For the first time, she was evasive. This was promising. "Asking questions about his comings and goings. Poking about his dressing room."
"I did go once into his dressing room. And I sometimes asked Mr. Valere where he was going. I wouldn't call that spying, sir."
"But you didn't merely go into his dressing room—you searched it. Valere says he found things moved about."
"It's true I had a look around." She was picking her way now, weighing each word. "I thought the master wasn't spending enough time with the mistress. I wondered what had got his attention away from her."
"Had you any idea what it might be? A business matter? A
chere amie
?"
"I didn't know in the least, sir. That's why I was keeping my eyes open and asking questions."
"Did Mrs. Falkland ask you to do that?"
"No, sir. She didn't know anything about it."
"Had she and Mr. Falkland quarrelled?"
"I couldn't say, sir."
"Couldn't you? If I were married, Martha, I have no doubt my manservant would know precisely the state of my relations with my wife at any time—not because he's inquisitive, but because he and I live in each other's pockets, and he's observant. As I'm sure you are as well."
"I never saw any sign they'd quarrelled, sir. I just thought the master had other things on his mind than the mistress. And I didn't think that was right."
"You seem to feel a great responsibility to protect Mrs. Falkland, without her asking or expecting it of you."
Martha looked back at him stolidly. "When I know the right thing to do, I do it, sir. As a Christian woman should."
*
Julian was not inclined to tell Sir Malcolm any more than he could help about his interviews with Eugene and Mrs. Falkland. His witnessing their quarrel over Eugene's return to school could only embarrass Sir Malcolm, while his impulsively playing mentor to the boy rather embarrassed himself. He did pass on Mrs. Falkland's very inadequate explanation of her encounter with the maidservant in the Strand. Sir Malcolm could not imagine what had possessed her to go away with the girl. Julian could think of several explanations, but as none of them reflected credit on Mrs. Falkland, he kept them to himself.
He was more forthcoming about his interrogation of Martha. "Have you any idea why she would feel the need to keep track of Alexander's movements or search his rooms?"
"Not the least in the world," said Sir Malcolm.
"I wonder if she found anything," Julian mused.
"I thought Valere said nothing was missing from Alexander's dressing room."
"There might have been something there he didn't know about. But, more to the point, I doubt if Martha's spying was confined to Alexander's dressing room. If she searched there, she probably searched other rooms as well: his bedroom, and his study."
"Do you think he caught her searching his study that night?" asked Sir Malcolm eagerly. "And she panicked and hit him with the poker?"
"It's possible. But she doesn't strike me as the sort of woman to panic easily. And if there was a direct confrontation between them, it's hard to see how she could have crept up on him from behind. Finally, there's still the question of why he went to the study in the first place."
"True." Sir Malcolm sighed. "Well, I know Alexander thought she was very sharp-eyed. He nicknamed her Argus, after the hundred-eyed servant of the goddess Hera. He was eternally vigilant, because only fifty of his eyes slept at any time."
"Do you think Alexander knew Martha was watching him and felt uneasy about it?"
"I've no idea. I didn't see much of him during the last few weeks of his life, though we went on writing to each other as usual."
"And unfortunately his letters tell us nothing about his life, or his worries, if he had any." Julian took a turn about the room. "Sir Malcolm, what do you know about the Brickfield Murder?"
"The Brickfield Murder? Why do you ask?"
"Eugene brought it up. It piqued my curiosity—I suppose because it happened so recently, and so near here."
"It was a very distressing crime, especially in a small community like this. Of course, we're only four miles from London, so I suppose we have to expect its thieves and ruffians to overflow into our back gardens from time to time. And that brickfield was always an unsavoury spot. It fell out of use and became a lurking ground for runaway apprentices, gipsies, all sorts of flotsam and jetsam. Still, there'd never been a violent crime there before that murder."
"When exactly did it happen?"
"It was a week before Alexander's murder—the night of April the fifteenth. I remember there was a torrential rain that night: we woke up to find the cistern overflowing and branches blown off trees. Then suddenly everyone was saying a woman had been murdered in the brickfield. Nobody knew who she was, and she'd been so brutally beaten about the face, her own mother wouldn't have recognized her. There were no reports any woman had gone missing, and no one came forward to claim her, so the parish buried her. We still know nothing about her, except that she looked to be in her forties and wore plain woollen clothes."
"What about the murderer? Is anything known about him?"
"Not so far as I know. The rain washed away any traces he might have left in the brickfield—footprints and wheelmarks and such. And there were no suspicious characters seen in the neighbourhood—at all events, none who couldn't account for their whereabouts on the night of the murder. It's widely believed he must have been a madman; in fact, there were enquiries at all the local hospitals and private madhouses, to see if any patients had escaped. None had, but it's easy to see why people's thoughts turned that way. It was such a senselessly brutal crime. Even if the murderer had robbed her, or raped her—her body was so smothered in wet and mud, the surgeon couldn't tell about that—where was the need to kill her so—so
thoroughly
?" His voice dropped to bitter sadness. "We know from Alexander's murder that a single blow can snuff out a life. So why go to all the additional trouble of smashing her face?"
"Some men enjoy brutality for its own sake. Although you'd expect such a man to have beaten her thoroughly and indiscriminately. His concentrating on smashing her face suggests that he sought exactly what he achieved: the suppression of her identity."
"But why?"
"I haven't the remotest idea. I suppose we ought to return to the murder at hand. Tomorrow I mean to see Quentin Clare. What can you tell me about him? You and he belong to the same Inn of Court."
"Yes, but I don't know him very well. Benchers aren't thrown together with the students much. Mind you, I like to get to know them: I don't think we give them nearly enough guidance. Dining in Hall with them for a few weeks, four times a year, is hardly what I'd call a legal education. It's like throwing a young man into the sea and saying you've taught him to swim. Clare seems very well-behaved—never has to be reprimanded for holding drunken parties in his chambers or running about at night stealing door knockers or any of the other nonsense the students get up to. Otherwise, I don't know anything about him. He's very shy—seems to have nothing to say for himself. I hope for his sake he doesn't mean to practise—there's no room at the Bar for the self-effacing."
"What do you think Alexander saw in him?"
"I don't know. I saw them together on occasion, but Clare always kept in the background and let Alexander talk for them both. I think Alexander was sorry for him. He was generous to men who were disadvantaged socially, like Eugene or Adams. I should be sorry to think any of them repaid his kindness with murder."
"That remains to be seen," said Julian noncommittally. Sir Malcolm's praise of his son grated on him, but why? That he himself did not trust Alexander to be all he seemed should not prevent him from acknowledging the man's real and visible generosity to Clare and Adams. And yet—
"I suppose you'll be questioning a good many people," said Sir Malcolm. "The guests at Alexander's party, and anyone else in society who knew him at all well."
"I shall want information from them, naturally. But I shan't question them. That would be the worst possible line to take."
"Then how will you find out what they know?"
"Precisely by not asking them. The only way to accomplish anything in the
beau monde
is to do precisely the reverse of what you intend."
"I don't understand."
"Let me give you an example. When I came to London from the Continent three years ago, I knew almost no one, and almost no one knew me. I rode in Hyde Park every day at the fashionable hour, cutting a figure but not attempting to talk to anyone or courting anyone's notice. Eventually a few people who'd met me in Italy made a point of showing off that they alone knew who I was. Soon it became
de rigueur
to know me. I was invited everywhere and went almost nowhere. Sometimes I received three invitations for one evening, declined them all, and stayed home and read or played the piano and left everyone wondering where I was. The trick of it is that the
ton
are so desperately bored, and so sated with being admired and sought after, that they fawn on anyone who appears to have no use for them. That was Brummell's secret, but few people learned the lesson he taught, and fewer still can put it into practice.
"So my plan, Sir Malcolm, is simply to appear in public and let Alexander's acquaintances come to me. They know I've undertaken to solve his murder—I had my manservant kindle that rumour last night, and it should be a rare conflagration by now. Tonight I'm going to the theatre, and then to a rout: one of those parties great hostesses give for three or four hundred intimate friends, where people stand about on a hot, crowded staircase and wonder why they're not enjoying themselves. Alexander's friends will be expecting me to approach them about the murder, and I shan't so much as touch on the subject. They'll feel slighted and set out to prove how valuable their opinions and observations are. In short, by asking no one for information, I shall be inundated with it. And though much of it may be worthless, there's bound to be a grain or two of wheat amidst the chaff."
"I don't mean to doubt you, Mr. Kestrel, but are you sure about all this?"
"I know these people, Sir Malcolm. They're the element in which I live."
Sir Malcolm looked at him more closely. Julian saw the next question coming:
Why? What possesses you to spend your life with people you have to train like spaniels, amuse like children, manipulate like pieces on a chessboard? A man of your abilities
—
He said quickly, "Where will you be over the next few days, if I need to speak to you?"
"I'd as lief stay close to home. I feel my place is here just now, with Belinda. But it's Easter term, the courts are humming, and there's a deal of administrative business at Lincoln's Inn. So I'll be in chambers for at least part of each day—Number 21, Lincoln's Inn Old Square. If I'm not there, you can leave a message with my clerk." He smiled ruefully. "It's awkward appearing in King's Bench these days—the jury hang on my words, but for the wrong reasons. They're far more interested in me than in my argument. How is the murdered man's father bearing up? Whom does he suspect?"
"Whom
do
you suspect, Sir Malcolm?"
"The people I know least, I suppose: Clare and Adams and the other guests at the party. Or even that mysterious maidservant who accosted Belinda in the Strand.
She
seems to have been up to no good. Do you suppose we'll ever find her again?"
"We'll try, Sir Malcolm. And, what's more, we'll begin this very night."
When he got home, Julian wrote two notes. The first was to Quentin Clare:
35, Clarges Street
2 May 1825
Sir,—As you may have heard, Sir Malcolm Falkland has asked my help in solving his son's murder, and I've agreed to do what I can. To that end, I should like very much to speak with you. I shall do myself the honour to call on you tomorrow morning at ten, and shall hope to find you in.
Believe me, sir, your obedient servant,
Julian Kestrel
The second note read:
My dear Vance
,—
Will you be so good as to send me any information you have about the Brickfield Murder? I'm afraid you'll think me fickle, flitting from one crime to another like this, but I assure you I haven't abandoned Alexander Falkland. I merely feel the need to know more about the Brickfield Murder, and would gladly tell you why—if I knew myself.
Yours, with thanks, J.K.
He gave Dipper the notes to deliver. "And when you've done that, I have a task that's rather more in your line. There's a certain maidservant I should like to know more about, and as she's young and pretty, I know I can count on you to make an exceedingly thorough investigation."
Dipper received this as he did most of his master's sallies, with the wistful air of one labouring under unjust accusations. It was a look that must have served him in good stead in his pickpocketing days.
Julian told him about the mysterious maidservant who had lured Mrs. Falkland down a passage near an ironware showroom in the Strand. "Mrs. Falkland says it leads to a narrow court of grey-brick houses, most of them in disrepair."
"That'll be Cygnet's Court, sir."
"You know the place?"
"Oh, yes, sir. Me and me pals, we used to duck in there sometimes when we was playing at bo-peep with the watchmen. 'Course, in them days none of the houses was fit to live in, but since then the ratcatchers has been in, so somebody must mean to furbish 'em up."
"Have a look around the place, and try if you can to find the girl. She's tall and slender, with blond hair and large, doll-like blue eyes. She was wearing a brown and white checked dress and a white cap with lappets."
"If I smokes her out, sir, what should I do?"
"Strike up an acquaintance. I know you're more than equal to that. If you can't find her, find out all you can about her in the neighbourhood. I want to know who she was and what her business was with Mrs. Falkland."