"Mrs. Desmond, I'm overwhelmed by your generosity, but I wouldn't dream of taking advantage of your vulnerable position."
"How you talk—so elegant and refined!" She brushed her fingertips lightly along the breast of his coat. "Do you think we might—"
To Julian's intense relief, the waiter appeared and began bringing in their meal. Marianne inhaled the aroma of hot roast beef and forgot everything else. She had taken so long over her toilette that Julian had not realized how starved she was. She eagerly devoured beef, bacon, salmon, potatoes, asparagus, bread, parsley butter, and trifle, washed down with bumpers of wine. Julian gave up hope of questioning her for the present—a meal like this would stupify her into sleep. But the wine had a temporary enlivening effect. For now she was disposed to talk, and with very little restraint.
"My pa was a wheelwright in Islington. I haven't seen him in ages. I don't know if he's alive or dead. I was so bored there, you can't think: sewing quilts, saying prayers, looking after the pig Ma kept behind the house. That's no kind of life, is it?—not for a girl that's young and lively and good-looking. I'd see coaches stop at the Angel—big and brightly painted, with shiny gold crests—and ladies inside, dressed in fine silk gowns and fur-trimmed pelisses. And I'd think, why shouldn't I have those things? I
could,
too, if only I wasn't stuck in this poky place.
"When I was seventeen, a troop of soldiers was quartered near my house, and one of them started making up to me. He said he'd marry me, but he didn't mean it, and I didn't care. We lit out for London and had some larks, but it was a hard life. He had to disguise himself when he went out, on account of being a deserter. They caught him in the end. I thought they would. I hadn't a rag left, so I went on the town. I had to keep from starving, didn't I? Any girl in my place would've done the same.
"I eked out a living, that was all. Dresses cost so much, and bribes for the watchmen. And the landladies stick it into you when they know you've nowhere else to go, because no respectable place will have you. But all that changed when I met Alexander."
She stretched luxuriantly and held out her hands to the fire. Julian prompted, "How did you meet him?"
"Through an introducing house. He told Auntie—the lady of the house, that is—the kind of girl he wanted, and she sent for me, 'coz I fit his spec'fications."
"What were they?"
She smiled a cat-like smile. "He wanted a girl that couldn't be shocked. Well, that was me, wasn't it? I'd seen 'most everything by then. He wasn't looking to set up a mistress, but after he met me, he changed his mind. He found me a house—it was monstrous stuffy, but I bought mirrors and paintings and things to smarten it up. He laughed at me and said I hadn't a particle of taste, but he paid for it all, so what did I care? He picked out my clothes and jewelry himself, though. Said he wasn't going to have me make such a fright of myself as I had of the house—not while he was obliged to look at me."
Julian hung fire briefly. He did not relish delving into her intimate relationship with Alexander. But she was the only person willing and able to open a window on Alexander's dark side, and Julian could not afford to be squeamish about the view. "You said he was looking for a woman he couldn't shock. Did he shock you?"
"No, not 'specially. He scared me a little at first, but once I understood what he wanted, I wasn't afraid anymore."
"What did he want?"
"To be himself. To say and do just what he liked. Sometimes what he liked was very nasty, but mostly it was just dull. He would talk—my eye, how he'd talk! He'd lie on the drawing-room sofa all evening and jabber about the great guns who came to his parties, the debutantes who were spoony upon him, the money he'd made with that Jew friend of his. How Lord Somebody had admired his house and Lady What's-Her-Name had admired his legs. He'd tell spiteful stories about his friends. And if he thought anybody'd slighted him, he'd run on about it for hours. He was a dreadful bore when he wasn't trying to be agreeable, which he never did when we were alone. 'Course, if there were other people with us—which wasn't often, he wouldn't let me have any friends—he was like one of those figures that come out of clocks and dance about or strike the hour. He had to be charming. He couldn't help it. Everybody must needs love him—though no one would ever love him as much as he loved himself."
"Why wouldn't he let you have any friends?"
"Didn't want anyone to know about me, did he? He made me live in a little dark court off the Strand, with no neighbours but that old cat Mrs. Wheeler, who was always peering out of her windows at me. Stupid cow—hadn't she anything better to do? I could hardly wait for Friday to come round each week, because she'd go away for a day and a night and not be poking her nose into my business."
"Why was he so anxious to hide his connexion with you?"
"Oh, he liked to make everyone think he doted on his wife. That's a screamer, that is—she bored him into fits. But he thought it romantic to dance attendance on her. And he told me if he ever did own to having a mistress, it wouldn't be me. I wasn't refined enough—I'd ruin his reputation for taste. He wouldn't show me in public, any more than he'd put a close-stool in the drawing room. Well, I didn't care a fig how he talked to me, but I did care about being shut away with nothing to do. I says to him, What's the good of giving me fine clothes if you won't let me show them off? Other gentlemen give their lady friends boxes at the theatre and carriages to drive in the park. He says, Then you'd best find one of those gentlemen, hadn't you? I stayed. I could've done much worse. Sooner or later I'd leave him and live as I liked on what he'd given me. Meantime, I was willing to play his games and take his gifts."
"What do you mean by 'games'?"
"Oh, I used to bring him other girls sometimes. He liked fresh meat—girls who weren't hardened yet and could still be shocked."
"I thought he was drawn to you precisely because you couldn't be shocked."
"Yes, but I was different. He needed someone who understood what he wanted and could help him get it on the sly. He hadn't much to do with me after he'd got me the house—in the way of being lovers,I mean. I was more like—what did he call it?—his accomplice."
"Wasn't he afraid one of those other girls would talk about him—tarnish the image he was trying to preserve?"
"They wouldn't dare." She leaned toward him, sinking her voice. "You don't understand how he terrified them. He knew just what to do. He'd be kind and cruel to them by turns, till they were so confused and scared, they'd do anything he asked. Often he'd blindfold them, so they didn't know what was happening around them or what he might do next. You'd be surprised how frightening that is."
"I daresay I would," said Julian, keeping cold command of his voice.
"He didn't hurt them—at least, not much. He was squeamish about bloodshed and bruises. That was the artist in him. He prided himself on not leaving scars."
Julian got up and took a turn about the room. Thank God Sir Malcolm can't hear this, he thought. With luck he can be spared the worst of it. Or can he? Suppose one of those young women Alexander tormented took her revenge on him through murder? Then this whole double life he led will be dragged out into the light.
He put that thought aside. Before he went looking for "Jane Noakes" among London's flotsam and jetsam of fallen women, he must try to exhaust more immediate possibilities. He sat down again opposite Mrs. Desmond. "Tell me about your maid, Fanny Gates."
"There's not much to tell. Alexander knew I'd need a servant to look after the house, so he set about finding one he could keep under his thumb. Because of course she'd have to know all about him and me, so he had to be sure she'd hold her tongue. In the end he sent me a mouse of a woman, fortyish, not a particle of style. She hadn't any references, and I expect she used to be on the town, but now she'd lost her looks, she was fit for nothing but cooking and scrubbing floors. Alexander would never tell me how he found her, but he said she was just the thing: no family, no friends, and couldn't say boo to a goose. She worked hard, I'll say that for her. She wouldn't dare do anything else. She knew Alexander would make it hot for her if she didn't."
"How?"
"Oh, he bullied her. Threatened her with the house of correction. He knew things about her I didn't. It's no use asking me what things, because I don't know. She was a deal of trouble in some ways. She was religious. Some women get that way once their looks are gone. They turn ever so prudish about sin, once they've no chance to commit it themselves."
To hear her talk, growing old was something that only happened to other women. "How was her religion troublesome?"
"She disapproved of things Alexander did. She once came into the drawing room while we were—while we had a guest. One of those girls I told you about, you know. She got in such a taking! After that Alexander used to lock her in her room in the garret whenever we had company. Sometimes he locked her in there just because her foolish face put him out of temper—so he said."
Her face darkened suddenly. He asked, "Is anything wrong?"
"I was just remembering that night—the night he brought me to the madhouse. He locked Fanny up then—or rather, he told me to. I didn't suspect anything. It was a quiet evening. We hadn't any company. Alexander was lying about on the drawing-room sofa. He was peevish and sulky, because—" She broke off. "Because we'd had a bit of a row," she went on quickly. "When I came back from locking Fanny up, he was drinking a glass of brandy, and he'd poured one for me. I drank it, and he droned on about one thing and another. I got very sleepy. Soon I could hardly keep my eyes open, and everything was turning hazy around me. By the time I realized he'd put something in my drink, it was too late. I don't remember anything after that, till I woke up in the cell where you found me."
"This row you had with Alexander—what was it about?"
She looked away confusedly. "Oh, la, it's of no consequence. Just a lovers' tiff."
"If it caused him to shut you up in a madhouse, it can hardly be of no consequence."
"Well, you see, I'd been making demands on him." She stammered a little and looked at the wine decanter as if suddenly fearful she had drunk too much. "I wanted more money, a better house, a life out in the open. He still wanted to keep our relationship dark. We were always rowing about that."
"Mrs. Desmond—"
"Oh, you needn't say 'Mrs.' I was never married—I just thought 'Mrs.' sounded more genteel for a lady living alone." She added caressingly, "I wish you'd call me 'Marianne.'"
"Marianne, then." He was willing to give in on small matters. God knew, he was in no danger from her wiles. The thought of her with Alexander Falkland was enough to put a man off women for weeks. "If Alexander didn't want to accede to your wishes, why didn't he simply refuse, as he had in the past?"
"He—he couldn't. I threatened him. I said I'd tell—embarrassing things. Things he'd rather his fine friends didn't know about."
"What sorts of things?"
"Oh—the things I've told you about. My being his fancy woman and bringing him those girls." She flushed. "You needn't look at me as if I was lying!"
He sat back and surveyed her coolly across the table. "I don't think you're lying. But nor do I think you're telling me all the truth. You see—I know about you and Mrs. Falkland."
"Wh-what?"
"I know you approached her in the Strand, exactly a fortnight before Alexander put you in the madhouse. You were dressed in your maid's clothes, and you told her some story to lure her to your house. Alexander put you up to it and was there to make sure it went off all right."
"It—it was just a prank—I didn't mean any harm by it—anyway, it was all Alexander's doing!"
"Don't be frightened, Mrs. Desmond. The crime you and Alexander committed that day doesn't concern me, except insofar as it may throw light on his murder. I shan't even ask why you brought Mrs. Falkland to your house, because I think I know already. But tell me: do you know what took place after she arrived?"
"No," she said regretfully. "I don't know anything. I couldn't stay to find out."
Julian was inclined to believe her. Her frustrated curiosity rang more true than any show of innocence. "It was that episode you used to threaten Alexander, wasn't it? If it ever got out that he'd mounted such a conspiracy against his wife, his honour and reputation would be all to pieces."
"I wanted him to do right by me," she said defensively. "If he was going to drag me into his plots, he ought to make it worth my while."
Julian considered. "You said that on the night Alexander drugged you and brought you to the madhouse, he told you to lock Fanny in her room."
"Yes."
"Have you any idea what became of her after that?"
"I couldn't, could I? P'raps he let her out to help him take me to the madhouse."
"More likely to dispose of your clothes and other belongings. He wanted to make it appear you'd left of your own accord."
Her eyes lit up. "Do you think she has my jewelry? Oh, won't I just shake her, the scheming hag! Do you know where she is?"
"On the morning after you disappeared," he said quietly, "a woman of her age and figure was found dead in a brickfield near Hampstead, with her face smashed beyond recognition. And we've found traces of brickearth in your house."
"Oh, Lord," she whispered. "Alexander?"
"Very likely." Though how we shall ever prove it, he thought, the devil only knows.
"But—it don't sound like him. I told you, he didn't like shedding blood."
"I don't think the brickfield victim's face was destroyed for the sport of it. The murderer didn't want her recognized. Would Alexander be capable of smashing a woman's face, if it were in his interest?"
"Him? He'd do anything to anyone, if they were weak and afraid of him. Fanny was both." She leaned toward Julian, plucked at his coat in her eagerness to make him understand. "To Alexander, Fanny just didn't count. She was ugly, and she was weak, and that meant she was just
nothing.
He wouldn't have stood a jot to kill her if she got in his way—leastways, if he could do it without being caught. It would be just like swatting a fly."