Whom the Gods Love Read Online Free Page B

to the cabinet and took out another sheaf of papers. "You'd better have my letters to him as well, so that you can follow the give-and-take of ideas. I took them back after he died. He'd left his papers to me—his books as well."
    "A propos," said Julian, "how did he leave the rest of his property?"
    "Nearly everything went to Belinda. Of course, his most valuable property was the landed estate she'd brought him, and on his death that reverted to her by law. He left generous bequests to his servants, particularly his valet, a pernickety little Frenchman named Valere. And there was a conditional bequest to Eugene, consisting of some paintings and other property worth about four thousand pounds."
    "Eugene is Mrs. Falkland's brother, I believe?" 
    "Half-brother, to be precise. Alexander was his guardian. He's staying with me now. Belinda brought him with her." 
    "What did you mean when you said the bequest was conditional?"
    "I meant that it depended on Alexander's dying without issue. If he and Belinda had had a child, Eugene's bequest would have been reduced by about three-quarters. Alexander was fond of Eugene, but I suppose he felt he owed it to his own children to put them first."
    "What if your hopes are well-founded, and Mrs. Falkland proves to be in the family way?"
    "Well, if there's a live child, Eugene will be the loser. Awkward situation, but there it is."
    "I can see I shall have to speak to Eugene."
    Sir Malcolm eyed him uneasily. "You do know he's only sixteen?"
    "I imagine he's capable of wielding a poker?"
    "Well, yes."
    "Was he in the house on the night Alexander died?"
    "Yes. But you don't understand—Alexander was his hero! He perked up like a dog noticed by its master whenever Alexander looked his way! You can't think he'd kill him, just for four thousand pounds?"
    "Men have killed each other for four pounds, even four shillings. The income from four thousand pounds would be two hundred a year—not an inconsiderable supplement to a gentleman's income. Has Eugene any money of his own?" 
    "Not a farthing," Sir Malcolm admitted. "His father came to a bad end, you know. Belinda's father—her mother's first husband—was a respectable country squire, who died when Belinda was a baby. A few years later his widow married Tracy Talmadge, an engaging young man, but a rake and a spendthrift. He ran through his own fortune and whatever of his wife's he could lay hands on. Luckily he couldn't touch Belinda's property—that had been well tied up by her father. In the end his friends caught him cheating at cards, he was disgraced, and cut his throat in a fit of despair. His wife was left a pauper, living on the charity of her daughter's trustees. And Eugene, who was only three, had nothing in the world but a legacy of dishonour."
    "You must see, Sir Malcolm," Julian pointed out gently, "you haven't exactly made a case for his innocence."
    "I haven't, have I? Well, by all means question him. Question anyone you like-—I give you carte blanche. Where shall you begin?"
    "With Vance. I shall try to arrange to see him this evening. Then tomorrow I should like to inspect Alexander's study and the rest of his house."
    "Why don't I meet you there? I can let you in, introduce you to the servants, and answer any questions you may have. I'd like to watch you, see how you go about your investigation. You don't know how helpless I've felt—waiting and wondering, receiving reports from Vance, but not really knowing what's going forward, or how I might be of use."
    "Very well. Shall we say ten o'clock?"
    "Ten o'clock it is. I can't tell you what your assistance means to me, Mr. Kestrel. You've given me hope. Perhaps in time you'll give Belinda hope as well."
    Julian thought it would take more than a solution to the murder to lift Mrs. Falkland's spirits. He did not know what was behind her dull despair—shock or grief or guilt. But one thing seemed clear: it did not matter to her who had killed her husband.

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