Julian moved abruptly in his chair. He had read a good deal about crime since he first took up investigating murders.
The Newgate Calendar
was full of the lives and deaths of hardened, heartless felons. But nothing had quite prepared him for this glimpse behind Alexander Falkland's mask.
"One more question," he said at last. "Did Mrs. Falkland's maid, Martha Gilmore, ever come to your house in Cygnet's Court?"
"Mrs. Falkland's maid?"
"Yes. David Adams says he saw her there."
"He must be off his head. What would Mrs. Falkland's maid be doing at my house?
Julian did not know. But nor had he any idea why Adams should have invented such a story. Martha's visit to Cygnet's Court was one of the most intriguing pieces in the Falkland puzzle, because it made so little sense as either the truth or a lie. Which told him there was much about this mystery he still did not understand.
27: Verity
As Marianne was growing sleepy, Julian thought he had better acquaint her with his plans for her accommodation that night. She was elated. "I'm to stay at Alexander's house? I've always wanted to see it! Fancy me being there to enjoy all his fine things and be waited on by his servants, while
he
lies under ground! There's some justice in this world, and that's flat!"
"Of course it will be only temporary, till we can find you suitable lodgings. And it will depend on Sir Malcolm's acquiescence. I've asked him to meet us there."
"Alexander's father?" She laughed. "What'll he make of me, do you think? Alexander always said he was a moralizing old stick."
"I don't think you need repeat that to him." Julian rose. "You'll come with me to London, then?"
"I'd go anywhere with you," she cooed. "Only—I won't have to go to Bow Street, will I?"
"I'm afraid you'll be asked to swear out evidence."
"But I don't want anything to do with the law! Who knows what they might ask me? A girl in my position has to be ever so careful—"
Julian murmured, "There have been some very substantial rewards offered for information about Alexander's murder."
"Oh! Oh, well—I'm sure I never meant to shirk my duty. If I've any useful evidence, why, I'll be glad to give it."
"I hoped you might see things in that light."
He rang for the waiter and ordered the cabriolet to be brought round. Meantime he paid the reckoning and persuaded Ruth to accept a generous sum for her gown. Then he and Marianne set off for London. She fell asleep almost at once and did not awake till they reached Alexander's house.
Leaving Alfred to look after the cabriolet, Julian gently roused Marianne and took her inside. She looked around her in awe and delight at the graceful Renaissance-style hall, the marble tables and gilt torcheres, the glorious flying staircase with its ascending and descending bands of angels. She ran from one object to another, touching, inspecting, wondering how much each had cost.
Julian took Nichols, the butler, aside. "Is Sir Malcolm here?"
"Yes, sir. He's waiting for you and—the young woman—in the library. He asked me to have Mr. Eugene's old room prepared for her, and I've done so."
"Good." Julian smiled quizzically. "I'm afraid I'm embroiling you in a rather delicate matter, Nichols. I should be grateful if you would see to it that Mrs. Desmond doesn't receive any visitors, and that no one outside the house finds out she's here."
"You may rely on me, sir."
"Excellent man! Thank you." He went to Marianne and offered her his arm. "Come, I'll take you to Sir Malcolm."
Marianne was sullen with Sir Malcolm at first. She apparently saw no point in trying out her charms on her lover's high-minded father. And indeed, his first reaction to her was an ill-concealed repugnance. But when he heard how she had suffered at Alexander's hands, his repulsion was lost in pity. She at once began putting on a show of feminine distress, speaking in a small, pathetic voice and making play with her handkerchief. Sir Malcolm's sympathy waned. Twenty years at the Bar would have inured him to crocodile tears.
Julian suggested she might wish to rest after her journey. One of the maids could assist her and lend her any garments she might need for the night. She went willingly, eager to see more of the house. Julian thought Nichols would do well to keep an eye on the more portable
objets d'art.
Sir Malcolm hunted out a brandy decanter, and he and Julian downed a glass in silence. Finally Sir Malcolm said bleakly, "What can have possessed Alexander to turn from Belinda to
that?"
"You wouldn't have done so, and nor would I. But she had something to offer Alexander. She told me he could be himself with her, and that must have meant a great deal to him. With most people he was constantly playing one role or another."
"But why?"
Julian shrugged. "He wanted everything: to be admired and loved and feared and hated, to have the credit for doing good and the pleasure of doing evil."
"I can't see any pleasure in consorting with a woman like that." He added, "Now you've met her, you can't still think she's Verity Clare?"
"It does seem far-fetched that she could be the young lady Tibbs compared to Portia for her fine, serious mind. Although he did say Verity was a formidable actress—"
He broke off, rose out of his chair.
"What is it?" asked Sir Malcolm, staring.
Julian began to laugh. "Sir Malcolm, we've been deaf, dumb, and blind!"
"How? What do you mean?"
"The Merchant of Venice!
For the second time, that play's set me on the right road!" He went swiftly to the bell-pull and tugged on it. "We must go to Lincoln's Inn at once!"
"Why? What is it you suspect? Has—has Quentin been lying?"
"Oh, yes, Quentin Clare's been lying—brilliantly, outrageously! In fact, Quentin Clare may be the most accomplished liar it's ever been my privilege to meet."
Sir Malcolm passed a hand across his face, then rose. "All right. We'll go and see him. You be King's Counsel, and I'll be judge. Prove him a liar—prove him a murderer, if you can. And when you've done so, never ask me to believe in another human soul. Because if that young man is false, there's no truth in anyone."
*
Night had fallen by the time they reached Lincoln's Inn. The gates were shut, but the night-porter recognized Sir Malcolm and let them in. The inn was dark, save for the lamps blinking in staircase windows and a few candles smoking in upper casements, where clerks or conveyancers sat late over their work.
They entered Serle's Court. It was still and silent; their footsteps crunched the gravel with a sound like breaking glass. Midway across the court, Sir Malcolm halted and looked up at Clare's window, where a light burned dimly behind the blind. He had not spoken since they left Alexander's house and did not speak now. They walked on to No. 5, ascended the staircase, and knocked at Clare's door.
Clare opened it, a reading lamp in his hand. He looked white and sleepless, his neckcloth tousled, his pale hair spilling over his brow. He started slightly on seeing who his visitors were.
Julian looked at him intently for a moment, then smiled. "Good evening. May we speak with you?"
"Yes—of course. Please come in."
They entered. Clare closed the door and set the lamp down on a table.
"I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour," said Julian, "but my purpose wouldn't admit of any delay. You see, I know now where Verity is."
He and Clare exchanged a long, understanding look. Then Clare closed his eyes and turned slowly away.
Sir Malcolm sprang forward and caught him by the shoulder. "Wait a moment! I don't understand what any of this is about, but I want you to know—I trust you. No, don't turn away—I'm determined to speak, before Kestrel makes his case against you. I believe in you, Quentin. I know I believed in Alexander, too, but this is different. My faith in him sprang from ignorance of what he was, but my faith in you is born of knowledge and understanding. You've let me read your heart, and I know there's nothing base or evil there. I don't believe you killed my son or harmed any living soul. And what's more, I wouldn't believe it, even if you told me so yourself. So speak up, and don't be afraid. Where is Verity?"
Clare looked around at him miserably. "Verity is here.
I
am Verity."
"What?" Sir Malcolm jumped back. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm Verity Clare." Her voice began to slide into its natural higher pitch. "My brother, Quentin, died a year and a half ago. I took his place."
Sir Malcolm caught up the lamp from the table and shone it on her face. She met his eyes with an effort.
"Yes," he said softly. "I see it's true. Fancy Kestrel's seeing it before me!"
She coloured and dropped her gaze.
Sir Malcolm turned dazedly to Julian. "How
did
you guess? Am I mad, or did you say something about
The Merchant of Venice
?"
"Yes. When I went to see your uncle, Miss Clare, he told me at parting that he'd set me a riddle he hoped I would never solve. I thought back over our conversation, but I couldn't find the riddle, let alone the answer. Then tonight Sir Malcolm and I were talking of you, and I recalled how Mr. Tibbs had compared you to Portia—Portia, who also disguised herself as a man of law. Then everything fell into place. You and your brother were the same age. You'd been educated with him, even to the point of learning Latin and Greek. You had a formidable talent for acting and mimicry. You admired Mary Wollstonecraft and shared her frustration with the narrow sphere of achievements open to women. You were said to be bold, even unscrupulous, in doing what you thought right. And finally, there were my own feelings toward you. I had a strong sense of your charm; it made me all the harder on you, because I sensed some deception behind it. Now I see the charm was perfectly real—the deception lay in veiling it behind a man's identity."
The compliment seemed to pass over her like a chill wind. Gallantries that were second nature to him were no light thing to her. He remembered Tibbs's saying she had felt imprisoned on a pedestal. Looking at her, pale and still in the lamplight, he had a vision of her being tied with ropes and hauled back up again—a renegade statue restored to its place.
"I feel abashed," said Sir Malcolm. "I don't know what I may have said in your presence—what words I may have let fall—"
"You mustn't worry, sir. You're one of the few men I've known who doesn't require a lady's presence to make him speak and act like a gentleman."
He looked at her in silence for a moment. Then he said gently, "Tell us, Miss Clare. Tell us how it all happened." She moved behind the sofa and stood looking down, her hands resting on the back. Julian guessed she felt shy about showing her trousered legs, now that she had lost the protection of her male identity. There was none of the old diffidence about her silence; she was merely gathering her thoughts. He realized she had not only been playing a man, but a very different kind of person. There was nothing diffident about Verity Clare—unless it was in the realm of desire, where she was vulnerable and untried.
"You know that Quentin and I grew up on the Continent. We had an upbringing most people would consider very strange." She paused. "Mr. Kestrel, did Uncle George tell you anything about himself?"
"I know he was once Montague Wildwood and had to leave England after killing a man in a duel."
She nodded. "I didn't like to speak of that if he hadn't. I'm more than willing to tell you my own secrets, but it wouldn't have been right to tell his." Her face softened. "He was a wonderful guardian: loving and charming, and always respectful of Quentin and me as people, even when we were children. Conventional people would have told him he ought to settle down somewhere and not take us gipsying about Europe, learning languages and soaking up art and music and ideas. Those same well-meaning people would have urged him to send Quentin away to school instead of engaging a private tutor—and all for the silly, inconsequential reason that Quentin and I loved each other so dearly, we couldn't bear to be parted. Most eccentric of all, when he saw that I loved learning and could keep up with Quentin in his studies, he let me be educated along with him. I didn't realize then how lucky I was. I had no English misses for friends—I didn't know that, had I been raised here, I should have learned nothing but French, embroidery, and painting in watercolours.
"It was only as I grew older that I began to understand I was different from other women. The time came for me to put up my hair and go to dinner parties and balls, and I found I had no notion how to behave. Other girls' airs and graces seemed false and ridiculous to me. I talked of politics and philosophy, and men looked at me askance or laughed at me. I probably did say some silly things—I was over-confident and rash—but that wasn't why they laughed. They laughed because a woman was giving opinions on serious subjects. It was as if a horse had suddenly started talking—frightening to some people, absurd to others. Not all our friends thought that way, but the more respectable among them did, especially the English.
"As long as I had Quentin and Uncle George, I didn't much care what anyone else thought of me. But when Quentin and I came of age, he decided to return to England and read for the Bar. Our father had been a member of Lincoln's Inn, so he wrote to an old friend of Father's and asked him to sponsor his application there. He was accepted, and it was agreed he would arrive at the beginning of Hilary term—that is to say, in January of last year.
"I tried to be happy for him, but in my heart I felt such bitterness! Until then I'd followed him in all his pursuits, but this one was closed to me. And why,
why?
" Her eyes filled with bright, angry tears. "I had as good a mind as Quentin's. In education, I was just as suited to be a barrister; in temperament, much more so. There's no use dwelling on it: you know as well as I do the stupid, senseless prejudices that stand between women and any serious vocation. You may say, isn't it useful, admirable, to be a wife and mother? Yes, of course—but I had no future there, either. I wasn't pretty. I had no accomplishments. All I had was a head full of learning and languages, and an outspoken tongue that sent men running like startled hares. I felt trapped. Because I was a woman, my intellects must go to waste, and because I had intellects, my womanhood must go to waste as well.