Whom the Gods Love (8 page)

He looked out into the tranquil back garden, with its crescent-shaped flowerbeds, walls draped in blue clematis, and a statue of Pan playing his pipes. At the far end was a green-painted gate. Julian recalled the theory he had posited to Vance: that Alexander might have gone down to the study to meet a secret visitor. Perhaps he had stood by this window, watching for John (or Jane) Noakes to appear through the garden gate. But in that case, he would have wanted the shutters open, not closed. And why should he have closed them after the visitor arrived?

He turned back into the room. "The next question is, how did the murderer take the poker from the fireplace and carry it to the window without Alexander's noticing?"

"But that's simple—isn't it?" Sir Malcolm said. "Alexander was facing away from the fireplace, toward the window and the shutter-case. The murderer need merely have gone to the fireplace, taken the poker, and crept up behind him."

"Look." Julian went back to the left-hand window, beckoning Sir Malcolm to follow. "Alexander was standing here. In that mirror"—Julian pointed to the mirror between the windows—"you have a clear view of the fireplace and the area in between. If there were any light in the room at all, Alexander would have caught at least a glimpse of the murderer coming toward him with the poker raised. Whereas in fact he seems to have been wholly unconscious of his danger. There was no indication he turned toward his assailant, much less struggled with him.

"Of course," added Julian thoughtfully, "he wasn't facing the window directly—he was turned away from the mirror and toward the shutter-case. The murderer might have taken that opportunity to seize the poker and rush at him. But if, as seems likely, he meant to close the other shutter next, he would have been expected to turn back again in a moment. To catch him unawares in that brief interval would have taken extraordinary quickness and presence of mind. And the risk would have been tremendous."

"But there's no other explanation, surely?"

"On the contrary." Julian smiled faintly at this chance to give Sir Malcolm a little of the mental sleight-of-hand he had been craving. "We've been envisioning that Alexander was engaged in some sort of colloquy with the murderer when the murderer suddenly attacked him. But there's also the possibility that Alexander never knew the murderer was in the room."

"You mean the murderer hid somewhere and sprang out at him when his back was turned?"

"Precisely. The murderer could have come here before Alexander did, taken the poker, and hidden in a dark corner, perhaps in one of those niches by the fireplace—or, even better, behind the curtains of the window on the right. When Alexander went to the left-hand window and turned toward the left-hand shutter-case, the murderer could have jumped out and struck him from behind."

"But how could the murderer have known Alexander would come to the study in the middle of the party?"

"Because he'd appointed a rendezvous with Alexander here, at midnight. He had only to come early and hide, so that Alexander would think he hadn't arrived yet. At night, with light from only one candle, it would have been easy enough to conceal himself. I'm assuming it was Alexander who brought the candle—the one found beside the body. Even if he were going to the study for some secret purpose, it was unlikely to be a purpose he could accomplish in the dark. The murderer, on the other hand, would have had every reason to avoid attracting notice on his way to the study. He would have crept there and back without a light—which, incidentally, reinforces the notion that he knew the house tolerably well." 

"Why did he leave the candle burning beside Alexander's body? It was the light coming through the half-open door that prompted Mr. Clare to go into the study. It's almost as if the murderer were courting the attention of the first person to pass by."

"Perhaps he was. He may have wanted the murder to be discovered before the end of the party, so as to multiply the number of suspects. If the body were found after the guests had gone, suspicion might have been directed more narrowly to Alexander's family and servants."

"But—but that suggests that one of Alexander's household is responsible!"

"It does seem to point that way. But there are other possibilities. The murderer may have been a guest who, for reasons not yet clear, wanted to protect Alexander's household—or someone in it—from suspicion. Then too," he added delicately, "the murderer may have hated your son so much that he wanted to be here when his body was discovered and watch the consternation that ensued."

"My God, how horrible." Sir Malcolm covered his eyes for a moment. "Are we making progress, do you think? This lying-in-wait theory—do you believe it?"

"Well, it answers two puzzling questions: why Alexander went to the study and how the murderer was able to creep up on him with the poker unawares. But there are—complications. If the murderer hid behind the curtains of the window on the right—"

He went to the right-hand window and experimented with concealing himself behind the curtains. "This would do very well as a hiding place in near darkness. But it seems an extraordinary stroke of luck for the murderer that Alexander came and stood by the other window with his back turned, like a lamb to the slaughter—if you'll pardon that image, Sir Malcolm. All in all, it's a daring and uncertain plan. Anyone who attempted it would have had to be bold, cool-headed—and desperate."

He took up his quizzing-glass—the little gold-framed magnifying glass he wore on a black ribbon around his neck—and prowled about the two window embrasures for a time, then moved on to the niches by the fireplace and other spots where the murderer might have lain in wait. "Apparently he or she wasn't obliging enough to leave stray coat-buttons or scraps of lace about for us to find. I suppose that would be making things a bit too easy. This lack of physical evidence is devilish inconvenient. No wonder Vance attaches such importance to motive."

"What you're saying is, you're as baffled by this crime as Bow Street," Sir Malcolm said sadly.

Julian perceived that solvers of crime, like physicians, are not allowed to confess to even a momentary bewilderment. This was the first time he had embarked upon a murder investigation under the eyes of the victim's distraught relatives, and it was certainly an education. He smiled quizzically. "What I'm saying, Sir Malcolm, is that our murderer was very clever, or very lucky, or both. That we'll find him out in the end, I have no doubt. But it might be rushing our fences to expect to do it in one morning."

"You're right, of course. I know I've been riding at this thing neck or nothing."

"That can be a mistake. One misses details."

"I'm sure no one could ever accuse
you
of that, Mr. Kestrel," Sir Malcolm said, smiling.

Julian had a distinct sense of missing something now. He gazed around the room, but it still eluded him. He shrugged. "Well, why don't we speak with the servants."

"Of course. Would you like to see them all at once?"

"Yes. I'll start with the full orchestra—then, as needed, move on to duets."

*

The servants were gathered in the parlour. They made a strange picture, their stark mourning clothes set against the vivid colours around them. The parlour was Turkish: all bright ottomans and billowing cushions, mosaic-topped tables and sumptuous carpets. After the austere greys of the study, it was almost too dazzling, like being inside a plush-lined, gem-filled jewel-case.

Julian amused himself with trying to identify as many of the servants as possible before they were introduced. Luke he had already met. The other tall, strapping young man must be the second footman, Nelson Beale. He was dark rather than fair, and, unlike Luke, he seemed to be enjoying all this excitement. The dignified man, with his few remaining strands of iron-grey hair neatly lacquered to his head with pomatum, was surely Paul Nichols, the butler. Alexander's valet, Hippolyte Valere, was likewise unmistakeable: a fussily dressed little man, very like a grasshopper, with a small, triangular face, eyes made prominent by large spectacles, and wiry, tense limbs.

The remaining servants were Alexander's French chef, the rest of the kitchen staff, the maids, and the stable servants. All these were of secondary interest, since they had alibis and had played no part in the events surrounding Alexander's murder.

"There are two missing," Sir Malcolm told Julian. "Belinda's maid, Martha, is with her at my house—you saw her yesterday—and so is her groom, an Irishman named Nugent."

"These will do to be going on with." Julian turned to the servants. "Please sit down. All of you," he added, smiling, as the scullions and stable-boys hesitated and twirled their caps between their hands. They obeyed, looking bewildered at this reversal of roles. Since when did servants sit and the Quality stand before them, as Mr. Kestrel was doing now?

Julian began by going over ground that Bow Street had already covered. There was always the chance some buried memory might come to light; in any event, these familiar questions helped put the servants at their ease, while allowing Julian to study their characters and interactions. Nichols, calm and competent, acted as their principal spokesman. Valere followed the proceedings with a mixture of keen attention and inimitable French disdain. Nelson listened avidly and injected a word wherever he could, while Luke seemed determined to be taken for a marble statue. The coachman, Joe Sampson, a burly man of about forty, sat imperturbably chewing on an unlit pipe. The rest of the servants mutely followed the steady exchange of question and answer, like spectators at a tennis match.

At first the servants merely confirmed what they had already told Bow Street. They knew of no reason why Mr. Falkland would have gone to the study in the middle of the party. Nothing out of the common had happened that evening, apart from Mrs. Falkland's retiring with a headache and Martha's interrupting the party to tell the master she would not be coming back. The outside doors had remained locked all evening, and the ground-level windows bolted. No stranger had been seen in the house, and no guest had behaved suspiciously.

Did the servants know of anyone who had a grudge against Mr. Falkland? No, everyone liked and admired the master. He did not have an enemy in the world. All the servants had been on good terms with him; none was under notice or had been reprimanded lately.

Had all been well in the household? The servants looked at each other uncertainly. Then Nichols coughed and said he believed that Mr. Eugene had not wanted to return to school, but Mrs. Falkland had insisted.

"He'd been at Harrow," Sir Malcolm explained. "Alexander sent him there after he and Belinda were married. Until then, Eugene hadn't been able to attend a proper school, because he had no money of his own, and the trustees who managed Belinda's property didn't see it as part of their duty to pay for Eugene's education. Of course, after Belinda married Alexander, her income came under his control, and she was very willing he should use it to send Eugene to a good school. Unfortunately the boy took a freakish dislike to it. He was positively relieved when a bout of measles sent him home." Julian turned back to the servants. "When did Mrs. Falkland begin urging that he go back?"

Nelson bobbed to his feet. "I heard her speak of it a month or two ago, sir. I was making the rounds of the house one evening—trimming the lamps, you know—and I caught a word or two of a conversation between her and Mr. Falkland."

Julian saw a few of the servants roll their eyes and exchange glances. Evidently Nelson had a reputation for just happening to overhear things. "What did they say?"

"Mrs. Falkland said it wasn't good for Mr. Eugene to be so idle, and he ought to go back to school, but the master disagreed."

"Did he say why?"

"No, sir. He said she knew his reasons."

"She knew his reasons," Julian repeated thoughtfully. "So they'd spoken of this before?"

"Seems so, sir."

"Do the rest of you know anything about this quarrel?"

"I wouldn't call it a quarrel, sir," said Luke. "The master and Mrs. Falkland, they always seemed to get on very well." 

"Naturally they would be too well-bred to show any ill will to each other in public," Julian suggested. Luke flushed and seemed to wish he had held his tongue.

"Mais, c'est absurde, ga!"
Valere said scornfully. "No one could have any cause to quarrel with Mr. Falkland. He was
tout a fait raisonnable.
If he did not wish that Mr. Eugene return to school, there is no doubt he had excellent reasons." 

"Have you any idea what they were?" asked Julian.

"No,
monsieur
." Valere shrugged.

Julian addressed the whole group again. "I gather that Mr. Falkland was finally persuaded to send Eugene back to school. When did he have this change of heart?"

Nelson was on his feet again, bubbling over with information. "It was a Saturday, sir, the second of April. I remember, 'coz it was a wash day, and wash days are the first Saturday every month. Mr. and Mrs. Falkland and Mr. Eugene were sitting here after luncheon, and Mrs. Falkland up and told Mr. Eugene he was to go back to Harrow in a fortnight." 

"How did you overhear all this?" Nichols demanded sternly.

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Nichols, but I was bringing coals into the library next door and closing the blinds, and I couldn't help hearing a word now and again." He put on an injured look, as if eavesdropping on his employers were a painful necessity of his job. "Anyhow, Mr. Eugene made a great combustion—said Mrs. Falkland only wanted to be rid of him and begged the master to take his side, seeing as how he was his guardian. But the master said Mrs. Falkland was his sister, it was for her to say what was best for him, and he couldn't stand against her any longer. And Mrs. Falkland said it was all decided, and there was nothing more to be said."

"Would you say Eugene was disappointed in Mr. Falkland?" Julian probed delicately, glancing around at the other servants.

They hesitated. "Mr. Eugene was very unhappy, sir," said Nichols at last. "And I'm afraid he was quite angry with Mrs. Falkland. But I never observed him to show any rancour toward the master."