She looked across at Sarah, who, as if on cue, moved marginally closer to Jeffrey.
“You also didn’t mention that his name was not Adrian Beau-clerk-Fisk when you met him, but John Davies. Why?”
She said nothing this time, but he knew the answer, incredible as it was: rampant, bloody-minded snobbery. She kept silent because that damned title-the one she had had to subsidize for Adrian-meant so much to her. As she had kept silent in part to keep the scandal of Ruthven’s parentage out of the headlines.
“You didn’t want me digging around in Adrian’s past,” he said for her. “That is a wish you shared in common with at least one other person in this room. Mrs. Romano, for one.”
He saw her grip tighten on Paulo’s arm. “Sir Adrian said never to talk about those days,” she said.
“You were certainly well-rewarded for your silence. I suppose the danger of your being recognized by Violet was minimal-it’s not as if she would have remembered an undercook from her household of decades ago. Any more than she spotted Jeffrey’s resemblance to her former scullery boy.”
“Mine?” Jeffrey looked genuinely startled. Turning to Sarah, he said, “I knew my father had emigrated from England in the fifties. I had no idea there was a connection. None at all.”
St. Just allowed his glance to rest on each of them in turn.
“As I was explaining to my sergeant on the way here, I thought at first the motive of the murderer might be muddled, indiscriminate- someone who wanted only to eliminate the family, one by one. And to some extent, that was true.”
Involuntarily, Albert flicked a glance in Sarah’s direction.
“The order in which they were eliminated did not seem to matter. Why kill Ruthven, when it was clear to anyone the real source of the conflict in this family was Sir Adrian himself? Why not go straight to the source-cut off the head of the snake?
“Then I thought, what if the choice of Ruthven were not random at all? What if there were a reason to eliminate Ruthven as heir? His death would point the finger of blame at the family, to be sure-at everyone in the house with a vested interest. Perhaps that was part of what the murderer wanted: to widen the field to such an extent no one person could be excluded as a suspect absolutely. And at the same time, to narrow the pool to be divided up on Sir Adrian’s demise.
“So there was that possibility: Ruthven was an inconvenience to be eliminated, by a cold-blooded killer who would have killed anyone who happened to get in the way. But-what if the motive were even more… personal than that?
“Ruthven was not well-loved, certainly, but the violent, brutal method chosen for his death spoke of something more frenzied than a desire to simply get him out of the way. That was when I realized the motives might be multiple-not muddled, multiple. Not random- multiple. I asked: What if someone felt betrayed by Ruthven? His wife, for example? The victim of his multiple infidelities.”
He looked to Lillian, who turned away disdainfully.
“Or, was it perhaps one of his victims on the other side of that coin, so to speak? His mistress, for example.”
Now he had captured even Lillian’s attention. They all looked at each other, mystified.
“No one came near the house that night. You said so yourself,” said Albert.
“Perhaps no one needed to. Perhaps the killer, the mistress, was right here. You, for example, Natasha,” he said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know perfectly well my relationship is with George. You even know why I’m with George.”
George frowned, deeply baffled. What other reason could there be for a woman to be with him, apart from the sheer wonderfulness of it all?
“After Ruthven discarded you, you turned to George, that is true.”
“I say…” began George.
“If you couldn’t insinuate your way into this family one way, you decided to try another, didn’t you? The child you’re carrying is not an invention of George’s, as you led us to believe, but quite real-or so say your NHS records. That was a silly lie; did you count on us not bothering to verify every word you said, just because you were with the Yard? It’s not the kind of secret you could keep forever, now, is it? Perhaps Chloe here can give you pointers on that subject. But the one secret you could keep was that it is Ruthven’s child, not George’s-Ruthven’s. And thus, a child that is no heir to Sir Adrian’s fortune.
“When exactly was it that you met Ruthven, Natasha?”
She gave him a cool smile, but he saw her mouth slip, trembling just for a moment before she spoke.
“Last week, when we were all summoned to the Presence by Sir Adrian, of course.”
“I think not. No, I think not at all. I think you met him in the course of cozying up to George for your investigation. Oh, your story on that score checks out. How was it your superior put it? That you were ‘relentless’ in pursuing a case, like a hound after the fox. I don’t believe he meant that comment on your methods entirely as a compliment, either, even though it often brought him results.
“That is what threw us off course for a while-your story, insofar as what you were doing here, checked out. But the real story is that you met Ruthven and saw in him a finer catch than the one you’d landed. You had to continue seeing George, professional”- and he let his voice dwell on the word-“professional that you were. But it was Ruthven, with his power and money and fame you wanted, not the thief who was stealing from his own father and in due course was headed, with your assistance, for gaol.”
George, his invincible stupidity penetrated at last, looked as if he’d been pole-axed. Sergeant Fear quietly stepped over behind him, blocking a move toward the French doors. He didn’t fail to notice that Paulo had been edging in the direction of the exit, as well.
“Then, as in the nature of these things,” St. Just was saying, “you discovered you were pregnant with Ruthven’s child. You were elated. Here was the tie that would bind Ruthven to you. Now he would leave his wife for you. It’s the same old story, isn’t it? It doesn’t change with the centuries. Far from sharing your joy, Ruthven was appalled. His wife’s money was what had kept him afloat while he waited out his inheritance. He wasn’t jeopardizing that for some commonplace affair. In any event, he knew the child wasn’t Sir Adrian’s grandchild. His mother had let him in on that secret. A child was of less than no use to him in this competition to be favored heir-it might prove to be a danger, in fact. At first he may have told you he wouldn’t acknowledge it, told you to get rid of it. At least, that was no doubt what he was thinking.
“Then you-or was it he?-had a better idea. Clever Ruthven was full of ideas, wasn’t he? Why not foist this child off onto George, ensure its “legitimate” claim to Sir Adrian’s fortune? It was a case of the past repeating itself, wasn’t it? His own mother had done the same, palming Ruthven off onto Sir Adrian. Ruthven must have appreciated that there was a certain symmetry to all of this. A grand joke to play on the old man.”
“The child is George’s. Of course it is. Tell him, George.”
His virility at stake, George repeated manfully, “Of course it is.”
“No doubt blood tests will confirm that,” said St. Just calmly. “In any event, I would urge you, Mr. Beauclerk-Fisk, to investigate that option thoroughly.”
While George mulled this over within the tiny confines of his brain, St. Just went on, speaking again directly to Natasha. She would no longer look at him, but seemed to be studying with great interest the gold bracelet on her wrist.