Cut to the Quick (35 page)

It seemed the most likely explanation—though in some ways it made no sense. The newspaper was dated only five days before Aimee ran away, yet, according to Louisa, she had been in a nervous state for weeks. And why did she run away at all? Geoffrey lived in London. Once she found out his address, she could simply write to him or pay him a visit—she did not have to uproot herself from her only home. But perhaps she had not meant to do anything so drastic. Perhaps, during the five days that elapsed between the newspaper announcement and her flight, she had been to see Geoffrey, and he had induced her to run away.

Yes: Geoffrey could have taken her under his wing, thinking to buy her silence about his past with gifts and affection. She was so devoted to him, she would have gone anywhere, done anything he wanted. Which raised a nasty possibility. It was common knowledge up and down St. James Street that Colonel Fontclair had a taste for very young girls. Perhaps his experience with Gabrielle had made

him wary of clever, worldly women. Aim6e was beautiful, and all but alone in the world. It might have been all too easy to take advantage of her love for him.

But if Aim6e were Geoffrey's mistress, why had she spoken as she had to Mrs. Warren? She had declared there was nothing to be ashamed of about her love for the person who gave her the silver scallop shell. The pure, dutiful love of a daughter—that was how she described it. And—damnation!—she had said something more. She had told Mrs. Warren the scallop shell was her only remembrance of the person who gave it to her. That would make no sense, if Geoffrey had been keeping her for the past six weeks, and showering her with clothes and jewelry.

Julian looked again at the wedding announcement. Geoffrey was not mentioned, of course. The bridegroom was identified as Hugh Fontclair, son of Sir Robert Fontclair, Bart., of Bellegarde. What might have occurred to Aimee when she read those names? Could she have taken it into her head to approach Geoffrey through one of his relations? Louisa said she longed to see her colonel again, but feared he would hate her for what her mother had done. Maybe she hoped to win the sympathy of someone in his family, who might intercede for her with him.

Which of the Fontclairs might she have approached? That depended, first, on which of them were in London at the time Hugh's engagement was announced. Hugh himself, of course; it was during that period that Julian met him at the gaming hell. His parents most likely came with him—perhaps Isabelle as well. Geoffrey, Guy, and Lady Tarleton were all in London for the season. Aimee could have found out easily enough where any of them lived. And all of them would have had a motive to kill her, once they knew she had it in her power to ruin Geoffrey and disgrace the Fontclair name.

There was one other possibility: Mark Craddock's name was in the announcement, too. It was hard to see why Aimee would have sought him out. He would be of no interest to her—unless of course she knew he had the letters Geoffrey had written to her mother. But how could she have found that out? She did not know the letters were in the jewelry box, or she would not have pawned it with

othem inside. And how could she have made the connexion between the pawnbroker and Craddock? Even Dipper, who knew Vorpe pretty well, had not known it was Craddock who owned the pawnshop.    •

But just suppose Aim6e had made herself known to Craddock He would have had his own reasons for wanting her out of the way. He was obsessed with marrying his daughter to Hugh, and he could only do that by threatening to publish Geoffrey's letters. But if someone else came along and sprang the secret of Geoffrey's treason, the letters would be worth nothing to him. The ruin of the Fontclairs was not what he wanted. He wanted to bend them to his will.

Louisa returned, and Julian showed her the announcement. “Do you remember Miss Fields ever mentioning the Fontclairs or the Craddocks?”

“No. But she was killed at the Fontclairs* house, and now here's an announcement saying someone named Fontclair is going to be married. That can't be a coincidence, can it?*'

“I should be astonished if it were.”

“I’m beginning to wonder if those Fontclairs can be trusted.” “I've been wondering that for some time.”

“I wish I could go to that place Bellegarde myself, and see that Amy’s done right by. But I can’t leave Mother.”

“How is she?”

“She was feeling a bit more herself when I went up. So I told her about you and asked if she could think of anything else to tell you about Amy. But she couldn’t.”

“Please give her my regards and tell her I'm sorrv I hadn’t the pleasure of meeting her.” He put on his hat, and casually took a bill from his pocketbook. “Here.”

She looked hungrily at the money, but shook her head and pu* her hands behind her. “Mother and I don’t take charity.”

“I should think not. But you’re a material witness. Naturally you have to be paid.”

“I thought witnesses only got a reward if they helped catch the criminal, and he got convicted.”

“My dear Miss Howland,” he lied, “a witness has to be paid for the time and trouble of coming forward with evidence.”

“Oh. I didn't know that." She reached out gingerly and took the money. A little breathless sound of relief escaped her. For the first time, she smiled.

“Will you do one thing for me?” he asked. “Will you keep it a secret for the present who the victim of the Bellegarde murder is? I should like a free hand to deal with the Fontclairs in my own way.” “You'll see justice done?”

“I will, upon my honour.”

“You won't let those Fontclairs bully you, or buy you off, or hush up Amy's death?”

“I swear to you, I won't give up till her killer is brought to justice.”

“Then I'll do as you ask, if you'll let me know how you get on, and tell me when the killer's found.”

“I will.”

“Because if he's not found, I'll hunt him down myself, if I have to seek him all over the country.”

Julian believed her.

*

Maud, Miss Pritchard, and Julian had agreed to return to Bellegarde early next morning. The barouche-landau called at Julian's flat, with its attendant travelling chaise in tow. The weather was fair and warm, so Maud had let down the folding roof of the carriage. As Julian got in, his eyes fell on a large, ungainly book in her lap.

She blushed and clasped her arms more tightly around it. “This is my mother's Bible. It's been in her family for generations. All their history is in it—marriages, births, and deaths. It used to be passed from one eldest son to another, but since Mama hadn't any brothers, and neither have I, it came to me.”

“It doesn't look as if it would travel very well.” He glanced at the worn leather covers and broken spine

“I told her that, too, sir,” said Miss Pritchard. “At the very least, Miss Craddock, you ought to have packed it away in one of the trunks. I'm afraid you won't get it all the way to Bellegarde without losing some of the pages.”

“I'll take very good care of it. I was afraid to pack it—I've heard

so much about trunks being stolen on the road. It's very precious to me.”

Then why bring it to Bellegarde at all? Julian thought. He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she blushed again. It's no good asking, said her eyes. I’d like to confide in you, but I can’t.

*28*

Julian arrived at Bellegarde late that afternoon and asked to see Sir Robert. But he had gone to meet with some local authorities about road repairs, and was not expected back till after dinner. Julian did not choose to confront Geoffrey in his absence. That would only forewarn Geoffrey of his danger, giving him a chance to think of new lies or excuses.

He decided to call on Dr. MacGregor instead. They had not talked since he found out about Geoffrey’s letters and Craddock’s blackmail. He had missed MacGregor’s shrewd mind and unabashed frankness, and was curious to know what he would make of all his discoveries. There could be no objection to his confiding in MacGregor now about Geoffrey’s secret. Sir Robert had agreed it would have to come out, if it proved to be linked to the murder.

He called for his horse to be saddled and brought round to the front of the house. When he came downstairs, he found Isabelle standing at one of the tall, mullioned windows in the great hall. She was wearing a gown of the same light grey as her eyes, with a high waist and long sleeves gathered into puffs. In that dress, with her pure, clear profile framed by the window, she looked like a painting by Ghirlandaio or Botticelli. He stood lost in admiration.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Kestrel. I hope you enjoyed yourself in London.”

He came forward. "It was the same as always," he shrugged. "Too many people, and not enough fresh air to go around. I can never quite make out why I wouldn't dream of living anywhere else. Do you go very often?"

"No, hardly ever. Uncle Robert and Aunt Cecily don't like town." "I suppose they had no choice but to go this past April, when Hugh got engaged to Miss Craddock.”

"Yes." She looked at him with lifted brows.

"Did you go with them?” he asked, as casually as he could. "Yes.”

So Isabelle had been in London when Aimee ran away from the Howlands. Suppose Aimee, after seeing the announcement of Hugh’s marriage, had gone to the Fontclairs' London house and seen Isabelle there? If she had it in mind to approach Geoffrey through someone in his family, she might well have chosen a girl of about her own age to be her confidante. What would Isabelle have done, if she discovered that this French girl knew a humiliating secret about Geoffrey—one that could destroy him and dishonour all the Fontclairs? She might well go to drastic lengths to protect her family. And she was intelligent enough to plot a complex murder, and coolheaded enough to carry it out.

She looked around at him, sunlight slanting across her face. His thoughts veered wildly off course. He imagined drawing her toward him—feeling her slender body in his arms, her breasts soft against his chest. He looked at her lips, so serenely closed, and thought of oiem opening under his—

"Why are you staring at me?” she asked.

"Was I staring? I didn't mean to.”

"I thought perhaps you were searching my face for signs of guilt.” "You’re mistaken, Miss Fontclair. I was looking at you, as I often do, for entirely personal reasons.”

"I wonder if you flirt with me merely to amuse yourself, or because you think you might get information out of me that way.”

"All I've ever accomplished by flirting with you is to prove I have the Englishman’s penchant for doing battle against impossible odds.” "I’ve told you, I don’t think of myself as a citadel for men to storm. I only wish them to leave me alone.”

“Is there no man you've ever wanted to marry?"

“No." Her head moved back a little, warily.

“Not even your cousin?"

She stared. Her breath seemed to stick in her throat. “You presume, Mr. Kestrel! If you must ask offensive personal questions, I beg you will confine them to the subject of the murder!"

She went quickly away. He stood looking after her for a long time. I hope to God that doesn't mean what I think it does, he thought.

*

“It's nothing to me if you want to go gallivanting in London,” MacGregor snorted, “with the murder unsolved and everything here at sixes and sevens. What happened—Lady Somebody-or-Other gave a ball you just couldn't miss?"

“I went to London to make enquiries about the murder. I thought you knew that."

“How would I know it? It’s not as though you breathed a word to me about what you were up to. Never occurred to you I'd be the least bit curious.”

“My dear fellow, I was pining to tell you everything I'd found out. But I'd learned it in confidence, which I couldn’t breach at that time. If you'll let me explain, you'll see why I had to play a lone hand.”

He told MacGregor all about Geoffrey’s secret, Vorpe's revelation of the murdered girl's identity, and his own visit to Louisa Howland. When he finished, MacGregor shook his head, stunned. “This is a terrible thing. I didn't want to believe any of the Fontclairs could have committed the murder. I knew the evidence pointed that way, but I couldn't accept it. I couldn’t see any motive. But now—God help them, one of them's a killer. There's no getting away from it.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault. You're just a bearer of bad tidings. And you've done the right thing, getting all this out in the open.” He frowned. “There's one thing I don’t understand. How did you get that fellow Vorpe to tell you the girl’s name and address, when he wouldn't tell Craddock?”

“Will you let me claim the magician’s privilege of not telling how that trick was done?”

“Have it your own way.”

“Now, don’t fly up in the boughs again. The fact is, it was my valet who got the information from Vorpe, but I should rather not have to explain to Sir Robert how he did it.”

“I always knew there was something rum about that servant of yours. He was worse than a beggar before he came to work for you, wasn’t he?”

“He was a thief. Not a ruffian, you understand, but an artist— a person of talent and ingenuity—in short, a pickpocket.”

“What in the Lord’s name possessed you to hire a pickpocket as your servant?”

Julian saw he would have to tell the whole story. “One night about two years ago, soon after I came back from Italy, I was out walking with a friend near Covent Garden, and this unkempt young fellow reeled against me and staggered off again. He reeked of spirits, and of course I assumed he was foxed, but all the same I ran my hands over my pockets, and I found my watch was gone. My friend wanted to call a watchman, but you know on any given night in London half the watchmen are asleep in their boxes, and the rest are at least eighty, and lame into the bargain. My blood was up, and I tore off after the thief myself.

“He caught sight of me. He’d only been pretending to be drunk—thieves call it ‘gammoning lushy’—and he ran like a hare. He dodged around corners and zigzagged up and down narrow streets. I almost lost him a score of times, but I clung on, and finally brought him to a stop by flinging my walking stick at his head. I pulled him down, and we started grappling in a heap of filth and rotting vegetables. I’d just managed to pin him down when my friend came panting up to us with a watchman. We got back my watch, which was all I really wanted—well, that and the chance to throttle the thief, but I’d had that as well. I would have been glad to part company with him at that point, but the watchman said we had to take him before a magistrate, so we dragged him off to Bow Street. He was very gracious about it, didn’t curse or ask for mercy—being caught was just one of the hazards of practising his