Джорджетт Хейер - The Reluctant Widow

“No. He has gone back to London, carrying the clock with him,” Carlyon replied, taking a pinch of snuff.

John stared at him. “I think you must have taken leave of your senses!”

Elinor picked up another macaroon. “I must own I have often wondered when that melancholy suspicion would enter your brain, sir,” she said. “I saw at the outset that his intellect was sadly disordered, but I dare say it has come upon him gradually, and you might not notice quite immediately.”

“Nonsense!” said John testily. “Ned has as sound a head as any of my acquaintance! But how is this, Ned? You cannot want more proof!”

“I believe I do not, but I also believe that we shall do well to take care how we proceed in this business. I would do nothing until I had consulted with you. I fancy we can neither of us be anxious to advertise this matter. The connection between ourselves and the Cheviots is too close to be comfortable. If matters can be settled without scandal, I own I should prefer it.”

“You cannot suppose I have not considered that!” John said, taking a quick turn about the room. “But it will not do! Even if I knew how to restore that memorandum secretly, I would not do it! It is not the part of an honest man to let a traitor remain at large out of considerations of family!”

“Or, indeed, out of any other consideration. But if we could be sure that the traitor was rendered powerless for the future?”

“How?” John demanded, stopping to stare at him.

“I fancy it is in a way to be done.”

“Ned, what the devil have you been about?”

“It is not my doing. I may even be mistaken. That must be ascertained, of course.”

“I do not know what you would be at! Here you have in your possession a document that must be instantly taken to Lord Bathurst with the full story of its discovery! You cannot be thinking of doing otherwise! It will be hushed up, I make no doubt. No one will be anxious to have it known how easily such a document went astray!”

Carlyon was silent, frowning down at the memorandum which he had picked up and folded again. After a moment he raised his eyes and directed one of his level glances at his brother. “I think we should do better to give these papers to Francis Cheviot,” he said.

His words struck both his auditors dumb. They regarded him in stupefaction. He had spoken in a reflective tone, as though debating within himself, and did not appear to notice the effect his words produced.

“You think we should—Ned, are you indeed mad?” John gasped.

“No. I have not had the opportunity to tell you what I discovered—or, rather, verified—in London. Louis de Castres was stabbed.”

Real perturbation was in John’s face. “Ned, old fellow, you cannot be yourself! What has that to say to anything? We knew it!”

“We knew it because Francis told us so. It was not in the Morning Post, from which he said he had learned the tidings, nor in any other paper that I can discover. ‘Stabbed to death’ was the phrase he used. I marked it particularly.”

“Good God, it was what anyone might have said, assuming it had been so!”

“But it happens to have been exactly true. You may recall that he spoke of De Castres’s body having been left under a bush. That was also true, but it was nowhere stated in the newspapers.”

John sank into a chair, repeating in a dazed voice, “Good God!”

Elinor said, “Do you mean to imply—can you possibly mean—that it was Mr. Cheviot who murdered that unfortunate young Frenchman?”

“I think so. I have suspected it all along, but some proof was needed.”

“Ned, it’s not possible!” John exclaimed. “De Castres was a friend of his! That is too well known to admit of question!”

“I don’t question it. I told you that Francis Cheviot was a very dangerous man. I have been aware of that these many years. I do not know what he would stop at—very little, I dare say.”

“Damme, I like the fellow no better than you do, but you make him out to be villainous beyond belief!”

“Villainous, perhaps, but not, I think, the villain of this plot. That, if I am not much mistaken, is Bedlington.”

“Bedlington!” John ejaculated.

“It was always a possibility, you know, though I admit it seemed unlikely. It was not until I had had leisure to consider the matter more particularly that I realized how very much more unlikely was my first really rather foolish suggestion. It could never have been Francis, of course.”

“I do not know what you mean! To suspect a man in old Bedlington’s position rather than his son seems to me fantastic!”

“No, I don’t think so,” Carlyon replied. “If Francis, who was De Castres’s close friend, had been the traitor, what possible need could there have been to have employed Eustace as the go-between? No go-between would have been necessary. That such a tool as Eustace was employed should have shown me clearly from the start that the man we were trying to discover must be someone who was anxious not to be known by the French agent with whom he was dealing. Then too, in using Eustace—hardly an ideal choice, surely!—he betrayed a clumsiness that could have nothing to do with Francis.”

John was silent for a moment, turning it over in his mind. “It is true!” he said at last. “I do not know how I can have been so dull as not to have thought of it. I own I did not. How long have you been convinced of this, Ned?”

“Convinced! I do not know that I am convinced now. It has come upon me gradually, I suppose. My inquiries into the circumstances of De Castres’s death and the discovery that Bedlington was gone into the country and was said by his butler to be in such indifferent health as to make rest and quiet indispensable, made me as certain as a man might well be without positive proof—which I will admit I have not. For that reason I would do nothing without consulting with you.”

John nodded, frowning. He walked to the table and poured himself a glass of madeira and stood gazing down at it meditatively. “It is not easy to see what one should do,” he said.

“No.”

“You have said yourself it is conjecture. If you are right how came Cheviot to know what his father was about?”

Carlyon shrugged. “There might be several answers, but I do not know them.”

John drank some of his wine. “If Cheviot did indeed kill De Castres—” He stopped. “Black waistcoats!” he said scathingly. “Faugh! The man makes me sick!”

Elinor asked diffidently, “Pardon me, but if Mr. Cheviot was not himself engaged in the plot, how came he to know the hiding place in the clock?”

“Again, we cannot know the answer,” Carlyon replied.

John looked up. “Ay, and if Louisde Castres did not know who stood behind Eustace, how did Bedlington hear of Eustace’s death before the notice of it had appeared in the journals?”

“He told us that he had it from Eustace’s valet.”

“And I asked you if you believed that and you said you did not! Did you not think De Castres, upon learning the news from Mrs. Cheviot, had run to Bedlington with it?”

“Yes, I did. I still believe it to have been possible.”

“How so?”

“My dear John, if you had a secret to conceal would you have entrusted it to Eustace?”

“No, by God!” John gave a short laugh. “You think he may have told De Castres, when in his cups, that it was Bedlington who was selling information?”

“Very likely. Or it may be that De Castres might have guessed the truth.”

John turned to Elinor. “When he visited you, Mrs. Cheviot, did Bedlington make any attempt to come near that clock or to contrive that he should be left alone in the bookroom?”