Cut to the Quick (37 page)

Sir Robert was not home yet. Colonel Fontclair sat at the head of the table in his absence. He did not look well. His usually florid face was grey, and his eyes were bloodshot and heavy. Lady Fontclair, too, seemed under a strain. She was resolutely gracious to everyone, but her charm and gaiety were wearing thin, and her anxiety showed through. Catherine was peevish, and Craddock grim. Isabelle seemed very much her graceful, inscrutable self.

Guy was drinking heavily. He had stayed surprisingly sober since the murder, but tonight his self-control gave way. Wine made him talkative and reckless—was that why he had been keeping away from it?—and he questioned Julian persistently about what he had been

doing in London. Julian parried his questions with light remarks about fashions and entertainments, racehorses and bankruptcies.

After dinner, Guy started getting rowdy over his claret, but the colonel took him in hand, and bore him off to join the ladies in the drawing room. The other gentlemen followed. Lady Tarleton dragooned the colonel and Lady Fontclair into a game of whist. She grudgingly accepted Craddock as the fourth player, but declared she would on no account be partnered with him. Lady Fontclair hastened to claim Craddock as her partner, and a very unhappy game began.

The young people drifted into the music room. Julian asked Isabelle to play, but she said she needed to work on Maud’s wedding slippers. “I have to devote all my leisure to them, if they're to be finished in time for the wedding.”

“Please don’t go to so much trouble,” Maud begged. “There’s plenty of time.”

Isabelle looked at her as though she were an unfamiliar sort of animal—odd, not terribly interesting, certainly not dangerous. “I told you I’d have them finished by the end of your stay here, Miss Craddock. I mean to be as good as my word.” She sat down, opened ner workbox, and looked up at Julian. “I’ve heard you’re a very fine musician, Mr. Kestrel. Perhaps you would be good enough to play for us?”

He complied. From behind the piano he watched the others, while seeming absorbed in his music. Hugh was hanging about Miss Craddock, trying to get up courage to speak to her, when all at once Guy planted a chair beside her and started talking animatedly, his voice low and intimate, his face close to hers. This was certainly a change of heart for Guy, who not long ago described Maud as “dull as ditchwater.” But that was before Julian made friends with her, and before Hugh began seeing her with new eyes. Julian never ceased to marvel at how easily led people are—how they form their tastes and aversions by watching what others do and slavishly following suit.

Maud was repelled, though she tried not to show it. Guy’s breath smelled of spirits, and he looked at her as she imagined a cat might look at a succulent mouse. Julian thought about rescuing her, then

decided that was really Hugh’s business, But Hugh only hovered at a distance, darting outraged glances at Guy. Do something, for God’s sake, Julian thought. If I'm going to fight all her battles, I might as well marry her myself.

Just then he heard Sir Robert's voice in the drawing room next door. He shut up the piano, unnoticed, and went in to speak to him.

“Mr. Kestrel," said Sir Robert. “I've just been asking after you. I knew you were expected back today, and finished my business as quickly as possible so that I could come home and hear your report. Shall we go into my study?"

“I think it might be best if Colonel Fontclair came with us.”

Geoffrey lifted frightened eyes. For a moment Sir Robert's eyes mirrored his dread. Then he banished all expression from his face. “If you would be so good, Geoffrey.”

The colonel struggled to his feet. Julian noticed, not for the first time, how his lameness got worse when he was upset.

“What’s happening?” Lady Tarleton demanded.

“Mr. Kestrel is going to report to me about his investigations in London."

“I knew it!” she cried. “I knew he went to London to spy out information to use against us!"

“He went to London under my aegis, and with my blessing. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Catherine."

He went out, followed by Julian and Geoffrey. Lady Tarleton flung away to a window. Craddock sat hunched forward, his large hands spread out on his knees, frowning.

Lady Fontclair slipped out of the room. Softly, at a discreet distance, she followed Sir Robert, Geoffrey, and Julian to the study.

*

It was cold in the study. The window was open, and there was no fire in the grate. A breeze blew in, ruffling the curtains and bending back the candleflames. Colonel Fontclair shivered a little and moved restlessly in his chair.

Sir Robert sat opposite his brother. Julian stood between them.

“I wanted you to be here," he said to Geoffrey, “so that I could ask you, in Sir Robert’s presence, what you know about Aim6e Deschamps.
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Geoffrey closed his eyes and dropped his head in his hands. “Who is Aimee Deschamps?” asked Sir Robert.

“Aimee Deschamps is the young lady I found dead in my room.” “You’ve found out who she is? But—but Deschamps is the name of the woman who—’’ He broke off, staring at Geoffrey’s hunched, silent figure. “You knew all along who she was!”

“I knew she was Gabrielle’s daughter. I don’t know how she got here, Robert, or how she died.”

Lady Fontclair came in quietly. Sir Robert was too shocked to pay her any heed. “You told us Gabrielle had no relations.”

“I know. I was afraid to tell you about Aim6e.”

“You admit she was Gabrielle’s daughter? And you expect us to believe you had nothing to do with her death?”

“It’s the truth, Robert, I swear! I never set eyes on Aim6e from the time the French were routed from Spain till you had us all come in and look at her lying dead on that sofa. Of course I knew by then it must be Aimee. I recognized that little trinket I gave her—the silver scallop shell. It’s a symbol of the patron saint of Spain. I bought it off a gipsy in a marketplace. It was a trumpery thing, but I knew if I gave Aimee anything that was any good, Gabrielle would take it for herself. She seemed to like it—Aimee did. She was very religious.”

“Why didn’t you tell us at once who she was?” Sir Robert broke in impatiently.

“I couldn’t! I’d have been the only one here who knew her! You’d think—just what you’re thinking now! That I must be the one who killed her, that I had the most to gain by putting her out of the way! But I didn’t kill her, I was fond of her once, I wouldn’t have hurt her for anything. I was shocked when I realized it was she who’d been killed! I couldn’t imagine how she got here, or what she was doing in Kestrel’s room. Cecily will tell you!” He turned eagerly to Lady Fontclair. “I was shocked, wasn’t I? I could hardly believe it was Aimee.”

The colour drained out of Sir Robert’s face. He came slowly to

his feet, staring across at his wife. "You knew who the murdered girl was? And you didn't tell me?”

“Robert, don't look at me like that!" She went to him and laid her hand on his arm. “Geoffrey told me the day after the murder that the girl was Gabrielle's daughter. He had to talk to someone. He needed advice. I wanted more than anything to go to you and lay it all at your feet, but I didn't want to inflict another burden on you. I knew you'd feel obliged to investigate Geoffrey’s guilt, and the whole story of Gabrielle and the letters might have to come out. And what was the point, when I knew—I knew Geoffrey wasn't guilty?”

“In five-and-twenty years of marriage, I've hidden nothing from you. I trusted you absolutely—you can't know! How could you conspire with Geoffrey to deceive me?”

“It wasn't like that. Geoffrey confided in me, I couldn’t betray him. And I know your sense of justice. I was afraid you’d put him through the utmost rigours of the law, rather than seem to show any partiality toward him. I had to protect him. I couldn’t let him be suspected of a murder I was sure he didn’t commit.”

“I understand. You had to choose between your loyalty to Geoffrey and me, and you chose him. Perhaps you regret in your heart of hearts that you didn’t choose him years ago, when we both wanted to marry you.”

“No, no! You don’t understand. Geoffrey was in danger—he needed me, you didn’t. You’re so strong and steady and brave. Geoffrey isn’t like that.” She looked at Colonel Fontclair, with the love of a mother for a dear though wayward child.

“Unlike you,” Sir Robert said coldly, “I can’t take it on faith that Geoffrey had nothing to do with the murder. He has committed treason, and now perjury. I won't stand between him and justice any longer.”

“What are you going to do?” Geoffrey stammered.

“What I ought to have done from the beginning. I shall write to another magistrate and ask him to take over the investigation. And when he does, I shall lay all the truth before him—Gabrielle Des-champs, her daughter, the letters—everything.” He looked grimly at his brother. “My last act as magistrate is to order you not to leave

this parish. You are now the principal suspect in the murder. Be thankful I don’t have you locked up as I did Mr. Kestrel's servant, with far less cause."

He turned to Julian, controlling his voice with an effort. "Mr. Kestrel, thank you for making the girl's identity known. You've enabled me to give her a proper funeral under her own name, which is the very least I owe her." He turned and went to the door.

Lady Fontclair gave a little cry, ran after him, and caught his arm. He freed it. "I had rather you wouldn't hang on me. I wish to be alone."

*

Julian tactfully left the study after Sir Robert, without making his presence felt by even a brief good night. He decided it was late enough now to go up to his old room and try the door. Dipper had had several hours to work his magic with the key.

As he started up the grand staircase, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned. Guy was coming toward him across the great hall, weaving a little, his face flushed and merry. "I always said it! Hugh wouldn't believe me, but I knew Isabelle would prove me right in the end. Even she can't rein in her feelings forever."

"What are you talking about?"

"Isabelle lost her temper right royally this evening. It's a pity you missed it—it may not happen again these twenty years. We were all in the music room after you left, and Isabelle was sewing away at those confounded wedding slippers, when all of a sudden she pricked her finger. She dropped one of the slippers, and up jumps Miss Craddock to pick it up for her. But Isabelle snatches it up, and, I swear, I thought she was going to hit Miss
^;
Craddock with it. ‘Give me that!' she shouts. ‘Leave me alone!' Miss Craddock ran like a rabbit. So much for Hugh's idea that Isabelle only wants to be a sister to him! She hates Miss Craddock for cutting her out with him. I always told him so."

Julian did not answer at once. When he did, he said merely, "I hope Miss Fontclair is feeling better now."

"Damned if I know. She slunk upstairs to her room, and I haven't

seen her since. Miss Craddock had a fit of the dismals and went up soon after. You know, she’s a taking little thing. I didn’t think so at first, but now I do. And she listens to a fellow very nicely, without wanting to talk all the time herself.” He yawned. “Well, I’m for bed. I might actually sleep tonight.”

“Haven’t you been sleeping?”

“No, I haven’t. You can write that down in your catalogue of clues, if you think it’s important. But I’ll wager none of us has slept any too well since the murder. We*re all as nervous as cats. Except you, of course.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Nothing rattles you. Anybody would think you’d been finding corpses in your bed all your life.”

Julian said nothing, only looked at him with lifted brows. I really have become a policeman first and a gentleman second, he thought—trying to lure a fellow into talking rashly while he’s in his cups.

“And maybe you have,” Guy went on. “Who knows what you got up to before you turned up in London a few years ago? You could have had ten wives, killed them all, and stuffed them in a sea chest.” He leaned so close that Julian could smell the liquor on his breath. “Maybe all this hunting the murderer is a hum. Maybe you did it yourself, and you’re having a good laugh on us all.”

“Do you think the murderer is laughing? I think he’s more likely racking his brains for ways to cover his guilt. He might even be going about accusing other people, to throw them off the scent.”

“Kestrel, I’m not— I didn’t—”

Julian waited. “Talk to me,’’ he urged. “I’ll help you any way

I can.”

“I don’t have anything to tell you! Except that I’m done-up, and I’m going to bed.”

He hurried away, his walk remarkably steady all of a sudden. Fear could certainly do wonders to clear a man’s head.

Julian went upstairs. His heart beat quickly as he turned the corner into his own hallway. He glanced around to make sure he was quite alone, then went to his old room.

Now for it. He tried the door. It was unlocked. “Dipper—

bravissimo!" he said softly. He went inside and shut the door behind him.

*

Julian got up next morning without a single groan at the earliness of the hour. He felt filled to his fingertips with energy and purpose. He understood far more about the murder than he had a day ago. The only question was how best to use his newfound knowledge.

He was mulling this over as he coaxed his neckcloth into the severe style known as trone d’amour. Dipper, who was cleaning his shaving gear, yawned for the fourth time. “I hope I don’t keep you awake,” said Julian solicitously.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“The devil you are. You look confoundedly pleased with yourself.” “I dunno what you mean, sir.”

“Don't you?” said Julian, eyes dancing. “I’ll wager Molly Dale does. Shall I ask her?”

Dipper was spared having to answer this. Michael, the footman, came to tell them Dick Felton was at the back door and would like to have a word with Mr. Kestrel before breakfast. “Good Lord,” said Julian, “I’d all but forgotten Felton. Tell him to wait for me in the silver lime courtyard. I’ll be down directly.”

Felton was sitting on the edge of a fountain, swinging his legs and whistling. The sound helped Julian find him amid the thick growth of trees. When he saw Julian, he jumped to his feet. “Thanks for coming out so prompt, sir. I'm due back at the Lion in time for the mails, or I wouldn’t have come so early.”