Whom the Gods Love (46 page)

"I wondered about that, too. Then I recalled that he still had to dispose of Mrs. Desmond's belongings, to make it appear she'd left of her own accord. He needed a secure spot, far from both Mrs. Desmond's house and the madhouse where he'd left her. He knew Hampstead—he'd grown up there. It's the merest guess, but I shouldn't be surprised if Mrs. Desmond's things are at the bottom of one of those little willow-draped ponds on the Heath."

"I'll have the local authorities make a search," Sir Malcolm promised.

"Much good that'll do," grumbled Marianne. "It'll all be ruined by now."

"If Alexander took Mrs. Desmond's things to Hampstead," Julian mused, "he may well have enlisted Fanny to help him. She was terrified of him, by all accounts—she wouldn't have dared refuse. He killed her in the brickfield, drove back to London, and abandoned the gig and horse. Then he returned to Mrs. Desmond's house to clean himself and change his clothes. A very nearly perfect crime."

"But Martha found him out," said Mrs. Falkland, with a strange, quiet pride.

"Yes," agreed Julian, turning to Martha. "But you were suspicious of him even before the Brickfield Murder. You killed him exactly a week after he killed Fanny, and yet, according to Valere, you'd begun spying on him some days earlier. Why?"

"It was Fanny who warned me against him, sir. I had a letter from her, about a fortnight before she was killed. It was the first I'd heard from her in eighteen years. She ran away when we were girls. Our parents had died and left us each a bit of money. A man named Gates made up to Fanny and 'ticed her to go off with him—whether for her own sake or the money, I never knew."

"Gates is the surname she used at Mrs. Desmond's," said Julian.

"I wish I could believe she'd a legal right to it, sir," Martha sighed, shaking her head. "Anyhow, I tried to find her. She'd done wrong, but it was my duty to take her back and help her repent and atone. She was still my sister. But happen she was too ashamed, or she hadn't the money to come back—howsomever it was, I never saw her again. I don't know what she did all the years we were apart."

Marianne gave a little snort, as if to say that she for one had a good idea. "I know she'd no references when Alexander sent her to me."

"How can he have come to know her?" asked Sir Malcolm.

"I haven't a notion." Marianne shrugged.

"We can only speculate," said Julian. "Perhaps she found out Martha was in service with the Falklands and came looking for her, and Alexander saw her and was intrigued by the resemblance."

"That could be, sir," Martha agreed. "There are people in Sherborne, where we grew up, who could have told her I was in Mrs. Falkland's service."

"It's curious that, with all the descriptions we had of her, no one mentioned she had a West Country accent," Julian observed.

"She didn't, 'specially," said Marianne. "A country accent rubs off if you knock about the world enough—which she had, I make no doubt."

"Why was she willing to come to work for you?" asked Sir Malcolm.

"Why shouldn't she be?" Marianne retorted. "It was a good post, the pay was regular. 'Course, later she
would
snivel and beg to be allowed to give notice, but Alexander laughed and said, What do you propose to live on? Do you think you could earn a farthing in your old calling, at your age?"

Martha looked across at her fixedly.
"The dogs shall eat Jezebel by the wall of Jezreel. "

"What does she mean by that?" Marianne shrieked. "I won't be talked to so! It's enough to scare a person into fits—"

"Perhaps you might prefer to return to the drawing room?" suggested Julian smoothly.

"Oh, no," she said hastily, "that's quite all right, only she shouldn't fright a person so."

He turned back to Martha. "You said you received a letter from Fanny. When was that?"

"April the seventh, sir. I remember exactly what it said:
'Dear Martha, I am in great trouble. Will you forgive the past, and let me see you? I daren't come to you at home, or let you come to me. Will you meet me at St. Martin in the Fields at noon this Sunday? I can't explain until I see you. Whatever happens, beware your master. For pity's sake, don't let him see this letter, or I do not know what he may do to me.'

"It wasn't signed, but I knew who it was from. I'd no idea where Fanny was, or how she knew the master, or why she was so afeard of him, but I meant to find out. I went to St. Martin in the Fields that Sunday, but Fanny never came."

"I remember that Sunday," said Marianne. "Fanny was wild to go to church. I usually let her, but that morning I was feeling a bit hipped and needed her to look after me. She made such a fuss! I said, All very well, Miss Imper'ence—we'll see what Alexander has to say about
you!
That brought her to heel quick enough."

"What can have prompted her to write at all?" Sir Malcolm wondered. "She'd endured Alexander's tyranny so long, I should have thought she'd be resigned to it by then."

"Alexander and Mrs. Desmond had just tricked Mrs. Falkland into meeting Adams," Julian reminded him. "Mrs. Falkland was a respectable woman, and the employer of Fanny's sister. Perhaps it was simply too much for Fanny. Either fear or conscience drove her to confide in Martha and seek her help."

"She never wrote again," said Martha. "I didn't know if the master'd done something to silence her, or if she'd simply lost heart. I made up my mind to find her. I knew she'd been in London when she sent her letter, because it come by the twopenny post. I thought the master must know where she was, or she wouldn't be so afeard of him. There must be something wrong about him, and if I knew what it was, I might be able to find Fanny. I didn't let on I suspected him—he might do Fanny a mischief. But I watched him. When he went out, I made it my business to know where. And when he was at home, he was always under my eye.

"I wanted to have a look around his study, but it was hard to find a time when I could be sure nobody would catch me out. I knew I had no business there. My chance came the morning after Mr. Eugene stayed out all night in the rain. He come home at dawn, wet and cold as a winter Friday, and the mistress put him straight to bed and sent for the doctor. I wasn't needed, so I slipped into the study. The master'd been out all night, and I thought, if so be he comes home, he'll go straight to bed, or to look in on Mr. Eugene. Either way, he won't come here.

"I was wrong. He come home sudden-like and made for the study. I couldn't get out without him seeing me, so I hid behind the curtains of one of the windows. He came in and went to the other window, and I saw him press on the inside panel of the shutter-case, like this." She motioned with her hands. "The panel swung open, and there was a cupboard inside. He started taking something out of his coat pocket in handfuls and putting it in the cupboard. When he was done, he closed up the shutter-case and went away.

"I wanted to see what he'd hidden, but just then I heard people looking for me in the hall. Mr. Eugene was feverish, and my mistress needed me. The next few days I was kept so busy, I had no chance to go back to the study. But finally one night I crept in and opened the shutter-case, just as I'd seen Mr. Falkland do.

"I found a pile of jewelry, gaudier than anything my mistress would wear. I thought the master must've bought it for some fancy-woman he'd taken up with, and that was why he hid it—so my mistress wouldn't find it. I was just about to put it back, when I saw—" Her voice shook an instant. "I saw the cross.

"I knew it for Fanny's at once. She'd had it since we were girls. People joked that it was the only way to tell us apart—whichever one was wearing the cross, that was Fanny. There was something reddish-brown stuck to the chain—I couldn't make out what it was. I was sick with dread. I didn't know what to make of it all.

"I made up my mind to ask the master how he'd come by Fanny's cross, and where she was. Next day I heard he was alone in his study, so I went in to him. He was sitting at the table looking at one of his books about houses. He put up his brows and looked at me.

"I was a coward then. I'm ashamed to say it, but I thought of myself when I should have been thinking of Fanny. He was my master. If he dismissed me, I'd never see my mistress again. At first I couldn't speak—couldn't think what to say. Finally I managed to ask him if he knew what had become of my sister.

"He said, ‘What should I know about your sister?' And he sounded so mild, and looked so puzzled, that just for a moment I thought I was all wrong, and he couldn't know anything about Fanny at all.

"Then I remembered he had Fanny's cross, and she'd written to me that she was afeard of him. I was angry, and that gave me courage. I said I'd had a letter from her about him. He got up and came around the table. 'Where is this letter?' he wanted to know. 'I can't show it to you,' said I. 'Martha,' he said, smiling all the while and never taking his eyes off me, 'how can I help you if you won't confide in me?' He kept pressing me for the letter, till finally I blurted out that I'd burnt it, because Fanny was afeard of what would happen if it fell into his hands.

"He said, 'Then for all intents and purposes, there never was a letter, and I never knew your sister.' 'But there
was
a letter,' said I. 'I can swear to it.' And he smiled, as if he was talking to a child. 'You haven't studied law,' he said. 'I have. In law, truth is only what you can prove by evidence in court. You have nothing except your word, and I don't think anybody is likely to take that seriously, do you?'

"I just stood there and gaped at him. What he said was so wrong and wicked, and he said it so brazenly. I'd never heard the like of it before. He thought he'd won—thought I was silent for lack of an answer. He gathered up his papers and started toward the door. But all at once he turned around, mocking me with his eyes. He said, very low, 'Did you hear about that woman who was found dead in the brickfield? Tragic, isn't it?'

"After he'd gone, I stood there rooted to the spot. I'd heard of the Brickfield Murder—it'd been in all the papers the past few days. I didn't want to believe it, but I had no choice: that poor soul found in the brickfield was my sister, and it was the master who killed her. He was out all night on the night of that murder—I remembered, because it was the same night Mr. Eugene stayed out in the rain. Next morning I saw him come home and hide Fanny's cross. But what told against him most was that the woman's face was destroyed. I knew why now: because it was the same as mine.

"He didn't know I'd guess all that. I saw what he wanted me to think: that the brickfield woman might be Fanny, but I'd never know for sure, and I'd eat my heart out over it the rest of my life. He didn't know I'd found Fanny's cross. I had no chance to tell him.

"I felt such a rage as I'd never known. I wanted to go straight to a magistrate and have the law of him for killing my sister. But then I remembered what he said about truth being only what you can prove in court. I didn't think I had enough of that kind of proof to make him pay for Fanny's murder. He was a gentleman, with titled friends and a famous lawyer for a father. He might explain away the cross, and who'd take my word against his?

"I asked the Lord for guidance. I closed my eyes and opened my Bible, and it opened to the Book of Job." She recited, staring straight ahead:

"Knowest thou not this of old, since man was placed upon the earth,
That the triumphing of the wicked is short, and the joy of the hypocrite but for a moment?
Though his excellency mount up to the heavens, and his head reach unto the clouds;
Though wickedness be sweet in his mouth, though he hide it under his tongue;
He shall flee from the iron weapon, and the bow of steel shall strike him through.

"How could the Lord have made any clearer to me what I must do?

"You'll give me up to Bow Street, I expect. You must do what you think right. But I'm not sorry. As far as I could see, he brought misery on everyone. Hanging me won't bring him back. If it would, I don't believe any of you would do it."

She looked around at them challengingly. They were all silent.

"She won't be hanged, will she, Papa?" Mrs. Falkland urged. "Not when it's known why she killed him?"

"I don't know, my dear. We'll do all we can to present a fair picture of her motives—after that, it's up to the judge." He added, "Have you really known all along she was the murderer?"

Mrs. Falkland looked at Martha sadly. "Remember how you came to look in on me after I'd retired from the party? You offered to make me one of your headache remedies, and I said not to bother. But later I found I really did have a headache. I didn't want to attract attention by ringing for you, so I stole up to your room. That was at about midnight. You weren't there. Later I heard you'd told the Bow Street Runners you were in your room throughout the time when Alexander might have been killed. I remembered then how, after you told me about the murder, you held me and comforted me and said everything would be all right now. And suddenly I understood: everything was all right because you'd made it so. I shall always be grateful to you, Martha." Her face crumpled. "And I shall miss you so much!"

It dawned on Julian how alone she was. She had had so many friends as Alexander's wife—but the friends were all Alexander's. And there was no substance to his friendships—they were born of his charm, and they died with it. She had no one left but Sir Malcolm, Eugene, and Martha. And now Martha would be gone.

He murmured to Sir Malcolm, "I think you should send for Eugene. I didn't want Mrs. Falkland to have to tell her story in front of him, but she needs him now—all the more because I think I hear Vance arriving. I sent a note to him before I left London, asking him to join us here."

Sure enough, Vance was ushered in, his subordinate Watkins in tow. Sir Malcolm began explaining about the cross and Martha's confession. For the first time, Julian spared a thought for the clock. It was a little before twelve. Solved, de Witt! he thought. And with four minutes to spare.

31: Endings