At Julian's request, Sir Malcolm sent for Dutton, the cook, and the housemaid. He himself went to sit with Mrs. Falkland while Julian questioned them. They all professed to know nothing about the nails in Mrs. Falkland's saddle; indeed, apart from Dutton's taking Clare to retrieve his horse, none of them had gone near the stable between noon yesterday and half past nine this morning. On the whole, Julian gave them long odds as suspects, if only because of the risk they would have run in laying the trap. The stable was not their province, and if anyone caught them there, they would be hard put to think of an explanation.
Julian asked the house and stable staffs if they had seen any strangers about the house lately. They all said positively that they had not.
The next step, he decided, was to have a look around the stable. He asked that Cheever accompany him and that the rest of the servants remain in the house. They went out the back door to the stable yard. It was a walled enclosure, roughly rectangular. The only means of entry were from the house or through the gate that opened on the road. Against the far wall was the stable, a brown-brick building that resembled a substantial cottage, except for the carriage-sized doors. At one end was a large space for Sir Malcolm's chaise and phaeton. At the other end were the horses' stalls, with the saddle room beside them.
Julian went into the saddle room. It was cramped and ill-lit, full of the usual stable accoutrements: brushes, scissors, lanterns, buckets, blankets. There were three saddles standing on racks and a fourth rack vacant. "Is this where Mrs. Falkland's saddle was kept?" asked Julian.
"Yes, sir," said Cheever.
"There are no other side-saddles," Julian mused. "That means whoever set the trap knew exactly whom he meant to harm. Where are the nails kept?"
Cheever pointed out a box lying open on a nearby shelf. It contained nails of all sizes, including some of the same type and length as those that had been driven into Mrs. Falkland's saddle.
Another simple, flawless crime, thought Julian, like the Brickfield Murder and the murder of Alexander. The criminal takes advantage of whatever lies to hand—a brick, a poker, a box of nails—and leaves only as much damage and disarrangement as are needed to snuff out a life. Except that the Brickfield Murderer had also destroyed his victim's face. That made it all the more likely he had a reason to blot out her identity. Assuming all these crimes were by the same hand, this was a very economical felon—one who did the minimum needed to achieve the desired effect.
Julian closely examined the saddle room but found no clue to the culprit's identity. He widened his search, but to no avail. All he was able to determine was that none of the stable entrances had been forced.
"I suppose," he said to Cheever, "there must have been abundant opportunities for someone to slip into the saddle room without being noticed, either yesterday afternoon or early this morning."
"I expect so, sir. The boys and me, we had our work to do, cleaning the carriages and taking the horses out for an airing. There was plenty of times when nobody had the saddle room under his eye."
Julian surveyed the horses' stalls. "Which is the horse Fred had to quiet when Clare came to retrieve his horse?"
"That was Boreas, sir." Cheever pointed out his stall. "He's the one as gives all the trouble. Zephyr's as mild as milk."
Julian went over to Boreas's stall. "Fred wouldn't have been able to see from here if Clare went into the saddle room. All in all, a good opportunity for Mr. Clare."
He thanked Cheever for his help and went back into the house. The stable staff had been released from the parlour and sent down to the kitchen for some refreshment. "They can return to the stable now," Julian told Dutton, who met him in the hall.
"Yes, sir. And sir, Sir Malcolm asked if you'd join him in the study directly you came in."
Julian went in and reported to Sir Malcolm the scant results of his search. Then he asked after Mrs. Falkland. Sir Malcolm said she was fully conscious now and able to converse a little. "She asked again to be taken up to her room, and I said she should rest a bit longer first. Then she wanted to know how Phoenix was. She seemed worried about him—he isn't given to freakish fits. I thought I'd better tell her what had happened—about her saddle having been tampered with."
"What did she say?"
"She didn't say anything for a long time. Then she said, ‘My poor boy.' I think she was talking about the horse, but it was hard to be sure. She closed her eyes as if she wanted to blot it all out, and I didn't like to press her further."
"'My poor boy,"' Julian repeated to himself. Then, abruptly, "What time did Eugene leave for his new school yesterday?"
"You can't think—her own brother, a boy of sixteen!—"
"I hope not, Sir Malcolm. But the fact remains, he's the only person who has something obvious to gain from Alexander's dying childless. His inheritance depends on it."
"Yes, that's true," Sir Malcolm admitted. Then he brightened. "But he left too early. I put him in the post-chaise myself, at nine o'clock in the morning."
"Then he's out of the running." Julian was relieved. He liked Eugene and would have been sorry to find he had planned such a cold-blooded, treacherous crime. "Now, what about Martha? When did she leave for London yesterday?"
"At about ten in the morning. I drove her myself, then went on to my chambers at Lincoln's Inn."
"Scratch Martha, then. That leaves you, Sir Malcolm. Where were you between noon yesterday and half past nine this morning?"
"I realize you have to do this," said Sir Malcolm, through gritted teeth. "But your methods keep coming as a shock to me. How you can ask—Very well. I was in chambers from about eleven o'clock until mid-afternoon—you know, you saw me there. Then I met with some other benchers on Inn business and dined in Hall. I got home some time between eight and half past. Mr. Clare called about half an hour later, and I was with him until midnight. Then I went to bed. So I hadn't much opportunity to tamper with Belinda's saddle. But this morning I was up at seven and not under any sort of close scrutiny. I might have managed to creep out to the stable."
"Thank you, Sir Malcolm." Julian was becoming rather tired of being rebuked for his thoroughness. What had Sir Malcolm promised, just a few short days ago?
Whatever questions you ask, however brutal you're forced to be, I shall never reproach you
—So much for good resolves.
He said, "I think we're both a little overwrought. We might be the better for some luncheon and a chance to let everything we've discovered so far sink in."
Sir Malcolm smiled. "What you're saying, in your inimitably tactful way, is that
I'm
a little overwrought and need food and rest. And you're perfectly right. Just tell me: have you any idea at all who made this attack on my daughter?"
"Well, the field of suspects is narrow at first glance—your servants, Mrs. Falkland's groom, Mr. Clare, and yourself—but we have to take into account that one of the servants may have been suborned. Then, too, the gate and the stable were unlocked yesterday afternoon and this morning. Someone might have slipped in from the street while the stable staff were absent or occupied."
"In other words, virtually anyone could have done it!"
"I wouldn't go so far as to say that. Whoever caused the accident—we'll call him X—would have had to know a good deal about Mrs. Falkland's habits: what time she was accustomed to go riding, where her saddle was kept, and when Nugent would be finished cleaning it and could be relied on not to go near it again. And assuming X's aim was to cause her to miscarry—which is by no means certain; he may simply have wanted to do her a mischief—he had to have known she was in the family way. So one of the first questions we need to ask Mrs. Falkland is whether she told anyone she was expecting a child."
He frowned thoughtfully. "You know, I feel I've gone about this enquiry in the only possible way—I've asked the right questions and searched in the right places—and still, I'm wide of the mark. I've investigated too much and thought too little. There's a pattern here, but I'm standing too close to see it. What I need is perspective."
Sir Malcolm laid a hand good-humouredly on his shoulder. "What we both need is luncheon."
There was a flurry of noise in the hallway: doors, footsteps, voices. Then a woman's furious cry: "Where is she? Where's my mistress? I should never have left her! If I'd been here, they'd never have dared!"
Julian and Sir Malcolm hastened out into the hallway. They found Martha tugging off her bonnet and shawl and thrusting them at Dutton, who must have just broken the news of the attack on Mrs. Falkland. With her was Luke Hallam, the tall, blond footman who had seen Mrs. Falkland approached by Mrs. Desmond outside Cygnet's Court. Luke was staring at Dutton in horror—and not only horror, Julian thought. If ever a young man looked stricken with guilt, it was he.
17: Abandon All Hope
"Where is Mrs. Falkland?" Martha demanded of Julian and Sir Malcolm.
"She's in the library," said Julian in an undertone. "We ought to move a little further down the hall, so as not to disturb her."
They all complied, although Martha seethed with impatience at being held back from going to her mistress. Luke seemed too distraught to notice where he went or what he did.
"I should like to ask you both a few questions," said Julian. "Do you know of anyone who might wish to hurt Mrs. Falkland?"
Martha bridled. "If I thought anyone would harm a hair of her head, sir, do you suppose I would have left her?"
"Had she quarrelled with anyone recently?"
"That she had!" Realization glittered in Martha's eyes.
"That boy!"
"Eugene? He can't have been responsible for the accident. He left far too early yesterday to have set the trap."
"Well, he's the only person that ever ran rusty with my mistress. If he's not responsible, I don't know who is. But if so be the ruffian ever falls into my hands, I'll know how to deal with him!"
Julian turned to Luke. "What about you? Do you know of anyone who had a grudge against your mistress?"
"No, sir," Luke croaked. He cleared his throat and repeated a bit more strongly, "No, sir."
Sir Malcolm looked at Julian as if to say,
He knows something!
Julian nodded briefly but did not pursue it now. If Luke felt guilty about something to do with Mrs. Falkland, he would confess it more freely once Martha and her avenging fury were out of the way.
"Did you know your mistress was in the family way?" Julian asked Martha.
"She never told me, sir, but I guessed."
"Do you know if she told anyone else?"
"I wouldn't know, sir."
"Did
you
tell anyone?"
"No, sir. I was never one to tittle about my mistress's affairs."
"Pardon me for pressing you, but you must see, this is of the greatest importance. Are you quite sure you said nothing to anyone?"
"As sure as I was born, sir. I never said a word."
"Luke, did you have any idea your mistress might be in the family way?"
"No,
sir." Luke seemed scandalized that anyone could suppose he knew such an intimate thing about Mrs. Falkland.
"Has there been any talk of it among your fellow servants?"
"Not that I ever heard, sir."
Julian had no further questions for Martha. Sir Malcolm dismissed her, and she hurried off to her mistress.
The moment she was gone, Luke's head came up. He looked tired, his eyes red-rimmed, his usually ruddy face a little pale. "I have something to tell you, sir."
"I thought as much," said Julian. "Why don't we go into the study."
Sir Malcolm went with them, first giving Dutton orders to have luncheon prepared. Finding Luke nervous and tongue-tied, Julian began with some fairly innocuous questions. It was necessary to establish which of Alexander's servants had alibis for Mrs. Falkland's accident, and to that end Julian asked Luke what they had been doing between noon yesterday and half past nine this morning.
"We were all very busy, sir. Martha'd come to pack up Mrs. Falkland's things and sort out which were to be brought here and which were to go to her house in Dorset."
Martha had enlisted nearly all the servants to help her, Luke explained. The maids had pressed and folded her clothes and swathed the furniture in Holland covers, while the footmen blacked boots and carried heavy boxes and furnishings.
"I hope nothing in the study was disturbed?" said Julian.
"No, sir, Mr. Nichols said we weren't to touch anything there."
This morning some of the furniture had been sent to Dorset in a van; the rest Mrs. Falkland intended to sell. Her clothes and small belongings had been packed into the Falklands' town coach, which had brought Martha and Luke to Hampstead. Luke was here to help with the unloading and return with any messages Mrs. Falkland cared to send to London.
"In short," said Julian, "none of you had an opportunity to slip off to Hampstead between noon yesterday and this morning?"
"Mr. Valere could have, sir. He didn't help us much—said it was beneath him to move furniture or handle ladies' clothes. But the rest of us were well nigh run off our feet all day and most of the night. It all had to be done in a hurry, because Martha wanted to be back in Hampstead today."
"Why was that?" asked Julian.
"I think she didn't like to be away from Mrs. Falkland any longer than she could help, sir."
Julian pondered this. Almost the first words Martha had spoken on learning of Mrs. Falkland's accident were,
If I'd been here they'd never have dared!
Did it mean something that the attack had taken place during the twenty-four hours she was away? Why should the culprit have feared her? What could a lady's maid do to prevent an act of foul play in the stables?
"Now then," said Julian, "will you come out and tell us what's disturbing you, or must we play at questions?"
"It—it's what you asked me about before, sir. You remember how a maidservant came up to Mrs. Falkland in the Strand, and Mrs. Falkland went away with her, and the master said she'd gone to visit a sick friend?"