Whom the Gods Love Read Online Free

Perhaps if Mr. Kestrel were to return in a day or two—"
    "I'm not tired, Papa." She turned to Julian. "Have you anything to ask me?"
    "Only the broadest of enquiries, and they aren't urgent. I don't wish to tax your strength."
    "You're very kind, but you needn't be concerned about that. I'm well enough to answer questions."
    He decided to take her at her word. "Who do you think killed your husband, Mrs. Falkland? Have you any theories?" 
    "No. I have no theories."
    "Had he any enemies?"
    "Not that I knew of. He was very popular. Everyone liked him."
    "Had he quarrelled with anyone recently?"
    "Alexander never quarrelled. It wasn't in his nature." 
    "Surely everyone has disagreements?"
    "A disagreement isn't the same thing as a quarrel. Alexander had differences of opinion with people, but he didn't become angry, or make them angry. You knew him—you saw what he was like."
    "I saw him out in the world, at clubs and parties. Was he the same in private?"
    "Yes. He never lost his temper with me. I should almost say he hadn't one to lose. There was a lightness about him. He made life very easy. Wherever he went, he was like a perfect host, making everyone around him comfortable and happy. There was no unpleasantness, ever. He found ways of smoothing it away."
    "The man you describe is remarkable—hardly human." 
    "Yes," she said quietly. "I know."
    Martha emerged from her corner and stood by Mrs. Falkland, with a mixture of deference and protectiveness. "Excuse me, ma'am, but it's time for your medicine." She spoke with the lilting inflection and guttural r of the West Country.
    Sir Malcolm rose. "We won't trouble you anymore, my dear. Take good care of her, Martha—I know you always do. Mr. Kestrel, will you come into the library?"
    Julian took leave of Mrs. Falkland. She seemed as indifferent to his departure as she had been to his coming, but he had the impression Martha was distinctly glad to see him go.
    *
    Sir Malcolm's house was designed very simply. The ground floor was a square, with two rooms on each side of a central hallway. Above were four more rooms, ranged around the top of the main stairs. Sir Malcolm brought Julian down to the library, which was the first room on the right as you entered the house.
    The library was clearly Sir Malcolm's sanctum: plain and oak-panelled, lined from floor to ceiling with shelves of classical authors. Bits of ancient pottery and sculpture served as paperweights or book props. The big knee-hole tables were covered with open books, ink-stained blotters, and piles of paper. It was the kind of room that would seem chaotic to everyone but its owner, who would know in some mysterious way exactly where everything was.
    "A hot drink wouldn't come amiss, do you think?" said Sir Malcolm. "Rum punch, or perhaps brandy-and-water?"
    "Brandy-and-water, if you please."
    Sir Malcolm rang for the servant who had taken their hats. Meanwhile Julian strolled over to the fireplace—and there was Alexander Falkland.
    It was a full-length portrait, large as life, filling all the space between fireplace and ceiling. Alexander stood in a standard pose yet looked quite natural, his arm resting on a mantelpiece as though he had casually laid it there in conversation. The likeness was superb. The painter had not only captured his physical traits—red-brown hair, brown eyes, slim, youthful figure—but conveyed their charm. The eyes were alight with laughter, the lips curving into their radiant, confiding smile, which seemed to draw the merest stranger into privileged intimacy. Here was a young man who enjoyed his life and made other people enjoy theirs.
    Sir Malcolm joined Julian before the portrait, letting him see the father and son juxtaposed. They had the same auburn hair and cinnamon-brown eyes, but there the resemblance ended. Sir Malcolm's woolly hair and craggy features had nothing in common with Alexander's wavy locks and finedrawn face.
    "It's a remarkable portrait," Julian said.
    "Yes. I'm