Cut to the Quick (20 page)

“You think he might have brought the girl in with him?”

“He complained of not having any female company last night. That might, of course, have been a blind.”

“I wouldn’t put anything past him. Bringing a girl into the house for the worst of reasons, right under Sir Robert’s nose—he'd be more than capable of that!”

“But what is the worst of reasons? Dalliance—or murder?”

“I was referring to what you call dalliance, and I call fornication. But, murder—he might be capable of that as well.”

“But why? And why in my room?”

“To throw suspicion off himself, maybe. Let’s say he keeps the girl in his room all night, and she’s still there with him the following afternoon, when he says he was taking a nap. She makes him angry somehow, or she threatens to—to—I know!—to go to Sir Robert and Lady Fontclair and tell them he’s been keeping her there.”

“I can’t see him resorting to murder just to avoid a dust-up with his uncle.”

“I don’t know. It’s in his interest to stay on Sir Robert’s good side. He’s always up to his ears in debt, and Sir Robert’s been known to help him out. But, never mind, let’s just say he decides to get rid of the girl for some reason or other. He finds some excuse to take her to your room between half past four and half past five, knowing there won’t be anybody in that part of the house at that hour. He’s gotten a knife from somewhere, and he kills her. He tucks her into bed—God knows why, unless it’s just his vicious sense of humour. And when her body’s found, he pretends to know nothing about her.”

“It’s not a bad theory. God knows, that tale he told about an afternoon nap always seemed a little thin. And it does sound like the sort of thing that would amuse him, to leave a corpse in my bed and see what I would do. But there are legions of questions. If he brought the girl in with him last night, why did he stop by my room and talk to me, as though he had nothing better to do? And what did he do with her in the morning, while he was at the horse fair? Then there’s his reaction on hearing about the murder. He seemed as horrified as any of us. He may be an extremely good actor, but—” Julian shrugged and shook his head.

“Maybe what horrified him was guilt, or the fear of being found out.”

“Maybe. Though it’s hard to believe the same person who coldbloodedly tucked the girl’s corpse in my bed would feel much remorse about it afterward.”

“This thing gets more confusing and complicated the more we talk about it. I don’t know how you lured me into speculating about Guy in the first place. I’ve known the Fontclairs for some thirty years, and I’d as soon not believe any of them committed this crime.

I tell you frankly, I’d much rather your servant were guilty than anyone related to Sir Robert and Lady Fontclair.*'

"I understand that. What I find remarkable is that you can still be objective. You could easily have made up your mind that Dipper was the murderer, and blinked away any evidence against the Fontclairs."

“Believe me, that's what I'd like to do. But the truth is, I just don’t think your man is a murderer. There's something about him —his face, his way of talking, his—I don’t know, sweetness, though it seems a funny word to use about a young man."

“I know exactly what you mean. I had the same feeling about Dipper when I first met him—and in those days he was as dirty and unprepossessing an object as ever crawled out of the East End. He has a gift for outshining his circumstances. No matter what trouble or squalor he's steeped in, it seems as though his being there were all a mistake that would be cleared up presently. He's been with me for two years, and in that time he's proved his worth to me a hundred times over. Put simply, Dipper is as close to an angel as anyone I've ever known."

MacGregor looked at him thoughtfully. “You're a puzzle, Julian Kestrel."

“I thought we were talking about Dipper."

“We were. But when you talk about him, or about the murder, I get some sense of what you’re really like. When you talk about yourself, what you say is all fustian. If I’d met you over dinner, and there hadn’t been a murder or any kind of upset in the house, I’d think the same as I did when I first laid eyes on you—that you were a coxcomb, vain and light-minded and too clever for your own good, or anybody else’s."

“And now?" asked Julian, almost shyly.

“Now I’m not so sure." MacGregor grinned. “If I ever make up my mind about you, I’ll let you know. Meantime: How are you going to go about this investigation of yours?"

“I’m going to try to clear up some small mysteries, in the hope of shedding light on the large one. I want to ask Mr. Craddock why his mention of a clearing in the forest should so upset Lady Tarleton.

I want to have a talk with Miss Fontclair, because I find it hard to believe her artist’s eye could be as unobservant as she says it was when she passed near my room this afternoon. And I should like to ask Guy—oh, a number of things. What I'd most like to know is how Lady Tarleton really cut her hand, but I’m damned if I know how to get at that subject without putting her on the high ropes.

“I’d also like to find out how the girl got her clothes so dirty and wore out her shoes. I think tomorrow I’ll take a walk round the grounds and see if I can find any trace of her. Somewhere there’s a bit of yellow muslin she tore off the hem of her skirt. The chances of its turning up aren’t great—but, still, one never knows.”

“She could have torn her skirt weeks ago.”

“I doubt it. I think she took great care with her appearance. She was very fetching, and a good deal of money had gone into her clothes. Besides, she had a needle and thread in her reticule. She could have mended her hem in half a crack—women can do that sort of thing blindfold. But if she tore the dress not long before she died, she wouldn’t have had any chance to mend it.”

“I don't wish to insult you, Kestrel, but I’m beginning to think you’d have made a very good lawyer.”

“I couldn’t have abided the wig. I never see a barrister tricked out for court without thinking he looks as if a wire-haired terrier had settled on his head.”

MacGregor gave a grunt of laughter, and rose. “Well, I wish you luck in this bloodhound game you’re playing. I expect I’ll see you at the inquest, if not before.”

“Actually, I was hoping to call on you tomorrow.”

“What for?”

“Well, to have another argument, anyway. I’ve been finding them very bracing. Seriously, I want to talk to you about the murder, and the investigation, and the Fontclairs in general.”

“See here, you’re not dragging me into taking sides against the Fontclairs!”

“I don’t want you to take sides. Your objectivity is what I value most. Everyone here has something to hide or someone to protect. This house was thick with intrigue even before I arrived: the Fontclairs have a secret of some sort, and Craddock knows it, and he’s

using it to force a marriage between his daughter and Hugh. I don’t know if the secret has anything to do with the murder—I shouldn’t be surprised if it did. But I know my chances of solving the murder may hinge on my learning all I can about the Fontclairs—their history, their character, their connexions. You’ve known them for a long time, and you seem to understand them remarkably well. Your help would be invaluable to me.”

“Give me one good reason why I should throw in my lot with you, against my longtime neighbours and friends!”

“They don’t need you,” said Julian simply, “and I do.” MacGregor glowered at him. “You can come at the end of the day. I'll have finished seeing patients by then, unless some emergency crops up. Mind you, this doesn’t mean I’ve made up my mind to trust you. In feet, it's mostly to keep you under my eye, because there’s no telling what mischief you might get up to on your own.” “Thank you, Doctor. I'll try not to wreak too much havoc in the meantime.”

“Havoc, fiddlesticks! And don't look so pleased with yourself!”

*

Rawlinson and Senderby had returned with the special constables. Sir Robert gave them their orders. They were to find out if the murdered girl was known, or had been seen, on the Bellegarde estate or in any of the nearby villages. In particular, they must ask after her at all the local inns and posting houses. Finally, they were to determine whether any strangers had been seen in the neighbourhood during the past few days. Senderby was to have handbills printed, describing the girl and requesting information about her or her murderer. Sir Robert himself would offer a hundred pounds to anyone, other than an accomplice to the crime, who helped bring about a conviction.

The mortician arrived. While he and Sir Robert were discussing funeral arrangements, Julian was permitted to speak to Dipper, He went with Senderby to Rawlinson's office, where Dipper was still confined. On the way, he asked, “Does he know he's being committed to gaol?”

"I've told him, sir. He took it pretty well.”

“What sort of place is this lockup of yours?”

“Not so bad of its kind, sir. A bit dark, on account of the windows being small and high up. A bit musty, maybe. A bit cold, but that don't matter so much at this time of year.”

Julian, who had heard what pestholes some village gaols were, presumed the worst. He stopped Senderby in the corridor. “Here. See that he's comfortably housed and well fed, and has a fire if he needs one. And you needn't mention to him that we had this conversation.”

“This is a lot of money, sir—I wouldn’t know what to do with it all.”

“Do what you like with it. Feed him on champagne and lobster salad, and yourself as well, for all I care. Just see that he's not in want. I shall visit him tomorrow, and if I find he's been neglected or ill-treated, I shall make myself very unpleasant to whomever is responsible. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

They went on to Rawlinson's office—a cramped little burrow of a place. An oak writing desk took up most of the space, while all around it were shelves of ancient books and stacks of parchment. Dipper had fallen asleep at the desk. When Julian and Senderby came in, he lifted his head and blinked. His face lit up. “Sir!” Julian felt he was being hailed as a rescuer, and had done nothing whatever to deserve it. He said sharply to Senderby, “That will be all.”

“Sir Robert didn’t say I was to leave the two of you alone.” “Did he say you were to remain with us?”

“Well—no, he didn’t say that, neither.”

“Then you may go. If you’re afraid I might help Dipper escape, you can lock us both in.”

Senderby backed toward the door, away from those challenging eyes. “That’s all right, sir, I— I don’t need to do that.”

He slipped out of the room. Julian glanced out after him, to make sure there were no eavesdroppers lurking. The moment he closed the door, Dipper burst out:

“I can't tell you how sorry I am, sir, giving Sir Robert the dead heave like that. It's all on account of, when you're on the cross, like

I was before I knew you, sir, you never tells the truth to a beak— not if he was to ask you if the sun is out, or if London Bridge is in London, It’s a long time since I was in the ring, but it all come back to me, suddenlike, when Sir Robert started asking me questions. I thought something’d been pinched from your room, and maybe you’d told Sir Robert I used to have light fingers, and he’d think I done it—and what was worse, maybe you'd think I done it. And if you ever thought I could steal from you, sir—why, sir, I’d lie down and die. So I said I was outdoors, clean away from the house, up until I come in to dinner. I didn’t know they could prove I was wrinkling. And now they think I croaked that mort as was found in your room, and that won’t do you no good, sir.”

“It does seem likely to dampen people’s enthusiasm for inviting me to country house parties. There’s only one way to clear both our names: I’ve got to find out who really killed the girl.”

“How will you do that, sir?”

“By being generally inquisitive. By snapping at heels and listening at keyholes and skulking behind arrases. But depend upon it, I will do it. You’ll barely have got used to that lockup where they mean to put you before I’ll have you out again. Even if the murderer’s not found right away, Sir Robert can’t keep you in gaol for more than three days without charging you, and since he won’t find any more proof against you than he has now, he’ll have to let you go.”

“I’d like that, sir. But being in the stone jug’s not so bad. I been there lots of times in town, and now I’ll get to see what it’s like in daisyville. It’ll be a education, like.”

“That, as my esteemed friend Dr. MacGregor would say, is moonshine. And it’s very impertinent of you to comfort me when I’m trying to comfort you.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Do you forgive me, sir? For trying it on with Sir Robert, I mean.”

“I’ll forgive you anything, if only it will stop you looking like a woebegone lamb. Do you think that, next time a magistrate asks you a question, you can remember you’re now a law-abiding subject, and have nothing to lie about?”

“I will, sir—I wish my eyes may drop out if I don’t!”

“What worries me is that, if this crime isn’t solved within a week, Sir Robert plans to send to London for help. The last thing we need is to have some Bow Street Runner recognize you for a notorious thief.”

“I dunno if I ever got to be no-tor-yus,” said Dipper modestly. “But a lot of robin redbreasts’d know who I was if they clapped eyes on me.”

“Then we’ve got to get to the bottom of this crime as soon as possible, before your redbreasted friends start flocking to Alderton.” He pictured the Bow Street officers—stout, pugnacious men, their thumbs thrust into the armholes of their red waistcoats. “Are you sure you remember nothing out of the ordinary—no matter how small or insignificant—in or around my room before you left it this afternoon?”

“I’ve thought and thought, sir. I didn’t see or hear nothing.”

Senderby poked his head in. “Sir Robert says I’m to take Mr. Stokes away now.”

Dipper turned to Julian. “Your togs is all in order, sir. Michael’s got the polish for your boots. Good-bye and good hunting, sir.”

“Good-bye. Never doubt for a moment, we’ll catch our fox.”

*

There was nothing more to be done that night. Julian retired to bed in the guest room next door to his old room. He recalled what Philippa had said about the renovated guest rooms on this corridor: “You might as well live inside a piece of Wedgwood.” That certainly described this room, with its pastel-painted walls and delicate mouldings of ribbons and rosettes.