Whom the Gods Love (11 page)

"I shouldn't have thought it could ever be right to be rude."

"It depends on the circumstances. In a man of wealth and power, it's unsporting. He has advantages enough."

"Well, you have power. Everyone knows you're a famous dandy and tell everybody how to dress and behave."

"I don't tell anybody how to do anything. Some gentlemen choose to emulate me."

"Why?"

"Because I give the impression I don't care a fig whether they do or not."

"But that doesn't make sense."

"Not much in society does."

Eugene's face fell. He looked as if he were being sent down from Mount Sinai without the Commandments.

Julian could not leave him in this state. "People suppose what I do must be right, because I do it with conviction. A true dandy ought to be able to walk down Pall Mall with an upturned bucket on his head, and have every young blood in London scrambling for one just like it. It's all conviction—sheer effrontery, if you prefer. A kind of philosophical conjuring trick:
I believe in myself, therefore I am
—"

He broke off. Every now and then the outrageousness of his achievement startled even him. But he knew the first rule of keeping one's balance at a great height is not to look down. "We're wandering from the subject. I asked you if you knew before Alexander died that you would be remembered in his will."

Eugene cast about confusedly, as if he were trying to rebuild his defences but found some of the pieces missing. "He hinted something about it," he said at last. "It was over the Christmas holidays. He said he particularly wanted to do something for me, as he hadn't any children of his own."

"Did you interpret that to mean he intended to leave you money?"

"I didn't think about it. I just thought he was trying to cheer me up, because I'd had measles and was still a bit low. I wasn't going about wondering if people would leave me money. I've never had any. I didn't expect I ever should."

"Now it appears you'll soon have four thousand pounds—assuming Alexander didn't leave any children."

"You mean, Belinda might be—" It appeared the idea had never occurred to him. "Wouldn't she have said something?" 

"I'm not an expert in these matters, but it's possible she doesn't know yet."

Eugene started walking—back and forth, like an animal caught in a trap. "I don't want to think about it. If Belinda is—in the family way—it's nothing to me, I don't care. I never believed in the money, anyway. I've never had anything of my own."

But of course he must care desperately, Julian thought. Four thousand pounds would yield him a substantial income or launch him in a gentleman's profession: the Bar, the army, the Church. To be sure, his sister would probably do as much for him and more. But wouldn't it mean a great deal to this dispossessed child to do it for himself?

"How did Alexander come to be your guardian?" Julian asked.

"My mother died two years ago, and my father killed himself when I was three. Neither of them had any close male relatives. Mother was fond of Alexander and asked him to get himself appointed my guardian. He did, through some sort of petition to the Court of Chancery."

"How did you feel about him?"

"I thought he was wonderful."

"In other words, you liked him?"

"Liked him?" Eugene looked puzzled. "You don't understand about Alexander. It's like asking if I liked the King, or the Tower of London. They're splendid, and they're
there.
Alexander was top of the tree, a non-pareil. He used to come to my room and talk to me sometimes before he went out in the evening. He'd be dressed in his evening clothes, and he'd talk about who he might meet and what they'd do. He was like a hero in a novel. He looked perfect, and everything he said and did was perfect. When he wasn't there, it was hard to believe in him. I mean, that he could be real."

"Do you miss him?"

"I can't believe he's dead."

"You've just said you couldn't believe he was real to begin with."

"Well, if someone isn't real, how can he be killed? What I mean is, I can't imagine someone coming up to him and striking him down, breaking his head—as if he were just anybody. I would have thought he'd have only to smile, and the poker would turn into a feather and not hurt him. I suppose that sounds mad."

"No. I think I understand."

There was a pause. Eugene walked back and forth, biting his nails. The house was very quiet: no sound but the muffled footsteps of servants and the occasional spitting and crackling of the fire. Sir Malcolm had given Julian his study for this interview and gone for a walk—his daily visit to the churchyard, Julian supposed. Mrs. Falkland had gone out riding before Sir Malcolm and Julian arrived.

"I should like to ask you about the night of the murder," Julian said. "You went to bed at eleven?"

"Y-yes."

"And you didn't awaken until your sister and Martha came to tell you about the murder shortly before two?"

Eugene shook his head.

"You didn't hear your sister screaming about an hour earlier?"

"I heard something like 'No, no.' I think I thought it was a dream."

"When you heard Alexander was dead, the first thing you asked was 'How was he killed?' How did you know he'd died by violence?"

"Well—people his age don't just die. Someone or something kills them. Or they kill themselves, as my father did." 

"You seem rather fond of reminding people of that." 

"People don't need reminding! Everyone knows, and no one ever forgets. At school they were always taunting me with it. They tied me up and waved a razor under my chin and asked me if I wanted to play cards. You don't know what it's like. I don't suppose anything like that ever happened to you when you were my age."

"Nothing quite like that, no."

Eugene regarded him curiously. "Where did you go to school?"

"I was privately educated." And that's enough on that subject, Julian thought. "I take it this is why you didn't want to return to school?"

"I
hate
school. Belinda and I had an enormous row about it. I don't know why she was so set on being rid of me. I hadn't done anything wrong. And lots of fellows my age are educated at home. But she
would
send me away, and Alexander had to give in to her in the end."

"Were you angry with him about that?"

"I wouldn't have killed him on account of it!"

"Be so good as to answer the question I asked."

"I was disappointed. I thought he was on my side. But he said it was up to Belinda, as she was my sister, and she'd known me much longer. I was mostly angry at her, not him. But that's past. I can't quarrel with her when she's feeling so wretched. And besides, after Alexander died she said I needn't go back to school before the autumn. I'm hoping she'll give up the idea altogether by then."

"You'll have to face the world sooner or later, you know. Unless you were planning to live out your life in a bandbox." 

"That's easy enough for you to say. Look at you. Anyone who can tie a neckcloth as you do doesn't have to worry about facing the world."

Julian regarded him thoughtfully. Then he rose and began drawing off his gloves. "Come here."

"Why?" asked Eugene, alarmed.

"Because my arms don't stretch like India rubber."

Eugene approached him haltingly. Julian twitched off the boy's neckcloth, held it between forefinger and thumb, and surveyed it wryly. "I highly recommend cleanliness. It pleases women and annoys men, which are two excellent ways to get on in society. However, we'll make the best of what we have. This is called
Trone d'Amour.
It's extremely simple. It has one dent in the centre and no collateral creases, and it ties in a knot in front—so. The neckcloth ought to be starched, but no matter."

Eugene went to look in a mirror, then gazed at Julian in awe. "But—but I could never tie it like that."

"You might consider wearing a black stock instead. It's much easier to keep neat, and if it isn't clean, no one will notice. It's very stiff, but that will be useful for learning to hold up your head—a trait you haven't been noted for up to now."

"You're very hard."

No, thought Julian, far too soft. I may have just given a lesson in sartorial elegance to Alexander Falkland's killer. And if that's so, how can I tie a cravat round his neck one moment, and a noose around it the next? The devil!—I'm becoming
involved.
And that's precisely what I expected to escape in this investigation.

He said, "This is a murder inquiry, and you're a suspect without an alibi, who profited signally by the victim's death. You can hardly expect to escape a few uncomfortable moments."

"There! I knew you suspected me!"

"I do suspect you. I also suspect Mr. Clare, Mr. Adams, and a number of other people. You haven't broken out of the field yet. If you do, I'll let you know."

"I think you're beastly cold-blooded. You've probably been trying to win my confidence in order to make me confess. Next you'll be thinking I killed that woman, too! If I bashed my brother-in-law on the head, why not her?"

"What in the devil's name are you talking about?"

"That woman who was found in the brickfield near here. Her face was all smashed with a piece of brick, till it was just a wet, muddy pulp. I saw the place where they found her. It was horrible. I wished I hadn't gone."

"The Brickfield Murder," said Julian slowly. "I'd forgotten about that. It was in all the newspapers while I was in Newmarket—till Alexander's murder crowded it out. It hasn't been solved, I suppose?"

"No. No one even knows who the woman was, because she hadn't any face—"

The door opened. Eugene started and spun around. Mrs. Falkland came in, still in riding dress, with a colour in her cheeks that made her look far healthier than she had yesterday. With one hand she held up the skirt of her black habit, which was cut overly long to hang becomingly from a side-saddle. In her other hand was an open letter.

"I have to speak with you, Eugene—Oh. Mr. Kestrel. I didn't know you were here."

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Falkland." Julian bowed over her hand. "I'm glad to see you looking so well."

"Thank you. This is the first day I've been well enough to ride."

"You ride on the Heath, I suppose?" He made conversation at random, wondering all the while why she seemed braced for some great effort. He did not think it had anything to do with him.

"Yes. I prefer to ride in the morning, but this morning it rained. But I'm afraid I interrupt you—I know you have things to ask Eugene."

"Don't go unless you'd rather. I believe Mr. Talmadge and I were finished." He glanced at Eugene.

Eugene was searching his sister's face. He fairly quivered with alertness, like an animal sensing danger. His eyes came to rest on the letter in her hand. "Something is wrong." 

"No," she said levelly. "I merely wish to talk to you, but it can wait until later."

"Tell me now."

"You will please refrain from making a scene before a guest." 

"I know what it is!" he cried. "You looked just so when you told me I was to go back to school!"

She said nothing.

"But—but you promised! You said I needn't go back to Harrow before the autumn!"

"I'm not sending you back to Harrow. It's too late in the year for that, and anyway, I know you dislike it. So I've chosen a private school for you. I think you may be happier there. It comes very well recommended, and, as it's quite small, perhaps your—your father's history won't be so well known."

"It will all come out in the end! It always does. You can't get 'round your promise just by sending me to a different school. You gave your word, and you've broken it!"

"If I led you to believe you could neglect your education till the autumn, it was in a moment of weakness and confusion after Alexander died. I ought not to have made that promise—but you ought not to have asked it of me at such a time. You can't expect I should let you remain here, in the midst of a murder investigation. You're too morbid as it is. Surely now that Mr. Kestrel has had a chance to question you, he can have no objection to your going."

They both turned to Julian, Mrs. Falkland's gaze coolly expectant, Eugene's eloquent with appeal. Julian knew it was not for him to meddle. If Alexander had left it up to Mrs. Falkland to make decisions about Eugene's education, then he, a complete stranger, could hardly interfere. "I have nothing further to ask Mr. Talmadge at present. That may change, in which case I shall require him to return."

"I'm willing to take that chance," Mrs. Falkland said. 

"Where am I to go?" Eugene asked grimly.

"The school is in Yorkshire—"

"Yorkshire! I know about those Yorkshire schools! Boys are sent there when no one ever wants to see them again. They haven't any holidays, and nobody cares what becomes of them—"

"It isn't that sort of school! Listen to me, Eugene. This is all for your good. You're too idle here. You do nothing all day but walk on the Heath and brood."

"Then I'll study!" he pleaded. "Sir Malcolm has heaps of books—"

"I've made my decision. Nothing you can say will alter it. I've arranged with the proprietor of the school for you to leave the day after tomorrow." He started to protest, but she held up her hand. "The last time I tried to send you back to school, I gave you too long to think about it, and you went so far as to make yourself ill to keep from going. I shan't make that mistake again. The day after tomorrow, early in the morning, you leave by post-chaise. There's nothing more to be said." 

"There is something more." Eugene was very pale. "I just want you to know, I'm not deceived about why you want to send me so far away. You think I killed Alexander. Perhaps you want everyone else to think so, too. You've always been ashamed of me! Alexander was kind to me, but you're cold and hateful!—"

"Oh, Eugene," she said wearily. Then her back straightened. "You've made a spectacle of us both before Mr. Kestrel. You will please beg his pardon and then go to your room." 

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Kestrel. But I did warn you, I'm a bad lot, just as my father was. You can't expect anything better of me." He started to leave, then turned to face his sister. "You won't be able to tell me what to do much longer. I have money of my own now—or I will, as soon as I'm of age. Alexander did that for me. He gave me what I wanted most in the world—he made me free of you!" He ran out.