Whom the Gods Love (15 page)

During the interval, he joined the crowd in the crush room, where he chatted with female friends about the actors' abilities and with male friends about the actresses' ankles. He helped remove a tipsy acquaintance to the open air and fetched lemonade and negus for ladies who dared not run the gauntlet of flash-girls in the refreshment rooms. All the while, he did not so much as mention the word
murder
or Alexander Falkland. People were relieved, then disappointed, then chagrined. And before the interval was over, Alexander's acquaintances began sidling up to him, whispering that he might wish to talk to them later. "Indeed?" Julian would reply, lifting his famous eyebrows, as if challenging them to have anything useful to say. Then they would bridle and hint at portentous revelations they might make. Was he going to the rout at Lady Gillingham's later that night? Good—they would have a word with him there.

After the performance came the ritual of standing about in the crush room, waiting for carriages to pull up before the theatre one or two at a time. An insinuating voice spoke at Julian's elbow: "How clever you are, Mr. Kestrel!"

He turned. It was Lady Anthea Fitzjohn, magnificently gowned in purple satin, with diamond earrings sparkling through the glossy black curls around her face. Her real hair was tucked into a turban-like headdress adorned with ostrich plumes.

"My dear Lady Anthea, you overwhelm me."

"Overwhelm
you?"
Her wicked little black eyes danced. "Oh, surely not, Mr. Kestrel! I shouldn't think armed dragoons could accomplish that."

"What are armed dragoons to a word and a smile from you?"

"Oh, I do like it when young men flatter me. Of course it's all flummery, but a harmless enough pleasure—less expensive than cards and far better for the complexion than Madeira. I'm perpetually waiting for one of you young gallants to marry me for my money. I'm frightfully rich, you know, and I've led such a very
respectable
life that I'm surely entitled to a little excitement and heartbreak at my age. Don't you think?" 

"Lady Anthea, I am the happiest of men. Only name the day, and I shall place an announcement in the
Morning Post."
 

"Odious man!" She laughed, making creases in her dry, rouged cheeks. "As if I'd give up the fun of making my relatives guess what I mean to do with my money. Shall you bring an action against me for breach of promise, I wonder?"

"Can you doubt it? When the jury looks on you and sees what I've lost, the damages will be tremendous."

"Brazen creature! I take leave to tell you, I know perfectly well what you're about."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Keeping so silent, and shooting out your little penetrating glances. You mean to drive us all to distraction—those of us who were at the Falklands' party, I mean. We know you're looking into the murder, and we can't make out if you brush us aside because you suspect us, or because you think our observations of so little value."

"My dear Lady Anthea, what a relief someone has finally noticed. I was beginning to worry for people's wits. I hope you don't mean to give me away?"

"And miss seeing you torment all my dear friends? Not for worlds! On the contrary, I mean to play into your hands—" A servant's voice boomed out: "Lady Anthea Fitzjohn's carriage stops the way!"

"How vexatious!" she declared. Then she brightened. "Are you going to Lady Gillingham's?"

"Yes."

"Splendid—so am I. Allow me to take you in my carriage. We can talk quite privately there." She sighed. "If only I were younger, or you older, what a scandal we might cause!"

*

There was an immense snarl of traffic outside the theatre. Julian and Lady Anthea entered her carriage, drew the curtains, and settled in for a long chat. Julian began by asking her opinion of Alexander.

"Oh, I thought the world of him! Present company excepted, he was quite the most agreeable young man I knew. So attentive and polite, so amusing, always knowing when to talk and when to listen. Never rowdy in public, never boring, and never bored. And then, he had such exquisite taste! His house is a positive work of art. I do hope Mrs. Falkland doesn't make a mull of it, now he's gone."

"Do you think that's likely?"

Lady Anthea leaned toward him confidentially. "Well of course, everyone knew the house was all his handiwork. In fact, everything the Falklands achieved—their entertainments, their popularity, the admiration they commanded—was his doing. I grant you, she's good-looking enough. But that merely shows his collector's instinct extended to people as well as things."

"You're suggesting he chose a wife as he might an Aubusson carpet, to decorate his house?"

"Well, not precisely. An Aubusson carpet hasn't an estate in Dorset with an income of ten thousand a year."

Julian was not sure how seriously to take these gibes. He knew how spiteful Lady Anthea could be toward the wives of young men she liked. "You don't think he was as much in love with her as he appeared?"

"I think he was bored to distraction by her. What does she know about except horses? At heart she's merely a country miss, while he was a highly cultivated young man with a wealth of interests."

"Tell me about his last party. Did you see much of him?" 

"I saw him quite frequently. You know how he always managed to be everywhere at once. But we hadn't any opportunity for a
tete-a-tete."

"Do you know if there was any trouble between him and Mrs. Falkland's maid?"

"Heavens! I heard she was a forty-year-old spinster, and positively
muscular.
You don't say she'd been making sheep's eyes at him?"

"No, hardly. But he seems to have been unpleasantly startled when she called him out of the party."

"He was probably worried about his wife. She'd retired with a headache, you know. Such a curious thing, her falling ill like that! She didn't look at all unwell when the evening began." 

"I'm told you were especially solicitous in asking after her." 

"Oh, come, let's be quite candid. I knew what must have happened. She and Alexander had quarrelled, and she'd retired in a pet. Or else that awful boy, her brother, was having a fit or some such thing. But I thought a quarrel far more likely." 

"Are you still of the same mind?"

"Now if I say yes, you'll think I mean to accuse dear Mrs. Falkland of killing her husband. Which of course I
never
would." She smiled archly.

"After Falkland left the party, you questioned Clare closely about where he'd gone and what he was doing. Why?"

"My dear Mr. Kestrel, because I thought he knew. He and Alexander were such close friends, though I'm sure I can't think why, poor Mr. Clare being so desperately awkward and having nothing to say for himself. Alexander was gone from the party so long, and of course now we know why, but at the time it was quite mysterious. The house was becoming a positive Gothic castle, with people disappearing right and left—first the mistress, then the master."

Yet another witness who did not seem disturbed by her lack of alibi, he thought. For of course Lady Anthea, in common with most of the other guests, could not fully account for her whereabouts between ten minutes to twelve and a quarter after. "Did you see anything of David Adams?"

"Oh, yes. He looked particularly dark and dangerous. I've always thought he had something of the corsair about him. He would make a superb villain."

"Don't you think him rather too obvious a scapegoat?" 

"Oh, don't mistake me. I don't believe for a moment he killed Alexander. Hitting a man with a poker isn't his sort of crime at all. He would be far more likely to knock his adversary down—or, better still, ruin him financially. No, whoever killed Alexander was weak but clever: subtle in design, but passionate in hatred. In short, Mr. Kestrel—this was a woman's crime."

*

It was nearly three in the morning when Julian got home from Lady Gillingham's. He had learned little of interest there. Not that Alexander's friends were reticent. If anything, they were too prodigal in their recollections—too inclined to twist ordinary incidents into omens of the violence to come. Then, of course, anyone who had been observed to envy or criticize Alexander was at pains to explain that he liked him very well, had never wished him any harm, and so on. And there was a great deal of finger-pointing, especially at David Adams. As Julian had foreseen, many of Alexander's acquaintances resented his thrusting Adams upon them and thought he had paid the price for befriending a tradesman and a Jew.

Dipper's account of his interview with Mrs. Wheeler was more promising. It seemed likely that the mysterious maidservant who had accosted Mrs. Falkland was Mrs. Desmond dressed in her maid's clothes. But what was her business with Mrs. Falkland? If they were meeting for some illicit purpose, why would Mrs. Falkland have brought Alexander, only to fob him off with the feeble excuse of a sick friend? Yet the rendezvous must have been planned, or how had Mrs. Desmond known Mrs. Falkland would be in the Strand at that hour, so near the entrance to Cygnet's Court? Perhaps Mrs. Falkland had meant to go alone, but at the last minute Alexander proposed to go with her, and she dared not refuse.

Mrs. Desmond and her maid must be found; Julian would write to Vance about it in the morning. The best thing he could do now, he supposed, was sleep. But something was nagging at his mind. It was the calendar: the sequence of seemingly disconnected events leading up to Alexander's murder. He could not rest until he had written them down; on paper they might make more sense. He knew he was really too tired to think this out; he also knew he would not sleep until he did.

He exchanged his evening coat and waistcoat for a dressing gown. Dipper made him coffee laced with brandy, a drink he enjoyed not only for the taste but for the pleasing effect on his head—both soothing and stimulating. He sent Dipper to bed and took the steaming cup into his study. Tying back the ruffles on his cuffs to keep them from trailing in the ink, he wrote:

CHRONOLOGY OF EVENTS LEADING UP TO ALEXANDER'S MURDER

March 1825
Two mining investments of Alexander's failed.
Mrs. Falkland urged Alexander to send Eugene back to school. He refused, telling her she knew his reasons.

Friday, 1 April 
Alexander and Mrs. Falkland went to an ironware showroom in the Strand. Mrs. Desmond approached them, dressed in her maid's clothes. They talked, then Alexander departed in the coach, telling the coachman and Luke that Mrs. Falkland was going to visit a sick friend. Mrs. Falkland went with Mrs. Desmond into Cygnet's Court. Luke says she came home about three hours later. Both he and Mrs. Falkland are concealing something about the episode.

Saturday, 2 April
Alexander recorded in his ledgers Adams's forgiveness of his notes-of-hand.
Mrs. Falkland and Alexander told Eugene he was to return to Harrow in a fortnight. Eugene accused Mrs. Falkland of wanting to be rid of him and appealed to Alexander. Alexander said he had been obliged to accede to Mrs. Falkland's wishes.

First half of April
Eugene hardly spoke to Mrs. Falkland, who was seen to be under a strain.

Night of Friday, 15 April

The nib of Julian's quill split, leaving a little star-shaped smear. While he repaired it with a penknife, he thought over the events of the night of 15 April. There were three, and their juxtaposition took him aback. What, if anything, could they have to do with one another?

Mrs. Desmond and her maid disappeared from Cygnet's Court.
Eugene stayed out all night in the rain.
The Brickfield Murder.

He stared at the three events. How might they be linked? The first two had occurred in London, the last near Hampstead, but Hampstead was only some four miles away. A good horse could cover the distance in half an hour, especially between midnight and dawn, when traffic was sparse. But what conclusions followed? That Eugene was the Brickfield Murderer? That Mrs. Desmond or her maid had been the victim?

He finished off the chronology:

Night of Friday, 22 April 
Alexander was murdered.

Sunday, 1 May
I met Sir Malcolm at Alexander's grave and agreed to take part in the investigation.

He blotted the sheet, then lay back in his chair and closed his eyes to think it all out.

He was back in the churchyard in Hampstead, making his way toward Alexander's grave. Trees loomed up before him, creepers caught at his feet, paths tied themselves into inextricable knots. At last he saw the grave ahead, bathed in light just as on the day he met Sir Malcolm there. But this light was white and cold, and as he drew nearer, he saw that the figure beside the grave was not Sir Malcolm. It was Alexander himself, dressed in evening clothes and looking quite at his ease.
No one can identify me,
he explained, smiling,
because my face has been destroyed.

Julian woke up. The fire was dying, his candle was burnt out, and a cold grey dawn was breaking. He went to bed.

10: Remember Your Sister

In the morning, a messenger arrived from Vance with a file on the Brickfield Murder. Julian sent back a letter thanking Vance, explaining briefly what Dipper had learned from Mrs. Wheeler, and asking Vance to find Giles Underhill, the landlord of Cygnet's Court, and sound him about Mrs. Desmond.

The reports on the Brickfield Murder made gruesome breakfast reading. The victim was found at about eight o'clock on the morning of 16 April. She was thought to have been dead about six hours. She was lying on her back, her clothes and hair and the remains of her face all smeared with wet, clayey mud. There was no evidence of a struggle. She seemed to have lain quite passive while her face was smashed; perhaps she had been drunk or unconscious. There was little to identify her. Her age was estimated at forty or forty-five. She was about five feet five inches tall, with a stocky figure and brown hair going grey. She wore a drab, buff-coloured gown, cheap boots, and woollen stockings.