Cut to the Quick (36 page)

trade. I liked him for that. There’s nothing I admire more than grace under fire.

“Even then, I wasn’t planning to let him off. But the magistrate heaped praise on me for catching him, and it made me wince. I don’t mind people going about unobtrusively being good, but I can’t stomach moral indignation. By the time he finished declaring what a sterling example I was to the British public, I felt thoroughly depressed, and was hard put not to go off and drown myself directly. The end of it was, I refused to press charges. The magistrate was disgusted, but there was nothing he could do.

“I was about to go home and contemplate the ruin of a very good set of evening clothes, when the thief came up to me and thanked me very civilly for letting him off. He didn’t apologize for stealing my watch, which I thought showed a certain integrity. Stealing was his profession—it would have been absurd to say it was all a mistake and he was sorry. But he couldn’t resist asking why I’d suddenly come over to his side, and we talked for a bit, and, just as in love affairs, one thing led to another. He’s been in my employ ever since.” “How did you know he wouldn’t steal from you?”

“I didn’t.” Julian shrugged. “Who can say why one trusts a person, in spite of all manner of reasons not to?”

MacGregor nodded, thinking how he himself had come to trust Kestrel, whom he thought of at first as a coxcomb, if not worse. “So now you think it was Colonel Fontclair who killed the girl?” “He’s certainly become the favourite in this race. But any of the Fontclairs would have had a motive to kill her, to stop her revealing his treason.”

“Do you think she tried to blackmail them?”

“I doubt it. Miss Howland says she was devoted to Colonel Fontclair, and not at all the venal, unscrupulous woman her mother was. But the Fontclairs didn’t know her and might not have understood that. They were already in thrall to Craddock, and whoever killed Aimee may have decided that one outsider knowing their secret was enough.”

“It’s a wonder the murderer hasn’t tried to kill Craddock, too. Why stop with the girl?”

“It isn’t necessary to kill Craddock to ensure his silence. He can

be bought. And once his daughter marries Hugh, he’ll protect the Fontclair name for her sake. Besides, he has the letters, and killing him won’t get them back. In fact, an investigation into his death would all too probably bring them to light. Aimee, on the other hand, had no proof of Colonel Fontclairs treason—only her own knowledge, which could be wiped away by taking her life.”

He discussed with MacGregor the possibility that Aimee contacted one of the Fontclairs in London after seeing the wedding announcement in the Morning Post. “Consider the temptation toward murder she presented! She knew a deadly secret about Colonel Fontclair. She was longing to see him again, and would probably have trusted blindly anyone who promised to reunite her with him. And she was all but alone in the world. She could have been made to disappear with impunity.”

“But she wasn’t made to disappear. She was killed brutally, and her body was left where somebody was bound to find it directly.” “In some ways, it certainly looks as though the murder were on the spur of the moment. It’s possible the murderer planned to kill her, but not at that time, in that way. She may have said or done something to force his hand.”

“But his tucking her into bed afterward looks like a piece of deliberate mockery,” MacGregor pointed out. “That argues a person in full possession of his wits.”

“Or a person who’d completely lost them. Anyone acting rationally would have washed off the blood from his hands and run away at once. The time he spent tucking his victim into bed was time in which he could have been discovered. But this crime is full of contradictions. It makes me wonder if more than one person was involved.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let me give you an example. Suppose Aimee found out somehow that Craddock was blackmailing Colonel Fontclair with the letters. She goes to see Craddock in London, to plead or remonstrate with him on the Fontclairs’ behalf. He tries to buy her off—that accounts for the rise in her fortunes during the six weeks between her disappearance from Puddle Street and her arrival here. He succeeds for a time, or thinks he’s succeeded. But she goes to Bellegarde secretly,

hoping to foil his plans. The colonel comes face to face with her unexpectedly, panics, and kills her.”

“If it was Craddock who was buying her off, it could have been Craddock who killed her.”

“If he did, he could only have done it within a very limited time. He was outdoors until about twenty minutes past five, and when he came in he went up to his room, where we now know he quarrelled for a long time with Lady Tarleton. Still, he might have run into Aimee outside his room, bundled her away to my room, and killed her. But, either way, there’s still the question of how she got into the house.”

“Now, don’t start all that business about entrances and exits again! We’ve been through it a score of times, and there’s no making head or tail of it.” MacGregor paced up and down in front of his desk— a well-worn track, to judge by the condition of the carpet. “You know, until now I thought that if any of the Fontclairs committed the murder, it was most likely to be Guy. But in light of what you’ve told me, that won’t wash. You said the colonel’s made a point of keeping this business of his letters a secret from his son. If Guy didn’t know about it, he’d have no motive to kill the girl.” “It’s true that Colonel Fontclair begged Sir Robert not to tell Guy, and Guy’s been kicking up a dust about being kept in the dark. But how do we know that isn’t all a hum? The colonel may have told Guy the whole story, and Guy may be elaborately pretending not to know it.”

“You’re the most suspicious fellow I’ve ever met.”

“I’ve been lied to at every turn. How can I help but be suspicious? Guy has the strongest motive, after Colonel Fontclair, to keep the Gabrielle affair a secret. In the first place, I think he has a real affection for his father, but even if he didn’t—remember, a convicted traitor’s property is forfeit to the king. You’ve said yourself, Guy is always in want of money. He wouldn’t fancy having his inheritance swept away at one blow.”

“I don’t see any way out of this thicket, Kestrel. Any of them could have done the murder. There’s no knowing which.”

“I may get something out of Colonel Fontclair by springing it on

him that I know who the murdered girl is.” He looked at his watch. “I'd better go. I’ll let you know what happens.”

*

Julian returned to Bellegarde and went upstairs to dress for dinner. As he turned down the corridor that led to his room, he heard a strange noise: the muffled, choking sound of someone weeping, but trying not to be heard. It was coming from the great chamber, at the other end of the hallway, opposite his old room. He went in to see what was the matter.

Philippa was sitting huddled on the floor in a corner, hands pressed to her mouth to stifle her sobs. She looked small and forlorn in that vast, ornate room. When she saw Julian, she hiccupped, swallowed, and stared at him with big, dark eyes.

He was dismayed. What the devil did one do with a weeping eleven-year-old girl? “Shall I send for your mother?”

“Oh, do you have to? I'm not supposed to be in this part of the house. Josie and I are supposed to stay in our own wing and not bother the guests.”

“Then why are you here?”

She began to cry again.

Good Lord! he thought. He glanced down the hallway, but there was no help in sight. He would just have to do the best he could.

He went over to Philippa and dropped down beside her, holding out his handkerchief. “Blow your nose,” he advised.

She did.

“Now then, what's stirred up this tempest?”

“I know who's responsible for the murder.”

“Who?” he said, startled.

“/ am!”

“Forgive me, but that's a bit hard to credit.”

“I don't mean I'm the one who killed her.”

“No, I eliminated you as a suspect fairly early.”

“You're laughing at me, but you don't understand. I heard the servants talking. They said the murdered girl's ghost is haunting the house. I think it must be all my fault! I told you I wished

Bellegarde had a ghost. Remember, the first night you were here, I showed you this room and said it ought to be haunted. Now perhaps it is! People say the danger of prayer is that you might get what you pray for.”

“You must think the angels are extraordinarily muddle-headed, misinterpreting your wishes like that.”

"I didn't think of it that way." She cocked her head, considering. “All the same, they must have thought I was wicked to wish for someone not to go to Heaven and be at peace."

“I don't doubt they understood you weren’t wishing that fate on anybody. You only meant that if there were anyone already a ghost who hadn't anything better to do, you hoped he would pay a visit to Bellegarde."

“Yes, that's just what I meant! You don't think there was anything wicked about that, do you?"

He pretended to think it over carefully. “No," he said at last, “I don’t think there was."

“I feel much better. I shan’t ever wish for a ghost again—not Olivier Fontclair or anyone else. You remember, I told you about him—he was our ancestor who was supposed to have taken part in the Babington Plot. I hope he went to Heaven, even if he did plot against his Queen. After all, the Babington Plot never came to anything, really. It was nipped in the bud before it could do any harm."

“I don’t remember much about it. Wasn’t it some sort of conspiracy to put Mary Queen of Scots on the throne—”

He stopped. Then he said slowly, “Why would Olivier Fontclair have supported Mary Queen of Scots?"

“Because she was a Catholic. Our family was, too, in those days. Didn't you know?"

“No," he said softly, a gleam coming into his eyes. “I didn't."

“Of course we kept it a secret. You had to, or Queen Elizabeth would have thought you were a traitor. We converted in the reign of Charles I, but no one quite knows how that happened, because so many of the family papers got burned up in the civil war. I'm glad we're not Papists anymore. I wouldn’t like to go to school in a convent, the way young ladies do in France."

He did not answer. A theory was taking shape in his mind. It was certainly a leap in the dark; if it were a horse, he was not sure he would bet on it. All the same, he resolved to put it to the proof. He wished he had the cooperation of one of the Fontclairs, but there was no one among them he could trust.

Philippa got up, shaking the creases out of her skirt. “I have to go back to the schoolroom before Pritchie comes looking for me. Thank you for being so sensible. You’re practically the only grownup I know who doesn’t talk to me like a child.”

“That’s because I don’t know how to talk to children.”

“Yes, you do. It’s the same as talking to grown-ups, only there are more things you have to explain.”

He waited till she was out of sight, then went across to his old room and tried the door. No use. Sir Robert was keeping it locked, to ensure that no one disturbed the scene of the murder.

*

“I shall be late to dinner again,” Julian remarked, as he put the finishing touches to his cravat. “That should please Lady Tarleton she’s always glad of an excuse to look daggers at me.”

“She’s a tartar, and no mistake, sir. I’ve been hearing tales of her in the servants’ hall. She can’t keep a lady’s maid more nor a month, on account of the way she knocks ’em about. She fetched one of 'em such a conker she tapped her claret, and one of her ivories come loose.”

“A very violent woman.”

“Violent enough to croak that mort, do you think, sir?” “Possibly,” Julian mused.

“Something got you down in the chops, sir?”

“I’d give a monkey to have an hour alone in my old room. But Sir Robert is keeping it locked, and I can’t ask him for the key without having to tell him why I want it, which I’d rather not do just yet.”

“It ain’t Sir Robert as has the key, it’s Mr. Rawlinson, Michael says.”

“Dipper, I mislike that angelic expression on your face. What are you thinking?”

“Well, sir, Michael says Mr. Rawlinson carries the key around in his fob-pocket. And I was thinking, if you wanted it bad enough—" His voice trailed off suggestively.

“Do you realize the trouble we could both get into if you were caught?"

“I'd have to look sharp and not get caught, then, wouldn’t I, sir?"

“I might have known you’d find an excuse to steal something sooner or later. I think you’ve been itching to ply your old trade ever since I sent you to see Vorpe."

“It ain’t that I want to go back on the game, sir—Newgate seize me if I do! But the fact is, I was a bowman prig, sir. I mean, I had a gift.*’ He flexed his fingers wistfully. “And when you got a gift, even if it was the Devil give it to you, you get a hankering to use it now and again.*’

Julian looked at him, much struck. It*s like keeping a wild animal, he thought. I can tame him, teach him to live in my world, but I cant change his nature. He may be the gentlest soul on earth, but he was born and bred a predator. And I suppose, if you*re going to keep that sort of animal about you, you have to let it hunt once in a while.

He said, “What if Rawlinson misses the key after you’ve stolen it?"    .

“I could pinch it, sir, nip up and unlock the door, and then plant it back in his pocket, and him none the wiser."

“You could put it back without his knowing?"

“Same skill as taking it out, sir, only there ain’t so much call for t'one as t’other."

“No, I suppose not. All right, I’ll let you do it, but for God’s sake, be careful. I didn't go to all that trouble to keep your old line of work a secret, only to have Sir Robert find you out now."

Julian went down to dinner, but instead of going directly to the drawing room, he went through the screens passage to the servants' hall, and so to the back stairs. The servants looked after him curiously, and Molly Dale followed him a little way on tiptoe, to see what he was about. He went up to Mr. Rawlinson's office for a few minutes, then came down again and disappeared into the waiting room. Perhaps he meant to go out the back door for a smoke in the garden before dinner, Molly thought. But when he came in a short while later, there was no smell of tobacco about him. He's a deep one, she told herself, as she watched him go tranquilly off to dinner.