Whom the Gods Love (29 page)

"My dear Vance, I shan't have you up for an assault. I should like—in fact, I should be honoured if you would treat me as a colleague and not make these differences between us." 

"I'm much obliged, I'm sure, sir. But you see, though you may treat me as familiar as you like—in a gentleman that's being what you call mag-nanimous—if I was to be familiar with
you,
that'd be imper'ence. And a man in my place as don't know the difference is asking to be blowed up."

"I beg your pardon. I never meant to overturn the social order."

"That's all right, sir," said Vance indulgently. "Gentlemen like you don't have to pay much heed to the social order. A mountain don't get in the way of a man as lives on the top." 

"Why, Vance, I believe you're a Radical."

"Who, me, sir?" Vance's eyes danced. "Just a working man as knows my place."

"And knows how to put me in mine."

Vance grinned, then his brows came together. "We're learning heaps about the Brickfield Murder, sir, but it's Mr. Falkland's murder we're supposed to be a-solving. You think we're getting anywhere with that?"

"Yes, because I'm certain the two crimes are connected. Mrs. Falkland had a suspicious meeting with Mrs. Desmond just two weeks before the Brickfield Murder, and a week after it Alexander was killed. You realize what that means? We must find out who the gentleman was who drove this gig. Because Alexander may have known who he was and guessed he was involved in the Brickfield Murder. And that would have given the gentleman a compelling motive to kill him."

"If Mr. Falkland knew who'd committed the Brickfield Murder, sir, why wouldn't he have gone to the authorities?" 

"He may have lacked proof, or been reluctant to betray a friend. But there's another possibility."

Julian paused. He was not superstitious about speaking ill of the dead, but he felt it was a thing one ought not to do lightly—especially when the living would bear the brunt of the suffering and shame. "Alexander had a knack for making people do him favours. He induced Clare to take part in an elaborate deception of his father. He prevailed upon Adams to forgive a debt of thirty thousand pounds. Why would a man of Clare's intelligence, or Adams's strength of will, act so drastically against his own interest?"

Vance nodded cannily. "Blackmail, sir?"

"Precisely. It looks as if Alexander had quite a talent in that line. So if he learned that a gentleman of his acquaintance had committed a murder, would he report it to the authorities? Or would he hold it over the culprit's head for his own purposes?" 

They exchanged an understanding look. Then Vance said, "It looks to me, sir, as if we'd better find the gentleman as drove this gig."

"You'll put out advertisements?"

"I'll blanket the city, sir. If there's anyone between here and Hampstead as knows aught about this gig, I'll find him.—What's this? You seem to have company, sir."

A handsome town chaise, painted black and scarlet and drawn by a pair of well-matched bays, was drawing up behind the gig. Julian thought it curious that the carriage bore no crest. A man of good family would blazon his coat-of-arms on the doors; even a wealthy parvenu would buy or invent some heraldic device. But the owner of this carriage kept its shiny black doors almost defiantly bare.

"I'll lay you any odds," said Julian softly, "it's David Adams."

A footman in black and scarlet livery jumped down from behind the carriage and opened the door. Adams stepped out, raking the street with his gaze as if seeking a particular house. All at once he caught sight of Julian and Vance. He bore down on them swiftly. "Mr. Kestrel! I must see you at once."

"If you'll allow me a moment, Mr. Adams. Vance, I believe we're finished? Unless you can help us," he added, turning back to Adams. "We're attempting to identify this gig." 

Adams cast an impatient glance over it. "I know nothing about it."

No, thought Julian, I don't believe you do. Which means that, whatever else you may have done, you're not our mysterious nocturnal driver.

Vance took his leave and drove the gig away, saying he would find a safe place to store it. Julian brought Adams inside and upstairs to his parlour. "Now then, Mr. Adams, how may I be of service to you?"

"Is it true? About Mrs. Falkland?"

"What exactly do you wish to know?"

"It's all over the City that she's been in an accident, miscarried of a child, and that someone deliberately brought it about. Is it true?"

"Yes. She was thrown from her horse, and her groom discovered two nails driven into her saddle. We're attempting to find out who was responsible."

"How badly hurt is she?"

"She's sprained her ankle and had a bad knock on the head. And as you've heard, she suffered a miscarriage."

Adams started pacing back and forth as if the Devil were at his heels. Suddenly he spun around and looked at Julian. "I'm afraid this is my fault."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I might have prevented it. I tried, but not hard enough. Tell me: does she still have a woman waiting on her—large, fortyish, with a square jaw and a West Country accent?"

"Her maid, Martha Gilmore. Yes."

"Damnation!" Adams resumed his headlong pacing. "I tried to warn her about that woman. I should have been more direct. If it turns out her maid did this to her, how shall I—how can I ever—?" He clapped a hand to his brow.

"Mr. Adams, why do you believe Martha caused the accident?"

"Because she's not to be trusted! I saw her—" He stopped. 

"You saw her where? Doing what?"

Adams forced out, his voice heavy with repugnance, "At the house of a woman named Marianne Desmond."

"My dear Mr. Adams," said Julian softly, "you touch on a subject very near my heart. How do you know Mrs. Desmond?"

"I wouldn't say I knew her. I met her once."

"At her house?"

"Yes."

"How did you happen to go there?"

"I was invited."

"By Mrs. Desmond?"

"No."

"Come, we shall make better progress if you expand your answers beyond monosyllables. If Mrs. Desmond didn't invite you, who did? The gentleman who supported her?"

Adams looked at him strangely. "Are you playing cat and mouse with me?"

"Why should you think so?"

"Well, you obviously know who Mrs. Desmond is. So why do you speak of 'the gentleman who supported her' in that roundabout way?"

"Because, Mr. Adams, regrettably, I don't know who that gentleman is."

Adams stared. Then he threw back his head and laughed. "No, of course you don't! You wouldn't, would you? How could you possibly have guessed?"

"Then tell me. If you really wish to help Mrs. Falkland—" 

"Oh, yes, I'll tell you! With the greatest pleasure! Have you met Mrs. Desmond? No? Well, she's utter rubbish—a tawdry little jade who would do anything, sell anyone, for the price of a new pair of gloves. And who was keeping this nasty little piece of goods? The last man you would have suspected—and the first one you ought to have! Her lover was Alexander Falkland."

20: Villain or Victim?

While Adams savoured the effect of his words, Julian took a turn about the room. He needed to think this out. It might not be true—but if it was, it cast a whole new light on Alexander. That he had kept a mistress was not surprising in itself. Many men of fashion, married or not, took a
chere amie
as a matter of course. But Alexander had always played the devoted husband. Yet wasn't that part of his pattern—to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds? In society, he posed as the charming, light-hearted host, while his letters to Sir Malcolm made him appear a serious and thoughtful scholar. In the same way, he married a virtuous woman and won laurels for his constancy—all the while keeping a low adventuress as his mistress.

If it were true, Julian reminded himself. But why would Adams lie? He obviously hated Alexander and took delight in savaging his reputation. But in order to expose Alexander's connexion with Mrs. Desmond, he was obliged to reveal he had met her himself, and that could only draw him more deeply into the investigation—perhaps even implicate him in Alexander's murder. No, it looked very much as if he were telling the truth. And that meant facing the ugliest implication of all.

He pictured that encounter between the Falklands and Mrs. Desmond outside Cygnet's Court. Mrs. Desmond, dressed in her maid's clothes, took Mrs. Falkland into Cygnet's Court, and Alexander told the coachman and footman she was going to visit a sick friend. Until now, Julian had believed the two women deceived Alexander with this story. Now it seemed Alexander knew perfectly well who Mrs. Desmond was. There was no plot between Mrs. Falkland and Mrs. Desmond against Alexander. The plot, if any, was between Alexander and his mistress against his wife.

Julian said at last, "This is the first I've heard of a love affair between Alexander and Mrs. Desmond. He seems to have been remarkably successful at keeping it dark."

"Well, that was important to him. He liked cutting a romantic figure—the young lover dancing attendance on his beautiful bride. The reality was that virtue bored him. I told you last time we talked that he liked speculation because it was exciting. He liked other kinds of excitement as well. He spared me the details—I didn't want to know them. But I don't doubt Mrs. Desmond gave full satisfaction in that line." 

Julian recalled that Mrs. Desmond was said to have brought young women home to meet her protector. It looked as if Alexander had made her his procuress as well as his mistress. "Why should he have told you about her, when he seems to have told no one else?"

Adams paused, as if feeling his way. "I daresay he wanted to show her off. He liked showing off his acquisitions. He hardly counted it worth owning a thing, if there was no one to admire it."

"That does sound like him."

"Then you're beginning to understand him. I've understood him for a long time—better than anyone, I think. He couldn't help showing his venal side to me. I handled his money, and that's the next thing to being a man's confessor. So he probably felt he had little to lose by letting me know about Mrs. Desmond. He knew I was already—skeptical—about his reputation as a virtuous youth."

"You say you only visited her once. When was that?"

"Oh, early in April. I don't remember exactly."

"I should have thought you were the sort of man to keep close track of his appointments."

"This wasn't an appointment. It was an impromptu visit. Mrs. Desmond's house was a convenient place for Alexander and me to duck in and discuss business. I didn't exchange more than a few words with her."

"Then how do you know enough about her to despise her so thoroughly?"

"Her character was apparent enough. And Alexander dropped hints. I don't remember exactly what he said."

Your memory is convenient, thought Julian. Faces but not dates, character but not conversation. It won't wash, Mr. Adams. You must have had a very personal experience of Mrs. Desmond, to loathe her as you do now.

He said, "Tell me about Martha. You say you saw her at Mrs. Desmond's?"

"Yes. Very briefly. Mrs. Desmond let me in, and I saw another woman behind her in the hall. I didn't know then who she was—I'd never seen Mrs. Falkland's maid. I assumed she was a servant of Mrs. Desmond's. Mrs. Desmond sent me into the parlour, saying, Never mind about her, I'll get rid of her. And I suppose she did, because I didn't see her again." 

Julian repeated musingly, "'Mrs. Desmond let
me
in, Mrs. Desmond sent
me
into the parlour.' Are you quite sure Alexander was with you on this visit?"

Adams's head came up. Julian could see the tension run through him, all the way to his fingertips. "Yes, Mr. Kestrel. Of course he was."

"I think your memory may be a trifle foggy on that point. But we'll let it pass for now. When did you find out the woman you'd seen was Mrs. Falkland's maid?"

"On the night of Alexander's party—the night he was murdered."

"Yes, of course. Martha called him out of the drawing room to tell him Mrs. Falkland wouldn't be coming back to the party, and you went with him."

"Yes. And I recognized her at once: same broad shoulders, square face, and heavy jaw. Even the same cross around her neck. So I knew they were up to something—she and Alexander. Why else would his wife's maid be visiting his mistress?"

"Perhaps on Mrs. Falkland's behalf. Martha had been spying on Alexander for several weeks before his death: searching his rooms and pestering his valet about his comings and goings. Perhaps she found out about Mrs. Desmond and went to see her, hoping to make her break off with him. She's very protective of Mrs. Falkland."

"Then why has she kept dark what she knows about Alexander and Mrs. Desmond?"

"She may have wanted to spare Mrs. Falkland the knowledge of his infidelity. Or she may have feared we would suspect her of killing him to avenge his wife's wrongs." As perhaps she did, he thought. "This does explain one thing. You've always dismissed with scorn Clare's story that you looked daggers at Alexander after his conversation with Martha. Now it appears that seeing her gave you a most unpleasant jolt. Do you think perhaps Clare was telling the truth?" 

"It's possible," said Adams, through clenched teeth. "I suppose this is exactly what you needed to fasten the murder on me. Yes, I was angry when I realized the woman I'd seen at Mrs. Desmond's was Mrs. Falkland's maid. I'm not softhearted, and I've no illusions about human nature. But I don't think loyalty is too much to expect of a servant—or a husband. I hate treachery, and Martha was treacherous. So was Alexander."

Julian asked quietly, "Does Mrs. Falkland know you're so protective of her?"

"Protective? Are you mad?" Adams walked about wildly. "If you only knew!—"

"Yes, Mr. Adams? If I only knew—what?"

Adams stopped walking, clenched his hands till the knuckles whitened. "I thought Mrs. Falkland was being betrayed by the people closest to her. I was sorry for her on that account—nothing more. And after Alexander was killed, I was afraid she might be in danger. I knew her maid wasn't to be trusted. She'd been up to something hole-and-corner with Mrs. Desmond—perhaps had a hand in killing Alexander. I thought I should warn Mrs. Falkland against her, but I wasn't sure how to go about it. In the end, I wrote her a letter."