Whom the Gods Love (42 page)

"Oh, my dear sir." She smiled tenderly. "I could never think of you as a father."

28: Trompe L'Oeil

"What shall we do now?" Sir Malcolm asked Julian, when they had emerged from Clare's chambers into the secluded darkness of Serle's Court.

"I think I shall return to Alexander's house. There are several matters I'd like to pursue with Mrs. Desmond. I want to plumb every memory she has of Alexander's relationship with Fanny Gates. He invited so few people into that nightmare world where he turned from charmer to tormentor—why was she one of them? I also think we might as well get a description of Mrs. Desmond's late lamented jewelry. I can't imagine Alexander simply threw it on a dust-heap. He may have sold it or given it away, and perhaps we might learn something by tracing it."

"Do you ever stop and think," asked Sir Malcolm quietly, "that whoever killed Alexander did the public a service?"

"Do you mean that we ought to leave the murder unsolved?"

"No, no. Murder is always wrong, whatever the provocation. But if Alexander wronged the murderer, as he wronged so many people, it has to be made known. I won't spare his character—he hasn't deserved it. Let the murderer be punished—but let the punishment be tempered by consideration of what the murderer may have suffered at Alexander's hands."

"That's very just, Sir Malcolm, and very courageous." 

"Tut!—it's only common decency."

"Common decency is rather uncommon these days."

Sir Malcolm waved his hand dismissively. "If I can't be any further use, I think I'll go home. Belinda is better, but I don't like to be away from her too long." He paused, looking up at the light in Verity's window. "In one respect, I bless this investigation. It's opened a whole new life for me—a better life than I ever dreamed of. You have to suspect her. I understand. But I know better."

*

The clocks were striking eleven when Julian returned to Alexander's house. He reflected wryly that he was hearing the death knell of his five hundred pounds. Nothing short of a miracle would win his bet for him in thirteen hours.

Still, the murder had to be solved, however long it took to do it. He gave his hat to Nichols and asked where Mrs. Desmond was.

"She's in the study, sir." Nichols looked disapproving. "She wanted to see where the master was killed."

Julian went to the study. He found Marianne perched precariously on a lower shelf of one of the niches flanking the fireplace. With one hand, she clung to the edge of an upper shelf, while with the other she held up a candle so that she could peer into a row of Greek urns.

Julian hastened to her. "Here, let me help you down."

She resigned herself willingly into his arms. After he had set her down and relieved her of her candle, she leaned against him languishingly. "La, I feel so dizzy!"

"Allow me to help you to a chair."

"Oh, no, I couldn't move. I should fall down in a faint if I did."

"This sounds quite serious. I had better send for a physician."

"Oh, you're beastly!" She flounced away. "You might be a little kind to me, after everything I've been through."

He smiled. "Surely the greatest kindness I can show you is to treat you with respect?"

"Respect!" she cried indignantly. "That's a fine thing to say,
I
don't think!" Then she checked herself, smiling coyly. "But of course you're right—it's I that should be kind to you. You're my rescuer. I want to show you how grateful I am." 

"Your word is enough."

"Not nearly enough." She came close, looking up at him through her lashes and playing childishly with his lapels. "I'd do anything you liked—and I mean truly
anything,
never mind what. Things a gentleman don't like to admit he fancies—why, that's just what I like best. And all I'd ask of you is a place to live—just till I've got on my feet again, you understand—and a few dresses. I'd be a credit to you, see if I wouldn't! I'd give the prettiest suppers for a gentleman's friends, you can't think—"

"I'm extremely honoured, Mrs. Desmond—"

"Because you could make me all the fashion, couldn't you? Everything
you
take up is all the rage directly."

"Mrs. Desmond, it grieves me to let your peculiar talents go to waste, but I'm so occupied with the investigation, I haven't time to do them justice."

"Well, if you ever change your mind, just tip me the nod." She plumped down in a chair. "Say, this house is a regular stunner, though! And to think he had his head smashed in, right here in this room! Where did it happen?"

"He was found underneath that window." Julian pointed to the left-hand window looking out on the back garden.

"The butler told me there was a party upstairs that night. So what was he doing down here?"

"If I knew that, I might be able to tell who killed him." He added curiously, "Why were you looking in those urns when I came in?"

"Oh, I got bored and thought I'd nose about. I had an idea I might find my jewelry hid somewhere."

"This room was thoroughly searched. If there'd been any jewelry, it would have been found."

"P'raps it wouldn't, then. Whoever searched the room might've pinched it."

"Either way, you're not likely to find it here. But if you want to go on searching, you needn't scale the walls. That cabinet opens into a set of stairs."

He pointed to one of the satinwood cabinets on either side of the door. Marianne frowned. "It looks just the same as the other one."

"Yes, I know. Alexander seems to have liked effects like that. He had a taste for symmetry—it certainly shows in this room. A niche on either side of the fireplace, a cabinet on either side of the door, a window on either side of the looking-glass. But he also liked his symmetry to be deceptive. So the cabinets aren't really the same—just as, in the library across the hall, there are bookshelves that look just alike, but one of them is a
trompe l'oeil."

"A what-do-you-call-it?"

"A
trompe l'oeil.
It means 'to deceive the eye.' The bookshelf isn't real—it's merely painted on the wall. There's a similar effect in the supper room: the shutters are painted to give the illusion of a Chinese garden at night."

"Him and his little tricks," she sniffed.

"Actually, this house was the most honest thing about him. He was telling the world who and what he really was—and counting on the world not to understand. He was a
trompe l'oeil
himself: his vices made to look like virtues, his enemies made to look like friends—"

He broke off. His eyes travelled slowly around the room. Two niches, just alike. Two cabinets.
Two windows.
Alexander's body had been found beneath the window on the left. Suppose, in this house where nothing was what it seemed, there was something special about that window?

He went to it, candle in hand. The shutters were open, folded into the shutter-cases on each side. He looked out into the dark garden. The view was the same as that from the other window—nothing unique there. He examined the artfully draped white linen curtains, opened and closed the sash, and bent to study the window seat and the wainscoting below. 

"What are you doing?" Marianne wanted to know. 

"Nothing very useful, I'm afraid." The trouble was, it was far too dark for this sort of investigation. The pink-gold glow of the candle seemed to make more shadows than it dispelled. But he could not leave off yet—not while there was such an intriguing avenue unexplored. Because one thing about this window had been different when Alexander's body was found: the left-hand shutter had been closed.

He drew it out of its case and shone his candle on it, then on the shallow recess of the empty shutter-case. Both were painted pearl-grey and meticulously carved and joined. He closed the other shutter and compared the two. There was nothing to choose between them.

He turned back to the left-hand shutter-case. Pressing his ear to the inner panel, he tapped on it experimentally. Then he performed the same operation on the other shutter-case. Was it his imagination, or did the tapping sound different? He tried again. His musical ear, which sometimes tormented him by magnifying unpleasant sounds, served him well now. He could just make out a more resonant tone in the left-hand shutter-case.

Marianne came over to join him. "What do you want to go tapping on the windows for?"

"There's a hollow space behind this shutter-case."

"You mean, a secret cupboard? Just like in one of Alexander's horror stories?"

"That would be like him, wouldn't it—not only to turn fact into fiction, but fiction into fact?"

Marianne had no interest in metaphysics. "How can we get inside?"

"Break in, if we must. But there may be an easier way. An Italian friend of mine had a device like this in his house. The joining looked perfect, but if the panel were touched in just the right fashion, it would open. Let's have a try."

He set down the candle on the window seat and pressed his fingers against the inner side of the shutter-case. Nothing happened. He tried various positions, beginning in the centre and moving over the panel till one hand was at the top and the other at the bottom. He pressed yet again; there was a muffled click, and the panel swung slowly outward.

He caught up the candle and shone it inside. A dazzle of colour and brilliance leaped out at him. It was like the Arabian Nights stories he had read as a boy: a magic door concealing a secret treasure.

"My jewels!" Marianne gave a little cry, pushed past him, and thrust her hand inside. "Look, here's my emerald brooch with the feathers, my ruby comb, my cameo bracelet—What's this? Oh, this is Fanny's."

She tossed aside a small object. Julian picked it up. It was a topaz cross on a cheap, tarnished gilt chain. He held it up to the candle to examine it. What he saw made him reach for his quizzing-glass to take a closer look.

The chain was not tarnished, after all. There was some dark substance caked into the links. Julian worked a little of it out with his penknife. In the faint, fitful light, he could just make out that it was a reddish colour.

"Are you sure this is Fanny's?" he asked.

Marianne was pulling out handfuls of trinkets from the cupboard and hardly looked around. "Oh, yes. She wore it all the time. You'd think it was made of diamonds, she was so fond of it. Have I got it all?"

Julian shone his candle into the compartment. It was empty. Marianne gathered up her treasures and hurried to the looking-glass between the windows. "Light the candles!" she begged.

He illumined the candles on either side of the mirror. Marianne clasped on one ornament after another, the candlelight striking sparks of colour from the jewels as she turned from side to side, admiring herself in the glass.

Julian looked again at Fanny's cross—her one poor bit of jewelry. All at once a memory awoke in his mind. He walked back and forth, holding the cross like a thread that would guide him through a labyrinth. As, of course, it was.

*

It was past midnight by the time Julian finished sorting his thoughts and laying his plans. Weariness had overtaken Marianne. She lay asleep in an armchair by the fire, all tricked out in necklaces, bracelets, and combs, like a little girl trying on her mother's jewelry. Julian did not have the heart to wake her. Her eyes had a bruised, exhausted look, and the firelight threw her wasted features brutally into relief. In her pallor and strain, she suddenly reminded him of Mrs. Falkland. Yet Alexander's mistress had one advantage over his wife: she lacked pride. The wounds his trickery, degradation, and abuse had inflicted on her would heal. He could not destroy her, as he had all but destroyed his wife.

Julian went to Alexander's writing-table and dashed off a note:

Sir Malcolm,
—
I've discovered something of importance. I shall call on you tomorrow morning at nine and tell you all about it. I'm afraid I'm obliged to bring Mrs. Desmond with me. I realize her presence under the same roof with Mrs. Falkland will be awkward, but I promise you, it's essential. Will you please ensure that the entire household remains at home, and that no one is informed of our visit in advance? I'm sorry to raise such a fog of mystery, but the matter defies explanation on paper.

Your very obedient servant, Julian Kestrel

He rang for Nichols and instructed him to have the note delivered as soon as possible. "And have one of the maidservants look after Mrs. Desmond—she oughtn't to be left in the study all night. Tell her I should be greatly obliged if she would accompany me to Hampstead tomorrow morning. I shall call for her at eight. May I leave Mr. Poynter's cabriolet in your stables till then?"

"Certainly, sir."

"Thank you. Have it brought round just before eight, will you?"

"Yes, sir."

Julian departed, taking Fanny's cross for safe-keeping. It was only a short walk back to his flat in Clarges Street. To his surprise, there was a light in the front basement room. Dipper looked out at the area window and made signs that he would come up and open the door. A moment later he appeared, wearing an apron and a pair of old leather gloves. "What have you been doing?" asked Julian, when they had ascended to his flat.

"Polishing the silver, sir—your dressing-case and the glim-sticks, and that."

"At one in the morning?"

"I thought they needed it, sir. They was getting in a bit of a muck."

"The devil they were. You've been playing mother hen, watching for me to come home. What did you suppose—that I'd vanished into an
oubliette
?"

"I dunno what that is, sir, but if it's some'ut you vanish into, it must be uncommon nasty."

Julian smiled. "I'll tell you all about my adventures, but in the meantime you'd better heat me a bath and get me to bed. I have to be up early tomorrow, if I'm to win my bet by noon."

*

On his way to Alexander's house next morning, Julian reflected that it might be amusing to wake up Felix and ask to keep the cabriolet for one more day. But that would be beyond all bounds of cruelty, and besides, he did not have the time. Felix had not seemed in any hurry to get the cab back and surely would not mind if Julian used it to take Marianne to Hampstead.