Cut to the Quick (31 page)

to solve the murder. I can’t blame him. That lockup is a dreadful place. Robert—you know I always hesitate to interfere in magisterial business—”

He looked around at her. “What is it, my dear?"

“There seems to be so little proof against Mr. Kestrel's servant. Must you keep him in gaol any longer?”

How like her, he thought. In the midst of so many troubles nearer home, she could still spare concern for a servant and a stranger. “Tomorrow I shall either have to release him or charge him with the murder. I can't hold him for more than three days without binding him over for trial.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I haven’t decided. I still haven’t heard from John Reeves, the special constable I sent to trace the girl’s journey. If she came from London, she and Stokes could have been acquainted.”

“There are a great many people in London. It doesn’t seem much of a connexion.”

“No. I admit there isn't much proof against him. The difficulty is, there’s no proof whatsoever against anyone else.”

“Mr. Kestrel vouched for him, and Mr. Kestrel seems the sort of person who would be careful whom he kept as a servant. And, Robert, for what it’s worth, I saw something of Stokes before the murder—you know I make a point of observing people who come to stay in our house, even servants—and I thought he seemed a very nice young man. I can’t believe he would kill anyone.”

“You really think he's innocent?”

“I really do, with all my heart.” Her wide, earnest eyes looked into his.

“Well, if nothing further comes out against him at the inquest, I’ll order his release.”

“Oh, I’m so glad!”

She put her arms around him. He gathered her against him, kissed her lips, her cheeks, her throat. After more than twenty years of marriage, it still awed him that she belonged to him—that anything so fair and bright and sweet could be all his. He thought of Geoffrey’s attachment to Gabrielle Deschamps, and shuddered. Imagine being

in thrall to a ruthless, manipulative woman—a woman you could not trust!

She drew back from him at last, flushed and smiling, and slipped into her seat at the dressing-table, taking up her comb again. “At least poor Mr. Kestrel needn’t be burdened any longer with the investigation. He was only ever involved in it because his servant was accused.’*

“I think he’s become interested in it for its own sake.”

“He’s a very clever young man, and clever young men must have their amusements. But I'm sure we can find something safer and pleasanter for him than solving a murder.”

*

Next morning, Maud caught Julian alone before breakfast. “I want to thank you for making Papa tell me about Colonel Fontclair's letters.”

He shrugged. “I think he told you because he realized you had a right to know.”

“I think someone made him realize it,” said Maud.

He had no answer to this.

“Will the secret have to come out?” she asked.

“That depends on whether it’s linked to the murder.”

“Do you think it is?”

“Very likely.”

“At least if the secret comes out, Papa will lose his hold over the Fontclairs. It’s terrible, what he’s doing! It's mortifying to both the Fontclairs and me. I’ve got to find some way to stop it. I wish Lady Tarleton had found the letters when she searched his room! But he says they weren’t there. He says he didn’t bring them to Bellegarde.”

“Did he say where they are?”

“No. I asked, but he wouldn’t tell me. I think they must be in the cabinet in his study at home. It’s a steel cabinet he had made specially to hold important papers. The padlock was designed by the best locksmith in London, Papa wears the key on a chain around his neck, with other important keys, and he never takes it off, even

at night. So you see, if the letters are in that cabinet, theres no way of getting at them. But there must be something else I can do to stop him threatening the Fontclairs. There must be!”

*

The inquest lasted all morning and a good part of the afternoon. It took place at the Blue Lion, in a large back room where local clubs met and dances were held. The place was packed with people from Alderton and beyond. Julian noticed three young men, thin as whippets, their scruffy clothes flecked with city soot, their fingers stained with ink. They were alternately darting sharp glances around them and scribbling in little notebooks. Clearly, the murder had gotten the attention of the London papers.

Julian testified first, describing how he had found the girl's body in his bed. Although this story was well known by now, his public retelling of it caused quite a stir. MacGregor then gave evidence about the manner and probable time of death.

Dick Felton and Mrs. Warren were both difficult witnesses. Felton was enjoying himself and dragged out his evidence as long as he could, while Mrs. Warren was so struck with fear she could hardly speak at all. Senderby testified about what had been done to investigate the crime. There was a murmur of uneasiness among the listeners, as it became clear that there was no evidence of robbery or illegal entry at Bellegarde. People could not but realize this ruled out the most mundane explanations for the murder.

A shadow of suspicion inevitably fell on the Fontclairs. Yet, as MacGregor had predicted, the coroner did not call them as witnesses or enquire into their whereabouts at the time of the murder. He spoke of them with great deference, and expressed his profound regret that they had been dragged into this sordid business. What he clearly hoped to establish was that Mr. Kestrel's servant was the likely culprit. But there was simply no evidence linking Mr. Stokes to the crime or the victim. The jury had no choice but to bring in a verdict of willful murder by a person or persons unknown.

After the inquest, Julian lost himself in the crowd, determined to avoid the three avid Londoners with the notebooks. He kept an

eye out for Dick Felton and, finding him, asked to have a word with him alone.

Felton brought him to a small deserted yard next door, behind the greengrocer's. “Have you got any work for me, sir?" he asked eagerly. “Police-type work, I mean?’*

“I have a little job that needs doing, yes."

“I'm your man, sir! I’m game for anything."

“Do you know Bliss the pedlar?"

“ 'Course I do! Is he the one as done it, sir—the murder?"

“I doubt it. But I want to find him. Senderby is making efforts in that direction, but he doesn't attach the importance to Bliss that I do. You said you could take some time away from your work at the Blue Lion. Will you have a try at finding Bliss for me?"

“Won't I just! I'll ask in all the villages if anyone’s seen him. I'll track him like a red Indian." His face fell. “Only I couldn't stay away more nor a few days. My brother, who'd be taking my place at the Lion, is starting work on a form at the end of the week."

“Give it a few days and see what happens. You may find Bliss by then, or at least get an idea where he's gone."

“What should I do if I find him?"

“Try if you can to persuade him to come back and answer some questions. Tell him I’ll make it worth his while—I hear nothing charms him like the jingling of coins."

“He'll do anything for money, sir, no mistake."

Julian made a wry face, remembering how he had once hoped a sojourn in the country would be a relief to his pocketbook. “If you find him, or any trace of him, I’ll make it worth your while as well. And I'll pay your expenses, whether you find him or not. Is that a fair bargain?"

“Yes, sir!"

“One more thing. Can you arrange to have your brother take your place without telling him or anyone else what you're doing for me?"

“Never fear, sir. I'll fob 'em all off. This is strick'ly on the quiet, then, is it?"

“Exactly."

"Then mum’s the word, sir. I won’t split on you. ‘Split on’ is thieves’ talk for—but you probably know that, don’t you, sir?” Dick said slyly.

Julian began to get an inkling of the boy’s suspicions. He smiled, wondering what St. James Street would say about Julian Kestrel’s being mistaken for a barbarous Bow Street Runner. To the Quality, the Runners were a plague and a nuisance—forever raiding gaming hells, breaking up duels, interfering with all a gentleman’s amusements. But if the sons of peers knew how exciting it was to solve a crime, thought Julian, they would be joining Bow Street for a lark, the way they now paid to spar with professional boxers or handle the ribbons of a stagecoach.

*

Late in the day John Reeves, the special constable, returned from tracing the murdered girl’s journey, and came to report to Sir Robert at Bellegarde. Julian did not hear about his visit till afterward, and was immediately suspicious. Why had he not been sent for to hear the man’s findings for himself? He sought out Sir Robert in his office.

“Mr. Kestrel,” Sir Robert greeted him. “I was just going to look for you. You’ll be glad to know I’ve given Senderby orders to release your servant. I don’t believe there are sufficient grounds to charge him with the murder.”

“I’m very glad to hear it. Thank you.”

“You ought to thank Lady Fontclair. She was very concerned about Mr. Stokes, and spoke warmly on his behalf, and yours.”

“That was very good of her,” said Julian slowly. Of course he was pleased about Dipper’s release, but something about the manner of it gave him a prickly sensation at the back of his neck.

“I must ask that you and your servant remain in the neighbourhood for the present, as you may be needed to give evidence or answer further questions. But there shouldn’t be any difficulty about that: you are still our guest, and I hope you’ll finish out your stay, in spite of this unfortunate incident.”

Sir Robert sat down at his desk, as though he regarded their

interview as at an end. But Julian asked, “I heard Reeves was here. What did he find out?”

“Were you meaning to remain involved in the investigation, Mr. Kestrel? Your servant is now at liberty. Surely your principal motive for concerning yourself with the murder has been removed.”

Yes, thought Julian, you’ve very neatly removed it—at the instigation of Lady Fontclair. “Dipper may be out of gaol, but he’ll remain under suspicion as long as the real murderer is unknown. For that matter, the public is more than a little dubious about my role in this business. If the crime isn’t solved, both Dipper and I may bear the taint of it for the rest of our lives.”

“Do you suppose I shall let the matter rest till the murderer is brought to justice?”

“I think you’ll do all that can be expected of a man, when his every move threatens the people he most loves.”

“I know you believe I can’t be impartial. To be frank, I had the same fear myself. That is why I agreed to let you take part in the investigation—to act as a gadfly, spurring me on to face possibilities I would rather have blinked away. I don’t need you to play that role anymore. Control of the investigation won’t remain in my hands much longer.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Reeves tells me the girl set out for Alderton from a posting house in London. She had no companion and no servant; she made all her travel arrangements herself. Beyond that, he found out nothing to the purpose. Few people saw or spoke with her. If she gave her name, no one remembers it now, I have no choice but to circulate advertisements in London, on the chance that she lived or was known there, and offer a reward for information about her.”

“If an investigation is carried out publicly in London, Bow Street is bound to become involved.”

“Yes. You can imagine how little I welcome that prospect. Professional policemen are certain to root out the business of Geoffrey’s letters and Craddock’s use of them—and, unlike you, they won’t have any qualms about making public whatever they find out. But the matter is out of my hands. Enquiries must be made in Lon-

don—the girl's identity is crucial to solving this crime. It seems there's no avoiding Bow Street now."

Julian was no more pleased than Sir Robert. If Bow Street joined the investigation, the odds were that Dipper would be recognized, and his criminal past exposed. That might provide Sir Robert with just the foundation he needed to charge Dipper with the murder. Dipper's reprieve from prison was liable to be all too short.

Dipper was distressed at the way his master's clothes had been cared for in his absence. "I wouldn't have used a goffering iron on this,” he said, shaking his head over one of Julian's shirts. “Look how it's queered the collar.”

Julian was not attending. Dipper watched him take several turns about the room, then asked, "Anything on your mind, sir?”

“Sir Robert told me the investigation is moving to London. That means the Bow Street Runners will almost certainly become involved.”

“I thought they would in the end, sir,” nodded Dipper. “If they blow upon me, I'll say you didn't know nothing about me when you took me on. I'll say I gammoned you into thinking I was on the square.” .

“That should do wonders for my reputation for judgement,” said Julian lightly.

“You got to let me bonnet for you, sir, there's no sense both of us getting lagged—”

The dressing bell rang. Julian, ducking Dipper's protests, began to change for dinner. “You know,” he said, frowning, “your name will probably crop up in the newspaper accounts of the inquest. If the London police read them, they may blow upon you, as you call it, even before they're drawn into the investigation.”

“That depends, sir. They know me as Dipper, on account of that’s what I was called when I was a fingersmith. They might not know the name Stokes.”

“Then it’s a mercy you were always referred to as ‘Stokes’ at the inquest.” He made a rueful face. “I ought not to have gone on calling you by your old nickname. It just seemed to suit you so well.”

“I always liked it better nor Stokes, sir. A name ought to say something about a cove, that’s what I say.”

“According to Lady Tarleton, my name suits me famously—a small and rather noisy bird of prey. Well, I could be worse off. Imagine going through life with a name like Silas Vorpe.”

Dipper blinked at him. “How do you know about Mr. Vorpe, sir?”