Cut to the Quick (21 page)

It was nearly three in the morning by the time he got to bed. At last I’ve got leisure to think this whole thing out from beginning to end, he thought. And at once he fell asleep.

Julian dreamed he heard a woman screaming, and woke to find that the screaming was real. It came from the direction of the servants’ wing. Starting up from his bed, he pulled on trousers, a shirt, and his dressing gown. He rushed across the hallway, through the great chamber and down the grand staircase. On the lower flight of stairs, he stopped. His eyes met Guy Fontclair’s.

Guy was coming through the great hall from the direction of the screens passage. He wore riding clothes and carried a rain-drenched greatcoat with a short cape attached. His boots were mud-stained, and his wavy hair stuck to his brow in curlicues. The smell of wet wool hung thickly about him.

He got rattled on seeing Julian. “I might have known you’d be stalking round the house at this hour, like Hamlet’s ghost, or Macbeth’s, or whoever’s ghost it was.”

“I heard a woman scream/*

“That was Dorcas—stupid little jade! You’d think she’d never seen a man with a cape over his head before.”

“It was you who made her scream, then.”

“Don’t say that as though I crept up behind her with a knife! All that happened was, I came in through the back door and ran into Dorcas in the servants’ hall. I had my cape flung over my head to keep the rain off, so she couldn’t see who I was. She started shrieking

fit to bring the house down. I had to shake her before I could get her to leave off. And of course the servants came pouring in from all sides and gaped at us as though we were a Punch and Judy show. Damn their eyes!”

“You can’t blame them for being in a nervous state.”

“Well, they had no call to jump down my throat like that. I come in the back door at this hour all*the time.”

“They probably weren’t expecting you to be out on a night like last night.”

“I go out in all kinds of weather, damn you! I’m not somebody’s grandmother!”

“Neither am I, but I’d have needed a devil of a good reason to be out in a storm like that.”

“I had a good reason. I wanted to get out of this house. I couldn’t sleep, thinking about all of us traipsing past that girl’s body with a candle, looking at her.”

“You seemed to be much affected.”

“I was sick, if that’s what you mean. I don't like looking at dead people. Not that I’ve seen all that many, in case you were thinking I go around leaving them in other people’s beds.”

He came over and sat down wearily on the stairs. Julian sat down beside him. “That’s one reason I’ve never gone into the army,” he added, “though I think the colonel would have liked me to sport his regimental colours, and family tradition says there’s got to be at least one Fontclair in uniform every generation. It’s not that I’m a coward! I like a good fight as much as anyone. But death is different.”

Can this be a performance? Julian thought. It sounds absolutely sincere. And yet, isn’t it exactly what a murderer would say, to excuse his squeamishness on being confronted with the body of his victim?

He said, “A woman’s death is certainly different. I found it painful, too, seeing how young and frail she was, and how beautiful.” Guy got up abruptly and walked a few steps away. “It’s a damned rotten business,” he muttered.

“The murderer has to be found.”

“I know that! Everybody knows that."

“Sir Robert's agreed to let me take part in the investigation. My man is in gaol and may be charged with the crime—I have a large stake in finding out who really killed the girl. Will you answer a question?"

“What is it?”

“You told me the room where the girl was killed used to be yours.”

“What the deuce is there in that?”

“I thought you might have some idea why the girl and the murderer might have gone there. Could they have been looking for something?”

“I’m damned if I know. It's too bloody early for riddles. I'm all to pieces, and I'm going to bed.”

“I just have one more question. I wish I could think of a more subtle way to put this—but are you in the habit of carrying a knife?”

“No, I’m not! I have a pocket knife, but I didn't bring it with me to Bellegarde. I can prove that if I have to.”

Julian stood up. "Thank you for answering my questions. If you think of anything strange or remarkable about the room, will you let me know?”

“Why do you keep harping on the room?”

“Because I think it's important, in some way we don't understand." He yawned. “What a dreary time of day this is. The blackest night is brighter than a rain-soaked dawn in England."

He went back to his room. The house was very still. Apparently none of the Fontclairs and Craddocks had been roused by Dorcas’s screaming. That was not surprising: Julian’s room was closer to the servants* wing than any of theirs. His old room was closer still: as best he could visualize, it must abut Rawlinson's office on the upper floor of the servants* wing. He wished he had a plan of the house, so that he could study exactly how the rooms were arranged. Perhaps Rawlinson could find one for him.

He went back to bed, though without much hope of being able to sleep any longer. But exhaustion came to his aid: when next he opened his eyes, it was nine o'clock.

*

Miss Craddock came down to breakfast with the others, but found she could not eat. As soon as good manners permitted, she left the table and went into the library. Julian followed her. Hugh, seeing them disappear one after the other, felt as though someone had given his collar a nasty twist. Confound the man! he thought. Why did I ever invite him?

“Oh!” said Maud. “Mr. Kestrel.”

“Am I disturbing you?”

“No.”

“I was concerned, seeing you at breakfast. I thought you looked distressed. I think you still do.”

“Well of course, I’m troubled about the murder. Everyone is.” “No one more than I. But, all the same, I managed to sleep a little last night.” His gaze lingered on the shadows under her eyes. He might as well have reached out and traced them with his fingers.

“I am worried,” she faltered. “But—I can’t tell you why. I wish I could!”

“Yesterday you seemed to trust me. You enlisted me in your service—cavalier extraordinary.”

“Yesterday there hadn’t been a murder, and all sorts of things hadn’t happened.”

"Miss Craddock, if you know something—anything—that might throw light on the murder, I can’t urge you strongly enough to tell it. A man I believe with all my heart to be innocent is under suspicion. A guilty man may go free.”

She clasped her hands and walked about distractedly. “I wouldn’t for the world keep anything back that might prove your servant’s innocence, or help catch the real murderer. But, you see, this may not have anything to do with the murder. And it isn’t my secret. If it were, I wouldn’t think twice about telling you. I trust you, Mr. Kestrel—indeed I do.”

“Will you think very carefully about whether you ought to keep this back? In an investigation like this, the most obscure, unlikely things could have an importance we can’t begin to guess.”

She shook her head. “Once you tell a thing, it’s told forever. You can’t take it back. If I made a mistake—”

“Every kind of concealment is dangerous now. My servant is in gaol because he kept something back, thinking it could hurt him to tell it. And in the end it was his hiding the truth, far more than the truth itself, that spoke against him.”

“I just don’t know. I have to think. I will think.” She nodded firmly. "I promise.”

%

By midmorning, the sky had cleared, and the house was full of sunshine. Sir Robert ordered Travis and one of the special constables to comb Julian’s old room, the corridor, and the rooms nearby for evidence that might have been missed last night. Julian watched the search for a while, but finding it a methodical business, unlikely to produce any revelations, he went to speak to Rawlinson in his cubbyhole of an office.

Rawlinson was looking haggard. He was one of those people, Julian thought, who crave the safety of familiar tasks and a comfortable routine. The murder had introduced a foreign element into his world, and he was restive, bewildered, and a little resentful. “What can I do for you, Mr. Kestrel?”

“Would you be good enough to lend me the notes you took on the enquiries last night?”

“Those are official papers. I don’t think they ought to leave my hands.”

“Could we compromise and say they won’t leave your office? I can look at them here.”

“Well—I suppose that would be all right. Sir Robert says you’re to take part in the investigation,”

“Exactly. Thank you. There is one other thing. I would be very grateful if you could find me a plan of the house—the more detailed, the better.”

“I think there were plans drawn up when the new wing was built. I’ll see if I can find them.”

“Thank you.”

Julian sat down at Rawlinson’s desk, and Rawlinson gave him his notes on the investigation. “There’s pen and paper there,” he said, “if you’d like to make any notes of your own.” He coughed. “Would you mind if I left you? I have all kinds of business to attend to. This murder is taking up a really shocking amount of time.”

“Not at all,” said Julian readily. The room was too cramped for two people, anyway. Rawlinson must have the constitution of a mole, to be able to work in here.

Rawlinson went out. Julian took out his penknife to sharpen a pen, then looked at it thoughtfully. The blade on an ordinary penknife was, of course, too short to have stabbed the girl to death. But what a devil of a lot of knives we use in everyday life, he thought. There must have been scores of them at Bellegarde last night that the murderer could have used. Knives in the kitchen, knives in the stable for cutting twine and physicking the horses, pruning knives in the conservatory, hunting knives in the gun room. The men may carry pocket knives—though Guy says, with a good deal of unnecessary vehemence, that he didn’t bring his to Bellegarde. The women most likely have scissors—we know Lady Tarleton does— and those scissors women use for fancywork have infernally thin, sharp blades. Then, of course, Dr. MacGregor’s been teaching Lady Fontclair medical treatments, which means she may have a knife for removing splinters or lancing boils. And an artist needs something to sharpen her pencils, though she probably uses a penknife, like this one.

He gave up that line of enquiry for now. Dipping his pen in ink, he wrote at the top of a sheet of paper: “Day of the Murder: Chronology.” Then he wrote for some minutes, using Rawlinson’s notes to confirm his memory:

Morning    Hugh, Guy, Colonel Fontclair, and I tvtre at

horse fair

Lady Fontclair had morning callers Whereabouts of Sir Robert, Miss Fontclair, Lady Tarleton, and Mr. and Miss Craddock unknown i. oo    Luncheon

Miss Craddock and I talked in music room Sir Robert, Lady Fontclair, and Hugh reviewed legal papers

Lady Tarleton in her room sewing all afternoon Whereabouts of Miss Fontclair, Guy, Colonel F( ntclair, and Mr. Craddock unknown Miss Fontclair went to work on embroidery design in rose arbour

Mr. Craddock went riding: time of his departure unknown

Hugh and I went riding

Dipper brought my boots to my room and remained

there after I left

Miss Craddock went on botany expedition with Miss Pritchard and the Misses Fontclair Colonel Fontclair found Guy in library Guy went up to his room and took a nap Colonel Fontclair at some point went to his own room

Sir Robert and Lady Fontclair went to sit in conservatory

Dipper left my room and went to look at gun room

Michael barred the front door

Servants had their dinner

Mr. Craddock walked to clearing in forest

Dipper came to dinner in servants' hall Colonel Fontclair came down from his own room to servants' hall in an agitated state and asked if there was anyone in stable who could saddle his horse, then left through back door and went riding

Sir Robert went to library to look for book of Pope’s verses; Lady Fontclair remained in conservatory

About 5.20 Miss Fontclair came in from garden through conservatory windows, asked Lady Fontclair what time it was, went up stairs in new wing and crossed to main house to look for Miss Craddock, went down corridor leading to my room then turned toward Miss Craddock’s, finding Miss Craddock not there she went to her own room Mr. Craddock rang at front door, Michael let him in and barred door again, Mr. Craddock went up grand staircase to his room and remained alone there till six o'clock About 5.30 Sir Robert returned to conservatory

Guy woke up and rang for his manservant About 3.43 Miss Craddock returned from botany expedition, went to her room

About ^.^5 Hugh and I returned from riding, I went up to my room and found body Miss Craddock came downstairs, spoke with Hugh in great hall, went back to her room

All very neat and orderly, he thought, but limited in its usefulness. For his chronology assumed that all the Fontclairs and Craddocks told the truth about their movements yesterday, when in fact he felt sure that some, or even most, of them had been lying. Still, there was something to be said for making himself familiar with their stories, so that he would be quick to notice any discrepancies.

He gave some thought to the condition of the suspects’ clothes. Ail the Fontclairs and Craddocks except Sir Robert had dressed for dinner yesterday evening. That meant that, if one of them killed the girl, he or she had an opportunity to change clothes after the murder, and perhaps to clean any bloodstains off his or her garments. The girl’s clothes had been dirty, but that did not mean the murderer’s were. Indeed, the fact that no dirt had been tracked near the washstand suggested that the murderer’s shoes, at least, were clean. And if any of the suspects’ clothes were soiled, there might be perfectly innocuous explanations. Geoffrey and Craddock had been out riding before dinner. Isabelle had been sitting outside. Guy had