Justice Hall (45 page)

Abruptly, I stood and switched on one of the electric lamps, and the room was jerked back to Berkshire. The others blinked at the sudden glare, and reason returned. We took our coffee in porcelain cups with handles on their sides and saucers beneath; we were in chairs, not on the floor; the tobacco the others lit was Turkish, not the cheapest black stuff of the desert smoker. I breathed a sigh of relief, took a swallow of Piccadilly coffee, then glanced over at Marsh.

And saw Mahmoud in his eyes, in the hidden amusement of that private, all-seeing gaze, acknowledging what my illuminating efforts meant, why I had needed to do it. His gaze held me in my spot, and then I found myself smiling slowly back, that same warm, intimate sharing of a private joke.

I do not know that I have ever felt more at peace with the world than at the moment when Mahmoud returned.

Ali, of course, had known it before anyone else—probably before Marsh himself. His hands had sought out a scrap of firewood and his folding pen-knife, and were shaping the wood into one of the incongruously childlike figures he had used to carve around the camp-fire. This one was perhaps fated to become a giraffe, although at the moment it was little more than two lumps connected by a long neck.

Iris, who had never seen these two in their alternate personalities, was looking puzzled, even slightly alarmed at the unfamiliar currents running through the room; Holmes, however, took it in at a glance, nodded approvingly, and drew out his pipe and tobacco pouch. It was he who broke the silence.

“I suppose it hardly needs saying that the boy is who he seems to be?”

“There could be no doubt,” Marsh answered. I peered across at him: Had that been a faint accent I heard, a faintly Semitic placement to the R?

“He is the very image of Gabriel at that age,” Iris confirmed. “The boy Thomas may be a fake, but not Gabe.”

“I agree,” said Alistair, not looking up from his carving.

“Very well; that settles the problem of inheritances,” Holmes said, and made to go on to the next item of business on his agenda. I, however, was not so sure.

“It may settle the question of the title,” I cut in, “but I wouldn’t assume it settles the future of Justice. Helen is by no means clear in her mind that coming here would be best for the boy.”

Holmes was already shaking his head dismissively. “It matters not. If the boy is Gabriel’s son, born in wedlock, then he
is
the seventh Duke. What his mother decides to do about the child’s living arrangements may require lengthy negotiations, but that element of the problem lies in the future. Are we in agreement?”

It was somewhat unusual for Holmes to consult with his partners before tying off his conclusions, but then, this was hardly his usual sort of case. However, the once and (potentially) future duke, his wife, and his cousin were all in accord: The strawberry leaves, at least, had been lifted from Marsh’s head.

“We are still left with the question of Sub-Lieutenant Hughenfort’s untimely death. I take it we agree that the man who arranged his death is still at large, and that he must be dealt with before we can all feel free to return to our natural orbits?”

“The child wouldn’t live to see mid-summer,” Alistair growled, and sliced a vicious strip from the knot of wood in his hand. Iris winced at his words, Marsh sat silent, but we all agreed: The five-year-old Duke of Beauville could not be left vulnerable.

“From the early days of this case,” Holmes resumed, flaring a match into life and setting it to his pipe-bowl, “we have been confronted with a choice of villains, coming down eventually to two. And before you interrupt me again, Russell, let me say that the three of us occupied the War Records Offices for a solid week—very solid, taking into account the state of the sofas on which we slept—and after scouring the files, we came up with no definitive evidence, not a shred that would eliminate either man from consideration.”

I raised my cup to my lips, to hide the smile I could not help: Normally it was Holmes who managed to snag the more interesting and productive path of an investigation. This time he had sent me off on a boat into the frigid Atlantic, and I’d come up with gold while he had uncovered only a lot of dust. A few years before, I might have pointed this out; now, I merely took a swallow of coffee and kept my eyes demurely on the fire.

Rather sourly, Holmes continued. “There are two prime candidates for Gabriel Hughenfort’s murder-by-proxy. Sidney Darling came most immediately to hand—a man with deep ties, both financial and social, to his wife’s family home. Even before the War, Darling had a lot to say in the running of the estate and the tenant farms. Since the War, Darling has been virtually running the place. The proposed stud is his project, the Hall and the London house are his freely to use, he has position, authority, everything but the title. All that would have changed were his nephew to have inherited, when Lady Phillida would have been issued an income and become a guest in the Hall, not its mistress. As for opportunity, Darling’s position in 1918 was such that he could readily have arranged for Gabriel’s transfer and, later, the condemnatory letter. Darling had considerable interest in preserving the
status quo
at Justice Hall. Similarly, when Marsh came, he too represented a threat. Little doubt, then, when handed a golden opportunity to replace the seventh Duke with the malleable child of a half-educated French woman by the simple mechanism of a stray shotgun shell, he might have been sorely tempted.

“Thomas was clearly Darling’s protégé. We know Darling has been to Lyons, to coach the mother and convince the boy. However, we must not place too heavy an emphasis on this scheme, for he might well have been motivated by the simple knowledge that if he could provide Marsh with a satisfactory heir, Marsh would very probably retreat back into whatever hole he’d been occupying since Cambridge, leaving Darling to continue as before. Self-interest does not invariably lead to homicide.

“Our other candidate is Ivo Hughenfort. Means he had, for he too was in a position to act as voice for his superiors and insert orders of transfer or letters of condemnation. Motive could be had by the realisation that in the past few years he had been suddenly and unexpectedly moved from eighth in the line of succession to fourth. In January 1914, there were so many men before Ivo, the possibility that he might one day be duke might well never have occurred to him. Such a catastrophic upheaval of the natural order would have been unthinkable, until the War. Lionel died in May of that year, and the son he left might well not stand up to a legal battle. Then Ralph, the sixth in line, was apparently killed in Gallipoli, and Philip Peter was reputed to have died without children. Marsh and Alistair had not been heard from in years, and could well have got themselves killed in some dusty land. Remember, Mme Hughenfort told us that some family member came to see the boy during the War? That could well have been Ivo, confirming for his own eyes that Thomas was arguably no Hughenfort. Suddenly, in the space of a few years, there was by all appearances only one boy, a vulnerable young soldier already on the Front, standing in the way of Justice Hall.”

Holmes allowed silence to fall while he fiddled with his pipe, then started up again. “This is, however, entirely speculation. Either man had an equal opportunity to sabotage the wheels of justice, either could have been Gabriel’s ‘uncle’ the red-tab major, who said he would lodge an appeal and did not; who in the final hours convinced the boy that a noble silence would safeguard the family honour in the face of disaster; who took away with him the boy’s precious letters and papers—including the secret marriage certificate—and ensured that none but his generalised night-before-battle letter ever saw light of day.

“It could have been either,” he said, his summation coming to a close. “It could have been both, working together then as they occasionally do now. It could, I will admit, be another party altogether whose spoor I have entirely overlooked, although the likelihood of such a possibility is near to infinitesimal.

“How, then, do we lay hands on our villain?”

As if in answer, a pen-knife flashed through the air, to sink its point into a waiting log and stand there, quivering. Iris flinched; I looked at Alistair with new respect: A pen-knife is no throwing blade. One glance at his features, however, and the words of praise died away from my lips.

The knife had not been Alistair’s irritable comment: It had been Ali’s answer to the question of how we were to reveal the villain. Ali the cut-throat sat in the room with us, holding the gaze of his brother Mahmoud, both of them cold, and ruthless, and far, far away.

“No!” It was Holmes who spoke loudly, but I had been saying it internally. I had once witnessed Mahmoud and Ali get a piece of information out of a thief by threatening to blind him with a burning cigarette. They’d have done it, too, had he not given way.

Marsh blinked, and tore his eyes away to look at Holmes. After a moment, Marsh wavered, glanced involuntarily at Iris (who of course had not followed the silent discussion going on under her nose), and then looked into the flames. “Harsh times, harsh methods,” he said. “Let us hope it does not come to that here.”

That was as much of a promise as Holmes could elicit. With a final glare at the cut-throat nobleman, he turned his attention to me.

“One of the difficulties we encountered while you were on your Atlantic cruise was that both of the gentlemen in question had removed themselves from view. Darling was in Berlin for most of the past ten days, overseeing the hiring of staff for the offices of his new business there, and only returned to London on Monday. Ivo Hughenfort simply vanished, taking his manservant with him and leaving word only that he planned to return to Berkshire in time for the ball this week-end.

“I need hardly add, I think, that careful searches were conducted of the houses and grounds of both men. Four safes in total between them,” he noted, the tedium of extended safe-cracking clear in his voice, “and not a cache of letters to be found. A variety of illegal activities, particularly on the part of Mr Darling, but nothing to connect either with Gabriel Hughenfort.”

“The letters may have been destroyed.”

“It is always possible, although it is my experience that the criminal mind is generally loth to destroy an object which might be of future use.”

“So what do you propose?” I asked, although I thought I knew.

“A trap,” he replied. Marsh, Alistair, and Iris looked interested.

“Something to send him to his hiding place?”

“Precisely. It is a method I have used before—with, I will admit, varying degrees of success—but more often to bring an object to light than to confirm its existence. Success will require a minimum of four people, two on each suspect. I do not usually possess such riches.”

“What about me?” Iris objected.

“Have you any experience in what they call ‘tailing’ a suspect?” Holmes asked her.

“No, but how difficult—”

“Then you shall be our support staff. We are dealing with a clever man here, and it can not be expected that he will break immediately from cover. The more caution he possesses, the longer the process will take. You shall be in a central position near a telephone, with a motor and driver to hand, in order to bring whatever equipment or assistance we might require.”

“Such as what?” she demanded, certain she was merely being humoured.

“Anything from a change of disguise to a stick of dynamite.”

“Oh, very well. Although I had rather be of more use.”

“Your position, should it come into play, requires resourcefulness, steady nerves, and the ability to move quickly. I was under the impression that you possessed these characteristics.”

That cheered her. “I’ll do my best.”

“The bait for the trap?” Alistair enquired.

“I should think the marriage certificate would be the best. A witness to the document, perhaps, has come to light.”

“What about the priest who performed it?” I suggested. “We could say that Marsh has heard a rumour that Gabriel married a French girl, so he’s going to France next week to see—”

“No.” It was Marsh, looking unmovable. “The ball is intended to welcome the seventh Duke to Justice. It will do that.”

“Oh, Marsh,” Iris exclaimed. “You can’t put the boy in harm’s way!”

“I must. He will be removed immediately thereafter, and he and his mother will be sheltered until the matter is resolved.” I did not much care for the grim way in which he pronounced the word
resolved,
but Iris did not seem to notice. He went on. “However, Mary’s suggestion remains valid. I will let it be known that we will be searching for the church register. Whichever of the two breaks for the Continent first… will be our man.”

   Saturday’s ball was to be fancy-dress, its theme Tutankhamen’s Tomb, which had been opened the previous winter and instantly plunged the world into a state of raving Tutmania. While I was away in Canada, Justice Hall had been transported to the Valley of the Kings. With the minor complication of weather most unsuited to the Egyptian desert, in a dim light one might suspect one was in the archaeological dig that had just resumed for the season in Luxor, three thousand miles away. The final doors of Tutankhamen’s inner tomb lay ripe for the opening, but Phillida Darling had anticipated the event.