Defend and Betray (11 page)

“But one-sided, you say?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“One-sided,” he repeated. “According to you, the general was not angry with Mrs. Carlyon; he behaved as normal.”

“Yes—that is true,” she acknowledged with something like surprise. “Perhaps he had forbidden her something, or made a decision she did not like, and she was still smarting over it. But that is hardly reason to kill anyone, is it?”

“What would be reason to kill, Mrs. Furnival?”

She drew in her breath quickly, then shot him a bright, sharp smile.

“What unexpected things you say, Mr. Monk! I have no idea. I have never thought of killing anyone. That is not how I fight my battles.”

He met her eyes without a flicker. “How do you fight them, Mrs. Furnival?”

This time the smile was wider. “Discreetly, Mr. Monk, and without forewarning people.”

“And do you win?”

“Yes I do.” Too late she wished to take it back. “Well, usually,” she amended. “Of course if I did not, I should not. . .” She tailed off, realizing that to justify herself would be clumsy. He had not accused her; in fact he had not even allowed the thought to come through his words. She had raised it herself.

She continued with the story, looking up at the far wall again.”Then we all went in to dinner. Sabella was still making occasional bitter remarks, Damaris Erskine was behaving appallingly to poor Maxim, and Alex spoke to everyone except Thaddeus—oh, and very little to me. She seemed to feel I was on his side, which was foolish. Of course I was on no one's side, I was simply doing my duty as hostess.”

“And after dinner?”

“Oh, as usual the gentlemen stayed at the table for port, and we went to the withdrawing room where we sat arid gossiped for a while.” She lifted her beautiful shoulders in an expression of both humor and boredom. “Sabella went upstairs, as I recall, something about a headache. She has not been entirely well since the birth of her child.”

“Did you gossip about anything in particular?”

“I really cannot remember. It was rather difficult, as I said. Damaris Erskine had been behaving like a complete fool all evening. I have no idea why. Usually she is quite a sensible woman, but that evening she seemed on the point of hysteria ever since just before dinner. I don't know if she had quarreled with her husband, or something. They are very close, and she did seem to be avoiding him on this occasion, which is unusual. I really wondered once or twice if she had had rather too much wine before she came. I can't think what else would account for her manner, or why poor Maxim should be the principal victim. She is rather eccentric, but this was really too much!”

“I'll enquire into it,” he remarked. “Then what happened? At some point the general must have left the room.”

“Yes he did. I took him up to see my son, Valentine, who was at home because he has just recovered from the measles, poor boy. They were very fond of each other, you know. Thaddeus has always taken an interest in him, and of course Valentine, like any boy looking towards manhood, has a great admiration for the military and exploration and foreign travel.” She looked at him very directly. “He loved to hear Thaddeus's tales of India and the Far East. I am afraid my husband does not go in very much for that sort of thing.”

“You took General Carlyon upstairs to see your son. Did you remain with him?”

“No. My husband came up to find me, because the party needed some considerable management. As I said before, several people were behaving badly. Fenton Pole and Mrs. Hargrave were struggling to keep some sort of civilized conversation going. At least that is what Maxim said.”

“So you came down, leaving the general with Valentine?”

“Yes, that's right.” Her face tightened. “That is the last time I saw him.”

“And your husband?”

She shifted her position very slightly, but still stood against the rich swath of the curtain.

“He stayed upstairs. And almost as soon as I got back down here again, Alexandra went up. She looked furious, white-faced and so tense I thought she was intending to have a terrible quarrel, but there was nothing any of us could do to stop her. I didn't know what it was about—and I still don't.”

He looked at her without any humor at all, directly and blankly.

“Mrs. Carlyon said she killed him because he was having an affair with you, and everyone knew it.”

Her eyes widened and she looked at him with complete incredulity, as if he had said something absurd, so ridiculous as to be runny rather than offensive.

“Oh really! That is too foolish! She couldn't possibly believe such a thing! It is not only untrue, it is not even remotely credible. We have been agreeable friends, no more. Nor would it ever have appeared to anyone that we were more—I assure you, no one else thought so. Ask them! I am an amusing and entertaining woman, I hope, and capable of friendship, but I am not irresponsible.”

He smiled, still refusing to pay the implicit compliment, except with his eyes. “Can you think of any reason why Mrs. Carlyon would believe it?”

“No—none at all. None that are sane.” She smiled at him, her eyes bright and steady. They were hazel after all. “Really, Mr. Monk, I think there must be some other reason for whatever she did—some quarrel we know nothing of. And honestly, I cannot see why it matters. If she killed him, and it seems inescapable that she did, then what difference does it make why?”

“It might make a difference to the judge, when he comes to sentence her, if and when she is convicted,” he replied, watching her face for pity, anger, grief, any emotions he could read. He saw nothing but cool intelligence.

“I am not familiar with the law, except the obvious.” She smiled. “I would have thought they would hang her regardless.”

“Indeed they may,” he conceded. “You left the story with your husband and the general upstairs, and Mrs. Carlyon just going up. What happened then?”

“Maxim came down, and then a little later, maybe ten minutes, Alexandra came down, looking dreadful. Shortly after that Maxim went out into the front hall—we had all used the back stairs as it is quicker to go up to Valentine's rooms that way—and almost immediately he came back to say Thaddeus had had an accident and was seriously hurt. Charles—that is, Dr. Hargrave, went to see if he could help.

He came back after the briefest time to say Thaddeus was dead and we should call the police.”

“Which you did?”

“Of course. A Sergeant Evan came, and they asked us all sorts of questions. It was the worst night I can ever remember.”

“So it is possible that Mrs. Carlyon, your husband, Sabella or yourself could have killed him—as far as opportunity is concerned?”

She looked surprised. “Yes—I suppose so. But why should we?”

“I don't know yet, Mrs. Furnival. When did Sabella Pole come downstairs?”

She thought for a moment. “After Charles said Thaddeus was dead. I cannot remember who went up for her. Her mother, I expect. I realize you are employed to help Alexandra, but I cannot see how you can. Neither my husband nor I had anything to do with Thaddeus's death. I know Sabella is very emotional, but I don't believe she killed her father—and no one else could have, apart from having no possible reason.”

“Is your son still at home, Mrs. Furnival?”

“Yes.”

“May I speak with him?”

There was a guarded look to her face which he found most natural in the circumstances.

“Why?” she asked.

“He may have seen or heard something which precipitated the quarrel resulting in the general's death.”

“He didn't. I asked him that myself.”

“I would still like to hear from him, if I may. After all, if Mrs. Carlyon murdered the general a few minutes afterwards, there must have been some indication of it then. If he is an intelligent boy, he must have been aware of something.”

She hesitated for several moments. He thought she was weighing up the possible distress to her son, the justification for denying his request, and the light it would cast on her own motives and on Alexandra Carlyon's guilt.

“I am sure you would like this whole affair cleared up as soon as possible,” he said carefully. “It cannot be pleasant for you to have it unresolved.”

Her eyes did not waver from his face.

“It is resolved, Mr. Monk. Alexandra has confessed.”

“But that is not the end,” he argued. “It is merely the end of the first phase. May I see your son?”

“If you find it important. I shall take you up.”

He followed her out of the withdrawing room, walking behind and watching her slight swagger, the elegant, feminine line of her shoulders, and the confident way she managed the big skirt with its stiff hoops. She led him along the passage, then instead of going up the main stairs, she turned right and went up the second staircase to the landing of the north wing. Valentine's rooms were separated from the main bedrooms by a guest suite, presently unused.

She knocked briefly but opened the door without waiting for a reply. Inside the large airy room was furnished as a schoolroom with tables, a large blackboard and several bookcases and a schoolteacher's desk. The windows opened onto other roofs, and the green boughs of a great tree. Inside, sitting on the bench by the window, was a slender dark boy of perhaps thirteen or fourteen years of age. His features were regular, with a long nose, heavy eyelids and clear blue eyes. He stood up as soon as he saw Monk. He was far taller than Monk expected, very close to six feet, and his shoulders were already broadening, foreshadowing the man he would become. He towered over his mother. Presumably Maxim Furnival was a tall man.

“Valentine, this is Mr. Monk. He works for Mrs. Carlyon's lawyer. He would like to ask you some questions about the evening the general died.” Louisa was as direct as Monk would have expected. There was no attempt at evasion in her, no protection of him from reality.

The boy was tense, his face wary, and even as Louisa spoke Monk saw a tension in his body, an anxiety narrowing his eyes, but he did not look away.

“Yes sir?” he said slowly. “I didn't see anything, or I would have told the police. They asked me.”

“I'm sure.” Monk made a conscious effort to be gentler than he would with an adult. The boy's face was pale and there were marks of tiredness around his eyes. If he had been fond of the general, admired him as both a friend and a hero, then this must have been a brutal shock as well as a bereavement. “Your mother brought the general up to see you?”

Valentine's body tightened and there was a bleakness in his face as if he had been dealt a blow deep inside him where the pain was hidden, only betraying itself as a change in his muscles, a dulling in his eyes.

“Yes.”

“You were friends?”

Again the look was guarded. “Yes.”

“So it was not unusual that he should call on you?”

“No, I've—I've known him a long time. In fact, all my life.”

Monk wished to express some sympathy, but was uncertain what words to use. The relationship between a boy and his hero is a delicate thing, and at times very private, composed in part of dreams.

“His death must be a great blow to you. I'm sorry.” He was uncharacteristically awkward. “Did you see your mother or your father at that time?”

“No. I—the general was—alone here. We were talking...” He glanced at his mother for an instant so brief Monk almost missed it.

“About what?” he asked.

“Er . . .” Valentine shrugged. “I don't remember now. Army—army life ...”

“Did you see Mrs. Carlyon?”

Valentine looked very white. “Yes—yes, she came in.”

“She came into your rooms here?”

“Yes.” He swallowed hard. “Yes she did.”

Monk was not surprised he was pale. He had seen a murderer and her victim a few minutes before the crime. He had almost certainly been the last one to see General Carlyon alive, except for Alexandra. It was a thought sufficient to chill anyone.

“How was she?” he asked very quietly. “Tell me what you can remember—and please be careful not to let your knowledge of what happened afterwards color what you say, if you can help it.”

“No sir.” Valentine looked squarely at him; his eyes were wide and vividly blue. “Mrs. Carlyon seemed very upset indeed, very angry. In fact she was shaking and she seemed to find it difficult to speak. I've seen someone drunk once, and it was rather like that, as if her tongue and her lips would not do what she wished.”

“Can you remember what she said?”

Valentine frowned. “Not exactly. It was more or less that he should come downstairs, and that she had to speak to him—or that she had spoken, I don't remember which. I thought they had had a quarrel over something and it looked as if she wanted to start it up again. Sir?”

“Yes?”

This time he avoided his mother's eyes deliberately. “Can you do anything to help Mrs. Carlyon?”

Monk was startled. He had expected the opposite.

“I don't know yet. I have only just begun.” He wanted to ask why Valentine should wish her helped, but he knew it would be clumsy in front of Louisa.

Valentine turned to the window. “Of course. I'm sorry.”

“Not at all,” Monk said quietly. “It is very decent of you to ask.”

Valentine looked at him quickly, then away again, but in that instant Monk saw the flash of gratitude.

“Did the general seem upset?” he asked.

“No, not really.”

“So you think he had no idea she was in such a fury?”

“No, I don't think so. Well if he had known, he wouldn't have turned his back on her, would he? He's a lot bigger than she is and he would have to have been caught by surprise ...”

“You are quite right. It's a good point.”

Valentine smiled unhappily.

Louisa interrupted for the first time.

“I don't think he can tell you anything more, Mr. Monk.”

“No. Thank you.” He spoke to Valentine. “I am grateful for your forbearance.”

“You're welcome, sir.”

They were back downstairs in the hall and Monk was ready to take his leave when Maxim Furnival came in, handing his hat and stick to the maid. He was a tall, slender man with hair almost black and deep-set dark brown eyes. He was very nearly handsome, except his lower Up was a trifle too full, and when he smiled there was a gap between his front teeth. It was a moody lace, emotional, intelligent and without cruelty.