Whom the Gods Love (36 page)

"Then why was he dressed so swell?" Ben retorted. "Driving a nag like that, and dressed in a fine black cloak and a topper! There was something wrong about him—-I knowed it from the first. And when I seen this"—he waved the advertisement—"I brung it home to show Ruth, and I says, see, your gentleman friend's in trouble, Bow Street is after him. But she still don't believe it!" He lifted his hands as if calling Heaven to witness Ruth's obstinacy. "He's still guinea-gold to her!"

"Did the gentleman say anything about where he'd come from?" asked Julian.

Ruth and Ben shook their heads.

"Or where he was going?"

Another negative.

"When did he leave?"

"About midnight, sir," said Ruth.

"Did he seem nervous, or anxious to escape notice?"

"No, sir, not at all. But we hadn't many customers that night, so there was no one to take much notice of him, anyway."

Only one question—the most important—remained. It was Sir Malcolm who asked it. "What did this gentleman look like?"

Ruth and Ben exchanged glances. Ben said, "I only saw
him
outside, by the carriage lamps. He wasn't very old—about your age, sir." He nodded at Julian.

"But you saw him in the coffee-room, Miss Piper," Julian said. "There must have been enough light for you to tell what he looked like."

"Y-es, sir. Leastways, I know he was very gentleman-like, and had the most speaking eyes. But I'm not sure what colour they were, or his hair, neither. He was sitting in a corner, where there isn't much light of an evening. Candles cost so much, you see." She brightened. "I'd know him if I saw him again—I'm sure of that."

Julian looked at Sir Malcolm. "With your permission, I think we should all go into the library."

"Why?"

"Because I think it may simplify this enquiry."

"Very well, Mr. Kestrel, if you wish."

They went through the connecting door into the library.

Ruth and Ben gazed curiously around them. Suddenly Ruth gave a cry of pleasure. "There he is! That's the gentleman!" She pointed to the portrait of Alexander.

"Oh, God." Sir Malcolm reached out and leaned his hand on a pillar to steady himself.

"I'm so sorry, sir," said Ruth. "Was he your son—the one who was killed?"

"Yes," Sir Malcolm said heavily. "He was my son."

"Do you recognize him, too?" Julian asked Ben.

"Yes, sir." Ben looked disappointed—probably at finding out the gentleman was not a criminal but a victim. He might have cheered up had he known that on the night Alexander stopped at the Jolly Filly, he had disposed of one woman, perhaps murdered another.

Julian took a moment to piece together the events of that night in light of this new knowledge. At about nine o'clock, Alexander drove the gig and horse to Cygnet's Court. Instead of driving in through the passage, he left the gig and horse with Jemmy Otis and went in on foot. He returned, carrying a sleeping woman wearing a cloak and bonnet and white slippers embroidered with gold thread. He put her in the gig and drove away.

When next seen, he was alone. He arrived at the Jolly Filly between eleven and half past and stayed till midnight, chatting with Ruth and resting his horse. He did not appear nervous or in a hurry—that suggested he had accomplished whatever task he had set himself. To take the woman somewhere, dispose of her somehow? But not by murder, surely—or, at all events, not the Brickfield Murder. He would not have had time to go all the way to Hampstead, then double back to Surrey on the other side of the river—let alone to carry out the murder and make himself presentable afterward.

No: if Alexander committed the Brickfield Murder, he did it later, after he had left the Jolly Filly. The murder accomplished, he returned to Mrs. Desmond's house, abandoning the gig and horse in Long Acre on the way. He cleansed himself of blood and brickearth at the washstand in Mrs. Desmond's room and went home at the fashionable hour of dawn. Well and good. But when and how did Mrs. Desmond's possessions disappear from Cygnet's Court? Who was the brickfield victim? And why did Alexander go so far as to destroy her face?

He realized he had walked away from the group and was standing before Alexander's portrait. Sir Malcolm joined him there. "You think he killed that woman in the brickfield, don't you?" he said in an undertone.

"The evidence points that way. But there may be some innocent explanation."

"Thank you for saying so. I don't believe it, and nor do you. We've already caught him deceiving me, deceiving his wife, dragging Quentin into his plots, and perhaps Adams as well. Alexander wasn't killed by footpads, or in a duel or an accident. Nobody stood to gain enough by his murder to make it worth the risk. I daresay we should have asked long ago what he did to make someone hate him enough to kill him."

Julian regarded him in compassionate silence. At length he said, "You told me to ask my question again after we'd spoken with Vance. Do you wish me to abandon the investigation?"

"No. We'll see it through."

"There may be more of these revelations about Alexander. We may find his murderer was someone close to him, and dear to you."

"So be it. The law has a saying in such cases:
Fiat justicia, ruat coelum.
Let justice be done, though the heavens fall."

25: The House without Windows

Sir Malcolm, Julian, and Vance held a council to determine what their next step should be. Julian explained his reconstruction of the night of the Brickfield Murder. "Of course it leaves a good deal unaccounted for. But I think we can safely make one assumption: the unconscious woman Jemmy Otis saw taken away in the gig was Mrs. Desmond."

"She don't fit the description of the brickfield woman," Vance pointed out.

"No. That's precisely why I think she was the woman Jemmy saw. It can't have been the brickfield victim Alexander took away in the gig. Assuming the Brickfield Murder happened after he stopped at the Jolly Filly, what did he do with the victim in the meantime? And why trouble to bring her all the way to Surrey, only to turn round and take her to Hampstead? Besides, Jemmy's unconscious woman was wearing gold-threaded slippers. That sounds like Mrs. Desmond rather than her maid—who also disappeared that night, and who does fit the brickfield woman's description."

"Didn't you say," Sir Malcolm asked, his voice heavy with repugnance, "that Mrs. Desmond brought other women to her house? That she—procured them—for Alexander? How do you know it wasn't one of those women he took away in the gig?"

"That's possible. But Alexander may well have had reason to be rid of Mrs. Desmond. She knew too much about him. She knew he was unfaithful to his wife, and he liked to play the devoted husband. Worse, she was involved in a plot with him against Mrs. Falkland. He had her dress up in her maid's clothes and lure Mrs. Falkland into Cygnet's Court. Whatever was behind that charade, it can't have reflected credit on him."

In reality, Julian thought he knew what was behind it. But no one asked him, which was just as well, because he wanted to keep that theory to himself for now.

"Supposing everything is as you say, sir," said Vance, "what's to be done about it?"

"We know Mrs. Desmond wasn't the brickfield victim:
ergo,
she may still be alive. Alexander was next seen in Surrey after he spirited her away from Cygnet's Court. He must have had some reason for going there. Perhaps she had relatives or friends there who could take her off his hands. So I suggest you draw up a new advertisement, to be circulated in the neighbourhood of the Jolly Filly, describing Mrs. Desmond and seeking information about her."

"Right, sir." Vance nodded. "And I'll send Bill Watkins to ask after her and Mr. Falkland at inns and turnpikes along the way. How will that be, sir?"

"Capital." But what am I to do in the meantime? Julian wondered. I've already lost a day on that infernal trip to Somerset, and I'm in no mood to cool my heels and wait for Vance's seeds to bear fruit. But where is the sense in tearing around aimlessly? Activity for activity's sake does no one any good.

He went home and occupied himself with going over all the information that had been gathered so far in the investigation. No new insights emerged. He sent Dipper out for newspapers and skimmed their latest stories about the Falkland case in the hope they might offer him a fresh perspective. But the papers were in the dark about the investigation, now that it had become largely a private endeavour of Julian's. Without coroner's proceedings or public examinations of witnesses, the reporters were finding it difficult to keep up. It was a sad state of affairs, the
Times
observed, when a serious criminal investigation was reduced to a gentleman's amusement. But
Bell's Life in London
revelled in Julian's role, coyly asking its readers what renowned nonpareil among dandies was leaving no stone unturned to solve "
the shocking and atrocious murder of a certain A.F., whose stylish entertainments all too briefly dazzled the
beau monde." Alexander had always been the darling of the society papers.

Julian dined out with friends at a hotel in Covent Garden, but declined their invitation to one of the neighbourhood nunneries. He was not in the mood for bought caresses. When he got home, he recalled Philippa Fontclair's letter lying neglected on his writing-desk. He took up pen and paper and began a response. He said nothing about the investigation—she had already been exposed to too much of that sort of thing last year, when murder had invaded her tranquil country home.

He thanked her for sharing the secret of her sister-in-law's condition and promised not to speak of it to anyone till she gave him leave. He added:

I shouldn't worry overmuch about not feeling like an aunt. I don't imagine it's the sort of thing one can feel in a vacuum. No man I ever knew could conceive of himself as husband till he had a wife, or as a father till he had a child. I'm persuaded that, once you have a flesh-and-blood niece or nephew, you'll get on famously.

He blotted the sheet, then sat back in his chair, twirling the quill and wondering what it would be like to feel like somebody's uncle—or brother or nephew or cousin. You're blue-deviled, he told himself: discouraged about the investigation, and not quite recovered from Tibbs's vivisection. Finish your letter, and go to bed.

*

He awoke soon after dawn in a completely different frame of mind. There must be something significant about the neighbourhood of the Jolly Filly, else why had Alexander gone there after carrying off Mrs. Desmond? He resolved to go exploring there himself. He would not follow any predetermined route—might not even stop to make enquiries. He would simply keep his eyes and ears open. Who knew, he might happen on something that Vance's conventional enquiries would miss. If not, he would be no worse off than he was now.

He rang for Dipper and told him his plan. By seven he was shaved, dressed, breakfasted, and on his way to see Felix Poynter.

Felix's manservant received him in some astonishment. "Mr. Poynter isn't at home, sir."

"No civilised person would be, at this hour. But my business is pressing enough to transcend courtesy."

"I couldn't take it upon myself, sir—"

"Then allow me to relieve you of the responsibility."

He went to Felix's bedroom door and knocked. There was no answer, so he knocked louder. At last a hollow voice called, "Come in—anything—only stop that rapping. My head feels as if there were two-score dragoons drilling in it."

Julian went in. Felix was looking blearily out through his green silk bedcurtains, his nightcap pushed over one ear. "Good morning," Julian greeted him pleasantly.

"My dear fellow!" Felix expostulated faintly. "Do you realize what o'clock it is? I haven't been in bed above an hour! What on earth do you want?"

"I came to ask if you would be good enough to lend me your cabriolet."

"Is that all? I thought war had been declared, at least." 

"Nothing so dire. I'm going into Surrey on business connected with the investigation, and I need a carriage in case I'm obliged to take anyone about with me or bring anyone back. So if you'll lend me your cab I should be very grateful." 

"Really, my dear old chap," said Felix, struggling to sit up amidst a tangle of bedclothes, "this investigation is becoming a positive monomania with you."

"A monomania?"

"Yes, a monomania. Being completely mad upon one subject. From
mono,
short for 'monotonous,' and
mania
, meaning—well, 'mania.' "

Julian regarded him thoughtfully. "Why is it so important to you to appear stupid?"

"Why is it so important to you to appear clever?"

"But I am a little clever, I think, whereas I don't believe you're stupid in the least."

"This is making my head ache. Please don't take this amiss, because really, I like you excessively, and I count you among my dearest friends—but I wish above all things that you would go away."

"I know it's barbarous calling at this hour, but I'm rather pressed for time. I've bet de Witt five hundred pounds that I'll solve Falkland's murder by noon tomorrow, and to lose would be rather inconvenient, since, now I come to think of it, I haven't got five hundred pounds."

"You know," said Felix, plucking at the bedsheet, "you could always count on me to—"

Julian smiled. "My dear fellow, you're very good, but if I must borrow, it will be from one of the cent-per-cents, whom I can despise and resent with impunity. It's devilish confining to one's natural feelings, borrowing money from a friend." 

"Well, if all you want is the cab, take it by all means." Felix brightened. "Take Alfred, too—my tiger, you remember. He'll be useful to look after the horse, and perhaps you might contrive to lose him in the countryside or have him stolen by gipsies. Find me pen and paper, there's a good fellow, and I'll write a note for you to take to the livery stable."

Julian went to Felix's little Louis Quinze writing-desk and rummaged through a litter of invitations, bills, fashion plates, racing calendars, lottery tickets, and French novels. At last he unearthed some notepaper and a steel pen enamelled with gold stars. Felix wrote a note authorizing him to take the cabriolet, then burrowed back under the covers. Julian thanked him and started to close the bedcurtains.