He had made an appointment in order not to find the doctor out on a call when he came, and therefore he approached with confidence, even at the unsuitable hour of half past eight in the evening. He was admitted by the maid and shown immediately to a pleasant and conventional study where he was received by Hargrave, an unusually tall man, lean and elegant of build, broad shouldered, and yet not athletic in manner. His coloring was nondescript fair, his eyes a little hooded and greenish blue in shade, his nose long and pointed, but not quite straight, as if at some time it had been broken and ill set. His mouth was small, his teeth when he smiled very regular. It was a highly individual face, and he seemed a man very much at his ease.

“Good evening, Mr. Monk. I doubt I can be of any assistance, but of course I shall do everything I can, although I have already spoken to the police—naturally.”

“Thank you, sir,” Monk accepted. “That is most generous of you.”

“Not at all. A wretched business.” Hargrave waved towards one of the large leather-covered chairs beside the fireplace, and as Monk sat in one, he sat in the other.”What can I tell you? I assume you already know the course of events that evening.”

“I have several accounts, none seriously at variance with another,” Monk replied. “But there remain some unanswered questions. For example, do you know what so distressed Mrs.'Erskine?”

Hargrave smiled suddenly, a charming and candid gesture. “No idea at all. Quarrel with Louisa, I should think, but I haven't the faintest notion about what. Although it did seem to me she was quite uncharacteristically beastly to poor Maxim. Sorry not to be more helpful. And before you ask, neither do I know why Thaddeus and Alexandra quarreled.”

“Could that also have been about Mrs. Furnival?” Monk asked.

Hargrave considered for a moment or two before replying, placing his fingers together in a steeple and looking at Monk over the point of them.

“I thought at first that it was unlikely, but on consideration perhaps it is not. Rivalry is a strange thing. People may fight passionately over something, not so much because they desire it for itself but because they wish to win the struggle, and be seen to win it—or at least not to lose.” He regarded Monk closely, searching his face, his expression grave. “What I was going to say is that although Alexandra was not deeply in love with the general, it may be that her pride was very precious to her, and to have her friends and family see him giving his attention to someone else may have been more than she was prepared to endure.” He saw Monk's doubt, or imagined it. “I realize murder is a very extreme reaction to mat.” He frowned, biting his lips. “And solves nothing at all. But then it is absurd to imagine it would solve anything else either—but the general was undoubtedly murdered.”

“Was he?” Monk did not ask the question with skepticism so much as enquiry for clarification. “You examined the body; you did not perceive it as murder immediately, did you?”

Hargrave smiled wryly. “No,” he admitted. “I would not have said anything that evening, whatever I had thought. I confess, I was considerably shaken when Maxim came back and said Thaddeus had had an accident, and then of course when I saw him I knew immediately that he was dead. It was a very nasty wound. My first thoughts, after it was obvious I could do nothing for him, were to break it as gently as possible to his family, many of whom were present, especially his wife. Of course I had no idea then that she was involved in it, and already knew better than any of us what had happened.”

“What had happened, Dr. Hargrave, in your medical opinion?”

Hargrave pursed his lips.

“Exactly,” Monk added.

“Perhaps I had better describe the scene as I found it.” Hargrave crossed his legs and stared at the low fire in the hearth, lit against the evening chill. “The general was lying sprawled on the floor below the curve of the banister,” he began. “The suit of armor was on the floor beside him. As I remember, it had come to pieces, presumably from the impact of his body on it. It can have been held together only by rather perished leather straps, and a certain amount of sheer balance and weight of itself. One gauntlet was under his body, the other close to his head. The helmet had rolled away about eighteen inches.”

“Was the general on his back or his face?” Monk asked.

“His back,” Hargrave said immediately. “The halberd was sticking out of his chest. I assumed he had gone over sideways, overbalanced and then twisted in the air in his effort to save himself, so that the point of the halberd had gone through his chest. Then when he hit the armor, it had deflected him and he had landed on his back. Awkward, I can see that now, but I wasn't thinking of murder at the time—only of what I could do to help.”

“And you saw immediately that he was dead?”

A bleak, rueful expression crossed Hargrave's face. “The first thing I did was to bend and reach for a pulse. Automatic, I assume. Pretty futile, in the circumstances. When I found none, I looked more closely at the wound. The halberd was still in it.” He did not shiver, but the muscles of his body tightened and he seemed to draw into himself. “When I saw how far it had penetrated, I knew he could not possibly live more than a few moments with such an injury. It had sunk more than eight inches into his body. In fact when we moved him later we could see the mark where the point had scarred the floor underneath. She must have ...” His voice caught. He took a breath. “Death must have been more or less instantaneous.”

He swallowed and looked at Monk apologetically. “I've seen a lot of corpses, but mostly from age and disease. I haven't had to deal with violent death very often.”

“Of course not,” Monk acknowledged with a softer tone. “Did you move him?”

“No. No, it was obvious it was going to require the police. Even an accident of that violence would have to be reported and investigated.”

“So you went back into the room and informed them he was dead? Can you recall their individual reactions?”

“Yes!” Hargrave looked surprised, his eyes widening.

“They were shocked, naturally. As far as I can remember, Maxim and Peverell were the most stunned—and my wife. Damaris Ersldne had been preoccupied with her own emotions most of the evening, and I think it was some time before she really took in what I said. Sabella was not there. She had gone upstairs—I think honestly to avoid being in the room with her father, whom she loathed—”

“Do you know why?” Monk interrupted.

“Oh yes.” Hargrave smiled tolerantly. “Since she was about twelve or thirteen she had had some idea of becoming a nun—sort of romantic idea some girls get.” He shrugged, a shadow of humor across his face. “Mostofthem grow out of it—she didn't. Naturally her father wouldn't hear of such a thing. He insisted she marry and settle down, like any other young woman. And Fenton Pole is a nice enough man, well-bred, well-mannered, with more than sufficient means to keep her in comfort.”

He leaned forward and poked the fire, steadying one of the logs with the poker. “To begin with it looked as if she had accepted things. Then she had a very difficult confinement and afterwards seemed not to regain her balance-mentally, that is. Physically she is perfectly well, and the child too. It can happen. Most unfortunate. Poor Alexandra had a very difficult time with her—not to mention Fenton.”