Vital Secrets (14 page)

It was simply impossible for Marc to accept this version of events. Hilliard's passion and romantic folly might account for the reflex action of defending his lady's honour by any means within his reach. But then to have drawn his sabre and, looking down into the face of Tessa's disabled assailant, raise it above his head with calm deliberation and drive it through Merriwether's chest—well, that was something he was absolutely certain Rick Hilliard would never do. Not even in the heat of battle. The very thought of such an ignominious act was monstrous.

“I figured at first,” Cobb said, “that maybe one person banged on the noggin and another put the sword in. But there wasn't enough time. Beasley come runnin' from the end of the hall where the stairs are, so nobody could've dashed in an' done the stabbin' an' run back out again without Beasley seein' him.”

“And the girl couldn't've done it,” Withers said. “Even if she was faking being unconscious, she isn't strong enough to have driven that heavy sword into Merriwether, not even in a rage. Besides which, she would've been covered in blood.”

“Like the ensign was,” Cobb felt obliged to add.

“Well, I'm going to question Clarence Beasley very closely, you can be sure. We've only got his word for all this.”

“It seems the mute was on the scene shortly as well,” Withers said. “And Hilliard, of course.”

“Has Rick said anything about this? Surely he's denied it.”

Withers fielded that query with reluctance. “He's said very little. He's fanatically worried about the girl, but I've given her a sleeping draught and put her into Madge Frank's care for the night.”

“He hasn't admitted anything?”

“All he says is that he fell asleep while he and the girl were sparking on the settee, and when he woke up he was standing over the corpse in the dark and wondering what had happened—when Beasley came in and found him.”

“But surely he couldn't have slept through a woman screaming rape and be uncertain whether he had hit Merriwether on the head, waited till he was flat on his back and then skewered him, while the blood gushed all over him? And, don't forget, he also had time to go back to the settee, sit down for a spell, then get up and go over to retrieve his sword. And all this while sleepwalking? I don't believe it for a minute.”

Dr. Withers was standing beside the night-table that held Tessa's little candle, a half-full decanter of sherry, and two empty glasses. He ran the decanter, unstoppered, slowly under his nose, then, very carefully, took a minuscule sip
and let the wine roll over his tongue. “He may not have been sleepwalking.” He pushed his nostrils into each of the glasses. “Laudanum,” he said. “A lot of it. Enough, I'd say, to knock an elephant to its knees.”

“But that means that both Tessa and Rick were drugged,” Marc cried, his hopes rising. “And there's only one reason I can think of why that would happen. It's obvious, isn't it, that Merriwether slipped in here sometime yesterday—everybody in the troupe knew that Tessa took a glass of sherry before she went to bed after a performance—and put laudanum into the decanter. He couldn't have known that Rick would be up here sharing the sherry with her when he first put the opiate into it. Later on, I'm sure he knew Rick was in Tessa's room, and maybe he was inflamed with jealousy, and came across the hall, peered in, and found both of them comatose. And I'd lay odds that he decided then and there to have his way with the girl, and when she woke later, she would assume Rick had been her assailant. How she might have reacted, we don't know, but Merriwether certainly knew how Mrs. Thedford would have taken the outrage. So the blackguard would be able to enjoy Tessa and have Rick take any consequences. All he had to do was snuff the candles out and set about the dastardly deed.”

“Well, that's plausible,” Withers said. “But how will we ever know what really happened if Tessa and Hilliard were indeed unconscious? And if they'd had more than a mouthful of
this stuff, they would have been. Neither of them can give us rational testimony.”

“In the meantime,” Cobb said, “we got a witness who swears he saw Hilliard with the murder weapon in his clutches an' with the whole front of his tunic covered in blood. You'll see it for yourself.”

“And, alas,” Withers said with a sad shake of his head, “with his flies wide open.”

“You're not implying that Rick was the girl's attacker? That's preposterous.”

When neither Withers nor Cobb responded to that assessment, Marc continued. “There must be blood on Merriwether's privates!”

“There was blood everywhere—on both men.”

“Well, if there's a court-martial, I'll argue that Rick was drugged, dazed, provoked to his actions by the noblest of motives, and was therefore not wholly responsible for what he may have done.”

“You gonna take out yer
law-yer's
licence again?” Cobb enquired.

“Even so,” Withers said, “it's a stretch to claim that a befuddled man with altruistic intent pulled a battle-sword out of its scabbard and drove it unerringly through the centre of Merriwether's chest so forcefully that it stuck in the floor under him.”

“Damn it all, that's what I'm saying!” Marc shouted. “Dazed or sober, my friend Rick Hilliard could not have done
that. He had already saved the girl he loved from harm. He had maimed the assailant. What could possibly have incited him to such a senseless, despicable act?”

“Maybe it was this,” Cobb said, holding his lantern high over Tessa's bed.

There on the white, freshly starched sheet was a bloodstain, no bigger than a virgin's fist.

H
aving covered the body with a sheet and snuffed the candles, the three men went out into the hall.

“I don't want the corpse moved or anything else touched in there,” Marc said. “I'll need to examine the room in the morning light. And we can't have anyone who might conceivably have been involved going in overnight to tamper with the evidence.”

Dr. Withers reached into his medical bag, pulled out a wad of sealing wax, softened it in his fingers, and pushed it into the slim crack between the door and the sash near the floor. “How's that?” he said with a wink. “You'll know if a mouse tries to break and enter.”

Cobb was leaning over the sill of the hall window that
overlooked Colborne Street. “Nobody's come in here,” he said, dragging a finger through the thick dust. “Least not since the invasion of Muddy York.”

“Unless the interloper was part monkey, able to climb vertical brick walls,” Withers added, “you'll have to devote your attention to those people who were in this building from eleven o'clock onward.”

“And if they'd tried a ladder under the girl's window, it'd've been stickin' out on Colborne Street like a roofer's thumb,” Cobb said. “But I'll check the alley an' street fer any signs just the same.”

“Someone could have hidden around the stage area and waited for his chance,” Marc said, grasping at straws.

“Then how did the bugger get out again?” Cobb said. “Frank swore to the God of all Orangemen that the front doors an' privy-exit were barred from the inside right after Major Jenkin left. And when he lit out fer Government House, he went out through his own quarters with his wife standing watch. Anybody leavin' that way couldn't've barred the door after them from the outside: when Sarge and I got here, those theatre doors were still barred.”

Marc sighed.

“An' there's no other way out of the theatre,” Cobb continued, “except through the tavern, an' that door was locked with a slidin' bolt by Frank before he went to bed, as usual.”

They were now heading down the only stairs towards the stage and the tavern just behind it.

“All right, all right,” Marc said testily. “It's a long shot, I confess. Certainly we've got to focus on the actors first, though I'm not going to rule out Ogden Frank or his wife, or even Thea Clarkson: any one of them could have left their quarters, slipped through the barroom, unbolted the door behind the bar on this side of the stage, sneaked up the stairs, and been a party to murder.”

“An' sneaked back before Beasley got out into the hall, I suppose,” Cobb said. “An' drippin' blood all the way?” They had spotted no bloodstains on the hall carpet, but only a thorough examination in daylight would settle the question.

“They could have been in it together! The lot of them!”

Withers pushed open the door to the tavern. “Might I suggest that we begin by looking at the obvious evidence first, then move on to the fanciful speculation?”

They emerged into a well-lit room and peered over the bar at a most arresting tableau: two rather shortish men of a middle age, each uniformed, were wrestling over possession of a set of leg irons.

“You are
not
gonna put this man in chains unless
I
say so!”

“I bear the authority of the governor, and this man is now my official prisoner! I order you to release these shackles so that I may secure the felon.”

Wilfrid Sturges, erstwhile sergeant-major in Wellington's peninsular army and chief constable of the five-man municipal police force, gave a sharp pull on his half of the shackles and almost succeeded in wresting the whole from Barclay Spooner's
grip. Without outside intervention, there was no doubt as to which combatant would eventually triumph. Although both men were of slight build, Lieutenant Spooner, aide-de-camp to Sir Francis Bond Head, was a man whose aggressive movements and gestures could only be described as rigidly crisp but otherwise ineffectual, while Chief Constable Sturges was slimly muscular and deceptively quick, a tough little beagle of a man. Behind them, slumped in a captain's chair with his chin in his hands, was Rick Hilliard. He looked like the sole survivor of a sanguinary battle.

“Gentlemen, would you please drop those shackles,” Marc barked at the belligerents. “No one is going to put Ensign Hilliard in chains. I'm in charge of this investigation, and I'll determine who's to be labelled a prisoner and a felon.”

Marc's outburst distracted Spooner long enough for Sturges to recover the leg irons and stuff them into his overcoat pocket. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I was just attemptin' to persuade Mr. Spooner 'ere on that very point.”

“You are interfering with the Queen's business,” Spooner spluttered, whether at Marc or Sturges was not clear, as his moustache, ruthlessly trimmed, twitched at one end and then the other.

“Are you suggesting that I am not in charge of this investigation?” Marc demanded.

“Not in the least, sir. You deliberately misapprehend my intentions. I made the not unreasonable assumption that a man brandishing a murder-weapon smeared with the victim's
blood—and his roger hanging out—was, in the least, a prime suspect. Further, as the officer designated to contain the political consequences from this catastrophe, I was endeavouring to put this upstart policeman in his place.”

“We'll see who's the upstart,” Sturges said, his face reddening. “As far as I can see, we have a civilian murdered, possibly by an army officer, in a buildin' clearly under my jurisdiction.”

“And this civilian, as you so quaintly put it, just happens to be a foreign national, making this potentially an international incident. In any event, the governor has seen fit to put Lieutenant Edwards and me exclusively in control of matters here. Mr. Frank had no authority to invite you to interfere. Do you wish me to report your insolent insubordination to my superior when I return to Government House?”

Sturges glared at him.

Marc decided to take full control. “I'll be the one to decide who I might require to assist me. Right now I wish to speak to Mr. Hilliard, without further comment from either of you. Where are the others?”

“Mr. Frank's put them over there in the dining-room,” Sturges said to Marc. “I 'aven't been able to get a single, sensible sentence from any of 'em,” he added with an accusatory glance at Spooner.

Marc walked to the open archway between the taproom and dining area, and peered ahead. Ogden Frank was seated at a large table, around which the remaining members of the Bowery Touring Company were arrayed. An open bottle of
port and half a dozen glasses, kindly supplied by Frank, sat untouched. Marc made a quick survey of the actors, one of whom he believed had ruthlessly slaughtered another of his or her fellows. After the initial tears and incredulity, it appeared as if deep shock had taken over. Thea Clarkson, in a pink robe thrown carelessly over her shoulders, looked seriously ill. Her skin was rippled with cold sweat and she was trembling uncontrollably. Annemarie Thedford's reaction was registered in the sudden appearance of lines and wrinkles that one did not notice when she was smiling and in command of her surroundings. Her eyes, bloodshot with weeping, were kindled by more than one kind of pain; after all, she was enduring the knowledge of her ward's violation and the simultaneous loss of a professional partner in her life's work. The financial and personal loss would be both acute and irreparable.