Cut to the Quick (25 page)

“I wish I had it to show you. But the little we’ve discovered so

far raises more questions than it resolves/* He told MacGregor what Felton and Mrs. Warren had had to say.

“It sounds as though we’ve got precious little to show for all this investigating. And even so, you’re convinced one of the Fontclairs is guilty.”

“Or Mr. Craddock.”

“Well, make your case against each of them. I’ll hear it ”

“In a very belligerent spirit, prepared to pounce like an angry Scots terrier on every flaw in my reasoning.”

“If you don’t want an honest opinion, you can keep your reasoning to yourself!”

“I do want it. That’s why I came.”

“Well, get on with it, then,” MacGregor grumbled.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter where I begin. I’ll take Lady Tarleton first—an honour I doubt she’d appreciate if she were here. She has no one who can vouch for her whereabouts between half past four and six o’clock yesterday. She has a severe cut on her hand, which she explains by saying she dropped her embroidery scissors, it broke, and she cut her hand picking it up. Ive seen the scissors: it’s thoroughly battered, and I don’t believe it could have got into that condition by being dropped from anything short of a precipice.” “Are you suggesting she really cut her hand while stabbing the girl to death?”

“I’m only saying it's possible. You did say you thought the murderer could have been a woman. And you said there was no way to tell if all the blood on the bedding and the washbasin was the girl’s.” “Have you got a theory about why Lady Tarleton would have lost her mind and attacked a young female with a scissors?”

“Motive is my Achilles heel. Without knowing who the girl was or anything about her, how can I know why anyone would have wanted her dead? Lady Tarleton has the devil’s own temper, and she’s been cutting up savage about Hugh’s marriage to Miss Craddock ever since I got to Bellegarde. I can see her resorting to violence to prevent it—but how would the girl’s death accomplish that? The most it could do would be to delay it for a time. I can’t see Sir Robert mounting a wedding celebration for his heir, with the spectre of an unsolved murder hovering over his house and the village.”

“It’s true that Lady Tarleton's as angry as a hornet about Hugh’s marriage. But with her family pride, that’s only to be expected. Craddock was a groom at Bellegarde, you know, years ago. That's bound to rankle with all of them.”

“Guy told me it was Lady Tarleton who brought about Craddock’s dismissal. Have you any idea why? You've lived in Alderton long enough to have been here in Craddock’s day.”

“I remember hearing he’d been turned off, but nobody told me the reason, and I didn’t ask. The Fontclairs do more or less as they like at Bellegarde, and well beyond it, too. They're a power to be reckoned with, Kestrel. There aren’t many people, high or low, who’d dare accuse any of them of murder. You’ll see that at the inquest. Mark my words, the coroner will handle them with kid gloves. You won’t hear him pressing Lady Tarleton to explain how she cut her hand.”

“So much for justice,” said Julian ironically.

MacGregor could not blame him for feeling that way. No one could say with truth that English justice wore a blindfold. If Kestrel ever came to the point of accusing one of the Fontclairs, he would have to prove his case beyond all possible doubt. Anything short of certainty, and the barrier of privilege that enclosed the Fontclairs would protect them from retribution, though suspicion and scandal might cling to their name for generations to come.

Julian broke the silence. “Do you know anything about Lady Tarleton's husband? I understand he lives abroad.”

“He does, and has for a long time. She doesn't seem to be eating her heart out missing him. She’s got plenty of money and the run of his house in Suffolk—though she never goes there. If you ask me, she's always thought of herself as a Fontclair first and Sir Bertrand’s wife second—or third or fourth, more likely. After he left, and even before, she spent most of her time at Bellegarde, only going down to London for the season. Thinks she knows how to run the place better than Lady Fontclair. Always telling her what to do—and Lady Fontclair, being the good soul she is, at least makes a pretence of listening.”

“Did they quarrel—Lady Tarleton and Sir Bertrand?”

“They were always quarrelling. She used to ridicule him in front of people, making him out to be weak and craven. Which he was, there’s no denying it, or he wouldn’t have let her ride herd over him that way. She was extravagant, too. He was plump in the pocket, Tarleton was, but she made quite a hole in his purse, and he could never make out what the money went for. I wouldn’t put it past her to have spent it just to spite him. But there’s a streak of intemperance with money in the Fontclair family. You can see it in Guy. Isabelle’s father was like that, too.”

“His name was Simon?”

“That’s right. First cousin to Sir Robert, and as unlike him as day is to night. Simon never could cut his coat according to the cloth. He was always trying to live like the fellows he knew who had ten times his income. He married a woman with no more sense than he had, and they hatched a grand scheme to make their fortune running a plantation in Barbados. But they made a hash of it. They came back poor as rats, with a baby daughter in tow. Lord knows how they managed after that. They lived in London, so I didn’t see much of them. I expect they borrowed from Sir Robert. Though I’m sorry to say, I wouldn’t have put it past Simon to dabble in something—er—”

“Not altogether on the square?”

“It’s possible. They were none too scrupulous, Simon and Mrs. Simon. I’d as soon not speak ill of the dead, but it’s just as well for Isabelle she came to live with Sir Robert and Lady Fontclair.”

“I wonder if there’s anything in all this that might shed light on the murder.”

“It’s ancient history, most of it. I don’t see what it could have to do with a crime that happened yesterday.”

“Some crimes have their roots in events that happened decades, even centuries, ago. In Italy, where I lived for some time, quarrels often outlive the quarrellers, and are passed on to the next generation like so much family silver. Never mind, we’ll go back to my case against the Fontclairs. We’ve talked about Guy already. He has no alibi for any of the period in question. My old room used to be his when he was a boy, and he was accustomed to getting in and out

of it on the sly—although he used the window, which the murderer most likely didn't. He was sick at the sight of the girl's body. And I don't know if this means anything, but he went out last night in a violent rainstorm, and got into a funk when he was caught coming in at dawn. Again, no motive, though it's tempting to speculate about a lover's quarrel or a frustrated seduction. Though I don't know why we should confine those sorts of suspicions to Guy. Colonel Fontclair is known to have a taste for game pullets—that is, for very young girls."

“Colonel Fontclair is an officer of the first water, a hero of the Peninsular War.”

“In other words, he's had a great success in the profession of killing.”

“Killing a woman in cold blood is completely different from killing a man in battle!”

“I understand that. But the fact remains that a man who's fought a long and gruesome war must be inured to taking human life in a way that the rest of us wouldn't be. Colonel Fontclair's been moody and pensive ever since I arrived at Bellegarde. He has no alibi for the period from half past four to five, when he went out riding. And the servants who saw him leave say he looked as if the devil were after him.”

“He's lame,” MacGregor pointed out.

“He can walk. And he could easily overpower a small, slender girl. You know, we wondered how the killer made those smears of blood on the wall. A lame man would be particularly likely to lean against the wall for support.”

MacGregor got up and paced about, running his hands through his hair. “You'll have me believing anything before you're through. See here, there are a thousand ways that blood might have been smeared on the wall.”

“There's something else. The evening before last, after dinner, Lady Tarleton brought me to see the gun room. We found the colonel and Lady Fontclair there. She had her arms around his shoulders. She was saying, ‘It's wicked and wrong. Promise me you will never think of it again.' ”

MacGregor stared. “But— but that could mean all manner of

things! You can’t think he told her he was contemplating murder!” “I don’t know what he told her.”

“It might have been anything,” MacGregor urged. “They've always got their heads together, those two, They’re great friends— have been for years. He wanted to marry her once.”

“Did he?”

“Now don’t go looking at me as if I’d dug you up a buried treasure! It’s no great matter. The colonel met her and paid court to her before Sir Robert did. He was a dashing young officer in those days, and broke a good many hearts. I don’t know if he ever got to the point of making her an offer. Sir Robert came along and fell over head and ears in love with her, and won her for himself. The colonel married Guy’s mother, who died before Guy was breeched. That’s all there is to it.”

Julian wondered. He pictured the colonel and Lady Fontclair leaving the gun room arm in arm. Lady Tarleton’s insinuating voice rang in his ears: Touching, isn't it, how fond they are of one another?

“Look here,” said MacGregor, “when you said you could make a case against all the Fontclairs except Hugh, you can’t have meant to include Lady Fontclair among your suspects?”

“Yes, I did. But we'll pass over her if you’d rather.”

“No, let’s hear what you’ve got to say. I’d just as soon know the worst.”

“You know, I like her, too.”

“You don’t like anybody, and you don’t trust anybody!”

“I can’t afford— No, what's the use?” He rose. “Would you rather I put an end to this discussion, and this visit?”

“Look here, did anybody ask you to leave?”

“Not in so many words.”

“Then sit down and behave yourself! You ought to know better than to take to heart what I say when I’m in a temper.”

Julian smiled, and sat down again. “The case against Lady Fontclair. It’s not a strong one. If Sir Robert is telling the truth, he left her alone for only about a quarter of an hour during the period between half past four and six. She wasn’t entirely alone even for that short time: Miss Fontclair passed through the conservatory and

spoke with her. There might just have been time for Lady Fontclair to let the girl in through the conservatory windows, bring her to my room, and kill her. But even assuming she could do it, it’s devilish hard to imagine that she wuld''

“Then why not rule her out?”

"Well, there are some disturbing facts. Lady Fontclair says you’ve taught her a good deal about medicine—treating injuries, removing splinters, that sort of thing. That means she has some knowledge of anatomy, and probably isn’t as squeamish as most of us would be about cutting into human flesh. And she must know the house and its routine better than anyone. It was most likely she who decided which room I would have. And she repeatedly urged Hugh to take me out for a long ride late yesterday afternoon.”

“Clearing the way for her to kill the girl in your room while you were out? Kestrel, I know her, the same as you know your servant. She wouldn’t do a thing like that. I could imagine her firing a gun or raising a knife against—oh, say, a housebreaker who threatened her children. But, if nothing else, she’d never plan a murder at Bellegarde, and take the risk that anyone in her family, or even any of her servants, would take the blame for it.”

“This might not have been a planned crime. But I admit, what you're saying rings very true.”

“What about Sir Robert? Is he on your list of suspects?”

“Yes, but I grant you, the odds are Lombard Street to ninepence he had nothing to do with the murder. He has an alibi for most of the period in question—assuming he and Lady Fontclair aren’t lying to shield each other. And, given his sense of right and justice, it’s devilish hard to imagine him committing a crime like this. What isn’t so hard to imagine is that he thinks or fears one of his family is guilty. The question is, does he have a particular one in mind? And how far would he go to protect that person?”

“I don’t like to think of the dilemma he’d face if he thought the murderer was one of his own family.”

“It may be worse than that, you know.”

“How could it possibly be worse?”

“It may not be only one of them. Two or more of them may have planned and carried out the murder together.”

MacGregor clutched at his hair. “See here, Kestrel, isn't it just possible this is all the work of some aggrieved labourer attacking the local squire? It happens, you know, though it hasn't happened around Alderton for Lord knows how many years.”

“I don’t know much about those sorts of rural conflicts, but wouldn't there have been a threatening note left behind—a demand for redress?”

“Well, probably.” MacGregor heaved a sigh and resumed his pacing.

“Finally, there’s Miss Fontclair. There's a good deal of circumstantial evidence against her. She admits to having passed close to my old room at about twenty minutes past five. She had her sketching box with her, which contains a small but very sharp knife that she uses to sharpen her pencils. She's been very frank about all this. That may mean she has nothing to hide—it may also mean she's trying to disarm us with a semblance of candour. Actually, there's a third possibility: she may be trying to draw suspicion away from someone else.”

“Who?”

“I don't know.” The most obvious person, he thought, would be Lady Fontclair, whom Isabelle said she had met in the conservatory when she came in through the French windows. But suppose Isabelle had been lying? Suppose Lady Fontclair had not been in the conservatory while Sir Robert was gone? Suppose that, instead of seeing her there, Isabelle had seen her a little while later, outside Julian's room?

He went on, “Of course, as a suspect Miss Fontclair presents a number of problems. She was outdoors for the most of the time in which the girl could have been killed. She might have brought the girl in with her through the conservatory windows—but in that case, we have to posit some sort of conspiracy between her and Lady Fontclair, who says she came in alone. She might have let the girl in through the front door, but Michael was letting Mr. Craddock in that way at about that time. They might all have missed one another, but it seems farfetched. And there's still the enigma of motive. Why the deuce would any of these people want the girl dead?