Cut to the Quick (26 page)

“Now for Mr. Craddock. He says he went for a walk in the Chase after his ride. He may have met the girl there—either by chance or by design—and arranged for her to join him at the house. He returns to Bellegarde and rings to be let in. Michael opens the door, then goes back to the servants* hall, and Craddock goes up to his room. His window looks out on the front court, and he watches from there till he sees the girl coming, then he steals down the stairs and lets her in through the front door. He brings her to my room, remembering that Ive gone out, and knowing there won’t be anyone else in that part of the house at that hour. But, again—”

“I know,” said MacGregor gloomily. “No motive.”

"Precisely. One thing I mean to find out is why he went for that walk in the Chase, and why Lady Tarleton was so upset about it. I*d give a monkey to know more about the history between those two.”

"That finishes your list of suspects. But when all's said and done, whether you like it or not, your servant is still a pretty strong contender.”

“I know. The devil take Dipper—why did he have to tell that lie?”

“Let’s hope it’s the only lie he told.”

“It is, I promise you. Though I wonder—”

"Every time you say *1 wonder,’ I know there’s trouble brewing. What is it now?”

“Is it possible I’m involved in the murder in some way I don’t understand? It happened in my room. And I’ve thought from the beginning it was odd I was invited in the first place. Hugh and I hardly know each other.”

“Then why did he ask you to be his best man?”

“He says he expected fireworks between his family and the Craddocks and thought I’d be a moderating influence. The truth is, he mistook me for a knight out of Walter Scott, because I once fished him out of a scrape in a gaming hell. That’s one of the hazards of cutting a figure in London. I don’t mind fellows copying the cut of my coat or the way I turn a phrase, but I hate like the devil being hero-worshipped. ”

“It’s a big responsibility, having to live up to some young cub’s admiration. Much easier to fob people off with dandified airs and a fine suit of clothes. Give ’em something to dazzle their eyes, and maybe they won’t try to find out what’s underneath it all.” He relented a little, seeing the young man’s startled face. “Touched you on the raw, have I? I can’t help it—I have to say what I think. The fact is, I can't stand waste, and it seems to me you’re squandering some fine gifts, leading the life you do. Why, with your intellects, you could be a barrister, a scholar—a doctor, when it comes to that. Wouldn't that be a better use of a mind like yours than thinking up new ways to tie a neckcloth or polish a pair of boots?”

“Possibly. But you see, I have no education. My father was a gentleman, but he married an actress, and his family cut him off with a shilling. I have no money to speak of, and no connexions. In our England* bless her heart, there’s no profession for a man like me. If I didn’t dress extremely well, I’d be invisible.”

He rose. It was time he returned to Bellegarde; he would be late to dinner as it was. He went out to the front hall to retrieve his hat and stick, MacGregor following. Just as he was leaving, MacGregor caught his arm.

“Kestrel!”

“What is it?”

“Don’t you feel like Daniel setting off for the lions' den, going back there? If you really think one of the Fontclairs is a murderer, how can you sit down to dinner with them, sleep under their roof?” “I don’t see that I have any choice. The investigation is centred at Bellegarde, and I want to be in the thick of it. Besides, I want to keep a close eye on the Fontclairs, Sooner or later the murderer’s mask will slip, even if by only an inch. I mean to be there when it does.”

“Do you think whoever was brute enough to stab that slip of a girl in the back would think twice about doing you a mischief, if he thinks you're on the brink of finding him out?”

“In that case, I may be safer at Bellegarde than anywhere else. Another crime in the Fontclairs’ own house would focus suspicion firmly and irrevocably on them.”

*'For God’s sake, man! Do you want to be the next person found in somebody’s bed with a knife wound?”

It dawned on Julian that MacGregor was really concerned about him. He was touched. ‘‘My dear fellow, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” grumbled MacGregor. “I just think you might be even more trouble dead than you are alive.”

^Text morning, the Bellegarde household went to church in Alderton. Some of the family, particularly the colonel and Lady Tarleton, did not want to appear in public so soon after the murder, but Sir Robert insisted. The Fontclairs must present a serene and confident face to the world, he said, both as a matter of pride and to allay worry in the village. Sunday services would be an excellent opportunity for them all to appear in public, and show they had nothing to fear or be ashamed of.

As they entered the church, a wave of whispers rose. Heads turned; parents hastily admonished their children not to point. Every eye followed the Fontclairs and their guests as they took their places in the family pew. The vicar was hard-pressed to get and keep the attention of his flock.

He seemed unsure how openly he ought to refer to the murder. As he bade the congregation pray for the dead girl's soul, he stole an uneasy glance at the Fontclairs, as though he feared to offend them by drawing attention to the scandal hanging over their house. No doubt he felt the need to keep in Sir Robert’s good graces; it was most likely Sir Robert who had given him the living of Alderton. Yet if he really understood his patron, he would realize that no one would be more concerned than he that the dead girl have the benefit of everyone’s prayers. He himself would pray for her all the more

fervently if he knew, or suspected, that one of his own family had killed her.

Julian, who attended church very rarely, and mainly for the music, was surprised to find the service such a comfort. The old, sonorous words had tremendous power to soothe and inspire. At a time like this, faced with a difficult task and a fearful responsibility, he was grateful to lay aside his own will and feel strengthened and sustained by something outside himself.

Some of his party were finding it hard to concentrate on the service, with the villagers gawking at them and murmuring behind their hands. Lady Tarleton seethed with frustration, for all her efforts to seem haughtily unconcerned. The colonel looked shamed and selfconscious. Guy was so restless he could barely keep his seat.

Maud's eyes were closed, her fingers tightly clasped and her head bent over them. Was she asking for guidance about whether to reveal the information she was holding back? Julian suddenly knew beyond all doubt that she would tell it. She was too honest, too scrupulous, to keep it a secret much longer. Maud Craddock was a daughter-in-law after Sir Robert's own heart, if only he knew it.

*

After a luncheon of cold meats, jellies, and blancmange, at which Lady Tarleton was particularly ill-tempered, Julian went to visit Mrs. Warren. He had seen her in church that morning, and she seemed in a little better spirits than yesterday. After services, she had been beset by a crowd of villagers peppering her with questions about her mysterious lodger. Julian, seeing her trying vainly to fend them off, went and stood close by. While they turned to gaze at him with their usual fascination, Mrs. Warren scurried away.

He set off for Alderton on horseback, skirting the south side of the park. For the murdered girl, this would certainly have been an easier route to Bellegarde than the Chase. The rough going there would have slowed her, and she could all too easily have gotten lost among the twisting paths. Her dirty, worn shoes and ripped skirt did suggest she had picked her way through woodland. On the other hand, those green stains round the hem of her skirt would most

likely have come from walking through tall grass, not the undergrowth of a forest.

Mrs. Warren lived in a small, square cottage of whitewashed brick, with a blue door and blue paint round the windows. The paint was peeling, the thatched roof was sparse in places, but the vegetable garden beside the house was lovingly tended. Round the house and garden ran a white picket fence.

As Julian tethered his horse and approached the door, Mrs. Warren peeked out from between the curtains of a ground-floor window. She looked more apprehensive than pleased to see him. But she unbolted the door and let him in, nervously tucking stray wisps of hair under her cap. “I'd have left the door open on such a fine day, but with a murderer loose in the neighbourhood, I’m afeard to. Will they catch him soon, do you think, sir?”

*Tm sure they will. The more they know about the victim, the easier it will be—which is why I’ve come to try your patience yet again with questions about her, on the chance you’ve remembered something more since yesterday.”

“I’m sure I’d be quick to tell it, if I had. Lawk-a-daisy me, I wish I was better at keeping things straight in my mind.”

“I think you remember things very vividly, once your mind is jogged to focus on them. I have an idea. Why don't I knock at the door, just as the girl did, and you let me in and act out for me everything that happened the night she arrived?”

“You mean like play-acting, sir?”

“Well, you needn’t be another Mrs. Siddons. Just take me wherever you took her, and try if you can recall what the two of you talked about, and what you did.”

She eyed him uncertainly, then nodded. “I’ll try it, sir.”

He went out again and knocked. Mrs. Warren, on the other side of the door, said, “I heard her knock, sir, and I called out, ‘Who’s there?’ And I heard a voice—high, like a little girl’s, with a funny accent—saying as how she’d heard I had a room to let. I opened the door then, just a crack,”—Mrs. Warren suited the action to the words—“and looked at her. And then it was just as I told Sir Robert: I didn’t like the look of her, so young and all alone and dressed so

fine—but I needed the money so, I thought I'd at least let her in and see what she had to say for herself."

She opened the door all the way, and Julian came in.

“I took her into the kitchen first." She opened a door on the right side of the central hallway. There was a door on the left side, too, and a stairway at the end of the hall. Probably there were only four rooms all told: two on the ground floor, and two above.

The kitchen was shabby but clean, with a big cooking pot suspended over the hearth, a broad deal table, and a walnut cabinet to hold the crockery. Utensils, scarred by years of scouring, hung along the walls, and a rocking chair with a big shawl draped across it stood by the fireplace.

Mrs. Warren described how she had told the girl what lodging and meals would cost, and taken her upstairs to show her the room. She took Julian upstairs now. “That's my room, sir," she said, pointing to a door on one side of the hallway. “This was hers."

She opened a door opposite. The room was small and neat, with a bed, a table and chair, and an old chest to hold the lodger’s belongings. There were bright calico curtains at the windows, and a ballad, the kind sold at country fairs, pinned up on the wall.

Julian examined the room. It was spotless. There was no sign that anyone had slept here only a few days ago. Mrs. Warren was too good a housewife—she had swept and scrubbed away any clue the girl might have left behind. He felt defeated. What was he doing here? Why should he pester Mrs. Warren and waste his own time, when there was nothing new to learn?

Mrs. Warren repeated her account of how she had shown the girl the room, and the girl had looked out the window and asked where Bellegarde was. “Then she started unpacking of her things, and I went down to get the supper ready. We didn't talk at supper, and afterward she went upstairs and got ready for bed—'* She broke off. “Now, there you are, sir. That's what comes of letting myself get so rattled as I've been. I'd forgot all about that until now."

“About what, Mrs. Warren?" He kept his voice calm and steady. This was no time to alarm her with a show of eagerness.

“When she put on her nightdress, she found she'd lost that gin-gambob she wore around her neck. Shaped like a scallop shell, it

was, and made of silver. My, wasn't she in a pother when she found it missing! She come running downstairs in her nightdress, saying as how she’d lost the most precious thing she had, and she had to find it straightaway. I asked her if it was worth a good deal, for it did cross my mind, sir, I might be accused of stealing it, and me not even knowing she had such a thing. She wore it underneath her dress, you see, so I hadn’t seen it afore. She said it hadn’t any value except to her. It was give to her by somebody she loved, who had to leave her when she was small.”

“Did she say who that person was?”

“No, sir. I thought at first it was some love token, and said as much, but she got up on her high horse at that, and said as how her love wasn’t the kind to be ashamed of. How it was pure and dutiful. The love of a daughter. That was what she said.”

“She used those words—‘a daughter’?”

“Yes, sir. So it might’ve been a gift from her father or mother, but she didn’t say clearly. She was half distracted, running about and wringing of her hands, and gabbling in her foreign tongue. And all the while she was looking everywhere for her trinket. It was all I could do to stop her running outdoors to see if she’d lost it there, which would have been daft at that time of night. I said, ‘Be patient, we’ll search the house from top to bottom, and happen we’ll find it/ Which we did quite soon, sir, under her bed. The ribbon had broke, and the trinket must have fallen off and bounced under there without her knowing.”

“Did she say anything at all about the person who gave it to her?” “No, sir. I don’t even know if it was a man or a woman. But there was one more thing, now I think of it. She said she couldn’t bear to lose her trinket now, when they was going to meet again so soon*—she and whoever give it to her.”

“To meet again,” he repeated slowly.

“Yes, sir. But she didn’t say where or how, and I didn’t want to know. It all sounded hugger-mugger to me.”

“What happened after you found the scallop shell?”