"Thank you, I should be delighted. We do have things to talk about."
"That has an ominous ring. But, never mind, we'll sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of—oh, anything you like. Actually, we'll sit upon chairs in the parlour—much more comfortable. Come with me."
A table had been prepared in the parlour, with the meal set out on a sideboard. Tibbs rang for the housekeeper to lay another place. They lunched on cold fowls, fresh Dorset cheese, and fruit from Tibbs's greenhouse, washed down with a bottle of first-rate Frontignac.
"I wasn't altogether deceiving you when I told you I was a tailor," Tibbs explained. "That was my father's trade, and I was raised to follow it. But the theatre captured my imagination when I stood no higher than this table, and nothing could break its hold. At fifteen, I managed to get work cutting and sewing costumes, and for the next few years I wheedled and struggled and schemed, till at last I had a chance to speak a line before the footlights. From there my career advanced—now by inches, now by dizzying leaps. Or I should say, Montague Wildwood's career. I thought I needed a more distinguished name. 'Tibbs' sounded—well, too much like a tailor. And my family had a horror of my vocation. Even when I became famous, they preferred not to have their name linked with the wicked world of the stage."
Julian reflected that Tibbs's relations had had some cause to be scandalized. Montague Wildwood was not only a brilliant actor but a notorious rake: hardly the sort of man a respectable tradesman's family would care to acknowledge.
Tibbs fell to reminiscing about his stage career. Julian listened with enjoyment; he was interested in the theatre, and Tibbs was a superb raconteur. After a time, though, he reminded himself that it was Tibbs's private life he ought to be investigating. Tibbs seemed to read his thoughts, for he said suddenly, "But I know it isn't my interpretation of Mirabell you wish to hear about—acclaimed though it was, if I may be permitted to say so. You want to know about Quentin and Verity. While I was making a name for myself at Drury Lane, my sister had the luck to marry a brewer who became quite plump in the pocket. They had one child, a daughter, for whom they were very ambitious. She was sent to the best schools and groomed to marry a gentleman. I only met her a few times and thought her a stuck-up, missish girl. But, there—I was only a rag-mannered actor and knew nothing about gentility.
"In due time, this exemplary maiden married a barrister named Clare—a brilliant, distinguished man, and quite as stuck-up as she. They naturally gave me a wide berth. None of their lofty friends had an inkling of the connexion between us. They obligingly sent me an announcement when their twins were born, and I obligingly refrained from embarrassing them by coming to the christening.
"When the twins were six, their parents were killed in a carriage accident, and they went to live with a distant relative of their father's. I was their only relation on their mother's side, and of course their parents wouldn't have dreamed of entrusting them to me. I wasn't easy in my mind about them—they were my only family, after all—and I wrote to the guardian asking if I could be of any assistance. But I wrote as George Tibbs, the twins' kindly, respectable great-uncle. It wouldn't have done to approach him as Montague Wildwood. You may be aware that my name had been linked to a scandal or two over the years?"
"I believe I heard something to that effect."
Tibbs's eyes danced. "At all events, he wrote me a disagreeable letter, making clear that the twins were a burden and all but begging me to take them off his hands. I was still thinking what to do about this when, not to put too fine a point upon it, Fate took a hand." He paused, then asked with a startling, quiet directness, "Of course you know why I left England?"
"Yes. Your career is famous not least for the way it ended."
"The greatest folly of my life. Because he was my long-time friend, you see. We were rivals on the stage, and sometimes in love as well, but we admired and loved each other. And our quarrel was about
nothing.
It ought to have come and gone like summer lightning. But we were in our cups, and he said—he said I was past my prime. I was fifty-seven, and that fear had been eating away at me of late. I couldn't bear to hear it spoken aloud. The dispute flamed up, and dawn found us at Chalk Farm with pistols in our hands. Mine was steady enough to hit him, but not steady enough to make it a trivial wound. I shot him through the right lung. He lived for a matter of hours.
"Of course I had to flee the country. But in my last hours in England, the thought of those children smote me. On an impulse, I turned up on their guardian's doorstep. I told him I was their uncle George, I was going travelling on the Continent and thought they might like to come with me. He was so glad to be rid of them, he didn't ask questions. An hour to pack their traps, and we were off. No one tried to stop us at Dover. It only occurred to me afterward that Quentin and Verity had saved me from capture. The Bow Street Runners weren't on the watch for a man with two six-year-olds in tow.
"The rest you know. I brought up the twins on the Continent in my character as George Tibbs: retired tailor, traveller, and student in the school of life. When they were old enough—which was quite soon, they were very precocious—I told them about my Wildwood days and my reason for leaving England. But I told no one else. I owed it to the twins not to associate them with the profligate I had been. Then, too, you'll hardly believe this, but I felt it was a kind of expiation. I'd killed my friend and fellow actor—
ergo,
I gave up the stage and all the renown that went with it. Montague Wildwood simply vanished. Not a bad way, really, for an actor to end his career. An audience, like a lover, ought never to be left quite sated."
"Why did you return to England?"
"I had a fancy to live out my last years here. Quentin was returning to study for the Bar, so I decided to come with him. Not to London, where I might be recognized, but to some quiet spot where I could make a home. I thought I'd have Verity with me, but that wasn't to be. Still, Quentin comes to lighten my solitude every so often. And I've discovered gardening, which is a positive delight.
"And this our life exempt from public haunt
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones and good in everything.
I would not change it. "
This seemed to mark the end of the drama. Give Tibbs his due: he had succeeded wonderfully well at distracting Julian from the investigation—up to now. "Did your niece and nephew inherit any of your genius as an actor?"
"Verity did. We used to put on amateur theatricals—nothing elaborate or public, just a way to amuse the twins and some of our friends—and she showed a really remarkable gift. She could mimic anyone's speech and manner—all actors are part monkey in that respect—and she had an extraordinary grasp of character. She might have made quite a name for herself before the footlights, but that wasn't serious enough for her. She must needs read and have opinions and play her part on a broader stage." He smiled. "A regular Portia, in fact."
"And Mr. Clare—is there anything of the actor in him?"
"Nothing whatever. He's too shy to appear on stage, and too honest to assume any character but his own."
Julian took a turn about the room. "You must see, Mr. Tibbs, that your being the man you are reflects on him in this investigation. He was raised by a guardian who had to flee the country for killing a man—yes, I know a duel is different from murder in cold blood, but to an inexperienced young man, the distinction might blur. If Clare had a strong enough motive to kill Falkland, he might have felt justified by your example."
"So he might," Tibbs said genially. "Go on. What other blights have I laid on my unfortunate wards?"
"Mr. Tibbs, I have the highest regard for your former profession, but the fact remains that acting is deception."
"And you think my niece and nephew have deception in their blood?"
"I think that, in training them to act, you may have taught them to trifle with the truth."
"Will you permit me to say that you amuse me, Mr. Kestrel?"
"Gladly, if you'll allow me to share the joke."
"To hear you suggest that theatre in the blood can make one a liar and a murderer—! From another man, I might have let it pass. But, forgive me, it sounds a bit ludicrous on the lips of Julia Wallace's son."
Julian stared. In an altered voice, he asked, "You knew my mother?"
"To be sure I did. Not as well as I would have liked to—meaning no disrespect, of course. And I never trod the boards with her, to my lasting regret. She was Theatre Royal Covent Garden, and I was Drury Lane. And of course she was a shooting star in the theatre—blink, and you'd have missed her, her career was so short. But she did make an impression! I saw her as Lady Teazle, and she coaxed charms from that role I'd never known were there. It was like seeing a fan that had always been half furled, fully open in all its beauty." He smiled and added quietly, "You're very like her, especially about the eyes."
Julian came closer. "Tell me more."
"It was a kind of witchcraft, what she could do. She wasn't a beauty, but once she got to talking and laughing and spinning her stories, you forgot. Men who claimed they couldn't see anything in her one week were enslaved the next. Your father was the worst. He used to haunt the theatre at all hours whenever she was playing. He deluged her with letters, flowers, books—fancy sending an actress books! Wiser men sent jewels—and wiser men never got so much as the time of day from her.
"Frankly, no one expected him to marry her. She'd kept her character, which is no mean feat in the theatre, but still, she was an actress, and he was a young man of birth and prospects. So you can imagine how he confounded the cynics when he did the honourable thing. I heard his family cut up rough about it. Did they ever forgive him?"
"No," said Julian shortly. "They never did."
"Pity. They can't have met her, or she'd have won them over, I'll be bound." He added, "You never knew her, I suppose?"
"No. She died when I was born."
"Hard on your father."
"Yes. He'd sacrificed everything for her—family, property, connexions—and a year later she was gone, and in her place he had a screaming, helpless thing that would be dependent on him for years to come. Some men would have run mad with rage or regret, but not my father. He forgave me, wholeheartedly and completely, for the crime of having been born."
Tibbs smiled, not unkindly. "You might consider forgiving yourself one of these days."
Julian went cold with shock. He ought to have been more wary of Tibbs; he had known he could be dangerous. But he had let himself be beguiled, and the man had stripped off his skin.
He forced his voice level. "We've wandered rather far from the subject I came to discuss."
"Only a brief diversion—the scenic route, you might say. I merely wanted you to realize how much you and my niece and nephew have in common. You're all children of the theatre. Indeed, you show it, Mr. Kestrel. What is your fine self but a part you play—your clothes the costumes, your wit the lines? Society may puzzle over who you are and where you came from, but I make no doubt there are a few old cronies of mine left in the theatre who remember your mother and know whence you sprang. Don't worry—we wouldn't give you away. We count you as one of our own."
One of our own,
Julian repeated to himself. And are they right? I wonder. I have no family, no property, no profession. Am I anything more than costumes and lines—a character in my own play?
The answer came back: Yes. Because a mere cardboard figure couldn't have solved two murders and be on his way to solving two more. Strange—I always thought I did this to amuse myself, perhaps to do justice to the victims. I never knew I was saving my own soul.
He said, "There's a crucial difference between me and your niece and nephew. I'm not implicated in a murder, and they are."
"No one could wish to clear their names more fervently than I. But I've told you all I can, and more than I ought."
"You do yourself an injustice, Mr. Tibbs. I can't see that you've given away anything to the purpose."
"On the contrary, I've said one thing that was unforgivably indiscreet. Don't ask me what it was; no power on earth can make me say it again."
"This is too serious a business for riddles, Mr. Tibbs."
"Too late." Tibbs sighed. "Because I've already set you this one—and I hope to Heaven you never solve it!"
24: Let Justice Be Done
Julian returned to his inn in Yeovil and ordered a post-chaise for London. Finding Dipper in the taproom, he told him it was time to collect their things. They made their way through the tangle of corridors and stairs to Julian's room. On the way they passed a pretty chambermaid, who blushed furiously and scurried away.
Julian looked askance at Dipper. "I ought to keep you on a leash."
Dipper looked about vaguely, as if he supposed his master must be talking to somebody else. "She's a bit shy of strangers, sir," he offered.
"If there's one thing you're most unlikely to be to her now, it's a stranger. I feel a positive malefactor, taking you about the country with me. You're an egregious offence to the public morals."
"All by meself, sir?" said Dipper, impressed.
"Somehow I don't think this lecture is having quite the right effect. Come, I want to be on the road as soon as possible. I have a reckoning in London with Mr. Clare."
*
Travelling at breakneck speed again, they reached London a few hours after midnight. Next morning, amid a clangour of church bells, Julian went to Lincoln's Inn.
Clare was not in his chambers and had left the outer door locked, indicating that he did not mean to return for some time. Julian looked in at the chapel, thinking Clare might be attending services there, but he did not see his fair, narrow head among the many heads bent over prayer books. He lingered a short while to listen to the music, then slipped away.