"You see, sir," put in Nelson, "he knew it was Mrs. Falkland as wanted to send him away, and she'd overborne the master. He was in a very bad skin with her after that. He'd hardly speak to her."
"Had they been close formerly?"
Nichols knit his brows. "I don't know quite how to answer that, sir. The mistress, she isn't one to make a show of her feelings, and Mr. Eugene—well, he's given to moods. I'd say they rubbed along together as well as might be expected."
Julian interpreted this to mean, as well as a boy with a disgraced father and no money could be expected to get on with a wealthy and irreproachable sister. "Did Mrs. Falkland seem to take the rift with her brother much to heart?"
Several of the servants spoke up at this. Mrs. Falkland had seemed under a strain in the weeks following the decision to send Mr. Eugene away. Not that she went about weeping or starting at shadows—she wasn't that sort. But she was pale, she held herself very rigid, and some days she hardly seemed to have slept.
"Did she continue in that state up to the night of Mr. Falkland's death?" The servants exchanged glances, then broke out in nods and murmured assents.
"Had anything else happened to disturb her in the first few weeks of April?"
The servants searched their memories. There had been a failure to deliver flowers for a party. A banker's wife trying to get into society had pestered the mistress with calls and card-leaving. And a week before the master was killed, Mr. Eugene had stayed out all night in the rain and made himself ill, so his return to school had to be put off.
All at once Joe Sampson, the coachman, took his pipe from between his teeth and said, "P'raps the mistress was worriting about her friend as was took sick."
The others looked at him in surprise—all except Luke, who froze and stared straight ahead, as if he feared his slightest movement might give something away.
"What friend do you mean?" asked Julian.
"The one as lives near the Strand," said Joe.
"Near the Strand? Are you sure?"
"Sure as eggs is eggs, sir."
Julian tried to imagine a friend of Mrs. Falkland's living in that neighbourhood of shopkeepers, theatres, and loose women. "You had better tell me all you know about this friend."
Joe pondered a short while. He was clearly not one to put himself forward, but having once brought up a subject, he would see it through. "Here's how it was, sir. I drove the master and mistress out one day in the town carriage. Luke, he rode up on the box with me. I took 'em to a shop called Haythorpe and Sons, in the Strand. It's a hardware showroom—grates and lamps and such. Hard by it, there's a passage, very narrow, couldn't have fit the carriage through. Don't know where it leads.
"Mr. and Mrs. Falkland was just coming out of the showroom when a young 'oman, looked like a servant, come out of the passage. When she seed the master and mistress, she stopped short, then she ran up and spoke to 'em. Next thing, she and the mistress hurried off through the passage, and the master come back and told Luke and me that a woman friend of the mistress's was took sick, and the mistress had gone to see her. Said she'd send for the carriage again if she needed it. And we went home, and that's how and about it."
"What do you know about this friend?"
"Naught, sir. 'Cept that the girl was her servant. She come up to Mrs. Falkland 'coz she recognized her in the street."
"That seems a singular coincidence," Julian remarked.
Joe shrugged.
"Don't you think so?" Julian turned to Luke.
"I don't know anything about it, sir," Luke said shortly.
Julian regarded him politely, as if expecting him to say more. It was a tactic that often provoked people into nervous speech, but this time it failed. Luke shifted about in his seat, avoiding Julian's eyes, but said nothing.
"Did Mrs. Falkland send for the carriage to bring her home?" Julian asked Joe.
"No, sir."
"Then how did she get home?"
Luke spoke up unwillingly. "She came in a hackney coach, sir."
"How do you know?"
"I let her in, sir."
"When was that?"
"About an hour before dinner, sir."
"Which would make it—?"
"About six, sir."
"How long had she been gone?"
"Three hours, sir."
"You were keeping track of the time?"
Luke coloured. "No, sir."
"Then how do you know so precisely?"
"I don't know precisely, sir. It was three hours more or less."
"Why are you so reluctant to talk about this incident?"
Luke said, very clearly and carefully, "I beg your pardon, sir. I'm not reluctant to talk about it. It's just that there's nothing to say. Mrs. Falkland's friend was took ill, so she went to see her. She came home a few hours later, and I let her in."
"Didn't it strike you as curious that Mrs. Falkland should have a friend in that neighbourhood?"
"It's not my place to be curious, sir."
"Did she say anything to you about her friend when she returned?"
"No, sir."
"What frame of mind was she in?"
"I—I couldn't say, sir."
"Was she distressed about her friend?"
"She wouldn't talk to me about it if she was!"
"See here," cut in Nichols, "that's no way to speak to a gentleman. Beg Mr. Kestrel's pardon at once."
"Yes, sir. I beg your pardon, Mr. Kestrel."
Julian inwardly wished Nichols at the devil. With the best intentions, he had interfered just when Luke was losing his self-command and might have said something interesting. "This maidservant who took Mrs. Falkland to visit her mistress—what was she like?"
A slow grin spread across Joe's face. "Prime little piece, she was. Tall, yellow-haired, with a pretty waist and ankle."
"How was she dressed?"
"Brown-checked frock, I think, sir. And a white cap, with them flaps hanging down on each side. What do you call 'em? Lappets."
Julian glanced around at the other servants. "Does any of the rest of you know anything about Mrs. Falkland's friend or her maidservant?"
They shook their heads.
"Then I have only one more question. Do you recall when this visit to the sick friend occurred?"
If Luke could remember, he clearly had no intention of saying so. But Joe nodded sagely. "It was the first of April. Sticks in my mind, 'coz the weather was sunny and showery, warm one minute and cold the next, and I said to myself, a typical April day."
April first. Julian thought back through the calendar. That had been a Friday, so the next day was that first Saturday in April when, according to Nelson, Mrs. Falkland had told Eugene he was to return to school. Something else had happened on April second—what was it? Oh, yes: Alexander had recorded in his ledgers Adams's forgiveness of his notes-of-hand. Could all these events be connected? And if they were, what might they have to do with Alexander's murder three weeks later?
"Thank you," he said to the servants. "You've been immensely helpful. I won't detain you any longer—except that I should like a few words in private with Valere and Luke."
Valere inclined his head, as if a private interview were no more than his due. But Luke stiffened and set his jaw. And Julian became more determined than ever to find out what he had to hide.
6: Duets
.
Julian had some trouble persuading Sir Malcolm not to attend his interviews with Valere and Luke. If they had anything to say that reflected badly on Mr. or Mrs. Falkland, they would surely speak more freely out of Sir Malcolm's hearing. But it was awkward explaining this to Sir Malcolm, who could hardly credit that anyone would have cause to speak ill of his son or daughter-in-law. In the end, however, he agreed not to be present, provided that Julian would report to him anything of importance that was said.
Julian began with Valere, if only to let Luke stew for a while. The other servants dispersed, and Sir Malcolm went next door to the library. Julian wondered if he would be able to resist Nelson's habit of listening at keyholes. Probably he was incapable of that: he had a scrupulous probity rather astonishing in a lawyer.
Valere had little to say about the events leading up to the murder. That he had no alibi did not seem to cause him any concern. "I was taking a nap in my room,
monsieur.
It was very natural I should do this. At the end of the party, perhaps three o'clock or later, my master would have rung for me to attend him. This was my only chance to sleep."
"You received a bequest of fifty pounds from your master, I think."
"Oui, monsieur.
My master was good enough to reward devoted service. I think no one will dare to say I was not devoted to him. It was a matter of great pride to me to serve a gentleman of his quality. In his dress and in his manners, he was
le parfait gentilhomme.
The
beau monde,
too, they recognized this, and flew to him as moths to a flame. Since he died, many gentlemen have done me the honour to request my services, but I will take no new post yet. I am in mourning. In a month or two,
eh bien
, I will move on. One must live,
monsieur.
But never will I see the like of Mr. Falkland again."
Julian was impressed. The little man had a quiet dignity that shone through the formality of his words. If he was not sincere, he was wasting his time as a manservant. He belonged on the stage at Drury Lane. "Tell me, who do you think killed your master?"
Valere's face darkened. "That woman Martha Gilmore, she knows much she is not saying."
"Mrs. Falkland's maid?"
"Oui, monsieur.
She was spying upon Mr. Falkland. Always she would ask me, Where is he going? Where has he been? It was not any business of hers. And once I caught her in his dressing room! I demanded that she explain why she was there, but she would not answer. Out she walked on her flat feet without a word.
Quelle effronterie
/"
"When did she begin asking these questions?"
"It was some days before Mr. Falkland's death, perhaps a fortnight,
monsieur
."
"Was anything missing from his dressing room after you found her there?"
"Non, monsieur.
But things were moved. I keep—kept—all my master's things
en regie.
So I knew she had been moving them about. She was searching,
monsieur
—for what I do not know."
"Have you spoken to her about this since your master died?"
"I have had no chance,
monsieur.
She went to Hampstead with Mrs. Falkland, and I have not seen her since."
"Why haven't you told the Bow Street Runners?"
"Voyons, monsieur,
they are not police! They work for hire, like hackney coachmen. In England you have no Prefecture of Police, no public prosecutors. And your Bow Street Runners, they have no power. The French police can enter any house upon the slightest suspicion, stop anyone for questioning, take letters from the post and read them. Your so-called police, always they need warrants. Always they cannot do this or that because your English liberties do not permit it. It is no wonder they have not found my master's murderer. They are all
amateurs
/"
"But I'm an egregious amateur myself. Why have you told me?"
Valere opened his eyes in surprise. "But you are different,
monsieur.
You have lived in France. You are an admirer of the French police. Last night I saw your valet at the Red Lion, and he told me so."
"Did he indeed?" Julian said softly. He had, of course, sent Dipper out last night to spread the news that he was investigating Alexander Falkland's murder. Trust Dipper to take that opportunity to make inroads for Julian with Valere.
"Mais oui, monsieur.
So I know you will find out what this woman Martha is hiding."
"Have you any theories about that yourself?"
"Non, monsieur.
But I think there is nothing she would not do for her mistress."
"Are you referring to the spying, or to the murder?"
Valere shrugged.
"Qa fait rien, monsieur.
She has nerve enough for either."
*
"Your master's murder must have come as a great shock to you," Julian observed to Luke.
"Yes, sir."
"You were one of the first to hear of it?"
"Yes, sir. Mr. Clare told Mr. Nichols and me he'd been killed, and we went down to the study. I wouldn't have known what to do, but Mr. Clare said not to touch anything, and Mr. Nichols sent me back upstairs to wait on the guests and make sure that none of them left."
"Did any of them try to leave?"
"No, sir. I think they all knew something was amiss and wanted to know what it was all about."
"Did anyone seem skittish or afraid?"
"No, sir—leastways not till we heard Mrs. Falkland screaming. Then they all got in a taking. Some of the ladies had the vapours, and some of the gentlemen tried to run up the stairs. Then Mr. Nichols came and told them Mrs. Falkland had had bad news, and after that Mrs. Falkland came down herself."
"How did she look?"
"She looked—like an angel, sir! She was still in her sky-blue evening frock, with a black lace shawl thrown over it. Her face was as white and still as marble. And she was so brave, all the guests were ashamed of being in such a fret. She asked them to stay till the Bow Street Runners came, and they couldn't say her nay. I'm sure no one could as saw her, sir."
Julian thought wryly that Luke had left no doubt about his own feeling for Mrs. Falkland. It might be—very likely was—a guiltless passion, respectful and modest, if not entirely chaste. But love affairs between ladies and their footmen were not unknown, and Luke was a very comely young man. Such an intrigue seemed foreign to Mrs. Falkland's nature: her pride and honour would reject it out of hand. But Julian knew he must be especially stern in his judgements of her, because his tiresome chivalry would be constantly urging him to take her part.
He said, "As you probably know, Mr. Falkland was killed some time between ten minutes to midnight and a quarter after. During that time, you went down to the basement to fetch more wine."