A Broken Vessel (20 page)

It seemed the more she found out, the more questions she had. This investigation was a sharper’s game: you could not win it. To make matters worse, she realized that if she could slip into the matron’s closet, any of the other inmates could, too, provided they were willing to risk being punished or expelled if they were caught. She knew no inmate had left the refuge since Mary’s death. Did that mean she must count all two dozen of them as suspects?

She was focusing too much on who
could
have killed Mary. She must think more about who
would
. Who had a compelling reason to want her dead? Not just dislike or general unscrupulousness, but a real motive?

Tomorrow was Tuesday. Mrs. Fiske would be presiding at the refuge for the first time since Sally arrived. She resolved to watch her like a hawk. Mrs. Fiske was her preferred suspect, partly because she did not like her, and partly because Mrs. Fiske had had such a good opportunity both to poison the cordial and to leave the laudanum bottle in Mary’s room. All that was needed was one clue tying her firmly to the murder. And if there were any way to find that clue, Sally would.

It was a little-known fact among gentlemen that their manservants had their own clubs and social engagements, mirroring those of the gentlemen they served. Their prestige depended largely on their masters’ rank and position. To be valet to Mr. Julian Kestrel, paragon of dandies, was no mean distinction. Charles Avondale’s manservant, Lawrence Birkett, was immensely flattered when Dipper invited him out for a drop of hot flannel on Monday night.

After a few glasses, Birkett grew confidential. It was the very devil serving Mr. Avondale these days. He had always been a good enough master—liberal with wages and cast-off clothes. But lately he was in a fret about something. He went gadding from one engagement to another, without ever seeming to enjoy himself. At night, he kept glancing out of the windows, for all the world as if he thought someone might be lurking about the house. “And that’s not the oddest thing,” added Birkett portentously.

Dipper poured him another glass. “What could be rummer than that?”

“Well, I’m just going to tell you.” Birkett paused to empty his glass. Dipper surreptitiously watered his own drink. He needed his wits about him.

“What was I saying?” Birkett muttered. “Oh, yes! Last week the strangest thing happened. Somebody slashed a whacking great letter
R
in the hood of Mr. Avondale’s cabriolet. He was in a great stew about it. It
means
something, that’s what I say.”

“It was prob’ly just some kids having a lark.”

“It
means
something,” Birkett insisted. “Because you see, a day or two later, Mr. Avondale came home and found an
R
chalked on his front door.”

“That’s a queer start,” Dipper admitted. “What’s the
R
stand for, do you think?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll wager the master does. He was all of a tremble when he saw it. Of course, he didn’t tell me anything about it. He don’t trust me, Mr. Dipper, that’s what it is.”

“That’s all your fancy,” Dipper said soothingly. “Why shouldn’t he trust you?”

“I don’t know!” wailed Birkett, who had reached the maudlin stage. “I only know he doesn’t. Sometimes he goes away for a week or more at a time, and he doesn’t take me with him or even tell me where he’s going.”

“When was the last time he done that?”

“It was—oh, let me see—I think it was this past July. That was his longest trip yet—about a fortnight. He thought I hadn’t an inkling where he was going, but I’ve got eyes, Mr. Dipper. I know a thing or two.”

“You’re up to your rigs, and no mistake.”

“A-blo-sutely. The fact is, I packed for him. He wanted warm woolen clothing—in July! So it’s my belief he was travelling north, and pretty far north, too.”

“You’re a downy one. Your master don’t half know your worth.”

“Too true! I won’t stand for it, Mr. Dipper. I’ll find another place, that’s what I’ll do. Who knows if I’ll even be paid next quarter-day?” He sank his voice. “Mr. Avondale’s a bit dipped, you know.”

“Been studying the history of the four kings, has he?”

“No, he was never much one for cards, nor any kind of gaming. I think he must have a bit of muslin tucked away, though why he’s forking out so much for her, and making such a mystery of it, I can’t say.”

“How mucked out is he?”

“I don’t know. But he’s looking to sell one of his favourite hunters—Delilah, her name is—which he wouldn’t do unless he was under the hatches.”

Birkett’s voice was slurring, his eyes growing heavy. Dipper slipped in one last question before he nodded off. “How long has your governor been like this—looking out the window to see if he’s being spied on, and that?”

“I don’t know,” Birkett mumbled. “I’ve only noticed it this past fortnight.” His head dropped on the table, sending his glass rolling over the edge. Dipper caught it just in time.

He put Birkett in a hackney and gave the driver Avondale’s address in Bury Street. Then he went home and recounted their conversation to Mr. Kestrel.

“Do you think we can rely on his information?” Julian asked.

“Oh, yes, sir. He’s a square cove, though he looks like some’ut you’d buy off a fishmonger.”

“Better useful than beautiful, I suppose. Lady Gayheart managed to be both, but I can’t say I found her any great pleasure to question on that account. There’s something repellent in beauty like hers—all cold, glossy surface, like a reflection in a glass.” He pondered. “So Birkett says Avondale’s been in a nervous state for a fortnight? That covers the period just before and just after Mary’s death. But what the devil does the letter
R
stand for?
Refuge
?
Reclamation Society
?”

“There’s other things it could stand for, sir.
Revenge
, or
reward
—”

“Or it could have nothing to do with Mary at all. That’s the damnable thing about this sort of investigation—you need so many facts before you can even begin to say which ones are important.”

“Do you want me to keep in with Birkett, sir?”

“That might be useful. But what I most need you to do is to go on sifting through the answers to the umbrella advertisement.”

“Yes, sir.” Dipper sighed. He had spent the past few days going round to umbrella makers and menders. More than a dozen of them claimed to have repaired black umbrellas with ram’s head handles last week, but on closer enquiry their descriptions of the umbrellas, or of the damage done to them, had been wide of the mark. Dipper had gone so far as to trace two umbrellas back to their owners, but neither man fit Sally’s portrait of Blinkers.

“For my part,” said Julian, “I think it’s time I struck up a closer acquaintance with Avondale. Birkett’s given me just the pretext I need. Tomorrow I shall take a sudden interest in buying a hunter named Delilah.”

CHAPTER
15

M
rs. Fiske came to relieve Mrs. Jessop early Tuesday morning. A pall seemed to drop on the refuge. If Sally found it dreary and constricting before, it was ten times worse under Mrs. Fiske’s sway. The woman was everywhere at once: spying, scolding, disapproving. Sally’s only consolation was that she could finally study Mrs. Fiske at close quarters. It tickled her to think that, while Mrs. Fiske was watching the inmates, one of the inmates was watching her.

It soon became clear she was disturbed about something. She could not sit still, kept getting up and pacing about, and kneading her bony fingers. More than once she stopped an inmate to ask if Mr. Harcourt had arrived. Sally resolved to find out why she wanted to see him so badly.

He came at about four in the afternoon. Sally hid under the stairs, pretending to dust, while Mrs. Fiske spoke to him in the hallway. “I’ve been waiting to see you, sir. I’m in great need of your advice. I would have spoken to you sooner, but I know you’ve been very busy after—everything that’s happened.”

“You must never scruple to seek my counsel. You know I’m available to my flock at any hour of the day or night.”

“Then will you give me a few minutes, sir? I’m sorely perplexed about something.”

“Of course. Will you have the goodness to take tea with me in my office—in about an hour, shall we say?”

An hour later, Sally was shut in the matrons’ closet next to Harcourt’s office, with her ear glued to the wall. She would catch it royally for being absent from her work, but she did not care. She could not miss the chance to hear Harcourt’s conversation with Mrs. Fiske.

“I hope Mr. Fiske isn’t any worse?” he was saying.

“Oh, no, he’s much better. He’ll be up and about in a few days. That isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“What is it, then?”

“It all began last Wednesday, just before we all left for the inquest. You were meeting with the trustees, and I’d put Miss Nettleton to bed after she had that attack of the vapours. I went to the front door for a breath of air, and that was when I saw—Caleb.”

“Caleb?” Harcourt sounded startled. “Are you certain?”

“I am now. I wasn’t then. I’d barely caught sight of him when he turned away and lost himself in the crowd. There were a great many people milling about—the news about Mary had got out, and of course people must needs come poking their noses into anything that smacks of a scandal.”

“What was he doing when you saw him?”

“Lurking. Standing off a little by himself and watching the refuge. That was partly what made me recognize him—that way he had of looking all alone in a crowd of people. All the same, I told myself he couldn’t be Caleb. He did look like him, though very much changed. But what would Caleb be doing skulking about the refuge? I hadn’t seen him or heard a word about him for two years. I thought my eyes must be playing tricks on me. Then when I got home that night, Mr. Fiske was off his head with fever, and I was so taken up with looking after him, I had to put Caleb out of my mind.”

“But now you say you’re certain it was Caleb you saw?”

“I’m certain, because I saw him again. On Saturday morning, Mr. Fiske was in his right mind for the first time since he was taken ill. Until then, he’d been talking the most complete gibberish. ‘Poor little thing,’ he’d say. ‘Poor little thing. Her hands were so cold, cold as stones.’ And then his eyes would fill up with tears, and he’d moan, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ Of course it was Mary’s death that was preying on his mind. He had a shameful weakness for that girl. Just because she was pretty and spoke like a lady, he’d have made a heroine of her, instead of what she was.”

“We must have patience with our frailer brethren, Mrs. Fiske.” Harcourt’s voice was a little weary. Sally guessed he had heard many such complaints from her before.

“I try, Mr. Harcourt, but you can’t conceive the crosses I have to bear. There’s simply no knowing what freakish thing Mr. Fiske may do next. While he was delirious, he suddenly cried out, ‘Oh my God, my boots!’ I asked him about it afterward, and what do you think he said? He said he’d given away a perfectly good pair of boots to some tramp he saw on the street! Now, that is exactly the kind of bird-witted thing he would do. I don’t wonder he was sorry about it afterward. They cost ten and sixpence!”

“
Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, but in heaven
,” said Harcourt mechanically. “But I distract you. You were going to tell me about the next time you saw Caleb.”