Whom the Gods Love (18 page)

"Seriously? No, I suppose not. What I think about Falkland is that he was spread too thin. Do you see what I mean? He was all things to all people, and nothing important to anybody. In a twelve-month, nobody will remember him—or if they do, it will only be for the way he died."

"I think that may be the profoundest and saddest thing anyone has said about him."

"I shall give us both a fit of the dismals in a moment. Let's change the subject. What do you think of my new coat?"

"I think the buttons will be very useful if we should happen to break any of the saucers."

"I wonder you can bear to be seen with me," said Felix sympathetically.

"It's a great advantage to be seen with you. You make every gentleman around you seem a model of taste and restraint." He spoke lightly—then his thoughts took a serious turn. Why does a man surround himself with unprepossessing friends? An awkward, uncultivated boy like Eugene, a shy bookworm like Clare, a scorned outsider like Adams: what did they have in common that had appealed so strongly to Alexander? That they were all disadvantaged and needed his help? Or was it that they could never be his rivals—that his splendour shone all the more brightly, set against their flaws?

*

Felix left soon after. Julian remained in the coffee-room, appearing to read a newspaper but keeping an eye on on the gentlemen drifting in and out. For a while there were no likely prospects; then a promising fish swam into his net. Sir Henry Effingham, his bristly black hair combed into a crest, his long bluish chin thrust out above a stiffly starched cravat, came in and sat down with his back to the wall—a politician's instinct, Julian supposed. He snapped open a newspaper and ran his eyes swiftly up and down the columns, probably looking for a mention of his name.

Julian went to work. He peered over his newspaper at Sir Henry with what Felix called his owlish look. When Sir Henry caught him at it, he affected to be absorbed in the paper again. He repeated this manoeuvre several times. Finally, when the ebb and flow of men had left the room unusually empty, Sir Henry rose and stalked over to him. "Did you wish to speak to me, Mr. Kestrel?"

"I should be delighted to speak to you, Sir Henry, but I had no particular wish to do so."

"You were looking at me very persistently."

"I beg your pardon, but I don't believe I was. It's far too early in the day to be persistent about anything."

Sir Henry struck an attitude, one foot before him, hands grasping his lapels. "If you have anything to say to me, Mr. Kestrel, I should prefer you to say it straight out."

"I should be glad to oblige you, Sir Henry, if I had anything to say."

They met one another's gaze, giving no ground. They both knew that Sir Henry had been at Alexander's last party, and that, like most of the guests, he had no alibi for the crucial twenty-five minutes. Julian did not need to question him about that—Bow Street had been over it thoroughly. What he wanted to know was what Sir Henry would feel driven to say by his silence.

"May I sit down?" said Sir Henry, with awful politeness. 

"By all means."

He took a seat, his hands folded on the table before him. Julian felt like a committee about to be addressed. "Mr. Kestrel, it's common knowledge that you're attempting to solve Alexander Falkland's murder. Naturally you wish to know my opinion on the matter. Falkland and I were acquainted; I might go so far as to say that we were friends. I had the greatest respect for him. Of course he was young and untried. I think no one can deny that."

"I wouldn't dream of denying it, Sir Henry."

"And it must be owned, he was given to dissipation, which was only to be expected in one so young, whose head had been a little turned by admiration. Still, he had considerable abilities. Whether he would have had the discipline to make good use of them, I'm not prepared to say."

"He seemed to make rather good use of them in money matters."

Sir Henry's mouth tightened. His own financial straits were well known. He had a tuft-hunting wife, a bevy of children, and an estate that was out at elbows. On top of all that, his Parliamentary seat had been fiercely contested, which had compelled him to spend even more on beer and bribery than the usual election required. Of late he had turned to the investment market to recoup his fortunes, so far with disastrous results.

"I grant you, he had talents in that line," Sir Henry allowed. "Of course, he was very lucky. And he had that Jew businessman behind him."

"You think Mr. Adams was responsible for his success?" 

"Well, he certainly let him into a number of good things. I don't know why—usually those people stick pretty closely to their own kind."

"Surely Adams benefited by Falkland's introducing him into society. And by all accounts, they were friends."

Sir Henry smiled faintly and began to toy with one of the coffee cups. "Does Mr. Adams say so?"

"Why? Have you any reason to doubt it?"

"What if I were to tell you that Falkland didn't invite Adams to his party—the one where he was murdered? Adams invited himself, and Falkland wasn't altogether pleased."

We come to the root of it, Julian thought. This is what he came over here to tell me. But can he be trusted? He has no alibi for the murder, and every reason to implicate someone else. And who better than Adams, whom he despises for everything but his financial success, which he envies bitterly?

Still, there was no harm in hearing what he had to say. "You intrigue me, Sir Henry. Please explain."

"If I do, will you undertake to keep my name out of this? I don't care to have it bandied about the police courts. I assume that what I say to you as one gentleman to another will be held in confidence?"

"Insofar as possible, Sir Henry."

Sir Henry smiled sourly. In his walk of life, he must be used to noncommittal answers. "I take that to mean that, unless you are compelled to reveal the source of this information, you will not do so?"

"Precisely."

"Very well. The day before Falkland's party, I went to the sale at Tattersall's." Tattersall's was an auctioneering house where sporting gentlemen bought their horses and carriages, settled their racing debts, and hung about talking of hunting and the turf. "You know that little circle of columns with a statue in the middle? I was standing on one side of it, and Falkland was on other. I hardly noticed him till Adams came up and accosted him. Being hemmed in by groups of people, I was obliged to overhear a good part of their conversation." 

And to pick up any investment tips they happened to drop, Julian thought. "How very awkward for you."

"Yes, it was. I don't think they saw me. They were absorbed in what they were saying. I don't remember it exactly, but I know Adams as good as invited himself to Falkland's party the following evening. He was quite peremptory about it, as if saying 'I want to come' were enough to command an invitation."

"How did Falkland respond?"

Sir Henry knit his brows. "He seemed surprised. He said 'Really?' or some such thing, and then 'Do you think that's wise?' Then Adams demanded to know if he was invited or not."

"Was he angry?"

"He was—impassioned. His voice shook a little. I think that may be why I remember the conversation so well. It naturally seemed of little importance at the time. But Adams's intensity surprised me. I suppose there was money involved—that's the only thing those people care desperately about."

Julian did not consider this worthy of a response. "Please finish your story, Sir Henry."

"As I said, Adams demanded to know if he was invited. Falkland was quite unruffled. He laid his hand on Adams's shoulder for a moment, in a friendly way, and said 'My dear fellow, since you ask so graciously,' or something of that sort. And he went off."

Julian frowned thoughtfully. The story sounded true to him.

If Sir Henry were lying in order to implicate Adams, he would surely have invented something more damning than this. So the next step, clearly, was to see David Adams and ask why he had wanted so badly to be at the party where Alexander met his death.

12: The Root of All Evil

David Adams's office was in Cornhill, in the heart of mercantile London. It was a world apart from the West End. The men here wore rusty black frock coats, carried umbrellas rather than walking sticks, and never strolled when they could hasten. The women were all plump tradesmen's wives and skinny maids of all work—no ladies, and no ladybirds. Street entertainers did not waste their time here; the only colourful sights were the Turks and East Indians in native dress around the Bank and the Royal Exchange. As for greenery, there was none to be seen, except through the rusty railings of churchyards.

It was strange, thought Julian, that one could move so quickly from the leisured world of White's to this dirty, noisy, energetic hive. The
beau monde
took pride in knowing nothing of this part of town; even Alexander Falkland, for all his love of speculation, had probably rarely been to Adams's office. What most struck Julian about the transition from west to east was the diminishing scale. The City was a labyrinth of little spaces: tiny courts, dark covered ways, dabs of shops, and dingy cubbyholes of offices. But perhaps it all seemed small to him in part because it had once looked so much larger, when he ran about these close, teeming streets as a child.

D. S. Adams and Company occupied an old brick building, with a jutting, half-timbered garret that threatened to topple into the street. Julian enquired for Adams in the counting-house, which was the front room on the ground floor. Here half a dozen clerks sat on high stools and scribbled at little tilted desks, while a spotty-faced boy in the chimney corner sharpened quills and tended the fire. How they had gotten to their perches Julian had no idea, since they seemed hemmed in on all sides by leatherbound ledgers, stacks of blotting-paper, steel strongboxes linked together with chains, and a hodgepodge of inkwells, bits of sealing-wax, and hanks of string. A sheep-like smell of mutton-fat candles mingled with the dust and soot that flew about whenever a drawer shut or a pile of papers rustled. Tacked up on the walls were maps of unfamiliar nations, pages torn from almanacs, and pamphlets touting the latest foreign investments.

Julian's arrival brought a superior clerk in a green eyeshade out of a little back office. He greeted Julian civilly and took his card upstairs. Soon after, he returned to say that Mr. Adams would be glad to speak with Mr. Kestrel in quarter of an hour, as he was presently engaged with some Bolivian gentlemen. Julian said he would take a short walk in the meantime. Cramped spaces made him restless, and the dogged, slightly frantic activity here reminded him of his landlady, Mrs. Mabbitt, on one of her dreaded laundry days.

He returned just as the Bolivian gentlemen were leaving. Their intricately ruffled shirts and magnificent side-whiskers made vivid splashes of black and white in these grey surroundings. Adams saw them out, taking leave of them in fluent Spanish. Then he turned to Julian with his faintly ironic smile. "Mr. Kestrel. I expected you."

"Thank you for seeing me so readily. I hardly dared hope I would find you at liberty."

"You haven't. I've had to cry off from another appointment. But I knew I'd have to see you sooner or later, and I'd as lief have it over. Please come upstairs."

Adams's private office made a striking contrast to the counting-house below. The mahogany furniture was more suited to a gentleman's library than to a place of business. The inkstands were of Sevres porcelain, the fireplace of porphyry. The walls were covered in red velvet and hung with paintings of ships and country landscapes. An elegant silver coffee service was set out on a table. The clerk with the green eyeshade came in and removed the urn and cups. "He'll bring us a fresh pot," said Adams. "I hope you don't object to coffee rather than tea?"

"No, I prefer it."

"So do the Bolivian gentlemen you just saw. They're looking to raise money to build a railway in their country. I don't think anyone in England is likely to bite. We don't know if we can make a success of a railway here, let alone on the other side of the world. Wait till the one between Liverpool and Manchester is finished—then we'll see."

"Do you think it will answer?"

"Too early to say." Adams smiled noncommittally. "Please sit down."

He gestured toward a pair of leather armchairs by the fire. He himself took the one facing the window, as if to show he had nothing to hide from its light. He was about five-and-thirty, with a lean, sharply chiselled face and a high brow. His hair and eyes were dark, his skin a fine, pale olive. He sat back, one long leg thrown over the other, his thin, rather beautiful hands resting easily on the arms of his chair.

"First," said Julian, "I should like to know why you demanded an invitation to the party at which Alexander Falkland was murdered."

Adams looked meditative, faintly intrigued, as though the matter were interesting but hardly important. Yet Julian saw how his hands tightened briefly round the arms of his chair. "I wasn't aware anyone knew about that."

"I have sources Bow Street doesn't."

"Evidently. I wished to attend the party for the same reason I was always looking to penetrate Falkland's world. I made connexions through him. More important, I picked up gossip. In my line of work, political and social news are of the first importance. The fate of a burgeoning industry or a foreign loan may hinge on whether some scented lordling is out of temper with his mistress or has just lost money on a horse. It seems absurd, but this is England, where the people who know least about business have the greatest sway over it. Not that Falkland's friends went out of their way to pass on news to me. But I learned a good deal by hanging about and listening—eavesdropping, if need be. Of course I wanted to attend his party. Though I hadn't expected it to be quite so exciting as it turned out."

"The source of my information says you were very insistent about going—that you seemed agitated, and your voice shook."

"Then your source is confused, or fanciful, or would like to see me dangling in a noose. Which means he or she could be very nearly anybody."