"I didn't want Quentin to see how wretched I was. A few months before he was to go to England, we were invited to visit friends in Switzerland, but I persuaded Uncle George to take me to Vienna instead. Quentin went on alone." She paused, swallowed hard. "That was the last time I saw him alive. There was fever in the village where he went, and he caught it. When Uncle George and I heard, we travelled night and day, but we arrived too late.
"I was shocked. I felt as if a vital part of me had been hacked away. For days I walked about in a state of blind, insensible grief. Uncle George made all the arrangements. We buried Quentin quietly, in the little churchyard in the village. There seemed no reason to take him anywhere else. We had no home; there was no place in the world he really belonged. It was a peaceful, secluded place. I thought he would like to rest there.
"Afterward, Uncle George and I stayed on, lost and aimless, doing nothing. Finally Uncle George said, Verity, this mustn't go on. It's time we wrote to people about Quentin's death—putting it off won't bring him back. He said at the very least we ought to let Lincoln's Inn know he wouldn't be coming, so his chambers could be let to someone else."
She paused, as if steeling herself. "One thing you must understand: the idea was mine to begin with. I conceived it, and I alone should bear the blame. I knew even then it was monstrous. Quentin hadn't been dead a fortnight, and I was plotting to steal his life. But it wasn't entirely cold-blooded. It's true I wanted what he would have had: the chance to earn money, build a profession, affect people's lives on the world stage. But also, by becoming Quentin, I was keeping him alive. How could he be dead when people were sending him letters, lending him books, inviting him to dinner? Please don't think I'm mad—I knew it was only a game. But it comforted me—helped me to bear the loneliness of life without him.
"It was all made possible—compelled, it almost seemed—by a confluence of circumstances. I was so suited to impersonate a man. I'm tall and thin, and my voice is low; by keeping it a little husky, I could pass it off as a man's. And I'm so fair, no one would expect to see a stubble of whiskers on my face. I'd had a man's education; I knew Latin, Greek, philosophy, natural science. And thanks to Uncle George, I'd played breeches parts in amateur theatricals. He'd taken great pains to coach me for them. He said too many actresses were wholly unconvincing in their masquerades as men.
"Then there was the fact that Quentin and I had lived on the Continent since we were children. We had few English friends. I could be fairly confident that no one I met in London would know Quentin by sight. I fit his general description. And I would be armed with his papers, his belongings, my intimate knowledge of him.
"Uncle George was amused and delighted by my imposture. He groomed me rigorously for my 'part': made me practice walking, sitting, speaking, even sneezing. And he designed clothes for me that would conceal—that would make me look like a man. He'd been trained as a tailor; he first found work in the theatre sewing costumes."
Julian nodded. Tibbs had done his work well—rigged her out in shapeless frock coats, loose-fitting trousers, and thick cravats, which lacked style but gave no impression of disguise.
"But, Miss Clare," said Sir Malcolm, "surely your uncle saw the risks, the dangers, the—the—"
"Impropriety?" she filled in quietly. "Deceit? He didn't mean any harm. He's a child in some ways. He didn't see it as lying—only as acting.
I
knew better, sir. So you see, the responsibility really does rest with me."
Sir Malcolm looked unconvinced but said only, "All right. Go on."
"Uncle George and I came to London, and I took possession of these chambers. By that time, I'd practised my masquerade in public and knew I could bring it off. I was a little nervous, but more exhilarated. For the first time in my life, I could go anywhere I liked at any hour: theatres, eating houses, walking or riding in the parks. At dinner parties, I stayed after the women had withdrawn, and I heard the talk turn to politics, foreign affairs, industrial inventions. Above all—I could study as much as I liked! No one worried that I was straining my mind or exposing myself to indelicate subjects. The freedom went to my head, till I hardly knew or cared what I was risking, or what principles I'd compromised. I told myself my imposture was justified: if the world denied women their rights, women must resort to desperate measures to obtain them. And Quentin wouldn't have grudged me my new life. We'd had a pact that each of us would do anything for the other. If I'd asked him for this favour while he lived, he would have granted it. Surely in death he would do no less?
"It wasn't so simple—I found that out all too soon. Do you remember the passage I marked in Mary Wollstonecraft's book, Mr. Kestrel—the one about the practised dissembler becoming the dupe of his own arts? That was I. I didn't have to adopt all Quentin's mannerisms in order to impersonate him, since no one in London knew what he was like. But I did all the same, because imitating him specifically was easier than imitating a man in general. What I didn't count on was that, having taken on his voice, manner, handwriting, habits—I
was
Quentin now. I behaved like him even when I was alone. I really had kept him alive—he lived in and through me. And, through me, he looked with repulsion on what I was doing. He loved truth and honour above all things, and now I was using his name to live a lie. Such an endeavour couldn't have prospered, and it didn't. Something went terribly wrong."
Julian summed it up in one word. "Alexander."
"Alexander." She drew a long breath, then went on, her voice low but steady, "What I told you about how we came to know each other was true, so far as it went. We were both enrolled at Lincoln's Inn, and we dined in the same mess. Last Easter term, I was taken ill at dinner, and he offered to help me to my chambers. He hardly knew me, but it was like him—he was generous about small things. I tried to deter him, but it was no use. When we got to my chambers, I thanked him and tried to make him leave me. But he was curious now. He insisted—so graciously!—on coming in to look after me. I was too ill to fend him off. He urged me down into a chair and loosened my neckcloth, and the truth began to dawn on him. He—he forced off my coat, and—and—thrust his hand inside my shirt."
"The blackguard!" Sir Malcolm leaped up and walked about wildly. "The vile, contemptible scoundrel!"
"He hung over me." Her face was scarlet, her eyes wide and tearless. "He was fascinated. His eyes travelled all over me, with a look I can't begin to describe—"
"Oh, God!" Sir Malcolm broke in hoarsely. "Verity, what happened then?"
"Nothing," she assured him quickly. "I was sick. He fetched a basin and held it for me. Afterward I lay back, faint and almost beyond fear, and asked him what he was going to do. He smiled and said, I don't know yet. I'll come again tomorrow and see how you're getting on, and we'll discuss it, shall we?
"He did come next day. I was recovered and armed with a loaded pistol. I told him I would shoot him or myself—it hardly mattered which—so long as I need never feel his hands on me again. He could see I was in earnest. He always knew how far he could push people. If he saw a weakness, he would attack it, but a really determined show of resistance left him helpless. He had daring, but not courage.
"He said I'd mistaken his intentions. He assured me that a creature like me, neither man nor woman, had no need to fear she would be desirable to anyone. He said I had only one thing of value to offer: I was a drudge at my books. He hadn't time to study himself, but he wanted to shine in his legal career. He particularly wanted to impress
you,
sir." She looked at Sir Malcolm. "He hoped to go into politics and thought your backing would be useful. So he took it into his head to have me answer your letters. And he had me feed him insights about legal matters so that he could seem informed and clever in discussions in Hall.
"Of course, I hated being in thrall to him. But what if he exposed me? The disgrace would fall not only on me but on my uncle, and on my brother's memory. Uncle George might even be prosecuted for helping me. I would have faced all that sooner than—than yield to him as he first wanted me to, however he denied it afterward. But short of that, I owed it to Uncle George and Quentin to do all I could to keep my secret.
"I paid a high price. In spite of all he'd exacted from me, Alexander felt I'd somehow got the better of him, and he was always finding ways to take revenge. That's why he made such a friend of me. It was ingenious—everything cruel he did appeared so generous and kind. He kept me about him, made me attend his parties—and all so that he could keep me under his eye, set little traps for me and watch me struggle. He especially liked introducing me to women. People thought he was drawing me out, putting me in the way of marrying well. It amused him prodigiously. When we were in male company, he would slyly lead the talk into scandalous subjects. Then later he would come to my chambers and congratulate me on how much I was learning about—about relations between men and women. He soon found I wouldn't bring out the pistol again over anything he merely
said.
So he talked. He could talk for hours. I never knew till then that it was possible to be violated by speech."
Sir Malcolm closed his eyes for a moment. "My poor girl. How could you bear it?"
"I had one consolation, sir. Your letters." She lifted her fine grey eyes, with something of Quentin's old shy earnestness. "I hardly knew you when we began to write to each other. I'd watched you in court from the students' box, and I admired your knowledge and eloquence. But I was distrustful at first. Alexander was so thoroughly false—I was afraid you might be the same. I soon knew better. No one could doubt from your letters that you were thoughtful, generous, fiercely honest. I realized you and Alexander were worlds apart, and I couldn't bear to think how you would feel if you knew what he really was. So I made you another Alexander—one I hoped you might like and respect."
"I did, Miss Clare. I do still."
She looked away quickly, as if from too bright a light. "It was only when the truth came out, after Alexander's death, that I saw what a terrible thing I'd done. I'd deceived you, and I could never make you understand why. I had to see you and beg your pardon—and then, oh, sir, you were
kind
to me! After everything I'd done!"
Sir Malcolm had to smile. "That was your fault. You'd forged bonds between us that even your deception couldn't break. You can't win a man's regard and then turn it off like a spigot."
"If only that were the one deception I'd practised! Now you know my name is false, my sex is false, everything about me has been a lie—"
"Your fine mind? Your broad knowledge? Your compassionate heart? Could you have feigned all that? If you had, do you think me such a fool as to have been taken in? God knows, you were wrong to deceive us all this way—but it was a gallant wrongness, a wrongness more to be admired than most people's cramped and cowardly notions of right!"
"You're determined to be kinder to me than I deserve. And you must realize—"
"What?"
She appealed to Julian. "Tell him."
"I think," said Julian quietly, "Miss Clare means she's incriminated herself heavily in your son's murder."
"Rubbish!" said Sir Malcolm.
"It isn't rubbish," she said steadily. "I was his enemy. I hated him, feared him, longed to be free of him—"
"Did you kill him?" Sir Malcolm looked her straight in the eyes.
"No, sir. I swear I know no more about his death than what I told Bow Street. But I don't doubt Mr. Kestrel will need more than my word to absolve me."
"I wouldn't absolve any suspect on his word alone," said Julian. "But there is one circumstance that speaks in your favour. You were in a better position than any of the suspects to run away. You could have reverted to your female identity and confounded anyone who tried to pursue you. And yet you stayed."
"I was very torn about that," she owned. "Uncle George had always insisted I keep an escape route open, as he put it. When I first conceived the idea of impersonating Quentin, I wanted to pretend it was I who'd died—then we need never explain where I was. But Uncle George said I mustn't cut off my retreat—who knew when I might need to become Verity again? So in London I said Verity was living with Uncle George, and in Somerset he said she—I—was travelling abroad as a lady companion.
"After I wrote to him about Alexander's murder, he wrote back urging me to come and stay with him, which I took to mean, give up this masquerade, it's become too dangerous. But I was afraid of attracting suspicion if I left suddenly with the murder unsolved. And then, sir"—she turned to Sir Malcolm
—"you
befriended me, and how could I go after that? Everyone would have thought I'd committed the murder. You would have trusted first your son, then your son's friend, and both of us would have betrayed you." She finished simply, "I'd borne a great deal, but it was asking too much of me, that I should leave you."
Julian looked from her to Sir Malcolm. Rising, he murmured, "As I haven't anything more to ask Miss Clare, why don't I take my leave—"
"What can you be thinking of, Mr. Kestrel?" Sir Malcolm said sternly. "You can't mean to leave me alone in this young lady's chambers?"
"How can that matter now?" Verity smiled sadly. "After everything I've seen and heard, you can't suppose I have any delicacy left to offend."
Sir Malcolm strode up to her. "You must never say that again. I don't care what curses or ribald stories you've heard, or what poison my son poured into your ears. Do you remember what you said about the life of the mind being the only life you cared for? You've been living that life all these months, and it's left you as pure in thought and heart as the most spotless debutante that ever trod a dancing floor. And anyone who says otherwise will answer to me."
She said nothing, only took his hand and lifted it to her lips. "Oh, really, Miss Clare," he stammered, "you mustn't do that. It's no more than any father would have said—and I'm old enough to be your father—"