"Then I hope with all my heart you may be right."
"Thank you. I feel sure it would lift her spirits, having something new to think about and plan for. It was easier for her just after Alexander's death, when she had so many things to do: looking after the servants, ordering mourning for the household, answering letters of condolence. I was always trying to persuade her to rest, but I can see now she knew what was best for her. Since I brought her here, she hasn't had enough to occupy her, and it's set her brooding."
The servant returned. "Mrs. Falkland says, will you and Mr. Kestrel please come up, sir."
"Splendid! Mr. Kestrel, will you step upstairs?"
*
The drawing room, that most feminine of precincts, had sunk into dowdiness and disuse during Sir Malcolm's long widowerhood. The furnishings were old-fashioned, with more dignity than grace. The marble fireplace was too large, the crimson wallpaper too dark. The porcelain shepherds on the mantelpiece were comically out of style. Most of the furniture stood formally against the walls, but a sofa was drawn up to the fire. Mrs. Falkland sat there, still and remote, her hands folded in her lap.
Julian knew Belinda Falkland only slightly, and could never see her without being struck afresh by her beauty. Even the pallor of illness and the strain of grief could do little to mar it. She had well-nigh perfect features: the nose straight, the lower lip a little full, the chin poised proudly above a slim white throat. Her hair was guinea-gold, her eyes pale blue, with a lustre like frost. Her black gown was cut in the latest fashion, with long sleeves full at the shoulders, a trim, belted waist, and a cone-shaped skirt. On her breast she wore an oval mourning brooch, with a red-brown, ropelike border of what must have been Alexander's hair. Inside was a sepia painting of a broken column, with a pair of scales like those carried by Justice lying crumpled at its foot. This might equally symbolize Alexander's blasted legal career or his lawless death; either way, Julian suspected that the metaphor, like the choice of inscription for Alexander's headstone, was Sir Malcolm's.
"Belinda, my dear." Sir Malcolm went to her and kissed her on the brow. "How are you?"
"I'm better, Papa, thank you."
"You know Mr. Kestrel, I think?"
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Falkland." Julian came forward and bowed over her hand. "I wish we might have met again under other circumstances. I was very sorry to hear of your husband's death."
"Thank you. Papa said you might be persuaded to help us find out who killed him. I take it from your coming here that you've agreed?"
"Yes."
She glanced toward a corner of the room, where a woman sat sewing—her maid, Martha, no doubt. Julian had expected a pretty young soubrette, but this woman was about forty, with a square jaw and greying, dun-coloured hair. She was dressed in mourning like the rest of the household, her clothes neat, spotless, and starkly without ornament.
There was no need for speech between her and Mrs. Falkland. She got up at once and brought forward chairs for Julian and Sir Malcolm. The chairs were large and heavy, but she lifted them without effort, as a farmer's wife might heave sacks of grain. Country-bred, Julian thought.
Her task finished, she retired to her comer and took up her needlework again. Mrs. Falkland looked into the fire. Sir Malcolm seemed a little at a loss. "I'm afraid we're tiring you, my dear. Perhaps if Mr. Kestrel were to return in a day or two—"
"I'm not tired, Papa." She turned to Julian. "Have you anything to ask me?"
"Only the broadest of enquiries, and they aren't urgent. I don't wish to tax your strength."
"You're very kind, but you needn't be concerned about that. I'm well enough to answer questions."
He decided to take her at her word. "Who do you think killed your husband, Mrs. Falkland? Have you any theories?"
"No. I have no theories."
"Had he any enemies?"
"Not that I knew of. He was very popular. Everyone liked him."
"Had he quarrelled with anyone recently?"
"Alexander never quarrelled. It wasn't in his nature."
"Surely everyone has disagreements?"
"A disagreement isn't the same thing as a quarrel. Alexander had differences of opinion with people, but he didn't become angry, or make them angry. You knew him—you saw what he was like."
"I saw him out in the world, at clubs and parties. Was he the same in private?"
"Yes. He never lost his temper with me. I should almost say he hadn't one to lose. There was a lightness about him. He made life very easy. Wherever he went, he was like a perfect host, making everyone around him comfortable and happy. There was no unpleasantness, ever. He found ways of smoothing it away."
"The man you describe is remarkable—hardly human."
"Yes," she said quietly. "I know."
Martha emerged from her corner and stood by Mrs. Falkland, with a mixture of deference and protectiveness. "Excuse me, ma'am, but it's time for your medicine." She spoke with the lilting inflection and guttural
r
of the West Country.
Sir Malcolm rose. "We won't trouble you anymore, my dear. Take good care of her, Martha—I know you always do. Mr. Kestrel, will you come into the library?"
Julian took leave of Mrs. Falkland. She seemed as indifferent to his departure as she had been to his coming, but he had the impression Martha was distinctly glad to see him go.
*
Sir Malcolm's house was designed very simply. The ground floor was a square, with two rooms on each side of a central hallway. Above were four more rooms, ranged around the top of the main stairs. Sir Malcolm brought Julian down to the library, which was the first room on the right as you entered the house.
The library was clearly Sir Malcolm's sanctum: plain and oak-panelled, lined from floor to ceiling with shelves of classical authors. Bits of ancient pottery and sculpture served as paperweights or book props. The big knee-hole tables were covered with open books, ink-stained blotters, and piles of paper. It was the kind of room that would seem chaotic to everyone but its owner, who would know in some mysterious way exactly where everything was.
"A hot drink wouldn't come amiss, do you think?" said Sir Malcolm. "Rum punch, or perhaps brandy-and-water?"
"Brandy-and-water, if you please."
Sir Malcolm rang for the servant who had taken their hats. Meanwhile Julian strolled over to the fireplace—and there was Alexander Falkland.
It was a full-length portrait, large as life, filling all the space between fireplace and ceiling. Alexander stood in a standard pose yet looked quite natural, his arm resting on a mantelpiece as though he had casually laid it there in conversation. The likeness was superb. The painter had not only captured his physical traits—red-brown hair, brown eyes, slim, youthful figure—but conveyed their charm. The eyes were alight with laughter, the lips curving into their radiant, confiding smile, which seemed to draw the merest stranger into privileged intimacy. Here was a young man who enjoyed his life and made other people enjoy theirs.
Sir Malcolm joined Julian before the portrait, letting him see the father and son juxtaposed. They had the same auburn hair and cinnamon-brown eyes, but there the resemblance ended. Sir Malcolm's woolly hair and craggy features had nothing in common with Alexander's wavy locks and finedrawn face.
"It's a remarkable portrait," Julian said.
"Yes. I'm very grateful to have it. I only wish the painter had chosen a different background. Do you realize where he is?"
Julian looked more closely. Alexander stood by a fireplace, with a reproduction of one of Palladio's architectural drawings hanging above it. Behind him was a niche displaying classical urns and marble or bronze statuettes. The walls were painted a soothing white and grey, conducive to meditation. "His study?"
"Yes. His own design, in part."
Julian nodded. "Much of the house was, wasn't it? I've only seen the public rooms, where he gave his entertainments, but I know the whole house is reckoned a
tour de force.
"
"Yes. All the rooms are in different styles: Greek, Gothic, Turkish, Chinese—"
"Renaissance," mused Julian, surveying the details of the study. His eyes came to rest on the polished steel poker propped neatly against the grate. "Is that the same poker—"
"Yes," said Sir Malcolm heavily. "The one that was used to kill him."
"Is this what you wanted to show me?"
"No, no." Sir Malcolm wrenched his gaze away from the portrait and went over to a marble-topped cabinet. "What I wanted to show you is in here. I keep them locked up. Since Alexander died, they've become my greatest treasure."
The servant brought in a tray containing a decanter, glasses, a pot of hot water, and a sugar-bowl. At a sign from Sir Malcolm, he bowed and went out. Sir Malcolm waved Julian toward the tray. "Don't stand on ceremony, Mr. Kestrel—mix yourself a glass. I'll join you in a moment."
While Julian helped himself to brandy and water, Sir Malcolm unlocked the cabinet with a key he kept on his watch-chain. He took out a pile of folded papers with broken seals and brought them over to Julian.
"Letters?" Julian asked.
"More than letters. A side of Alexander most people never saw. A little over a year ago, he told me he wanted to enroll as a law student at Lincoln's Inn. Of course I was pleased he was thinking of following in my footsteps, but I must confess, I didn't expect he'd buckle to it seriously. A good many young men get themselves admitted to Inns of Court as a sort of gentlemen's club, and since the only real requirement for being called to the Bar is to eat a certain number of dinners in Hall every year, a man can qualify himself to practise law without ever studying at all. Some do study of course—the ones who really mean to make a career of it. But Alexander was newly married, he was taken up with refurbishing his house, and he had so many friends and social engagements, I didn't see how he'd find time to pore over legal tomes.
"But he surprised me. He read—soaked up knowledge like a sponge. And not just law, but works on government, philosophy, political economy. His friends never would have guessed—he was always light and gay and amusing with them. But here"—Sir Malcolm flourished the pile of letters—"here he stored up his reflections, his ideals, his political and moral concerns. We didn't see much of each other this past year— I was often in court or away at the county assizes, and he had such a busy social life. But, through his letters, I felt closer to him than I ever had before. One of the cruelest things about his death is that I should have lost him just when we were getting to know one another—when we were becoming friends."
Julian was moved; all the same, he made allowances for a bereaved father's partiality. It was hard to believe Alexander's political and moral views could be so profound. He was not the kind of young man one thought of as having any. "Do you think these letters might shed light on his murder?"
"I don't know. I just felt you needed to know him—really know him. I wanted you to see there was more to him than the bright surface he showed the world." Sir Malcolm hesitated, then held out the letters. "I'm going to lend them to you, so you can read them at your leisure. I don't like to let them out of my hands, but there's no help for it. And, here." He went back to the cabinet and took out another sheaf of papers. "You'd better have my letters to him as well, so that you can follow the give-and-take of ideas. I took them back after he died. He'd left his papers to me—his books as well."
"A propos,"
said Julian, "how did he leave the rest of his property?"
"Nearly everything went to Belinda. Of course, his most valuable property was the landed estate she'd brought him, and on his death that reverted to her by law. He left generous bequests to his servants, particularly his valet, a pernickety little Frenchman named Valere. And there was a conditional bequest to Eugene, consisting of some paintings and other property worth about four thousand pounds."
"Eugene is Mrs. Falkland's brother, I believe?"
"Half-brother, to be precise. Alexander was his guardian. He's staying with me now. Belinda brought him with her."
"What did you mean when you said the bequest was conditional?"
"I meant that it depended on Alexander's dying without issue. If he and Belinda had had a child, Eugene's bequest would have been reduced by about three-quarters. Alexander was fond of Eugene, but I suppose he felt he owed it to his own children to put them first."
"What if your hopes are well-founded, and Mrs. Falkland proves to be in the family way?"
"Well, if there's a live child, Eugene will be the loser. Awkward situation, but there it is."
"I can see I shall have to speak to Eugene."
Sir Malcolm eyed him uneasily. "You do know he's only sixteen?"
"I imagine he's capable of wielding a poker?"
"Well, yes."
"Was he in the house on the night Alexander died?"
"Yes. But you don't understand—Alexander was his hero! He perked up like a dog noticed by its master whenever Alexander looked his way! You can't think he'd kill him, just for four thousand pounds?"
"Men have killed each other for four pounds, even four shillings. The income from four thousand pounds would be two hundred a year—not an inconsiderable supplement to a gentleman's income. Has Eugene any money of his own?"
"Not a farthing," Sir Malcolm admitted. "His father came to a bad end, you know. Belinda's father—her mother's first husband—was a respectable country squire, who died when Belinda was a baby. A few years later his widow married Tracy Talmadge, an engaging young man, but a rake and a spendthrift. He ran through his own fortune and whatever of his wife's he could lay hands on. Luckily he couldn't touch Belinda's property—that had been well tied up by her father. In the end his friends caught him cheating at cards, he was disgraced, and cut his throat in a fit of despair. His wife was left a pauper, living on the charity of her daughter's trustees. And Eugene, who was only three, had nothing in the world but a legacy of dishonour."