“I spoke in jest! It can never have been in a file, of course. I tell you the thing is most secret!”
“There might still be ways of restoring it.”
“Yes, I suppose there might—but not ways known to Eustace Cheviot, Ned! Now for heaven’s sake, my dear fellow, do but consider! You knew Eustace as well as anyone! This will not do!”
Carlyon got up to replenish his own glass. “Very true, but I never imagined Eustace could be more than a go-between. If all these suspicions are correct, someone of far more importance than Eustace must stand behind him. Someone who is afraid to appear in the matter himself and so employs a tool.”
“I will not allow it to be possible!” John said explosively. “I never knew such a fellow as you are, Ned, for doing or saying the most outrageous things and then making them seem the merest commonplace! It is a great deal too bad of you, and I know you rather too well to be drawn in!”
“Now, what have I ever done or said to deserve this from you?” asked Carlyon mildly.
“I could recite to you a score of things!” John retorted. “But one will suffice! If it was not the most outrageous thing imaginable to force that unfortunate young female into marriage with Eustace, then I know nothing of the matter! And do not explain to me how it comes to be the most reasonable and ordinary thing to have done, because I shall end by believing you, and I know very well it was no such thing!”
Carlyon laughed. “Very well, I will not, but I cannot believe your judgment to be so easily overpowered.”
“If Eustace was indeed selling information to the French,” said John, “then I must set it all at Bedlington’s door! I dare say Eustace has very often visited him at the Horse Guards, and I will take my oath he would know how to make the most of his opportunities! He was never a fool. Indeed, he had the sort of cunning there is no keeping pace with. You should know that! I should not be at all surprised if Bedlington had dropped some hint, without in the least meaning to, but enough for Eustace! We cannot tell how it may have been, but to be trying to implicate someone of real consequence—Bathurst, no doubt!—is the outside of enough!”
“No, I was not thinking of Bathurst,” said Carlyon calmly.
“This is something indeed!” said John, with awful irony. “Depend upon it, Ned, this is all a figment of the imagination, and whatever it was that De Castres wanted will be found to have nothing whatsoever to do with any state affair!”
“I hope you may be right. I am really not anxious to plunge the whole family into such a scandal as you have already foreseen.”
The butler came into the room, and bowed. “I beg your lordship’s pardon, but my Lord Bedlington has called and would wish to have speech with your lordship immediately. I have ushered his lordship into the Crimson Saloon.”
John choked over his sherry and was taken with a fit of coughing. After an infinitesimal pause, Carlyon said, “Inform his lordship that I shall be with him directly, and carry sherry and madeira into the Crimson Saloon. You had better instruct Mrs. Rugby to prepare the Blue Suite, since no doubt his lordship will be spending the night here.”
The butler bowed again, and withdrew. Carlyon glanced down at his brother. “Now what have you to say?” he inquired.
“Damme, Ned!” said John, still coughing. “It was only his being announced so pat! You must have expected him to come here!”
“I did,” replied Carlyon. “But not before he had received my letter notifying him of Eustace’s death.”
“What?” John exclaimed. “You inserted a notice in the Gazette, of course! He has seen that!”
“He can hardly have done so, since it does not appear until tomorrow,” Carlyon retorted.
John heaved himself up out of his chair, staring. “Ned! You mean you believe Bedlington—You think that De Castres told Bedlington—It’s not possible!”
“No, that was not what was in my mind,” Carlyon replied. “I was thinking of one whom I know to be a close friend of De Castres.”
“Francis Cheviot! That frippery dandy!”
“Well, the thought cannot but occur to one,” Carlyon said. “He is Bedlington’s son—and here we have Bedlington, twenty-four hours before he should be in Sussex.”
“Yes, I know, but—a fellow who cares for nothing but the set of his cravat and the blend of his snuff!”
“Ah!” said Carlyon pensively. “But I recall that upon at least three occasions in the past I have found Francis Cheviot by no means lacking in intelligence. In fact, my dear John, I would never underrate him as an opponent. I have known him to be—quite amazingly ruthless when he has set out to attain his own ends.”
“I would not have credited it! Of course, you have been better acquainted with him than I ever was. I cannot stand the fellow!”
“Nor I,” said Carlyon. “Were you not telling me that he had suffered severe losses over the gaming table?”
“Yes, so I believe. He plays devilish high—but one must be just, even to Francis Cheviot, you know, and he did inherit his mother’s fortune! Not but what I should doubt whether it can have been handsome enough to stand—But this is to no purpose, Ned!”
“Very true. Let us go and welcome our guest!”
They found the butler arranging decanters on a table in the Crimson Saloon and Lord Bedlington fidgeting in front of the fire. He started forward as Carlyon came into the room, exclaiming, “Carlyon, what is this terrible business? I came at once—though I could ill be spared! I was never more shocked in my life! And I must tell you that I wonder at your not having advised me immediately of the event! Oh, how d’ye do, John!”
“I called at your house in town, but was so unfortunate as to find you away from home,” said Carlyon, shaking hands. “So I wrote you a letter which I fancy will reach your house tomorrow. Tell me, from what source” did you learn of Eustace’s death?”
The round blue eyes stared at him. There was a perceptible pause before Bedlington replied testily, “How can one tell how such news may get about?”
“I cannot, certainly. Where did you learn it, sir?”
“My poor nephew’s valet told my man. It will be all over town by now! But how did it happen? What accident befell Eustace? Some talk of a brawl in an inn! I came to you to hear the truth!”
“You shall do so, but you may believe that the truth is as painful to me to relate as it will be to you to hear. Eustace met his death at my brother Nicky’s hands.”
“Carlyon!” gasped Bedlington, falling back a pace and grasping at a chair back to steady himself. “My God, has it come to this?”
“Has what come to this?” demanded John, bristling.
Thus challenged, his lordship sought refuge in his handkerchief, and uttered in broken accents that he would never have believed such a thing.
“Believed such a thing as what?” pursued John, remorselessly adhering to his sledge-hammer tactics.
“I do wish you would be quiet, John!” said Carlyon. “Pray sit down, sir! I need hardly tell you that the whole affair was an accident. If Eustace had had his way it would have been Nicky who had been killed, and that, I am constrained to tell you, would have been a clear case of murder.”
“Ah, you were always unjust to the poor lad! I might depend upon you to shield your brother!”
“Certainly you might, but happily this affair does not rest upon my testimony. To be brief with you, Bedlington, Eustace was, as usual, in his cups, and in this condition was unwise enough to provoke Nicky into knocking him down. Upon which, he seized a carving knife and tried to murder Nicky. In the scuffle, during which Nicky contrived to wrest the knife from him, he seems to have tripped and fallen on the knife. He died some hours later. I regret the occurrence as much as anyone, but I cannot hold Nicky to blame.”
“No, nor anyone else!” John said roughly.
Bedlington, who appeared to be quite overcome, only moaned behind his handkerchief. Carlyon poured out a glass of wine and took it to him. “Come, sir! I appreciate your concern, but to be blunt with you I cannot altogether deplore a taking off that I am much inclined to think may have come just in time to prevent Eustace from plunging all of us into a scandal we must be thankful to be spared.”