Whom the Gods Love (12 page)

Mrs. Falkland made a strange movement with her shoulders, like a porter adjusting the load on his back. That was just how she seemed: braced, determined, tired, like someone carrying a burden a long distance with no hope of relief. "I'm sorry you had to see that quarrel, Mr. Kestrel. It's a very old one. Eugene has always disliked school. He lived a retired life with Mama until a few years ago. After she died, and I married Alexander, he was thrown into the world quite suddenly. Harrow was too large and worldly a place for him. This new school may be better."

"From the standpoint of the investigation, it would be more convenient if he remained here."

"Why?" She looked him directly in the eyes. "Do you suspect him?"

He looked at her just as directly. "I suspect everyone, Mrs. Falkland."

"I see." She said nothing for a moment, then: "My brother doesn't wish to live in the world. I understand his feelings, but I can't indulge them. You've seen how odd and ill-mannered he is. The longer he lives like a hermit, the more settled in those ways he'll become. I have a duty to him, even if he can't understand or appreciate it. My mother left him in my charge. Almost her last words to me were that I should look after him. I shall do as she asked—even if he hates me for it."

Just for an instant, her voice quavered. Julian said delicately, "Perhaps if he knew it cost you an effort to send him away, he might be more willing to go."

"If he knew it cost me an effort, he might be deluded into thinking I would change my mind. That would be more cruel than my present hardness. I must ask you, Mr. Kestrel, to accept that I know what must be done."

"To be sure, Mrs. Falkland. It isn't my affair." Though it will be quickly enough, he thought, if it proves to have something to do with the murder. "I'm glad of this opportunity to speak with you. I should like to ask you a few questions." She inclined her head and sat down. The skirt of her habit made a pool of black around her on the floor.

"Were you conversant with your husband's financial affairs before he died?"

"Not really. He sometimes told me when an investment he'd made had fared well."

"What about when an investment had fared badly?"

"I don't think any of his investments did, until those mining ventures failed a few months ago."

"Did he tell you about that when it happened?"

"He mentioned it."

"Were you worried?"

"No. I never doubted he would set things right."

"Did he tell you how he did that—set things right?"

"I believe he reached an accommodation with Mr. Adams, who'd bought up his notes-of-hand."

"The accommodation amounted to Mr. Adams's forgiving the notes outright—thirty thousand pounds' worth. Did your husband tell you that?"

"No. You must understand, Mr. Kestrel, I never concerned myself with money matters. Alexander was well able to handle them without my help."

"What did you think about his friendship with David Adams?"

"I didn't think anything about it. I hardly knew Mr. Adams. He came to our parties occasionally, but for the most part Alexander saw him without me. He wasn't the sort of person I was accustomed to associate with, but as he was Alexander's friend, I paid him every courtesy."

Julian studied her face. It was white and cold and expressionless. "I should like to ask you about another matter. It concerns a visit you made about a month ago, to a friend who lived near an ironware showroom in the Strand."

A moment ago, he would have thought it impossible she could become more white and still. Now she seemed set in marble. "Yes?"

"Who was this friend?"

"She was Mrs. Brown, a former tenant of my father's at our estate in Dorset. But I didn't actually see her. She wasn't there."

"Perhaps you had better begin at the beginning."

She inclined her head in assent. It interested Julian that she did not pause to ask what this had to do with Alexander's murder. She had expected to be questioned about this visit. And she had her answers ready.

"Alexander and I went to a shop in the Strand called Haythorpe and Sons. He wanted to look at grates. When we came out, a girl came up to us in the street. She said she was Mrs. Brown's maidservant, and she remembered me from my visits to Dorset. I didn't remember her, but of course I would have been more conspicuous to her than she was to me. She said Mrs. Brown had moved to London and was living nearby, and that she was very ill. I didn't stop to think, but said I would go to her. I was raised to believe I had a duty to servants and tenants. In my father's day, they had looked to him for help and protection; now it was only right they should look to me.

"I told Alexander I wished to go to Mrs. Brown at once. He wanted the carriage to wait for me in the Strand—it couldn't fit through the passage where the girl was taking me. But I knew he had another engagement, and I didn't know how long I might be. So I suggested he take the carriage away, and I would come home in a hackney coach."

"And he agreed to that?"

"Not at once. But I persuaded him."

"Forgive me, Mrs. Falkland, but I find it hard to credit that he let you venture into a questionable neighbourhood, with only a strange maidservant for escort."

"He couldn't go with me. I told you, he had an engagement. I don't remember what it was."

"Why didn't he send Luke with you?"

"It all happened quite quickly. There wasn't time to think of such things. I'm not accustomed to anticipate danger. I thought only of my father's old tenant and my duty to look after her."

"Very well. Please go on."

"The maidservant brought me through the passage into a narrow court. There were half a dozen grey-brick houses there, most of them in disrepair. Then it turned out Mrs. Brown didn't live there at all. The maidservant had left her service some time ago and only brought me there to beg for money. I was angry at being lied to and went away. A hackney coach brought me home."

"Luke says you didn't come home for three hours."

She caught her breath. "What else did he tell you?"

"What were you doing all that time?" he countered. 

"Walking. Shopping."

"Alone?"

"Alone." She breathed hard, as if through a knot in her throat.

He paused. He knew he should not give her any respite, but bullying women was not his forte. "This maidservant: what was her name?"

"I don't know. I told you, it was she who recognized me, not the other way round."

"What was she like?"

"She was blond and slender, pretty in a doll-like way." Her gaze strayed beyond him. "She was like one of those papier-mache heads used to display hats: long, dark lashes, and great, vacant blue eyes."

"Vacant of intellect?"

"Vacant of soul," she said quietly.

"She seems to have made a profound impression on you." 

Her head snapped round at him. "She tried to impose on me. I try to be generous to dependents and the poor, but I don't care to be tricked or taken advantage of. Yes, she made an impression on me, and it was an unpleasant one."

"I see. I take it that, as Mr. and Mrs. Brown were your father's tenants, their names would appear on the rent rolls of your estate?"

"I—I don't know. They may not have been tenants, strictly speaking. They may have had a freehold."

"If I went to your estate and looked through the records—if I spoke to neighbours, tenants, the local clergyman—would I find any trace of these Browns at all?"

She drew a long breath and closed her eyes. "Very likely not, Mr. Kestrel."

He asked, gently but inexorably, "Who was this blond girl with the vacant eyes you remember so vividly, Mrs. Falkland? And why did you go with her?"

"I've given you my explanation. If you're not satisfied with it, you must do whatever you deem necessary." She rose. "Is there anything more you wish to ask me?"

"Not at present. I do have some questions for your maid, if you'll be good enough to send her to me."

"Very well. Good afternoon, Mr. Kestrel."

He started to open the door for her, then paused with his hand on the knob. "You know, telling the truth is always the best course in these investigations. It comes out sooner or later, and in ways you can't predict or control."

Her frost-blue eyes looked up at him steadily. "Have you ever been to Hell, Mr. Kestrel?"

He stared. "Not recently."

"Then you can't advise me. You can't even find me, where I am now."

8: Argus

Martha Gilmore stood very straight, hands clasped over her stomach, elbows thrust out. "Please sit down," said Julian.

"No, thank you, sir, I'd rather stand."

"As you wish. You've been in service with Mrs. Falkland's family for some years?"

"Yes, sir. I was taken on as nursemaid after Mr. Talmadge—Mr. Eugene's father—died. My mistress was seven, and Mr. Eugene was three."

"At that time the family lived at Mrs. Falkland's estate in Dorset?"

"Yes, sir."

"Your speech suggests you're from Dorset, or somewhere close by."

"Yes, sir. I come from Sherborne."

"I don't suppose you've ever met a Mr. or Mrs. Brown—former tenants on Mrs. Falkland's estate?"

"Not so as I can recall, sir."

Julian nodded. He did not believe anyone had met, or ever would meet, the Browns. "You've known Mrs. Falkland longer than anyone I've talked to so far, except Eugene. She seems to be in great torment. Have you any idea why?"

"She was very devoted to Mr. Falkland, sir. That would account for it, to my mind."

"That would account for her grief. But I believe she suffers from something more—something that gnaws at her from within, like jealousy or guilt."

"I wouldn't know anything about that, sir."

He smiled and asked frankly, "Tell me, after this interview, shall you repeat everything I've said to your mistress?"

"That depends, sir. If I think she ought to know it, yes. If it would bring her more pain than profit, no. But whatsomever I do, sir, it will be for her good—not yours, nor Sir Malcolm's, nor Bow Street's. And so I tell you plainly, sir."

"That's tolerably plain, yes. Would you go so far as to lie for her?"

"If I would, sir," she said imperturbably, "I'd hardly admit it to you."

He was impressed, and rather puzzled. It was hard to know how to come at her. She was too dour to charm, too stubborn to persuade. And too brave to overawe: this woman was afraid of no one, servant though she was. To lift a poker against her master would not daunt her. And she had ample physical strength for it, to judge by her broad shoulders and sinewy arms.

He said, "It was you who broke the news of the murder to Mrs. Falkland?"

"Yes, sir."

"At about one o'clock in the morning?"

"A little after, sir."

"Was she asleep when you came to her room?"

"I believe so, sir. I had to knock loudly to make her hear me."

"Why didn't you simply go in?"

"The door was locked, sir."

"Was that unusual?"

She paused. "Mrs. Falkland didn't usually lock her door, no, sir."

"Why did she lock it now?"

"I don't know, sir."

"She heard you knocking, came to the door, and let you in?"

"Yes, sir."

"She was still in her evening gown, I believe."

"Yes, sir."

"If she didn't mean to come back to the party and had gone to sleep, why was she still dressed?"

"I don't know, sir. She'd have rung for me if she wanted to undress. I can't say why she didn't."

"When had you last seen her?"

"A little after half past eleven, sir. I looked in on her to see how she was and offered to make her an herbal drink for her headache. She said no, she'd just lie down and try to sleep." 

"Did she ask you to tell Mr. Falkland she wouldn't be returning to the party?"

"No, sir."

"Then you took it on yourself to interrupt the party and give him that message?"

"Yes, sir." She met his gaze squarely. "I didn't think it right for him to be larking with his friends while she was poorly. I thought he ought to go up to her."

"But she told Mr. Poynter she wanted the party to go on in her absence."

"That's as may be, sir. No doubt she wouldn't wish to spoil the master's pleasure. It was like her to put him first. But to me,
she
was all in all. And I thought he ought to go to her."

"So you sent Luke to fetch him from the drawing room. And when he came out, you told him Mrs. Falkland still had her headache and wouldn't be coming back to the party. Did you say anything more?"

"Not so as I can recall, sir."

"Mr. Clare says he looked taken aback while speaking to you."

"Happen he did, sir. I can't remember."

"Was there anything in your conversation to startle him?" 

"No, sir. Unless he was worried about the mistress."

"He went back to the party and told the guests he was going upstairs to look in on her. But instead he went downstairs to his study. Have you any idea why?"

"No, sir."

The woman was a brick wall, Julian thought. He might beat on her for hours without getting the slightest response. "Where did you go after speaking with him?"

"Up to my room in the attic, sir."

"By the servants' stairs?"

"Yes, sir."

"That was at about a quarter to midnight. What did you do then?"

"Needlework, sir."

"How long did you remain there?"

"About an hour, sir. Then Luke came and told me the master'd been killed, and Mr. Nichols said I was to break the news to Mrs. Falkland."

"Did anyone see you in your room during the first half hour you were there?"

"No, sir."

It was odd, thought Julian, that none of the servants without alibis—Luke, Valere, and Martha—showed the slightest concern about it. "How do you get on with M. Valere?"

"Not very well, sir. I don't hold with his stuck-up French ways, or his being a Papist. I will say this for him: he was very attached to the master."

"Perhaps that's why he's so indignant about your spying on him."

"Spying on him, sir?"