"She never told me that."
"I can't account for what she did or didn't tell you. I wrote it and had it delivered—that's all."
"What did you write?"
"I remember exactly, because I was a long time deciding what to say.
'Mrs. Falkland. Beware of your maid. She's betrayed you and may have done worse to your husband.'
That was all—I didn't sign it."
"Why not?"
"Because—" Adams hung fire a moment. "Because I knew she didn't like or trust me. I thought if she knew the warning came from me, she wouldn't heed it."
"She doesn't seem to have heeded it in any event."
"No."
"I wonder you think she dislikes you," said Julian, watching him. "To be frank, I had the impression she gave you no thought whatsoever."
Adams's face twisted, became a mass of pain. "Why should she?"
Julian let it go. Interrogation was one thing, torture another. There was only one more question he needed to ask, and it was critical. "How can you be sure it was Martha you saw at Mrs. Desmond's? Did you get a good look at her?"
"Of course I did! Do you suppose I'd kick up such a dust over a mere fancy? I only saw her briefly, but she was standing by the street door, and there was sunshine streaming in on her through the fanlight. It was Martha, no question about it."
"Thank you, Mr. Adams." Julian rose. "You've been extremely helpful—more than you know."
"What do you mean?" asked Adams sharply.
"Surely you must realize you've given yourself away?"
"I don't know what you're talking about! I didn't kill Falkland!"
"That remains to be seen. In any event, I hardly think you're to be congratulated for not numbering murder among your crimes."
Adams whitened. "I don't know what you're hinting at, or what you think you know. But I won't stay to be taunted and insulted. I have enough of that from your kind as it is. I came because I thought I had a duty to tell you what I knew about Mrs. Falkland's maid."
"I can set your mind at rest on that score. It wasn't Martha who tampered with Mrs. Falkland's saddle. She has an unshakeable alibi for the time in which that might have been done."
Adams sat down slowly. "What you're saying is, I've told you all this for nothing. And you let me do it—you even egged me on. What a cold-blooded devil you are."
"I needed your information. You ought to have given it long since. By the way: we haven't accounted for
your
whereabouts at the time the accident might have been caused. Where were you and what were you doing on Wednesday from noon to nine o'clock, and yesterday from dawn until half past nine?"
"Yesterday morning I was at home, then I went directly to my counting-house. My servants and clerks can vouch for that. On Wednesday—" He paused. "I was meeting with clients all afternoon, then I went to dinner at Garraway's. After that I went back to my counting-house and worked for several hours."
"Can anyone give you an alibi for that time?"
"No. So you may believe if you like that I went to Hampstead and drove nails into Mrs. Falkland's saddle. But I don't see how that fits with your theory of my so-called protectiveness toward her."
"I shan't detain you with explanations." Julian went with him to the door. "One more thing: I hope you won't attempt to leave the country before these crimes are solved."
"My God, are you threatening me? Do you think I'm so easily frightened?"
"I think, Mr. Adams, that you're frightened now. And I think you have reason to be."
*
Julian sent for his horse and set off for Hampstead. The weather was damp without being rainy, which in London meant that yellowish mists curled around the chimneys, and the air hung heavy with the smell of soot and horses. But as the houses thinned and gave way to fields, there came a sweet scent of earth and grass, and even a faint spring breeze. Julian turned his horse off the main road and made for the Heath, which was a little out of his way but irresistible on a day like this.
The chief advantage of Hampstead Heath, Julian had always thought, was that it was not fashionable. You ran into no one you knew; there were no ladies expecting to be flirted with and no gentlemen trying to outshine you. A man could actually ride in peace and quiet under the trees. Julian had no great hankering for bucolic retreats; he was inclined to agree with Samuel Johnson that a man who was tired of London was tired of life. But there was much to be said for a sylvan spot when there was reflection to be done.
He saw his way clearly now through parts of the Falkland mystery. His theory of who had caused Mrs. Falkland's accident remained unshaken; moreover, he thought he knew why Adams had forgiven the thirty-thousand-pound debt. But all manner of enigmas remained. They might be unimportant, but how would he know that until he had worked them out? Why was Quentin Clare so secretive about his sister? Why had he written those letters for Alexander? Was Fanny Gates the brickfield victim? And what had become of Mrs. Desmond?
Above all, had Alexander been the driver of the gig? Did the fact that he had been Mrs. Desmond's lover mean he was mixed up in her disappearance—perhaps in the Brickfield Murder? More than ever, Julian felt sure Alexander's character lay at the heart of this mystery. Was he villain or victim? Or both?
*
Julian stopped at the Flask for a roasted fowl and a pint of ale, then rode on to Sir Malcolm's house. He asked for Sir Malcolm and was shown into the library. Sir Malcolm was seated by the fire with Quentin Clare. Martha was roaming about, taking books down from their shelves.
Julian greeted Sir Malcolm and Clare, then asked after Mrs. Falkland. "She's a little better in health," said Sir Malcolm, "but no better in spirits."
Clare rose. "I'll take my leave of you, sir. I expect you and Mr. Kestrel have a great deal to talk about. Thank you for having me to luncheon."
"You needn't run off just yet." Sir Malcolm glanced meaningfully toward Martha, conveying that they could not discuss the investigation as long as she was here. He added to Julian in an undertone, "She's looking for something Belinda might like to read. I haven't many books that would interest her—she likes gardening and horses—but Martha wanted to have a look all the same."
There was an uneasy silence. Sir Malcolm broke it. "Mr. Clare and I were just talking about the significance of names. I named Alexander after the ruler and conqueror, and there are times when I feel a kind of superstitious guilt about that, because Alexander the Great, too, died so young, in the flower of his success."
"I think, sir," Clare said gently, "you would rather blame yourself than have no one to blame at all. It's a way of imposing some sort of order—of feeling less helpless in the face of violent death."
Julian looked at him with interest. His usual shyness had eased, and he sounded like one of his letters: thoughtful, sensitive, astute. But the letters were part of an elaborate deception. Was Clare in earnest now?
"You're right, my dear boy," Sir Malcolm said. "The murder gives me sick fancies sometimes, and they ought not to be encouraged. As we were saying: one wonders why some parents choose the names they do. For instance, Mr. Clare's Christian name means ‘fifth,' though he's one of only two children."
"What about your sister?" asked Julian. "Does her name suit her?"
"Not exactly," Clare said slowly. "Verity values truth, but she values other things more."
"What things?" asked Sir Malcolm.
"Right. That isn't always the same as truth. Often it isn't," he added, after a pause. "Verity has her own notions of right and wrong, and they aren't the same as other people's."
"I should like to meet her some time," said Sir Malcolm.
"That's kind of you, sir. I'm not at all sure you would like her."
"Don't be silly, of course I should. I don't mind if she has odd ideas. It's better than having none at all."
Clare smiled.
"Is she older or younger than you?" asked Julian.
"Older—by a matter of minutes."
"Twins!" said Sir Malcolm. "You never told me that."
"I didn't think to mention it, sir."
"But I think twins are immensely interesting. I suppose you're very close."
"Oh, yes," Clare said quietly. "One is closer to a twin than to anyone in the world. There's nothing Verity and I wouldn't do for each other."
"I believe you mean that," said Sir Malcolm.
"I do. We've always had an understanding that each of us would do anything the other asked. However difficult, however dangerous, it would have to be done if the other wished it. We didn't abuse the privilege—hardly ever took advantage of it. But, once exercised, it was absolute. Nothing was exempt."
"You speak of it in the past tense," Julian observed. "Don't you and your sister have this understanding anymore?"
"Yes." Clare did not meet his eyes. "But we haven't seen each other for some time."
"You must miss her," said Sir Malcolm.
"Yes, sir. Very much."
Martha was coming toward them on her way to the door, her arms full of books. Clare looked at her with concern—or perhaps he was merely eager to change the subject. "You can't carry so many books yourself."
She stopped before him and looked at him. Her face softened; she spoke with a gentleness Julian had never heard from her before. "That's kind of you, sir. I'm strong enough."
"Why don't I ring for Dutton to take them upstairs," said Sir Malcolm.
Julian and Clare relieved Martha of the books and put them on a table. Clare said shyly, "I hope you'll convey to Mrs. Falkland my—my regrets for her accident."
"I will," said Martha warmly. "Thank you, sir."
Dutton came in answer to Sir Malcolm's ring. After he and Martha had gone, Julian asked Clare, "Have you known Martha before?"
"No, I—" Clare stopped short, his colour rising. "I—I don't think so. I can't recall having met her. I did see her once, at Alexander's last party. She came to tell him Mrs. Falkland still had her headache and wouldn't be down again."
"Her manner toward you was strikingly familiar," said Julian. "Ordinarily she's very stolid and self-contained."
"I don't know why she should feel that way about me. I don't know her at all." Clare looked from Julian to Sir Malcolm, spreading out his hands helplessly.
Julian thought a moment. "Where exactly in Somerset do your uncle and sister live?"
"Why do you want to know that?" Clare said, startled.
"Mrs. Falkland's country estate is in Dorset. I thought that if your family lived near the Dorset border, you and the Falklands might have visited back and forth, and Martha might remember you from there."
"Uncle George does live near the Dorset border—a village called Montacute. But I never visited the Falklands at their country place. I don't think Alexander liked it much. He wanted to improve it—redesign the house and grounds."
"That's true," Sir Malcolm confirmed.
Julian nodded. The Dorset connexion had been only a guess. But it had got him the information he wanted: he knew now where Verity Clare lived. And he would make good use of the knowledge.
21: A Promise to a Lady
After Clare had gone, Julian told Sir Malcolm what he had learned from Adams: how Adams had seen Martha at Mrs. Desmond's and sent Mrs. Falkland an anonymous warning against her. Sir Malcolm was shocked at the revelation that Mrs. Desmond was Alexander's mistress. "But if that's true," he faltered, "then Alexander must have recognized her when she came up to Belinda in the Strand."
"Yes. He probably arranged the whole thing with her beforehand."
"But why on earth would he let his mistress take his wife away for a
tete-a-tete?
Look here, Kestrel, couldn't Adams have been lying about all this?"
"It's possible. If it were he and not Alexander who was keeping Mrs. Desmond, it might be very convenient to claim that her lover was a man who is dead and can't defend himself. But in that case, why volunteer the information at all? He had nothing to gain, and everything to lose, by revealing his link with Mrs. Desmond. I don't know why he should have done so, if not to tell the truth."
"But even if Alexander was Mrs. Desmond's protector, it wouldn't mean he was the gentleman who drove the gig? It wouldn't mean he had anything to do with the Brickfield Murder?"
"Not necessarily," Julian said gently. "One thing we know: Adams wasn't the driver of the gig. I'd stake all Lombard Street to ninepence he'd never seen it before today."
Sir Malcolm walked about distractedly. "This is—very hard. When you warned me the investigation might rake up unpleasant things, I assumed you meant things about Alexander's friends or servants. I didn't know there might be such rot dredged up about Alexander himself. He deceived me about the letters, he deceived Belinda with Mrs. Desmond. How do we know what else he may have done? I feel afraid to go forward. Anywhere I step from now on, the ground may give way under my feet."
"Alexander was what he was. It's too late to change him now. And you weren't responsible for him. He had a mind and soul of his own."
"I was his
father,
M
r. Kestrel. His mother died when he was a baby. Who was responsible for what he became, if not I?"
"I'm inclined to think," said Julian slowly, "that people are responsible for themselves. I know a father's influence is far-reaching. I'm very much the product of my own father's upbringing. But I think, as Shelley said, a man must rule the empire of himself. Alexander had every advantage needed to bring out the best in him: birth, means, education, good looks, a kind and encouraging father. If, in spite of all that, he contrived to go to the bad, the fault was his."
Sir Malcolm sighed heavily. "What do you mean to do next?"
"Is Mrs. Falkland well enough to see me? I should like to ask her about Adams's anonymous letter."
"Don't you want to ask her about Mrs. Desmond?"
"No," said Julian quietly. "I don't think that's necessary. And I know it wouldn't be wise."