Whom the Gods Love (24 page)

Julian looked up swiftly at the stable boys. "Fetch a doctor."

They gaped at each other for a moment, then one dashed off.

"Do you feel well enough to be carried into the house?" Julian asked Mrs. Falkland.

She closed her eyes and nodded jerkily. Julian and the coachman lifted her carefully onto the litter and bore her inside. The remaining stable boy ran ahead to open doors and alert the household.

Sir Malcolm met them in the hallway. "My poor girl! Belinda, dearest—Oh, God, she's fainted! Quick, bring her in here!"

Julian and the coachman carried her into the library. Sir Malcolm helped them ease her from the litter onto a leather sofa. Then they all gasped, staring at the litter. In the middle of the canvas that covered it was a large, sticky red stain.

Sir Malcolm beckoned frantically to two women hovering in the doorway—the cook and housemaid, Julian supposed. "Come here! Find out where she's hurt!"

The men turned their backs while the women looked under Mrs. Falkland's clothes. Their search confirmed what Julian had feared. This was no ordinary wound. It was Sir Malcolm's hope of a grandchild draining away.

The housemaid ran to fetch clean linen, hartshorn, and hot water. Julian asked Sir Malcolm, "Where is Martha?"

"She hasn't returned yet," Sir Malcolm said bleakly. "You remember, I told you she went to London to have Belinda's things packed up. We don't expect her back till the afternoon."

All at once there was a commotion in the hallway. Dutton's voice rose in agitation: "I tell you, you can't see Sir Malcolm now, he's looking after Mrs. Falkland."

Sir Malcolm turned a harried face toward the door. Julian said, "I'll go," and went out to see what was the matter.

He found Dutton with Mike Nugent, who was holding Mrs. Falkland's side-saddle. When he saw Julian, he strode up to him, turned the saddle upside down, and dropped it at his feet. "There now! I ask your honour, was there ever such wickedness?"

Julian felt a prickly sensation at the back of his neck. He dropped on his haunches and peered closely at the saddle. For a moment he saw nothing amiss. It looked like the underside of any saddle: thickly padded, except for a narrow groove running down the centre from front to back. Then he saw two long, ugly nails, all but invisible against the dark brown leather, driven through the central groove so that their points barely protruded beyond the wads of padding on either side. It was a simple, effective trap. As long as the saddle rested lightly on the horse's back, he would not feel the nails. It was only when the rider's weight came down on his back, and the girth was tightened, that the points would jab into his flesh.

Julian looked up grimly at Nugent. "Who discovered these nails?"

"Sure, it was meself and no other, your honour. As soon as Phoenix was calm enough to be left alone, I went to have a look at the saddle—for I knew, sure as Shrove-tide, that he never would have got the Devil in him as he did unless there was something wrong with his saddle. A sweeter-tempered animal you never saw, your honour—gentle as a lamb, for all his high spirits, and loves the mistress like a mother—"

"I'm fully prepared to absolve him of any wrong-doing. Now, about the saddle—"

"Aye, your honour. I says to meself, somebody's tampered with it, for isn't it I that cleans and inspects it every day after the mistress's ride? And I swear to your honour, when I set it on the saddle-bracket yesterday, so clean and polished a lady could look into it to dress her hair, there was nothing wrong with it, at all at all!"

"What time was that?"

"I'd say, between noon and one o'clock, your honour." 

"And when was the next time you handled it?"

"This morning, your honour, when I set it on Phoenix's back, about half past nine. I wish I had cut off me arms before I did so! But I never had a notion those nails were there. I'd have had to look close at the saddle, and that I never thought to do. No one had any call to touch it since yesterday." He scowled and shook his fist. "Bad luck to whoever did—tormenting a poor animal that never did anyone any harm, making him the instrument of hurting his mistress—"

There was a brisk knock at the front door. Dutton let in the surgeon and showed him into the library. Sir Malcolm and the coachman, cook, housemaid, and stable boy spilled out into the hall. Sir Malcolm would have dispersed the servants, but Julian asked that the stable staff remain. Sir Malcolm blinked at him, distracted and miserable. "Why?"

"I have something to tell you, Sir Malcolm. I'm afraid it will come as a shock. But first, will you please ask Dutton to make sure no one leaves the house until you give leave—in particular, that no one goes into the stable yard?"

"Very well. Do as Mr. Kestrel says, Dutton."

Julian took Sir Malcolm into the study and broke the news that Mrs. Falkland's fall had been no accident. Sir Malcolm was beside himself. "My God, who would do anything so barbarous? Who could have hated Alexander enough to want to kill not only him but his child?"

"I don't think we should be too quick to assume that the same person committed both crimes."

"For God's sake! You can't be suggesting there are
two
vicious criminals stalking my family?"

"That's extremely unlikely. I only mean that it's never wise to take anything for granted in these investigations."

"But surely this is Alexander's enemy striking again—a kind of blood feud, running into the next generation?"

Julian cocked an eyebrow at him. "Did you know Mrs. Falkland was in the family way?"

"No. She never told me."

"Well, if even you didn't know, Sir Malcolm, how do you imagine the person who tampered with the saddle knew?"

Sir Malcolm stared. "I have no idea." He dropped into a chair, shaking his head. "I feel all at sea. What should we do now?"

"Have a glass of spirits, I think, and then question the stable staff."

*

The stable staff were waiting in the parlour. On their way there, Sir Malcolm and Julian ran into the surgeon in the hall. "How is she?" Sir Malcolm asked eagerly.

"She'll be all right. No hope of saving the child, but she's young, she'll have others—" The surgeon broke off, recalling too late that Mrs. Falkland had lost her husband, too. "She'll be in some pain for a day or two. Her ankle's sprained, and she's had a bad knock on the head. I've bound up the ankle, and she's not to try to walk on it for at least a week. Her other hurts aren't serious, except that with head injuries you have to watch the patient carefully for the first day or so. If she loses consciousness for any length of time, send for me at once. Otherwise there's nothing to be done but keep her quiet and in bed. If she turns feverish, bathe her forehead with vinegar and water. If the fever persists, I'll bleed her. She wants to go up to her room, and I don't see why she shouldn't be carried there a little later, when she's more rested."

"Is she capable of answering questions?" Julian asked.

"If she feels up to it, she should be encouraged to talk. It will help keep her conscious and distract her from brooding about the child. You'd best wait a bit, though. She needs to rest."

Sir Malcolm thanked the surgeon and saw him out, then went to look in on Mrs. Falkland. He came out shaking his head gravely. "She's in a bad way—more dead than alive. This has well nigh broken her heart. And just when she was starting to get her health and spirits back! I tell you, Kestrel, when we find whoever did this, don't let me near him! I'm beginning to understand what could make a man commit murder."

Sir Malcolm told Dutton to have the cook or housemaid sit with Mrs. Falkland, and to send for him immediately if she took a turn for the worse. "And bring more blankets, and pillows, and anything else she needs to make her comfortable."

"Yes, sir."

Sir Malcolm and Julian went into the parlour. The stable staff were standing about awkwardly, unused to being in the house. They consisted of the coachman, Bob Cheever, the two stable boys, and Nugent. "Is this the whole staff?" Julian asked.

"Yes," said Sir Malcolm. "I've never felt the need to keep a large establishment. I have two carriage horses, a travelling chaise to use when I go on circuit, and a phaeton that I drive myself."

"And how many indoor servants are there?"

"There's Dutton, who acts as both butler and footman, and the cook and housemaid. Oh, and a man who looks after the garden, but he doesn't live here."

Julian turned to Nugent. "You say you cleaned Mrs. Falkland's saddle at about noon yesterday, and it rested on a saddle-bracket until half past nine this morning, when it was put on Phoenix. So the nails must have been driven into the saddle between noon yesterday and half past nine this morning. Have I understood you correctly?"

"Faith, and your honour's grasped what I had to say, entirely."

"Where in the stable is the saddle-bracket?"

Cheever spoke for the first time, in a voice surprisingly mild for such a large, burly man. "In the saddle room, sir, next to the horses' stalls."

"Is that room kept locked?"

"No, sir. It hasn't even a lock on the door."

"What about the stable itself?"

"I lock it myself every night, sir, about nine o'clock, and unlock it again about five the next morning."

"And the stable-yard gate?"

"I lock and unlock that at the same times, sir."

"Did you follow that routine last night and this morning?" 

"Yes, sir."

"Who else has keys to the stable and the gate?"

"Mr. Dutton keeps a set, sir."

Sir Malcolm nodded. "Dutton has keys to every door on the property, inside and out."

"Where does he keep them?"

"I believe he carries the ones he uses most often in his pocket," said Sir Malcolm. "The rest he keeps hanging on pegs in the butler's room in the basement. I'm afraid we're not very vigilant about that sort of thing—but how could we know anyone in the house was in danger?"

"You couldn't," Julian reassured him. "Is the butler's room kept locked?"

"I don't believe so. So I suppose someone could have taken the key to the stable and sneaked in last night."

"But, sir," objected Cheever, "he'd have had to go by the stalls, and that would have startled the horses. And the boys and me would have heard if they took fright—we sleep above the stalls."

"Couldn't someone the horses knew have come in without disturbing them, if he were careful?" Julian suggested.

"Happen he could, sir. But I sleep very light, and I think I'd have heard if anybody was moving around down there."

"Very well," said Julian, "we'll take it as highly unlikely that the saddle was tampered with between nine o'clock last night and five in the morning. That leaves us with yesterday between noon and nine o'clock, and this morning between five and half past nine. During those periods, was anyone in the stable or stable yard other than the four of you?"

"The mistress came out to see Phoenix," said Nugent. "She comes every evening, God bless her, and brings him a basket of apples."

"There was a gentleman, too," said Cheever. "But he didn't come till later, after the stable was locked up. His horse had been brought round just after dark, and later he come to fetch it. Fred here stayed up to look after it." He jerked his thumb at one of the stable boys.

"That was Mr. Clare," said Sir Malcolm slowly.

"What time did he leave?" asked Julian.

"Shortly after midnight," said Sir Malcolm. "I rang for Dutton to light him out to the stable."

"How did Dutton get into the stable? Did he use his key?"

"Must've, sir," said Cheever, "since I wasn't called to let him in."

"Then we know his key wasn't stolen." Julian turned to Fred. "Did Mr. Clare come into the stable?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long did he remain?"

"I dunno, sir," stammered Fred, confused at finding himself suddenly the centre of attention.

"What did he do there?"

"Nothing, sir, 'cept waited for me to fetch his horse. And I did, and he rode away."

"Dutton was with him all that time, I suppose?"

"No, sir. Mr. Dutton went to unlock the gate."

"Were you watching Mr. Clare the entire time he was in the stable?"

"What are you suggesting, Mr. Kestrel?" Sir Malcolm broke in sharply.

"I'm not suggesting anything, Sir Malcolm. I'm merely trying to explore every possibility."

"I wasn't watching
him
all the time, sir," Fred owned. "Boreas, he got fractious, and I had to go to his stall and quiet him."

"Could Mr. Clare have gone into the saddle room and come out again while you were occupied with the horse?"

"Dunno why he couldn't, sir."

"Where would he have got the nails from?" Sir Malcolm demanded. "Do you suppose he carries them about in his pocket in case of an opportunity to tamper with somebody's saddle?"

"He wouldn't have to, sir," Cheever pointed out timidly. "There's nails in the saddle room, just like the ones that was drove into Mrs. Falkland's saddle."

Sir Malcolm asked in a dangerously soft voice, "So you're all suggesting that Mr. Clare wandered into the saddle room, saw the nails lying about, and thought it might be rather a lark to cause my daughter to have an accident?"

Julian cut short the cross-examination. "I repeat, Sir Malcolm, I'm not suggesting anything. I'm merely gathering information. Mr. Clare had the means and opportunity to commit the crime. You can't expect we should blink that away?"

"No. No. Never mind, please go on with your questioning." Sir Malcolm paced back and forth, working off his irritation.

Julian set about pinning down alibis. The stable staff had none: any of them could have slipped into the saddle room between noon yesterday and half past nine this morning. Moreover, they would be particularly adept at tampering with a saddle. It was hard to see what motive they would have for harming Mrs. Falkland. But in dealing with servants—the lowest paid and least respected of working people—one always had to consider the possibility that they could be bought. Sir Malcolm volunteered that all his servants had come to him with a character, and none had ever shown any sign of dishonesty or violence. But this was not conclusive. It merely meant the bribe would have had to be large, to tempt a habitually honest servant into betraying his master.