Vance shook his head. "It's a poser, sir."
"It is indeed. Very well: the earliest Falkland could have died is ten minutes to twelve, when he left the party. What's the latest possible time?"
"Here." Vance fished out another statement. "Mr. Falkland's doctor came to examine his body that night. This is what he had to say."
Julian skimmed the physician's statement. It was full of dense medical language, but the main points were clear. Alexander's death had been caused by a severe blow to the back of the head, which must have killed him almost instantly. There was no possibility that the wound had been self-inflicted or had resulted from an accident. He was probably lying just as he had fallen, along the bottom of the window seat with his head at the left end. Most likely he had been facing toward the left when he was struck; there was a bruise on his forehead that might have been caused by his being knocked against the left-hand shutter-case. The shutter had been found drawn out; perhaps he had just closed it.
The murder weapon was clearly the poker that had been found beside the body; there were blood and skull fragments on the end. Based on his own examination and the information he had received from the butler and Mr. Clare about the condition of the body, the physician believed Alexander had been dead at least half an hour when he was found. In other words, the murder had taken place no later than a quarter past twelve.
"So he was killed some time between ten minutes to twelve and a quarter after," Julian concluded. "At least it's a narrow time frame."
"Not narrow enough, sir," Vance said ominously.
"I take it alibis are in short supply. Never mind, we'll get to them presently." Julian glanced through Clare's statement again. "This encounter he describes between Alexander and Martha may well be important, since it happened just before Alexander left the party. In fact, it gave him his excuse for leaving, since Martha told him Mrs. Falkland was still unwell and wouldn't be down again. But why should she have dragged him out of the party to tell him that? Why did he look so disconcerted when he first came out to speak with her? And, finally, why should David Adams stand by listening, then look at Alexander—how does Clare put it?—malevolently?"
"Have a look at Mr. Adams's statement, sir. It gives you his side of the story."
STATEMENT OF MR. DAVID ADAMS
My real name is David Samuel Abrahms. I find it convenient to call myself Adams for business reasons. I live in Bedford Square and have my counting-house in Cornhill. My business is the arrangement of loans to foreign countries, mainly in South America. I also handle foreign investments. Of what sort? The sort that succeed.
I arrived at Falkland's party on the twenty-second of April some time between half past ten and eleven. Falkland was flitting about from one group of guests to another as he always did. We talked, but not about anything of consequence. He seemed quite himself. I didn't see much of Mrs. Falkland. She retired with a headache soon after I arrived.
At about half past eleven, one of the marriageable young ladies was put forward by her mama to sing. Most of the guests crowded into the music room to hear her. Falkland retired into the drawing room to make more space. I went with him. Young ladies showing off their accomplishments set my teeth on edge.
One of the footmen came in and told Falkland his wife's maid wanted to see him in the hall. He went. I followed him to see what it was all about. The maid was in the hall. So was Quentin Clare, a friend of Falkland's from Lincoln's Inn. Falkland went up and spoke to the maid. No, he didn't seem startled or disturbed by anything she said or did. But since he was turned away from me, I couldn't see his face.
The maid told him Mrs. Falkland still had her headache and wouldn't be coming back to the party. She didn't say anything more—just curtsied and went out through the door to the servants' stairs. I went back into the drawing room. No, I wasn't angry with Falkland.
Why should I be? I didn't look at him malevolently or any other way. If Clare wanted to implicate me in the murder, he might have thought of something more original.
Julian put down the statement. "Somehow I rather doubt Mr. Adams made a good impression on the magistrates."
"Not by half, sir. Insolent, they said he was. 'Twixt you and me, sir, I don't think they'd be sorry to find he was our man."
"He may have realized that. A man of business, a Jew, a rank outsider. I should think it would be a relief to everyone from the Home Secretary down to the lowliest gaoler to pin the murder on him."
"He didn't help matters by talking so brassy to the magistrates."
"He wouldn't be the first man who felt driven to bring about the very outcome he feared." Julian leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs and crossing one sleekly trousered ankle over the other. "Tell me, what do you make of this affair of the thirty thousand pounds?"
"Very rum, sir." Vance shook his head. "Here's Mr. Adams, such a knowing gentleman in money matters, goes to all the trouble of buying up Mr. Falkland's notes-of-hand—then he turns 'em all over to Mr. Falkland and takes nary a farthing in exchange."
"How did you find out about it?"
"After Mr. Falkland was killed, I went through his ledgers. He kept close track of his money, being very took up with investing, as you'll have heard. There was an entry on the second of April, in his handwriting, crediting himself with the amount of the notes. I did a bit of digging in the City, and I found out Mr. Adams had been buying them up."
Julian glanced over the statement again. "His account of Martha's calling Alexander out of the party dovetails with Clare's, except that he denies having looked at Falkland malevolently. What does Martha say?"
Vance had her statement ready. Her name was Martha Gilmore. She had been with Mrs. Falkland for thirteen years, first as her nursemaid, then later as her lady's maid. On the night of the party, Mrs. Falkland had sent for her shortly before eleven and told her she had a headache and would keep to her room for the time being.
A little after half past eleven, I went to her room again to see how she was. The door was locked. I knocked, and she let me in. She was still dressed in her evening gown and looked ill. I offered to make her one of my headache remedies, but she said there was no need. She said she was going to lie down and try to rest.
I went downstairs and stood outside the drawing room.
Mr. Clare was there, but we didn't speak. Luke came out of the drawing room, and I told him to ask the master to come out and speak to me. The master came out a few minutes later. No, I don't remember him looking at me strangely. I told him my mistress was still ill and wouldn't be coming down again. No, she hadn't asked me to tell him that. I just thought he ought to know. Mr. Adams stood behind him listening, but I didn't take any notice of him.
I went back to my room in the attic and stayed there sewing. I didn't go to bed, because I thought my mistress might need me. I was alone there till about one o'clock in the morning, when Luke came and told me the master was dead. I went down to speak to Mr. Nichols, the butler, and he asked me to break the news to Mrs. Falkland.
I went to her room. Her door was still locked. She opened it, and I told her what had happened. At first she had the 'sterics. She kept screaming "No, no!" and flailing with her arms. I comforted her as best I could, and soon she was calm enough to go downstairs and speak to the guests. I'd expect no less of her. If I may take the liberty of saying so, she is the bravest lady I ever knew.
There was a great to-do after that, but I was sent downstairs to the servants' hall and didn't see much of it. Just before two o'clock the mistress took me with her to Mr. Eugene's room to tell him about the master's death. Mr. Eugene is Mrs. Falkland's half-brother and was staying with her and the master. She tapped on the door, and when he answered we went in. He was in bed and looked as if he'd been asleep. The mistress sat by his bed and told him Mr. Falkland was dead. He looked very shocked, then asked, "How was he killed?" I don't know why he asked that.
"'How was he killed?'" Julian repeated. "Why not simply 'How did he die?' Well, one thing is clear from Martha's statement: she has no alibi. She might have been anywhere between ten minutes to midnight and a quarter after."
He perused her statement again. "I'm devilish curious about this headache of Mrs. Falkland's. She's not a vapourish woman. In fact, she strikes me as one of those people who think it a disgrace to be ill. When I saw her today, she was obviously worn down with grief and still recovering from a stomach ailment Sir Malcolm says she had a few days ago, but she kept insisting she was perfectly well."
"So you think there's something in the story that she left the party because she and Mr. Falkland had a row?"
"What does she say about that?"
"She didn't give a written statement. The magistrates didn't like to ask—bereaved widow, sir, you understand. But she did answer a few questions. Says she went upstairs at about a quarter to eleven and stayed there nursing her headache till she heard about the murder. Except when Martha came to look in on her, she saw nobody, and nobody saw her."
"In other words—no alibi."
"Not the ghost of one, sir."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I assume she denies any quarrel with Falkland?"
"Oh, yes, sir. Took offence at the very idea."
"So she would, if it really is a slander. But so she might equally, if it were true. Whether she had a hand in his death or not, it would be devilish awkward if he were killed an hour after she retired to her room in a temper with him."
"Mr. Poynter backs her story, sir—that's something."
Julian's brows flew up. "Felix Poynter? Is he mixed up in this?"
"I don't know as I'd say he was mixed up in it, sir. But he was the last guest to see Mrs. Falkland afore she left the party, so we had to take notice of him."
"No one can help taking notice of Felix. It's the way he dresses."
Vance eyed him cannily. "Friend of yours, sir?"
"Yes. But I'll try not to let that cloud my judgement. What does he say?"
Vance unearthed his statement:
STATEMENT OF THE HON. FELIX POYNTER
My name is Felix Poynter. Actually it's Felix Horatio Poynter, but I wish you wouldn't put that in. Yes, I'm Lord Saltmarsh's son
—
well, one of them. The youngest.
I went to Alexander Falkland's party on the twenty-second of April. I can't recall anything out of the common about it. Apart from his being killed—but you knew about that, of course.
I'm sorry, yes, it
was
out of the common that Mrs. Falkland retired with a headache. She and I were talking, and she wasn't looking well, and presently she said her head ached, and she'd better go to her room and lie down. She said it was nothing to worry about, and no one should feel the need to leave on her account. She was quite insistent about that, else I should have thought it d—ced bad
ton
to hang about enjoying ourselves while she was feeling I-know-not-howish.
No, I hadn't the least reason in the world to think she and Falkland had quarrelled. I know a rumour of that sort got about, but I'm persuaded there was nothing in it. Falkland was in great spirits all evening, and she
—
well, she couldn't help having a headache, could she?
"He's quick to defend her," said Julian, frowning.
"Just doing the gentlemanly thing, I expect."
"I hope that's all it is. Because you see, he was in love with her two seasons ago, before she married Falkland."
"In love with the victim's wife, sir?" Vance let out a low whistle.
"Yes. But you must understand about Felix—he falls in love cheerfully and frequently, with very little hope of having his feelings noticed, let alone returned. There's no reason to suppose his attachment to Mrs. Falkland was different from the others." He caught himself up short, with a wry smile. "How easy it is to find excuses for one's friends! You're perfectly right: Felix's old
tendre
for Mrs. Falkland gives us every reason to suspect him. Unless he has an alibi?"
"He don't, then, sir. But nor do most of the other guests." Vance dug into his portfolio and drew out a collection of sheets. "This is a list of their names and addresses. I've drawn a line through the ones with alibis. About a dozen were playing at whist or
ecarte
and can vouch for each other, and there's a few young ladies who were under the eye of chaperons. Oh, and the musicians are out of it: they were playing in full view of everybody. But that leaves some three-score guests unaccounted for. They were all seen at the party between ten minutes to twelve and a quarter after, but they can't prove they were there the whole time. I mean to say, any of 'em could have nipped downstairs, killed Mr. Falkland, and come back."
"And that includes Clare and Adams?"
"Yes, sir. 'Course, I don't doubt there's more to be learned from the guests than they've told so far. Their sort ain't just what I'd call obliging, when it comes to being questioned by one of
my
sort. That's one reason I hoped you'd come in with me on this case. You know these folks; you understand what makes 'em tick. Set a thief to catch a thief—no offence meant, sir."
"None taken. Were you able to find out anything from the guests about the source of this rumour that Alexander and Mrs. Falkland had quarrelled?"
"Nearest I can tell, sir, it began with Lady Anthea Fitzjohn. You remember Mr. Clare mentioned her in his statement—said she tried to cog information out of him about where Falkland had disappeared to."
"I can imagine her doing that. She's an elderly single lady with no responsibilities and too much money, which means her only occupation in life is gossip. She's reliable, as gossips go—extremely sharp and insightful. If she thinks the Falklands had a row that night, there may be something in it. But she also likes making pets of young men and abusing their wives and sweethearts. Alexander was one of her favourites, so she may have been over-eager to believe he and Mrs. Falkland were at odds."