Julian was surprised to find Dipper at home. "I thought you'd be out standing drinks for the raffish population of the Strand."
"I was, sir. But I got to chaffing with some kids there, and I found one as seen some'ut rum at Cygnet's Court, so I brought him home for you to ask him about it."
"Where is he?"
"In the parlour, sir. I tipped him some hot punch so he wouldn't cut and run before you come home. He's a bit knocked by all this, sir—didn't half want to come at all."
They went into the parlour. A boy of about ten was kneeling so close to the fire that he risked scorching his face. When he saw Julian, he clambered to his feet and stood clutching his cap in one hand and his cup of punch in the other. He had a small, smudged face, big, hollow eyes, and a shock of unkempt hair. His bony wrists and ankles looked as if they would snap like twigs. He wore the remnants of a grown man's clothes, made over clumsily to fit him. His tattered coat was buttoned up to his chin, probably to hide the lack of a shirt.
For Julian, the transition from Almack's to this was sobering. "Good evening," he said gently. "What's your name?"
"Jemmy, sir. Jemmy Otis."
"Sit down, Jemmy. It's good of you to come and talk with me like this. I shall make it worth your while."
The boy gaped at him uncomprehendingly. Dipper rubbed his fingers and thumb together to signify money. Jemmy brightened, still wary and confused, but willing to cooperate.
Julian asked him a little about himself. He lived in St. Giles with his mother, who "saw company," as he put it. He went out at night so as not to be under foot when she brought the company home. Sometimes he knocked up larks with other boys, but mostly he had to earn money; his ma did not make very much. He scavenged in the streets for rags, bones, and bits of iron to sell, ran errands, took messages, or walked on his hands to amuse the passersby. "See?" he said proudly, holding out his heavily callused palms.
His favourite work was anything to do with horses. He stood guard over carriages of gentlemen calling on ladybirds in Covent Garden, fetched hackney coaches for people coming out of the "h'opera" on rainy nights, and helped the drivers clean the hackney coaches when they were not in use. This came as a surprise to Julian, who had never ridden in a hackney that looked as if it had been cleaned by anybody.
"Do you know where Cygnet's Court is?" Julian asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Dipper tells me you saw something unusual there."
"Y-yes, sir." Jemmy's forehead puckered. He was clearly not used to telling stories; perhaps he was rarely encouraged to talk at all. "There was a man in a gig," he offered at last.
"Yes?" said Julian encouragingly. "Did you see him at Cygnet's Court?"
"I seed him in the Strand, sir. I followed him, 'coz I thought he might need to have his horse held. He stopped outside Cygnet's Court."
"What happened then?"
"He got down from the gig. I says, like I al'ays does, 'Want your horse held, sir?' He give me the bridle and says, 'Here's a shilling, and when I come back, I'll give you another.'" Jemmy looked awed. "Most coves only ever gives sixpence."
"What was he like, this man?"
"I dunno, sir."
"Was he tall, short, young, old?"
"He was young. And he wore a topper and a black cloak." Jemmy thought hard, then added, "He was a gen'l'man, sir."
"How could you tell?"
"He talked very swell—like you, sir."
"I see. Jemmy, have you any idea when all this happened?" Jemmy looked utterly confounded. Julian had expected as much—what could a boy like this know of times and dates?
"It weren't last night," he said cautiously, "nor the night afore."
"Was it spring yet?"
"Yes, sir." A spark of recollection came into his eyes. "And it rained—it rained mortal hard. Not when I seed the gen'l'man, but later. I know, 'coz I had plenty of blunt to buy hot gin-twist arter I was caught in the rain."
Julian and Dipper exchanged glances. It could have been the night Mrs. Desmond and her maid left Cygnet's Court—the night the rainstorm washed away any trace of the Brickfield Murderer. "What time of night was it?" Julian asked.
"I dunno, sir."
"Well—had people begun to leave the theatres?"
"No, sir. It was about the time the half-price customers starts coming. That's what I thought
he
was at first."
"About nine o'clock, then. So he gave you a shilling and asked you to hold his horse. What happened next?"
"He went through the passage into Cygnet's Court."
Julian turned to Dipper. "That's curious. The Falklands' town carriage wouldn't fit through the passage, but a gig would be small enough."
"Yes, sir."
"Then why didn't he simply drive the gig into the court?"
They both looked at Jemmy. "I dunno, sir," the boy said blankly.
"Perhaps he didn't want it to be seen there," Julian mused. "Suppose it was the same night Mrs. Desmond disappeared, and suppose the driver of the gig was Mrs. Desmond's protector. The description of him as a young gentleman in evening clothes fits, so far as it goes. He was familiar enough with Cygnet's Court to know that, since it was a Friday night, Mrs. Wheeler and her maid would be away. So the only people he could have been meaning to hide the gig from were Mrs. Desmond and Fanny."
He turned back to Jemmy. "Please go on."
"I held the horse till the gen'l'man come back. He was carrying a lady."
"Carrying her? What do you mean? Was she ill?"
"He said she was asleep. 'Hush!' he says, 'she's asleep, and I don't want for to wake her.' And she moaned a bit and moved about, as if she was dreaming."
"What did she look like?"
"I dunno, sir. I only seed her by the carriage lamp, and she had on a cloak and bonnet, and her veil was pulled down. I seed her shoes, though, when he put her in the carriage. They was white and shiny, with gold thread on 'em. A lady's slippers, they was."
"You think she was Mrs. Desmond, sir?" asked Dipper.
"More likely Mrs. Desmond than her maid, certainly. Although if Mrs. Desmond could dress up in her maid's clothes, I suppose the maid could wear Mrs. Desmond's. Then again, she could have been someone else entirely. Mrs. Wheeler said Mrs. Desmond sometimes had female visitors on the nights her protector came to see her."
Jemmy had little more to tell. The "gen'l'man" had lifted the woman into the gig and tucked the carriage rug around her. He gave Jemmy the promised shilling, climbed in himself, and drove away.
Julian walked back and forth, pondering. "Well, what have we learned? A woman is carried out of Cygnet's Court, perhaps on the night of the Brickfield Murder. We have no idea who she was, or who the gentleman was who took her away. If she was the brickfield victim, why was she taken all the way from the Strand to a brickfield near Hampstead? What became of her white slippers with the gold thread? And assuming the gentleman took her to the brickfield, smashed her face, and went off with her slippers in his pocket, why in God's name would he return to Cygnet's Court and drip wet clay through Mrs. Desmond's house?"
Jemmy was looking at Julian in some alarm. "We're playing a sort of game," Julian explained. "We're attempting to solve a puzzle, and you've been very helpful." But I wish to God you could tell us something more, he thought—anything that would give us a hint where to pick up this gentleman's trail.
He made one last effort. "Can you remember anything about the gig and horse?"
Jemmy turned up an alert, intelligent face. "The gig was painted black, sir, with the wheels and shafts picked out in white. It was sturdy enough, but the springs was starting to go; it could be a bone-setter on a rough road. The horse was a roan, with a snip on his left nostril, a bit long in the tooth, and ewe-necked, with a splint on the near foreleg."
Confound me for an idiot! Julian thought. How could I have waited so long to put that question to a boy so besotted with horses? "Jemmy, you've been invaluable. Here." He emptied his pocket of coins. "Here's something on account. If the information you've given me proves as useful as I think it will, you'll come in for a much larger reward."
While Jemmy goggled at his newfound wealth, Julian took Dipper aside. "Take him home and mark where he lives—we may need him again. Meantime, I'll write to Vance and ask him to move Heaven and earth to find out what's become of that gig and horse."
16: A Pair of Nails
Next morning Julian rode out to Sir Malcolm's house in Hampstead. Sir Malcolm received him in the library. "I couldn't bring myself to go to my chambers today," he said. "I want to be at hand when you question Belinda."
"Is she expecting me?"
"No. You asked me not to tell her what you'd learned about Mrs. Desmond, so rather than stray onto forbidden ground, I haven't mentioned you or the investigation at all."
"Thank you. I realize it must be awkward for you to keep secrets from her." He added curiously, "Hasn't she asked you how the investigation is progressing?"
"No. I think she's too overcome by Alexander's loss to take much interest in finding out who killed him. But she's beginning to plan for a future without him—that's a good sign, don't you think? Yesterday she sent Martha to London to have the rest of her belongings packed and brought here or sent to her house in Dorset. Martha was very loath to leave her, but Belinda'd set her mind to it. She wants to sell the London house. She can't be rid of it quickly enough, after what happened there."
He rang for Dutton and asked where Mrs. Falkland was. Dutton said she was in her room getting dressed for riding.
"Ask her to stop in and see us when she comes down," said Sir Malcolm. Dutton bowed and went out.
Sir Malcolm said hesitantly, "There's something else I ought to mention to you. It will seem very odd, I know. Mr. Clare came to see me last night, to beg my pardon for deceiving me about the letters. And I don't quite know how it happened, but he stayed for three hours."
"It must have been a rather long apology."
"No, but you see, we got to talking about other things—the classics, mostly. He has a very singular grasp of trochaic metres."
"Indeed?"
Sir Malcolm looked rueful. "Did I do wrong, making a friend of him?"
"I wouldn't say you did wrong, Sir Malcolm. But I think you did so at your peril."
"Well, let it be on my head. I like Mr. Clare, and I don't think he's a bad lot. He was just—misled."
"By Alexander?"
"Yes," said Sir Malcolm steadily. "That my son was foully murdered doesn't make him a saint. He behaved very badly over those letters. I have to accept that. Mr. Clare behaved badly as well, but he was younger than Alexander and had far less knowledge of the world."
Julian thought Sir Malcolm was hardly one to talk about knowledge of the world. His naivete in taking Clare under his wing was as exasperating as it was touching. Clare was engaging, for all his awkwardness; he proved that the very reverse of charm could itself be oddly charming. But that only put Julian more on his guard against him. If Clare tried to take advantage of this kind, lonely man, he would have Julian to reckon with.
"You wanted to see me, Papa?" Mrs. Falkland appeared in the doorway, her austere black riding habit setting off her white and gold beauty to perfection. She inclined her head coldly toward Julian. "Good morning, Mr. Kestrel."
"Good morning, Mrs. Falkland." He bowed. "I came hoping to talk with you about some discoveries we've made in the investigation. Will you allow me to accompany you on your ride?"
For a moment her eyes looked resentful, trapped. He could feel her resistance across the room. But at last she said, "As you wish."
Sir Malcolm hovered about her, as if unwilling to let her out of his protection. "Goodbye, my dear. If you need me, I'll be here when you return."
"Thank you, Papa." She turned toward him, then looked quickly away. Julian saw what had stung her gaze: not Sir Malcolm, but the laughing-eyed portrait of Alexander on the wall beyond.
She took Julian's arm, and they went out the back door to the stable yard. The gate, which led to a winding back road, stood open in readiness. Julian's black horse, Nero, had been brought round. Beside him was Mrs. Falkland's fine chestnut, Phoenix. He was a full sixteen hands, spirited for a lady's mount, but she managed him superbly.
One of the stable boys held Nero's head while Julian mounted. The other boy would have given Mrs. Falkland a leg up, but her groom, Mike Nugent, shooed him away. Nugent was nearly as well known in Rotten Row as his mistress. He was a wiry little Irishman with a brown weathered face and snapping black eyes, who would allow no one to attend to Phoenix but himself. He spread out his hands for Mrs. Falkland to step on, and she sprang lightly into the saddle. He started to tighten the girth.
Phoenix's head came up with a jerk, eyes wild, nostrils flaring. He reared, threw Mrs. Falkland from the saddle, and bolted for the gate. Her foot caught in the stirrup. She was dragged along the ground.
Julian spurred his horse and cut off Phoenix at the gate. Phoenix veered round and would have dashed off in another direction, but Nugent got hold of the reins. "Take the saddle off him, for the love of Jesus!" he roared at the stable boys. "Can't you see that's what's driving him mad?"
Julian dismounted and ran to assist Mrs. Falkland. He loosed her skirt from the stirrup, carried her a safe distance away, and laid her on the ground. She was white and insensible. Her hat was gone, and her bright gold hair straggled down, streaked with dirt.
Sir Malcolm's coachman heard the commotion and came running out of the stable. Julian called, "Is there anything we can use for a litter?"
"There's an old door. I could cover it with canvas."
"Good. And bring a blanket, and some spirits, if you have any."
The stable boys had gotten Phoenix's saddle off. The horse was calmer now, though he still trembled and pawed the ground. Nugent murmured soothingly to him, stroking his neck and muzzle.
The coachman and stable boys brought out the makeshift litter, a blanket, and a bottle of brandy. Julian tucked the blanket around Mrs. Falkland and gently lifted her head and shoulders, supporting her on his arm. Holding the bottle to her lips, he got her to take a few swallows. She coughed, her eyelids flickered, and her face convulsed with pain.