*
Julian brought Sir Malcolm with him to question Mrs. Falkland. He could not with any propriety go to her bedchamber alone; besides, he thought Sir Malcolm's presence would soothe and reassure her. He wanted to avoid upsetting her as he had yesterday.
Eugene was reading aloud to her from one of the books Martha had brought. She was in bed, half reclining against her pillows, listening with closed eyes. She wore a black shawl over her nightdress, fastened on her breast with the brooch that contained a lock of Alexander's hair. Julian thought it like her to resume her mourning even while on a sickbed. No one could accuse her of falling short in the public duties of widowhood.
Julian told Eugene they needed to speak with her alone. He left reluctantly, promising to stay close by in case he was needed. He was fast developing a protective instinct, Julian thought. That would do more for his character than all the schools in England.
After a few polite preliminaries, Julian asked Mrs. Falkland about the anonymous letter. "I remember it," she said. "It came a day or two after Alexander died. It said Martha had betrayed me and hinted she'd killed my husband. I didn't give it a moment's credence. I know her. She's been with me for years, first as my nurse, then later as my maid. She has my most complete trust. I thought whoever had sent the letter must be either mistaken or malicious. So I burnt it."
"Why didn't you tell Bow Street about it?" Julian asked.
"Because I thought they might take it seriously. I didn't believe Martha had done anything wrong, and I didn't want her unjustly suspected."
"Did you tell her about it?"
"No. I didn't see any need."
"We've found out who sent it."
"I assumed you had, or you wouldn't have known about it." She hung fire a moment, then asked, "Who was it?"
"It was David Adams."
She sat very still. Only her hands moved, tightening round the book Eugene had left. "How singular."
"You had no suspicion he'd written it?"
"No."
"Would you have felt differently about it if you had known?"
"No. I wouldn't have credited the accusation, whoever made it." She paused, then asked, "Why did he tell you about the letter?"
"He'd heard about your accident and was worried about you. He was afraid Martha might have had a hand in it."
"I don't know why he should interest himself in my affairs to that extent."
"Don't you?"
She froze, staring back at him.
"You don't know that he's in love with you?"
Sir Malcolm started. Mrs. Falkland gripped the book till her nails bit into it. "Did he say so?"
"In everything but words."
She drew a long breath. "I wish you would tell Mr. Adams that I'm obliged to him for his concern, but I would prefer him to have no further communication with me or about me. Our acquaintance came about because of his friendship with Alexander. Alexander is dead, and the acquaintance is over."
"Those are hard words for a man in love to hear."
"I didn't ask for his love! I didn't ask to have it inflicted on me! Am I a doll to be picked up and put down by any man who professes to love me? Have I no right to any feelings of my own?"
"My dear!" Sir Malcolm went to her, prying her hands gently away from the book and holding them in his. "You mustn't upset yourself this way. No one was suggesting you should have anything to do with Mr. Adams. Mr. Kestrel, I really think this line of questioning has gone far enough."
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Falkland. I won't pursue it further."
"Just tell me one thing," she whispered. "Why is Mr. Adams suspicious of Martha?"
Julian took a moment to frame his answer. "He claims to have seen her at the house of a woman of ill character."
"That's ridiculous." She rallied a little, as if feeling herself on firm ground. "Martha would never have anything to do with a woman whose character was in any doubt. She's extremely religious and has the highest moral standards."
"Yes," said Julian thoughtfully, "that was my impression, too." He added, "How much do you know about her? What sort of life did she lead before she entered your service?"
"She came to Mama with unexceptionable references. I believe she'd been a nursemaid in another household. Beyond that, she never talks about her early life. I've always assumed her family were all dead."
"Do you know of any connexion between her and Mr. Clare?"
"Mr. Clare?" she said in surprise. "No, none."
"I saw them together a little while ago, and she spoke to him with unusual gentleness—almost with affection."
"I can't imagine why. She's never mentioned him."
Julian rose to take his leave. But there was one last question in his mind. "Why do you find the portrait of your husband so distressing?"
She lay back against her pillows, her eyes weary and remote. "He looks so happy," she said at last. "That's what I can't bear."
*
"I don't know any Mrs. Desmond, sir," said Martha. "I've never been to her house."
"You don't recall having visited a grey-brick house in Cygnet's Court, early in April?"
"I don't know where Cygnet's Court may be, sir."
"It's a little courtyard off the Strand, with half a dozen brick houses, all but two in disrepair."
"I don't know the place, sir."
"A witness claims to have seen you at Mrs. Desmond's."
"Your witness is lying or mistaken, sir. I was never there."
"Are you certain?"
"On my honour as a Christian woman, sir."
Julian was puzzled. Could Adams have been lying, after all?
It was hard to see what motive he could have to traduce Martha. Yet her answers were so confident. And she had taken an oath that a religious woman would not care to profane.
He said, "I should like to speak to you quite frankly on a distasteful subject—one likely to distress anyone as loyal to Mrs. Falkland as you. Have you any idea who Mrs. Desmond is?"
"No, sir."
"We believe she was living under Alexander Falkland's protection not long before he died."
Her face hardened. "I'm sorry to hear it, sir."
"But not surprised?"
"I own, sir, I'd feared something of the sort."
"Why?"
She hesitated. "Only that young men about town do keep their harlots. And Mr. Falkland was often out at night and took less notice of the mistress than he had before."
"Is that why you took to searching his things and asking Valere about his comings and goings?"
"I didn't trust him, sir. That's the best I can say."
"I'm wondering, Martha, if in your zeal to protect Mrs. Falkland, you went so far as to track down your master's
chere amie
—not for any dishonourable purpose, but in order to induce her to break off with Alexander?"
"I might have done, sir, if I'd known about her. But I didn't know. And so I've told you, sir."
"So you have," he acknowledged wryly.
"Who is it that claims to have seen me at her house, sir?"
"It's Mr. Adams."
"That man!" she said scornfully. "His word isn't worth a straw
—he
can't swear on his honour as a Christian, after all. Somebody ought to ask what he was doing at her house, instead of believing his slanders about me."
"Can you think of any reason why he should tell such a lie about you?"
"No, sir," she admitted.
Julian was obliged to dismiss her, although he was far from satisfied with their interview. Not for the first time in this investigation, he felt he had been asking what ought to be the right questions—and yet they were not. But what should he have asked instead? What had he overlooked?
He left Sir Malcolm's house in this unquiet state and rode toward the Heath. The sun was out in patches, throwing stencil patterns on the grass. Children were sailing toy boats and skimming stones on the placid ponds. Nursemaids ran after them when they strayed too far, for there were smaller ponds, curtained round with willows, where a child could vanish and not be found for hours, even days. Julian passed near one such pond and could see how it might be enticing: the pale blue shimmer of water through the drapery of leaves.
He left the Heath at its southern tip and made for the London road. Along the way there were scattered cottages and outcroppings of industry: an ironmonger's, a distillery—a brickworks. Julian bethought himself of where he was and asked a bystander the way to the brickfield where the murdered woman was found.
The bystander responded as if he were used to being asked. He must have directed a good many ghoulish sight-seers there lately. Julian found it easily enough, but there was nothing much to see. The kilns had long since vanished; only the sparse vegetation, fragments of brick, and scarred reddish earth showed there had ever been a brickworks here. The place seemed largely a repository for rubbish, and even that was scarce. Anything of the slightest use or value would have been confiscated by the gipsies and tramps Sir Malcolm said camped here nowadays. There was no sign any had stopped here lately; even the most destitute wanderers must have a superstitious horror of the place.
What could have brought the murderer and his victim here? Were they on their way to or from Hampstead? Why? To see someone? Who in Hampstead had any connexion to Mrs. Desmond, her maid, or Alexander? Julian could think of no one but Sir Malcolm. And Sir Malcolm could have nothing to do with the Brickfield Murder. Could he?
*
Julian was back in London in time for the Grand Strut: the late afternoon parade of the
beau monde
and their hangers-on in Hyde Park. As always, Rotten Row was crowded with carriages and riders. Ladies of birth but not wealth tried desperately to keep up appearances; ladies of wealth but not birth angled for an acquaintance with people of rank. Sporting ladies drove ponies in brightly coloured harness; would-be bucks struggled to manage spirited mounts. Dandies surveyed the scene through quizzing-glasses, ogling the women and exchanging cutting quips about the men. Everyone competed for admiration—and yet, under cover of it all, political alliances were forged, assignations made, duels arranged.
Then there were what Julian thought of as the waifs of Rotten Row—young squires' wives, fresh from the country, gamely riding out in open carriages day after day, in the hope that some lady of fashion would relieve their loneliness with a bow or a smile. Usually they were disappointed: the
corps elite
could not let in every stray who tapped on their doors. Julian occasionally took one of these women under his wing, knowing that a little attention from him would catapult her into fashion. He would do it more often, but he was not at all sure he was doing them a favour. So many embarked on their first seasons so eagerly, only to flee London dunned by dressmakers, fleeced by gamblers, ruined by rakes.
Julian had not been to Rotten Row for some days, and his reappearance caused a stir. He discussed Mrs. Falkland's accident with no one, but of course everyone discussed it with him. He had the satisfaction of coming away with more information than he gave, but none of his spoils seemed of much value.
At about six o'clock the crowd began to thin, as people hastened away to dress for dinner. Julian was about to follow suit when he heard a familiar voice: "My dear fellow! Stop a moment, will you?"
It was Felix Poynter, resplendent in a sky-blue coat, a yellow waistcoat, and lilac gloves. He was driving a smart cabriolet, painted cherry-red and drawn by a handsome bay. Behind him rode his tiger: a diminutive groom in amethyst satin livery, complete with silk stockings, powdered wig, and tricorne hat trimmed with silver lace.
Julian rode up to them. "So this is your new set-out." He ran his eyes over the cabriolet and tiger in some amusement. "At least we shan't have any trouble finding you in a fog."
"There is that advantage," Felix agreed distractedly. "I say, I've been trying to get near you an hour and more. How is Mrs. Falkland?"
"A little better."
"I'm glad to hear it." Felix bit his lip, then asked abruptly, "Will you walk with me a little? Alfred will look after your horse."
"Yes, if you like." Julian regarded him more closely but asked no questions as yet. Dismounting, he gave the reins to Felix's tiger, who took charge of both horses in a condescending manner, his nose in the air. Felix shuddered as he and Julian walked away. "He was only a stable boy a fortnight ago," he confided. "But since I put him into that livery, he's grown so grand, he'll hardly speak to me."
They struck out across the park toward Kensington Gardens. Here there were no acquaintances to interrupt them—only nursemaids, children, dogs, and a pair of elderly army officers out for a constitutional. They all looked curiously at Julian and Felix, no doubt wondering what two young beaux were doing in this unfashionable part of the park. Still, it was not a bad spot for a
tete-a-tete.
In such a broad open space, no one could come near enough to listen without their knowing it.
Felix ran a hand through his curly hair, causing it to stand even more determinedly on end. "It's awful about Mrs. Falkland. Beastly. Have you any idea who did it?"
"I have all manner of ideas. That isn't the same as having evidence."
"I wouldn't know. But I hope you find whoever it was. I mean to say, attacking a woman, and in that cowardly fashion—"
"It's monstrous, I agree. But it's had one good effect. When there was only Falkland's murder to investigate, witnesses felt justified in holding things back; after all, they couldn't bring him back to life by telling what they knew. But since there's been a violent crime against Mrs. Falkland, everyone who's been hoarding a secret is coming forward."
"Oh," said Felix unhappily, "are they?"
Julian stopped walking. "My dear fellow, not you, too?"
"It's just a trifle—probably of no importance! I would have told you about it long since, but I'd made a promise to a lady."
"What lady?"
"Mrs. Falkland," Felix admitted reluctantly. "And I still don't feel right about breaking my word. She trusted me, put me on my honour. But when I heard how someone had tampered with her saddle, made her lose her child, I thought, what if she's still in danger? And what if next time it's worse? How can I set my honour against her life?"