"Yes." Julian's heart leaped, but he kept his voice cool and measured.
"Well, sir, everything I told you was true, but it wasn't the whole truth. I meant all for the best!" He looked pleadingly from Julian to Sir Malcolm. "I thought it was something private that might shame her if it came out. Not that I thought she'd done anything wrong, but sometimes people get mixed up in scandals without being able to help it. And now all I can think of is that someone's hurt her, and if I'd told what I knew it might not have happened. You might have found out she was in danger and saved her—"
"Look here, my boy," said Sir Malcolm, "what's done is done. All you can do now is make a clean breast of things, so we'll be forearmed against anyone's trying such a trick again."
"Yes, sir. It was when she come home, sir, after she'd gone away with the maidservant. She'd been gone for three hours, and I was getting worried. The Strand's not the sort of place I cared to think of her left alone. The master, he'd dressed for dinner and gone out, and I said to myself, if he ain't worried, why should I be? But all the same I was. I thought there might be things he didn't know. Not that she'd lie to him—not without a good reason—"
"We understand you're not accusing her of anything," Julian said.
"I never would, sir. Anyhow, I watched for her at the door and the front windows whenever I could, till finally she came home. And—and she acted very strange."
"In what way?" asked Julian.
"Afraid, sir. Haunted. She shrank away from me, wouldn't let me take her shawl—wouldn't even lift the veil on her bonnet. But I could see her eyes through the gauze, and they looked—I can't describe it. As if she was in a nightmare and couldn't wake up."
"My poor girl!" said Sir Malcolm softly.
"Go on," said Julian.
"She asked where Mr. Falkland was, and I said he'd gone out to dinner. Then she said she didn't want any dinner, she wasn't hungry, she only wanted to go up to her room. I asked if I should send Martha to her, and she said no. 'I want to be left alone,' she said, and she went upstairs."
"When was the next time you saw her?" Julian asked.
"Next morning. She looked white and tired, but she was herself again. I mean, she didn't have that terrible look in her eyes." Luke looked down, blushing a little. "There's one thing I haven't told you. She was wearing a new dress that day—a silk dress the colour of lilacs—and her shawl was all embroidered with flowers and leaves. She was clutching the shawl round her shoulders when she come home, and I was going to help her off with it, but she started away, and it slipped down, and I saw that her dress was torn. One of the sleeves was all but ripped away at the shoulder."
Julian's brows shot up. "Did she tell you how that happened?"
"No, sir. She didn't say anything about it at all. I think she knew that if she didn't speak of it, I wouldn't—not to her or anyone else. But I wish now I had. Do you think, sir, it would have made a difference?"
"I don't know," said Julian. "I hope from now on you'll answer questions unreservedly, without any misplaced efforts to protect people?"
"Yes, sir," Luke said miserably.
Julian smiled faintly. "Then I won't upbraid you any further—not when you're making such a first-rate job of it yourself. You might show yourself a little mercy on the ground of good intentions. To be led astray by loyalty isn't the worst of crimes."
Dutton announced that luncheon was ready. Sir Malcolm sent Luke down to the servants' hall for his meal. He and Julian sat down to steaks with oyster sauce, cold fowls, and a bottle of Sir Malcolm's excellent port. By tacit agreement, they said nothing about Mrs. Falkland's accident for a while. This gave Julian a chance to review the facts in his mind and try to find the pattern he felt sure was there.
"The crucial question," he told Sir Malcolm, when they had reached the fruit and coffee stage, "is whether the attack was intended to be against Mrs. Falkland or her unborn child. In other words, were you right to assume that this was Alexander's murderer striking at him again by destroying his child, or is there someone who wanted to harm Mrs. Falkland, to whom the fact of her expecting a child was unknown, or incidental?"
Sir Malcolm frowned intently at the orange segment on his fork, as if it might hold the answer. "Luke's story suggests that Belinda had a very ugly encounter at Cygnet's Court. I don't like to think of it, but perhaps she got into a struggle with someone—the man who was keeping Mrs. Desmond, perhaps?—and since then he's had a grudge against her. For that matter, Mrs. Desmond herself might have driven those nails into the saddle. You said no one knows where she is, so she could be well nigh anywhere. And you also said a stranger might have got into the stable without being noticed."
"The stranger would have had to know a good deal about the stable's routine and Mrs. Falkland's habits. Still, it's possible. Mrs. Desmond and Mrs. Falkland seem to have been engaged in some intrigue—perhaps they fell out, and Mrs. Desmond sought revenge. On the other hand, if Mrs. Desmond is the woman Jemmy Otis saw being spirited away from Cygnet's Court by the gentleman with the horse and gig, she may be a victim herself, and in no position to play malicious pranks on anyone else."
"Hmm." Sir Malcolm poured himself another cup of coffee. "Are you going to question Alexander's servants again?"
"I daresay someone should. But I think it's unlikely any of them tampered with Mrs. Falkland's saddle. If Martha kept them as busy as Luke says, they couldn't very well have stolen off to Hampstead. But there's Valere to consider: according to Luke, he refused to help the other servants pack up Mrs. Falkland's things. We ought to find out what he was doing instead. Though I find it hard to imagine that fastidious little Frenchman soiling his hands with saddles and nails.
"In short," he summed up, "both Luke and Martha have alibis for the accident, but not for Alexander's murder. The same is true of Eugene. You're the opposite case: you have an alibi for the murder, but not for the accident. Clare is the only one we know of so far who could have committed both crimes. The remaining suspects—Valere, Adams, Felix, the other guests at the party—have no alibi for the murder, and it remains to be seen if they can produce one for the accident."
"I don't know how you keep it all straight in your head. It makes me giddy."
Julian smiled. "I shouldn't have thought it any more difficult than Latin verbs or legal concepts."
"And it's a great deal more useful, you're probably thinking. I can't say I disagree!" Sir Malcolm grew serious again. "Shouldn't we report this attack on Belinda to the authorities?"
"I'll speak to Vance when I return to London. And I suppose you should swear out an information before one of your local magistrates. We can at least find out if the neighbourhood watchmen saw any suspicious characters lurking about."
"You haven't much faith in conventional law enforcement, have you?"
"I think the authorities mean well, but with the best will in the world they can't make the present system work—at all events, not when a serious crime occurs, and the culprit is unknown. The people charged with solving crimes have no experience—there are no qualifications for becoming a magistrate other than to have a sufficient income to make one proof against bribery. The constables are tradesmen chosen by lot who couldn't find anyone to serve in their place, and the watch is merely a way to support invalid or drunken old men without having to put them on parish relief. But the worst of the problem lies in the methods employed. Criminal detection ought to be active and systematic, whereas our approach is passive and haphazard. The magistrates put out advertisements, offer rewards, and wait for information to drift in. The Bow Street Runners are diligent and inventive, but there are only a handful of them, and they can't be everywhere. The solution is to establish a full-fledged professional police, but of course the opposition to that is tremendous."
"People ought to have more sense!" fumed Sir Malcolm.
Julian shrugged. "For many people, crime isn't a real concern until they become victims themselves."
"That's true. I can't say I ever gave it much thought—and I actually try criminal cases." Sir Malcolm smiled sadly. "It always seemed like the sort of thing that happened to somebody else."
Dutton appeared in the doorway and spoke to Sir Malcolm. "Mrs. Falkland's maid would like to see you, sir."
"Send her in," Sir Malcolm said.
Martha entered. "Mrs. Falkland is feeling better, sir, and says if Mr. Kestrel has questions for her, she's ready to answer them now."
Julian glanced toward Sir Malcolm, who nodded assent. "Thank you," he said to Martha. "Please tell Mrs. Falkland I'll be with her directly."
*
The first thing that caught Julian's eye when he entered the library was the blank space on the wall. Alexander's portrait had been taken down and turned back side out. "I asked Martha to do that," Mrs. Falkland said quietly. "Those eyes were driving me mad."
She was half sitting up on the leather sofa, a quilt drawn up to her waist. Her bound foot made a bulge at the other end. She had exchanged her black riding habit for a white nightdress and a soft blue cashmere shawl. Her hair was unbound, and tiny gold strands floated, freshly brushed, like a halo around her head.
Julian sat down facing her. She did not look at him, but into a cup of tea she was slowly, monotonously stirring. He asked, "Are you sure you're well enough to talk to me?"
"Yes. What do you wish to know?"
He hesitated, suddenly appalled at the task before him. How did one question a woman about a wound so fresh, a loss so agonizing? Yet it had to be done. She had asked for this interview; he would have to take her word for it that she could endure it.
"First," he said gently, "if you'll forgive an ignorant question from a bachelor—did you know you were going to have a child?"
"Yes."
"Did you tell anyone about it?"
"No."
"Was there some reason for that?"
"Yes. I said nothing about it because I didn't think the child would live."
He was taken aback. "Do you mean you expected something like this to happen?"
"Expected? No. But if you'd been through what I have, you wouldn't think anything good could happen, or anything wholesome or beautiful could thrive, ever again."
He remembered how she had asked him if he had ever been to Hell. And he thought of the inscription over the gateway:
Abandon all hope ye who enter here.
"Mrs. Falkland, have you any idea who did this?"
"No."
"Has anyone threatened you or been angry with you recently?"
"No. Other than Eugene, and Martha says you told her he couldn't have done it."
"No, he left too early yesterday. Have you cause to suspect any of Sir Malcolm's servants?"
"No. I've found them all to be trustworthy and good. I'm sure none of them would harm me."
"What about your groom, Nugent?"
"Nugent is unfailingly honest and loyal. He couldn't possibly be guilty." She added, "Even if he could bring himself to hurt me, he would never hurt Phoenix."
That rang true, Julian thought. "Mr. Clare had access to your saddle last night. Has he ever shown any ill will toward you?"
"No, never."
"How well do you know him?"
"Not very. I believe he's shy, especially with ladies. But he's always been civil and courteous to me."
Julian pondered. "Have you noticed anyone suspicious hanging about the stable lately, or watching you while you were out riding?"
"No."
"Nugent mentioned you went to the stable yesterday evening with a basket of apples for Phoenix. Have you any idea whether your saddle had been tampered with at that time?"
"No. I had no reason to look at my saddle."
Julian felt he was getting nowhere. "Think back. Did you see anything out of the common in the stable last night?"
"I can't think of anything. But I imagine whoever did this would make sure I saw nothing suspicious. That would be easy enough. I visit Phoenix at the same time every night. Someone who knew the house would have known that."
He pointed out gently, "But you've just absolved everyone in the house."
"I can't solve that riddle. I thought you were here to make sense of such mysteries."
"I am," he said ruefully. "But I haven't been quick enough about it. This happened on my watch, and I'm more sorry for it than I can say."
"Please don't blame yourself," she said wearily. "You only make things harder. Have you anything more to ask me?"
"There's one thing we haven't touched on: Mrs. Desmond."
"Mrs. Desmond?"
He searched her face. He would swear she had never heard the name in her life. "Mrs. Desmond is the young woman who inveigled you into Cygnet's Court."
Her fingers tightened around the tea-cup. "Really? I never knew her name."
"Mrs. Falkland, Luke was very upset when he heard of your accident. He was afraid that, by keeping back information about you, he'd exposed you to danger. So he's told us the truth about your return from that encounter at Cygnet's Court. He says you came home terrified, unwilling to lift your veil, and with one of the sleeves half torn from your dress."
She looked at him like a cornered animal. "Well?"
"Well—what was it that frightened you? And how did you tear your dress?"
"I tore my dress on a park paling. And I wasn't frightened, merely tired. I'm tired now. Please go away."
"If you have an enemy, for God's sake, tell us. Whoever it is may strike again—"
"What do I care? What have I left to lose? My husband is dead, my child is dead! I have only my life, because God won't have me, God won't let me die!"
She flung up her hands to her face. The tea-cup overturned, spilling tea down the side of the quilt. Her shoulders heaved; sobs tore at her throat.
He sprang up, took away the cup and saucer, and gave her his handkerchief. She pressed it to her face. "Please—I want Martha—"
He hastened to the door, thinking Martha could not be far. She was waiting in the hall and came at once. Seeing her mistress's state, she threw him a furious glance and rushed to her side. She gathered her in her large, strong arms and rocked her like a child.