"You know," murmured Felix drowsily, "it's not altogether a bad thing you've come at this hour. Now you can dispel a rather nasty rumour that's been going about, that I sleep with—"
He was overcome by a yawn. Julian waited in some suspense.
"—my hair in curl-papers," Felix finished anticlimactically.
"I shall do all I can to nip that slander in the bud. Good morning—or, if you prefer, goodnight."
*
After his frequent trips north to Hampstead, Julian found it a refreshing change to travel south into Surrey. And driving was a pleasure, especially a first-rate carriage like Felix's. Its cherry-red paint was too showy for Julian's taste, but in all other respects it was superb: light, elegant, and perfectly balanced. Once he had left the city traffic behind, he sped the horse to a canter and found the carriage springs more than equal to a fifteen-mile-an-hour pace. He would have liked to keep his own cabriolet, but it was devilish expensive. It meant buying, stabling, and feeding a second horse, renting space for the carriage, and hiring a groom like Alfred to look after them. He must face facts: his income did not permit him both to dress and to drive. And dressing was indispensable.
He decided to begin his explorations at the Jolly Filly and fan out from there. Following a tollkeeper's directions, he branched off the Guildford road between Kingston and Esher. He drove east past strawberry fields and flocks of sheep till he reached a long, low inn. It had a singularly angry expression, due partly to its jutting upper storey, which overhung the lower like a frowning brow, and partly to its bright terracotta front, which made it look red in the face. The swinging sign showed, not a cheerful little horse, but a sad-faced girl with blue eyes and gold ringlets. Julian guessed that, in some earlier incarnation, the Jolly Filly had been the
Jolie Fille.
His arrival in the flamboyant little carriage caused quite a stir. Ben Foley took charge of the horse with a reverent air; this was clearly his idea of how a gentleman ought to travel. Alfred strutted about the yard, showing off his livery to the ostlers.
Julian went inside and enquired for Ruth Piper. She joined him in the coffee-room and brought him a pot of excellent ale. "There was a man from Bow Street here before you, sir," she said. "Mr. Bill Watkins. He come just after dawn, and there was a great to-do. Ben had told everyone how we went to Bow Street and identified the gig and horse, and how the driver turned out to be that Mr. Falkland who was murdered. And ever so many people came in from the village, saying they'd seen the gig and horse, too. They told
such
stories, you can't think! How they'd come in for a pint that night and saw Mr. Falkland do this or that, and what he said, and how he looked. Nobody really saw him for more than a minute but Ben and me—I'm sure of that, sir! But people must needs go putting their oar in. Pa says they just want a share of the reward."
"Rewards do tend to loosen people's tongues—sometimes to the point where memory gives way to invention."
"Well, I'm sorry for Mr. Watkins, because he's had to go and interview all those people, just on the chance they might really know something. Must you talk to them, too, sir?"
"No, I'm sure he's more than competent to deal with them. I should rather have a look about the countryside."
"What are you hoping to find, sir?"
Julian smiled wryly. "I wish I knew."
*
A few hours of tooling about the neighbourhood, stopping occasionally to ask questions and rest his horse, left him no wiser about what he expected to accomplish. There was nothing significant to be seen. The villages, with their churches, inns, and little shops, could not have been more ordinary. The cornfields and hop-gardens, dovecotes and water mills, were pretty in the pale May sunshine, but of no apparent interest. What had attracted Alexander to this placid, pleasant countryside? Where could he have disposed of his mistress here?
Julian began to wonder if he was doing Alexander an injustice. Had he become so intrigued at finding flaws and vices in this young man everyone liked that he now believed him guilty of kidnapping and murder? He determined to see if he could concoct a theory in Alexander's favour. Alexander had taken Mrs. Desmond to Surrey, but not for any sinister reason. While they were there, someone had bought, borrowed, or stolen the gig and horse and used it to drive to Hampstead and commit the Brickfield Murder. That would account for the brickearth found in the gig—but not for the traces of it in Mrs. Desmond's house. Very well: after driving Mrs. Desmond into Surrey, Alexander gave her the gig—it was light enough for a woman to handle—and she drove it back to London, took her maid to the brickfield, killed her, and returned to her house to clean herself and remove her possessions.
That cock would not fight. There was no getting around the fact that when Alexander stopped at the Jolly Filly, he still had the gig and horse, and he was alone. If it was Mrs. Desmond who drove the gig back to London, where was she while Alexander was whiling away three quarters of an hour at the inn, drinking coffee with curacao and flirting with Ruth? He had got rid of her successfully: that was surely the explanation for his carefree, unhurried air. But how?
Julian flicked open his watch. It was half past two. Why not return to the Jolly Filly and find some more sensible line of investigation to pursue? He turned the cabriolet about, smiling at his wish to keep his own carriage. That was no sort of dream for a man who would soon have to raise five hundred pounds.
He drew up at a fork between two roads, debating which to take. The wider and more well-travelled one would lead
him
back to the Jolly Filly, but by a route he had already traversed. A narrow track splitting off from it would take him through an area he had not yet seen. Catching sight of a smock-frocked boy trudging across a nearby field, he called, "You there! Can you tell me where this path leads?"
The boy gaped at him, saying nothing.
"Can you tell me where this path leads?" Julian repeated more clearly, thinking he might be slow-witted.
The boy shook his head and backed away. "I ain't allowed to go there."
"Why not?"
The boy went on backing, then suddenly took to his heels and lost himself behind barricades of hedgerows.
Alfred looked uneasy; perhaps he was afraid he might be asked to run after him and ruin his amethyst livery. But Julian merely shrugged. "We shall have to find out for ourselves."
"Begging your pardon, sir," ventured Alfred, "but p'raps there's a reason the boy ain't allowed to go down that path."
"Undoubtedly. And I mean to find out what it is."
They set off. Their pace was slow, for the road was bumpy and increasingly shadowed by trees. The horse might all too easily bruise a foot on the sharp stones. They saw no farms or cottages; perhaps this was a private road to some country manor. Sure enough, it ended abruptly at a high, grey-brick wall with a gate flanked by square stone columns.
Julian got out of the cabriolet and walked up to the gate. It was of thick wood and studded with nails. A brass plaque read: E. RIDLEY, PROPRIETOR.
He tried the latch. It lifted, but the door would not give; there must be a padlock inside. A bell was attached to one of the columns, so he rang. No one answered, and he rang again.
This time he heard footsteps shuffling toward the gate. A key scraped, then the heavy door opened a crack, and a man looked out. He had a red, wrinkled face and a bird's nest of grizzled hair. His coat was shabby and smeared with tobacco stains. "What's your business?"
Julian thought quickly. If he asked what sort of place this was, he might well be sent away with a flea in his ear. The old servant looked well able to dispose of inquisitive strangers.
He decided to try a little West End hauteur. "I wish to see the proprietor."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"I am not accustomed to needing an appointment."
The servant blinked and became a little more respectful. "I mean, sir, does Mr. Ridley know to expect you?"
"No. I was in the neighbourhood and thought I would call. Am I to be left standing in the rain?" For it had providentially begun to drizzle.
The servant hesitated. At last he drew open the gate, and Julian passed through.
Before him was one of the most forbidding houses he had ever seen. It was square, with a sharp little turret at each corner and a front door bound with iron like a prison's. No ivy, shrubs, or flowers softened the grey-brick facade. But the house's most chilling feature was that it had no windows. The openings where they had been could be seen, but they were all bricked up. Yet to judge by the house's commodious size and well-kept grounds, the owner could well afford to pay the window tax.
The servant took a heavy key from a ring on his belt and opened the front door. They entered a stone-flagged, rectangular hall, unfurnished save for two stiff little chairs. A window opposite revealed a grassy enclosed courtyard. Julian saw now why the house needed no outer windows: all the rooms looked inward to this courtyard for their light. A good way to keep out prying eyes—but why should the inhabitants turn such a dark, blank face on the outside world?
"What name shall I give Mr. Ridley, sir?" the servant asked. Julian was about to reach for his card-case when he recollected that his name was publicly linked with Bow Street and Alexander's murder. If this Mr. Ridley were involved in anything hole-and-corner, he might well refuse to see him. He decided to try an experiment. "My name is Desmond."
The servant started, then looked at Julian narrowly from under thick grey brows. But all he said was, "If you'll wait here, sir, I'll see if Mr. Ridley's at liberty."
"Thank you." Julian walked away carelessly and affected to look out the window.
The servant departed through a side door. As soon as he was out of sight, Julian went after him. He listened a moment at the door he had left by, then drew it softly open. It led to a little dark winding stair. Hearing the servant's footsteps on the stairs above, he followed on tiptoe. When he was far enough up to see the man's dusty boots overhead, he stopped and flattened himself into the shadow of the wall.
The boots came to a stop before a door. There was a tap, then the door opened. "Yes?" called a fluty male voice.
"Excuse me, Mr. Ridley," said the servant. "There's a gentleman here to see you. Says his name is Desmond. But he ain't the same Mr. Desmond as was here before—the one as brought Number Twelve."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes, sir."
"Dear me," trilled Ridley, "this is most awkward. Who can he be?"
"I dunno, sir, but he's a very grand gentleman. Drove up in a swell carriage, with a boy in livery and all. I didn't know how to get shut of him."
"Tell him I'm engaged at present—press of business, and so on. Say I may find time to see him later, and meanwhile find out what his connexion is with Number Twelve."
"I'm afraid I haven't time to bandy words with your servant," said Julian, coming the rest of the way up the stairs. "I must insist that you see me at once."
The servant gaped. Ridley recovered his self-possession more quickly. He rose from behind his desk and held out a thin, yellow hand for Julian to shake. He was yellow all over: long, sallow face, lemony wisps of hair framing his bald head, and tawny, discoloured teeth. "How do you do, Mr. Desmond? Come in, come in. Welcome to my establishment."
Julian looked around the little office. It was fussily neat, with a knee-hole desk, two leather-upholstered chairs, a bookshelf, and a glass-fronted cabinet displaying all shapes and sizes of human skulls.
"You notice my little collection, I see," chirped Ridley. "It's been much admired by the phrenologists who come here. We get a great many of them, of course. It's extraordinary, what they can discern about human character by feeling the dents and bulges in the skull."
"So I've heard," said Julian politely.
Ridley sat down at his desk again, beckoning Julian to a chair opposite. "Now then, do please tell me what brings you here. How may I help you?"
Julian kept his answers short and guarded, so as not to reveal how little he really knew. "I'm looking for a young woman named Marianne Desmond."
"Ah." Ridley exchanged a glance with his servant, then rubbed his hands together. He wore a great many rings, though his dress was otherwise plain and business-like. "May I ask if you are a relation of the young lady's?"
"Was the first Mr. Desmond a relation?" Julian countered.
"I understood him to be her brother."
"You may understand me to be another brother."
"Indeed." Ridley smiled knowingly, as if he had a wide experience of young ladies and their "brothers."
In a faraway part of the house, there was a scraping sound, then a muffled thumping.
"Number Five," said the servant, frowning.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Desmond," said Ridley. "Ordinarily nothing—distasteful—can be heard from my office, but Number Five is especially difficult."
From the same part of the house came a piercing scream. "Go and see to Number Five," snapped Ridley, his voice dropping an octave. The servant touched his forelock and went to the door. "Oh, and Pearson," Ridley added more suavely. "Use the lash only as a last resort."
The servant nodded and went out.
Julian sat shocked into silence. He knew now what manner of place this was. "Shall we cut short these pleasantries?" he said at last. "I shan't ask you any questions—rather, I shall tell you what I believe to be true, and you shall tell me if I'm right."
Ridley inclined his head in agreement.
"The first Mr. Desmond came here about a month ago with a young lady he told you was his sister. She was blond, blue-eyed, and pretty. He was a gentleman of about five-and-twenty, medium height, slim and graceful, with auburn hair, brown eyes, and considerable charm. He said the young lady was insane and commended her to your care—with an ample remuneration, of course. And I rather suspect he urged you to leave her quite alone, not to have her examined by doctors or displayed to curious spectators, as some inmates of these private establishments are."