Authors: Elizabeth Thornton
“I did.”
“But how could you know?” “I made sure he was in the house before I came for you.”
Deborah frowned at this, then said to Nick, “Then you knew Philip was the murderer?”
“No. But Gray did.”
“The devil he did!” exclaimed Hart. “And did it not occur to you, Gray, to warn the rest of us? Standish has been at leave to come and go in this house like a member of the family. No one questioned him. He could have murdered us all in our beds.”
“You don’t believe that,” said Gray. “And how could I warn you? You know yourself, Hart, that you are not exactly an accomplished actor. If Standish was the murderer—and I had no proof—it was essential for my purposes that he suspect nothing.”
“All the same,” said Hart, not the least mollified, “you should have warned Deborah. He might have tried something with her.”
“Oh no,” said Gray. “I was very sure he would not.
Deb did not recognize him when she came here, and she had not lost her memory. His target was Quentin, and he was counting on Deb to lead him to the boy.”
There was a question hovering in Deborah’s mind, but Gray’s words shifted her focus. “He knew I had not seen him clearly that night in the library. Well, everything happened so fast, and the light was not good.”
“How did he know?” said Nick.
“We had been introduced at Quentin’s picnic. If I had seen his face clearly, he knew I would have remembered it, and would have told Gray. He told me all this.”
“What else did he tell you?” asked Gray.
“He never expected Quentin to regain his memory. His exact words were, ‘They said it would never happen.’”
“‘They’ presumably being the French?” asked Hart. Gray replied, “Oh, I don’t think there is any doubt of that.”
There was a long period of silence, then Deborah asked quietly, “What made you suspect Philip, Gray? Was it what happened in the library at Channings when we went through the murder step by step?”
“It was, though it did not come to me in the library, but only when I had time to reflect on things.”
There was a moment of silence, then Hart said in the same aggrieved tone, “Well, don’t stop there. You have us all agog. Do tell how you managed to solve the mystery when the rest of us were rubbing shoulders with a murderer morning, noon, and night, only we did not know it.”
Gray handed round the decanter of brandy before commencing, but Hart was the only one who availed himself of it. “As Deb said,” began Gray, “she and I reenacted Gil’s murder in the library at Channings and some interesting things came to light, things Deb had forgotten until she went through them step by step. She told me that in his right hand the murderer was holding what she thought was a handkerchief, and that the pistol was in his left hand. That did not make sense to me. Why would a murderer be holding a handkerchief?”
“It wasn’t a handkerchief,” said Deborah. “Philip
had burned himself with sealing wax. His right hand was bandaged.”
“It was a great inconvenience in a secretary,” said Gray. “During the peace talks in Paris, I had to share one of the other delegate’s secretaries.”
“And you deduced it was Standish from that?” demanded Hart incredulously.
“Hardly,” said Gray. “There were other things, small things that got me wondering.”
“What things?”
“Something Gil said. ‘You of all people’ were his words. I knew then that the man I had suspected all along was innocent. And before you ask, Hart, the man I suspected was Eric Perrin. Oh, I know he would not betray secrets for money, but I thought he might do it to embarrass me, you know, at the Foreign Office. After all, I was responsible. It reflected badly on me. I’ve known for a long time that Perrin doesn’t like me. With Gil’s words, however, it seemed to me that the murderer must be, ostensibly, a man of high moral character, which Perrin is not, or someone close to me or close to Gil.”
“Very close to you?” asked Nick.
Gray couldn’t resist saying, “Naturally, I thought of you and Hart first.”
Nick came up from the back of his chair and the wound in his arm made him gasp.
“That’s not funny,” said Hart, glowering at Gray.
“No, it’s not,” agreed Gray. “And you will be happy to know I discarded that thought almost as soon as it occurred to me.”
“Oh?” said Hart, smiling through his teeth. “And why was that?”
“Because there had been many opportunities for both you and Nick to make away with Quentin, and you had not availed yourself of any of them.”
Nick was laughing. Hart looked as though he might explode, and Gray said wickedly, “However, thinking that it might be someone of high moral character certainly narrowed the field.”
“Oh ho,” said Nick, “so that’s what disqualified us
as suspects. I think, Hart, he is telling us that we were not good enough.”
Gray ignored the banter. “And Deborah had assured me that the murderer was not a woman. And so, my eye alighted on Mr. Standish. Well, who else could it have been? Think of it. Standish was English. He worked with me at the Foreign Office. Though it’s true that he did not have access to my personal correspondence, he could have intercepted letters and messages without too much difficulty.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how Gil found out that Standish was the informer—”
“I can answer that,” said Deborah. “He admitted it to me there, in Strand House. He said that Lord Barrington had seen him with Talleyrand when he was supposed to be in Rouen.”
“And that’s all?” asked Gray. When Deborah nodded, he said, “It sounds to me as though Standish panicked. Poor Gil. He should not have entrusted anything to paper. That was unwise. But I suppose he did not think that Standish would stoop to murder.” A moment went by, then he went on in a lighter vein. “Add to that, on the night in question, Standish’s right hand was immobilized. He had the opportunity. You must remember, everything was in chaos those last few days when everyone was trying to get out of Paris. No one seems to have had an alibi except for Sophie Barrington.”
“I had an alibi,” Hart burst out. “I was with your mother and sisters! We weren’t even near Paris. You insisted we leave as soon as we heard that the borders were to be closed.”
“Hart, I know. I was only joking when I said I suspected you.”
“I didn’t have an alibi,” said Nick.
“Yes, I know that too. There was one other thing,” said Gray, and both Nick and Hart groaned.
“What?” asked Deborah, sending the mockers a quelling look.
Gray went on. “Deb mentioned the murderer’s breathing. It had made a great impression on her, yes, and on Quentin too. That was something else I could not understand. Why should he be breathing so hard?
Shooting a man with a pistol does not involve hard physical exercise.”
“I think,” said Deborah, “Mr. Standish suffered from the same complaint as Quentin.”
“I know he did,” said Gray. “When we were at Oxford, he was frequently indisposed because of his weak chest. I remember I felt sorry for him.”
“That’s as may be,” said Hart, “but this is all circumstantial. If you want my opinion, I think it was just a lucky guess on your part, Gray, or you would have confronted Standish with what you knew.”
“That’s true. I had to be sure.”
Hart seemed pleased with this concession. He sat back in his chair and slapped his knees. “Now,” he said, “will someone please tell me what happened tonight? I have only the vaguest idea. I understand everything up to the point where Deborah ran from Nick. But how did Quentin come to be with her? And how did you know, Gray, that she would make for Strand House?”
“Deb?” said Gray quietly.
She sat still, looking down at her hands, and whatever it was in the last hour or two that had buoyed her up seemed to have slipped away. She couldn’t be sorry that they’d escaped with their lives. She only wished that things had worked out differently.
She said, “Quentin was watching from the window of the house Gary had rented. He saw Nick and Philip following me and he slipped away to warn me.”
“And where were you, Gray?” asked Hart pointedly.
“Oh, I had seen everything too. I left the house before Quentin. In fact, I did not know he was with Deborah until I came upon them in Strand House.”
“Why Strand House?” asked Hart, looking at Deborah.
There didn’t seem any point in going on with the charade now. She wasn’t sure if her name had been cleared, but it no longer mattered to her. “I was familiar with the house,” she said. “I should be. It’s my father’s house. Lord Belvidere is my father. Leathe is my brother. I don’t want to go into all that now. Gray knew. He also knew that the house was empty and that
my father was trying to sell it. Where else would I hide Quentin when a murderer was pursuing us?”
The silence was so absolute that Deborah felt that if a snowflake had fallen on the carpet, she would have heard it. Only Gray was looking at her. The others were looking at their hands.
Nick spoke first. “I could bite my tongue out! To think that we were joking just now! What you must be suffering! Forgive me, Deb, I’m not usually so uncouth.”
“No, really, there’s nothing to forgive. I hardly knew my father. The grief I feel is what I would feel for any stranger who was murdered in cold blood.” It was the truth, and it was a distortion of the truth. She was grieving but she didn’t know why.
Hart said, “Oh Deb, I’m so sorry.” He shook his head. “Gray should have told us.”
Deborah forced herself to speak naturally. “I didn’t want anyone to know. After everything that’s happened, it doesn’t seem to matter.”
“Did you know your father would be there?” asked Hart.
“Oh no. To be frank, things were so bad between us that if I’d known he was there, I would have gone somewhere else.” She swallowed hard. “I don’t know where.”
Gray regarded her closely, trying to read behind the calm words. He wondered exactly what had taken place between Deborah and her father before Standish had caught up to her. Nothing good, if he knew Belvidere.
Looking only at her, he said, “It was just his bad luck to be there when Standish came upon him.” This was mere rhetoric on Gray’s part. He was more than glad that Belvidere had been present. Had he not been there, Standish would have used his last shot on Deborah, and it would have been easy for him then to deal with Quentin.
“It was horrible,” said Deborah. “It was so reminiscent of that other time with Lord Barrington. There was one major difference, though. This time, Mr. Standish had two pistols. I didn’t know that the second one had no bullet in it. But you knew, Gray.”
“I was sure of it. One bullet had passed through Nick’s shoulder. There had been no time to reload. I was approaching the house from the back when I heard the other shot go off. I found Belvidere’s body on the floor of the library and—”
“You entered the library?” asked Deborah.
“When I saw the blaze, I thought you must be there. As you may imagine, I did not linger.” Only long enough to make sure that neither Deborah nor Quentin was lying there too. A memory of that terrible fear shuddered through him, and he went on abruptly. “It was impossible to cross to the door, so I ran along the terrace and broke into the room next to it. I heard you call for Quentin, and followed the sound of your voice to the circular staircase.”
“Then what happened?” asked Hart.
Gray lifted his shoulders fractionally. “Standish was there, and I was sure he meant to throw Deb and Quentin over the rail of the staircase. There was a fight. He fell rather heavily against the banister, and the thing gave way. He plunged to his death. The rest you know.”
Everyone was very still. Even the room seemed to have stopped breathing. A dying ember cracked and everyone looked at the fire.
Hart cleared his throat. “Why did he do it? He was the son of a vicar. What on earth could have induced him to sell information to the enemy?”
“I asked him that,” said Deborah. “It was for money. He wanted to fit in with Gray’s set, and he needed money for that. At Oxford, he had always felt like the odd man out. But at the end, the only thing that mattered to him was that his father be spared the pain of knowing that his son was a traitor and a murderer.” She caught Gray’s eye, and looked away.
“And so he was driven to murder again.” Nick shook his head. “It’s his father I feel sorry for. I suppose there is no way of keeping this quiet?” He was looking at Gray.
“No,” said Gray. “Too many people saw us leaving Strand House tonight. They are not stupid. Even if we wanted to conceal it, they would soon put two and two
together. Besides, apart from the fact that he murdered my friend, what he did and tried to do tonight was iniquitous. I feel cheated. What I wanted was to see him in the dock, publicly charged with his crimes, and made to face the consequences. Now, all there will be is an inquest. Yes, I’m sorry for his father. Who wouldn’t be? But I refuse to perjure myself to save Standish’s reputation. That is asking too much.”
His gaze was locked with Deborah’s, and she shivered involuntarily. She sensed in him the same unbending force that had frightened her when she was his captive. As she was turning this over in her mind, he spoke quietly to Hart and Nick.
“Would you mind giving me a few minutes alone with Deborah? There are some things she and I have yet to discuss.”
There was a moment of awkwardness, then Hart and Nick rose, and after making a few noncommittal remarks, they left the room.
Suddenly, unbidden, her mind was filled with snatches of this and that, threads of conversation that she had been too keyed up to grasp at the time. Her eyes searched that hard, uncompromising face, and she knew she had missed something important, something that she ought to have known. And she had known it, but she had refused to believe it.
Her brain began to make lightning connections, and her voice shook as outrage rose in her. “You led me to believe that Quentin could only be free if his memory came back to him. And all the time you were setting him up as bait to entrap the murderer.”
He didn’t try to deny it, nor did she expect him to. She could see from his face that he had decided there was no point in trying to conceal it from her. Sooner or later, she was bound to work it out.