“Her eyes were not all on me.”
“They were, I assure you. Be rational for a moment, Giles, if you can, and think how it appears. If she did not know you were married, she might be forgiven it. She might have seen you as a prospect, and a good one, but since she knows –”
“We were talking, that is all, Sal, talking! And can a man and a woman not be friends, for Heaven’s sake? We are not young idiots who cannot control ourselves.”
“That is as maybe, but I do not like it. It is a dangerous game, especially for you, Giles. You are so vulnerable. Your circumstances have made you so.”
“I am in no danger there,” Giles said, although he did not feel he was telling the truth. And that he was lying was not lost on Sally.
“Perhaps, in the circumstances,” she said after a moment, “you ought to find some other, more appropriate outlet for those feelings. Some discreet comfort, I suppose I mean.”
Of course it was not as if this idea had never occurred to him. It was a sensible, practical sort of solution and exactly the sort of thing, which in any other area of life, he would have liked. But it revolted him that his own sister should be equally pragmatic and worldly.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I know you could never actually bring yourself to do such a thing. But if you did, you need not worry on our account. We would not camp out in the moral high ground, so to speak. We would understand.”
“We?” said Giles. “You mean you’ve talked about this with Lambert?”
“Of course,” Sally said.
And there, in a nutshell, was the problem. Lambert and Sally, the perfect husband and wife who could and did discuss anything – that was what he wanted, a marriage like that. He did not want a little pretend wife whom he could visit in a cottage when he felt inclined. He wanted a real wife who would upbraid him or tease him as necessary, someone to share the whole business of life with, from the sordid to the sublime.
“Perhaps we should not have,” Sally said. “I am sorry. Are you very offended?”
“No,” he said, kissing her. “No, I am grateful that you understand. And don’t worry, I shall not disgrace myself with Miss Hilliard.”
“Of course you will not. Now, you will dine with us tonight – and bring Mr Carswell? We have a huge loin of pork. Lambert was sent it by one of his godsons.”
“I’d be glad to, but I cannot speak for Carswell. He will probably not want to bear my company after I have finished with him, not even for your loin of pork and roast apples.”
Chapter Twenty-two
With carefully combed hair, polished boots and a suitably penitent demeanour, Felix Carswell stood on the carpet in front of Giles’ writing desk. His hands were clasped behind his back.
“Perhaps you’d care to explain the circumstances in which Constable Perry found you last night?”
“There’s something I must tell you first, sir, before we get to all that,” he said. “After we spoke yesterday, I went to Brinklow again – the girl is so very ill. Of course you think I am only making excuses for my conduct, which I am not. I only wanted you to see that I did not do it lightly. I had good cause, or at least I think so.”
“And did you see the girl?” Giles asked.
“No, no, I got nowhere near her. I had another run-in with Miss Hilliard, a pretty fierce one, I have to admit, and it made me angry. That entire situation is so – well, the upshot was I went to The Three Crowns directly afterwards to get something to settle my nerves. And when I was there I thought I might as well dine, because I was hungry and, well, one thing led to another.”
“You mean one drink led to another?”
“Yes, it did seem to,” he said. “And while I was there, eating my dinner and minding my own business, John Rhodes came up to speak to me. He wanted to know if we had caught the murderer yet.”
“He said nothing of interest, that you can recall?” Giles said, getting up.
“No, sir. He was half cut, really. He must have been, because he sent this girl over to me.”
“A girl. What sort of girl?”
“Well, she was the sort of girl you get there.”
“You mean a prostitute?”
“Yes, but she wasn’t the commonest sort. She had a bit of something about her. But the main thing was she was starving, so I gave her something to eat and to drink of course, and I think you would have done the same if you’d seen her, sir. It was only charitable to do that much, I think.”
This narrative was going to be woefully predictable, Giles thought.
“So you sat and drank with her, I suppose?”
“Yes, we talked for quite a while and drank a fair bit more. Then we went dancing at this place by the river, Rolfe’s Tavern I think it’s called?”
Giles nodded and pressed together his fingertips.
“You took her dancing. You engaged her, then?”
“No, not exactly. You see, Mr Rhodes paid for her. He gave her a guinea to keep me company for the night.”
“He did what?” said Giles, dry mouthed with incredulity. “And you accepted that?”
“Yes, sir, I suppose I did.”
“What you are telling me is you allowed one of the principal suspects in a murder inquiry to buy you – a serving member of the police force – the services of a prostitute for the night?”
“I didn’t really have anything to say in the matter. He sent her over with the money in her pocket. It was a fait accompli.”
“What a feeble attempt at an excuse!” Giles exclaimed. “In no way was that a fait accompli. You only had to send her packing the moment she came to your table. But instead you invited her to sit down and eat and drink with you! Good God!”
“I had to feed her. She was starving. I think you would have done the same, sir, if you had seen her. There was no flesh on her.”
“I might have fed her, but I would not have kept her company. Not for a moment. I would have walked away if she had persisted in her attentions. It is not that difficult to avoid these situations. But instead, you sit and drink with her and then you take her dancing! Did it not once occur to you how extremely inappropriate it was for a member of the police force engaged on an investigation to accept such a favour from the chief suspect?”
“I do not think he meant it as a bribe, sir,” Carswell said. “I think he was being civil in his own way. As if he were buying me a drink.”
“If it had only been a pint of porter it would have been very wrong of you to accept it. But the fact it was a streetwalker – what were you thinking of?”
“I don’t know!” burst out Carswell. “I wish to God I did. I know I should have sent her away, yes, I know that, but it was as if the devil had got a grip of me. She made me laugh – and that’s fatal for me, with a girl. When they make you laugh that’s the end of any resistance – and she made me laugh a great deal. I haven’t been so amused in I don’t know how long. She tempted me, and I let myself be tempted. That’s the simple, stupid truth of it: I wanted her.”
Giles sat down again, very familiar with this state of mind. He could not help recalling the wild escapades of his own youth, when he had first joined his regiment. By comparison, Carswell’s adventure seemed like an innocent prank. Giles was also certain he had never examined his conscience to such a degree.
“I wish to God I had not!” Carswell went on. “I have thrown myself away on a stupid whim and I detest myself for it.” Giles felt deeply uncomfortable. This was a confession too far. He wanted the boy to stop, but Carswell seemed determined on public self-flagellation. “I have always been very careful about such things, especially with girls like that. The evidence is too much for any rational man to ignore. When I was in Edinburgh every second whore was riddled with disease, like so much rotten meat. A man would be a very great fool to go whoring. That was what I always told myself, but sometimes you find –” He broke off. “You find that –”
He stopped again, swallowing down hard and then looking quickly away.
“I have had to dismiss men for less than this,” he said, getting up. Carswell glanced back at him fearfully. “But I cannot dispense with your services so lightly. I need you here, Mr Carswell, that is certain. But I would like to make this very clear to you: for the sake of discipline, I do not tolerate drunkenness and immorality among the men. As the equivalent of one of their officers, you are required to set an example to them and in that you have failed conspicuously. However, I think your own conscience will be sufficient reproach for that. But as to the matter of accepting a bribe from Mr Rhodes – and bribe is not too strong a word for it – on that I must throw the rule book at you and issue a formal reprimand which will be recorded in the service log. I hope that such a sanction will make you think twice in future.”
“Yes, sir, it will,” said Carswell.
“And then there is this business with Miss Hilliard,” he said. “Perhaps you ought to write to her and apologize?”
“That I cannot do,” Carswell said. “You, sir, may barrack me all you like over everything else and I will take it humbly, everything except that. She is very wrong to keep me from my patient. I know it angers you to hear me speak of her like that, and I apologize for anything ungallant or insulting I may have implied about the lady and yourself yesterday. I may be an ungovernable whelp who deserves a good flogging but on this point I cannot budge. It is a matter of principle – and Miss Hilliard did herself no favours when she locked her door to me!” He had raised his voice as he had spoken and he ended the speech with a grimace, for he had evidently hurt his own head by speaking out. He began to massage his temples.
Faced with this show of stubbornness, Giles wondered if he was not beginning a headache of his own.
“You seem very determined to quarrel with the lady,” he said.
“It is not entirely my doing,” Carswell said. “She could have rebuked me and still let me continue to treat the girl. I would have accepted that, but sending me away like that, like some grubby tradesman who has overcharged her, that was not necessary. You have dealt with me very fairly, sir, despite all my many shortcomings and for that I can and must respect you. But Miss Hilliard...” He broke off. “I do not like to say this, but I think she has let the power of her situation go to her head. Perhaps it is because she is a woman and they are generally unused to the exercise of authority.”
“I think you misread her, Mr Carswell.”
“Perhaps I do. I only know I cannot like her. I would not consign a creature to her care. There are things about that establishment which unsettle me. That was why I went back yesterday, even though I knew I should not. There are questions that cannot be left unanswered. Can you honestly say, sir, when you spoke to Miss Hilliard about this, that you were satisfied by her answers?”
The insolent passion of Carswell’s manner the previous day had receded, to be replaced by a quiet earnestness that Giles found hard to dismiss. He thought also of that simple admission that the girl had tempted him. He found himself wondering if he had not been subject to the same thing. Was his attraction to Miss Hilliard clouding his mind? Sally clearly thought it worth warning him about, but she always had a tendency to fuss over him. Surely he had enough control of his faculties not to permit his judgement to be impaired by random, restless feelings?
“Yes,” he said, “I was satisfied. Even if something untoward has taken place at Brinklow, I cannot believe that Miss Hilliard condoned it. She was very surprised at the suggestion. However, I will speak to her again, and perhaps she will let me talk to the girl and the Matron – what was her name?”
“Fulwood,” said Carswell. “And thank you, sir. I don’t think you will regret it.”
It was on the tip of Giles’ tongue to say that he probably would. He had just had a cool little realisation: why was it that she had not mentioned her run-in with Carswell to him that morning? It seemed a strange omission.
Barker came in with the post; Giles decided to take pity on Carswell and dismissed him. Judging from the speed with which he left the room the boy undoubtedly wanted to be out of his sight. Giles examined his letters, and a particularly solid-looking letter with a London postmark caught his eye. He hoped it was the answer to various inquiries he had made of Bow Street about John Rhodes and he had just opened it when he noticed that Barker was still standing in front of him.
“Is there something else, Mr Barker?”
“Gentleman to see you, sir, about Mr Rhodes. Here’s his card.”
“Edward Sutherland, Attorney at Law, Martin’s Buildings, Gray’s Inn – I see. Show him in, Barker.”
Giles thought it possible that the sherry in his decanter was not going to be up to snuff for an expensive London lawyer, and when the man came in, dressed in magnificently tailored black, he felt certain.
Mr Edward Sutherland gave a cursory glance about him and then fixed his gaze on Giles.
“Major Vernon, I presume?” Giles nodded.
“Good. At least you haven’t been murdered!”
“Perhaps you’d like to sit down, Mr Sutherland?”
“Thank you, I would,” said Sutherland but glanced at the seat of the chair before he committed himself to it. “I had an atrocious journey last night. I put up at an appalling hotel and I arrive here this morning to find that the man I have come to see has been killed. I hope you can shed a little light on all this, sir?”
“I hope so, too,” said Giles. “You’ll take a glass of sherry?” Sutherland assented. “You came to see Mr Stephen Rhodes?”
“Yes,” said Sutherland. “I represent the estate of Sir Sidney Carlingford. I am Sir Sidney’s executor.”
“Now that’s very interesting to me, sir,” said Giles, putting down the glass in front of Sutherland. “You may have had a trying journey, but I don’t think it will be a wasted one.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I think you are going to answer some questions that I have been unable to answer. I had gathered that there has been some dispute about a will between the Reverend Rhodes and his cousin John. I take it this might be Sir Sidney Carlingford’s will?”
“You consider this dispute a possible cause for the murder?”
“Perhaps. Any information you could give me would be extremely useful. Does the disposition of your client’s estate concern both these men?”
“It does. And it is a considerable estate.”
“How much, precisely?” Giles asked.
“Sir Sidney was a man of extensive property – in both land and other investments. We do not have a precise valuation as yet – but I should say there was a comfortable hundred thousand a year to be had from it, more if one cared to work at it a little.”
“And which of the cousins was to inherit?”
“Up until quite recently the bulk of the estate was to be divided equally between them, but then about a month ago Sir Sidney seemed to turn fickle. He had me running up and down to Richmond making alterations and codicils. It is almost as if he knew he was dying. First it was John who was cut out and then he was put back, and then it was Stephen’s turn to lose his favour. It was one of Sir Sidney’s last instructions that I go in person to see Mr Rhodes and explain that he had lost the inheritance. A thoroughly disagreeable task, as you may imagine. His murderer has saved me that inconvenience.” He gave a grim little smile.
“Did Mr John Rhodes know of this change in the will? This final revision?”
“No. I have been unable to find him in London. But he is a difficult man to find. Always changing address. Not remotely steady. It does make one wonder about the sanity of Sir Sidney at the end, changing it back in his favour, having struck him out of there only a week or two previously. However his physician thought him quite sound in mind, and a man may do what he likes with his estate unless it is settled, but with a fortune like that, I feel it should be settled if only to avoid this sort of nonsense. I hope there are no Carlingford dependents
after all. Having said that, Sir Sidney was very generous to all those who worked for him. All his old servants properly remembered and a deal to charity too. But this whim of John Rhodes! Why give it all to the man who will fritter it away on cards and women?”
“So he could not have known this when he saw his cousin?”
“He has been here?” said the lawyer.
“Yes, and still is,” said Giles. “I have had my eye on him.”
“With good reason. No, he would not have known. He thought he had lost it all. He wrote a stream of letters to Sir Sidney. They must have altered the old man’s opinion in his favour at the last.”
“But Sir Sidney did not write back? You are certain he did not know?”
“Quite certain. It was only changed the afternoon before Sir Sidney died. He took a turn for the worse quite suddenly and sent for me to change it. He said he could not die having made such a mistake. A strange business. Especially if it has driven John Rhodes to such a desperate act.”
“Do you think that likely, from what you know of the man?”
“I think it likely from what I know of the estate and the will. It is a great fortune, as I said. And there is one very important point: the clause did remain that if Stephen predeceased Sir Sidney, John Rhodes became the sole heir.”
“And John Rhodes knew that?”
“Yes, he certainly did. I told him myself. I hope I have not been an encouragement to murder,” he added nervously, and finished his wine. “Dear God, I feel I have put a gun in the hands of a madman.”
***
Felix sat trying and failing to write up his case notes. He felt lost, mired in his own wilfulness, certain now that he had made himself dangerously ill. With the brutal eloquence of one who had little left to lose, Abigail had pointed out that the relations between men and women could be reduced to the simplest exchange of goods for money. She had shocked him with that, but what hypocrisy was it on his part to be shocked by what was entirely familiar! And now he had lost the right to criticize or moralize. Those ever-satisfying comforts had been taken from him the moment he had followed Sissy up the stairs and decided that his need for her in that moment overrode all rational considerations.
The Butchered Man Page 19
