Sonnet to a Dead Contessa (6 page)

It was later in the day after the unpleasant interview with Welles and the home secretary that Sergeant Sandy Kenzie came in. He was a spare man of below-average height with sandy hair and a neat moustache. His speech branded him as a Scot the moment he opened his mouth. He had an odd look on his face, and he said, “Sir, I have something that may be helpful.”

“One of the clues has been ferreted out?”

“Yes, sir. Here it is. The military medal that we found is numbered. You know the Victoria Cross is new. The Queen herself devised the decoration, the highest in the military. Several have been made, but they’re all numbered.”

“And who received the medal,
Kenzie?”

“I regret to tell you that it belongs to General Leo Hunter.”

“Oh my! That’s a bad one!”

“I knew you’d think so.” Kenzie clucked his tongue and shook his head. “It would be hard to arrest a national treasure. Ever since he performed so heroically in the Crimea, he’s been the idol of the nation. I certainly hope he’s not the guilty man.”

“National treasure he may be,” Grant said, his voice hard-edged, “but I’m sure he treasures that medal from the Queen herself, and it was found in the room of a murdered woman. I’ll go see him at once. I’ll be at his home if I’m needed.”

“Come in, sir.” The general stepped aside for Grant to enter. He looked elegant in a long black frock coat, a spotless white shirt, a simply tied black cravat with a small diamond stud, black breeches pressed to a knife crease, and black boots.

Grant stepped into the opulent drawing room of General Leo Hunter. The room was large, with windows along one side, and yet at first glance it did not seem so. The huge mantel dominated one wall and was flanked by bookcases to the ceiling. Dark uphol-stered armchairs were supplemented by very beautiful chairs with carved wooden backs like church windows. Everywhere there were ornaments, tapestries, and potted plants. Two magnificent bronzes stood on a low bookcase, and a marble ormolu-mounted clock sat on the mantel.

“Sit down there, sir,” General Hunter said. “Will you have tea, perhaps?”

“No, General.” Matthew took his seat and wondered how to approach the situation. He stared at Hunter, who, at the age of fifty-six, looked ten years younger. He was a tall man with broad shoulders; dark hair, silver at the temples; and the most piercing dark blue eyes that Matthew had seen in any man. He looked the role of a hero, and he had been a hero in the Crimean War. The public adored him, and before making his visit, Grant had enquired quietly about what sort of man he was. He discovered several interesting facts. One, the general could be charming when he chose; two, he enjoyed women; and three, he was a widower. His wife, Roberta, was dead, and Grant found it particularly interesting that she was murdered by a burglar who was never apprehended.

“I have never entertained a superintendent from Scotland Yard.”

“Well, I have never had a meeting with a general.” Matthew tried to smile. He was trying to put into his mind a way he could approach the general, and finally he decided that the straightforward way was the best. “I’ll get right to my point, General. Do you recognise this?”

Hunter took the object and held it up. “Why, it’s the Victoria Cross.”

“Yes, sir. Very few of these have been passed out.”

“Yes, I understand that. I was quite honoured to receive it.”

“The medal was found in the bedroom of Lady Stephanie Welles, General.”

“Preposterous!” Either Hunter was an extraordinary actor or he was truly surprised, for shock ran across his face. “There can’t be too many of these around.”

“No, sir, there aren’t. This particular medal is yours. They are numbered, as you probably know.”

“This is my medal? It can’t be!”

“I’m afraid it is, General.”

Hunter stared at Grant, then got up and walked across the room. He opened a drawer to a secretary desk and stared at it blankly. When he turned around, amazement and shock were written across his features. “My medal was right in this drawer. I always keep it there.”

“When was the last time you saw it, General Hunter?”

“Why, I don’t know. I don’t look at it every day. I thought I would have it mounted, perhaps, when I had time.” Suddenly Hunter drew himself up. “Does this mean I’m a suspect?”

“That’s a rather strong way to put it, General, but we do need to know how your medal got into the murdered woman’s room.”

“Well, of course I would never wear this medal. That would be ostentatious, even for me.”

“Could anyone have come in and taken it?”

“Well, certainly. The servants are in and out all the time. I have a great deal of company, and there are times, if they knew where the medal was, they could have taken it.”

“Would you mind if I question your servants?”

Suddenly the general smiled rather grimly. “What if I did object?”

Grant did not hesitate. “Then, sir, I would have to do it anyway.”

The general laughed. “Go at it, Superintendent. I hope you catch this fellow. Am I the only suspect, by the way?”

“No, there were many other items in the room. Evidently the killer was clever enough to get unrelated items. A few, like yours, were rare.”

“Well, I hope you catch the fellow. I knew Lady Stephanie. A very fine woman, and her husband, I’ve met him several times too. How’s he taking it?”

“Not well.”

“Too bad. Too bad. I’d appreciate it if you would let me know. I suppose you have to keep the medal.”

“Just for now, General. It will be returned to you. Thank you for seeing me.”

“Certainly. Keep me informed, if you will.”

The attempts to sort out the meaningless items continued with Scotland Yard working around the clock. Kenzie came in late one afternoon and said, “Well, we identified this white powder. It’s rosin. Acrobats use it to make their grips firmer.”

“Yes, but what’s it doing in Lady Stephanie’s bedroom? She was no acrobat.”

“Well, there was a ticket, sir, you remember, to the circus, where the fellow Henley does the performance on the tightrope and that horizontal metal bar. Perhaps we should go talk to him.”

“So we have rosin and a ticket stub. Yes, talk to Mr. Henley and the other acrobats.”

“Yes, sir.”

Grant turned to his work, but he was aware that Kenzie had not left the room. “What is it, Kenzie?”

“We’ve got something else, sir. You won’t like it.”

“I like nothing about this case. What is it?”

Grant listened and saw at once that Kenzie was having a difficult time. When the man finally finished, Grant looked down at his hands and was silent for a moment. Kenzie didn’t move or speak. At last Grant looked up. “You take Henley. I’ll take care of this.”

“Probably a good decision, sir.”

Kenzie left, and for a long time Grant sat at his desk looking at the report that Kenzie had left. Then in an uncharacteristic gesture he picked up a paperweight and threw it across the room. It hit the wall, and Matthew Grant stared at the mark it made. He then rose, and the expression on his face was that of a man going to his own execution.

FOUR

T
he morning sun came streaming in through the open window, casting a pale yellow light on Serafina as she sat at her desk. She had been staring down at a sheet of paper for some time, but now she looked up and noted the tiny motes that seemed to do a fantastic dance in the beam of sunlight. The only sound in her room was the ticking of the large grandfather clock over to her left. She looked again at the sheet of paper, and her brow furrowed as she studied it. The list was composed of the items that had been left by the murderer of Lady Stephanie Welles. As Matthew had asked, she had pored
over it and tried to impose some order upon it, but the murderer had been clever and there was no relationship between the items. Grant had every available man from Scotland Yard working on the case, and the newspapers were already having a field day—it was a sensational case, as it always is when a member of the aristocracy is brutally murdered.

Finally, with a sigh, she rose from her desk and left the room. She made her way to the nursery, David’s playroom, and as she approached, she could hear Dylan’s voice and David’s laughter at something he had said. She passed through the doorway and saw Dylan sitting cross-legged on the floor, working on what appeared to be a kite. “What are you up to?” she asked.

“Dylan’s making a kite, and we’re going to fly it,” David piped up. His eyes were alight with pleasure, and he nodded confidently. “And Dylan says I can fly it myself.”

“It’s
Mr
. Dylan, David.”

“Mr. Dylan says I can fly it myself.”

Serafina smiled and moved over to sit in a chair that was placed with its back against the wall. The room itself was stuffed with toys, and it was David’s favourite room in the entire house.

She watched as Dylan began putting what appeared to be strips of paper on the framework of a kite. It was in the shape of a cross with an upright piece of very thin wood and the crosspiece not quite so long.

She knew Dylan was clever with his hands, and she asked, “How did you learn to make kites, Dylan?”

“Oh, I learnt when I was just a lad no older than David here. Made many a kite to fly high in the air, I have.”

“Mr. Dylan, finish the story you started,” David implored.

“Why, how do you expect me to make a kite and tell a story at the same time?”

“You can do it. I know you can. Tell it now, please, sir, please?”

Dylan cast a look at Serafina. He grinned at her, and a lock of his coal black hair fell across his forehead. He turned his head to one side and whispered loudly enough for her to hear, “Your mother doesn’t like me to tell you those fairy tales.”

“She won’t mind, will you, Mum?”

“Go ahead. You’ll tell it anyhow when I’m out of sight.”

“You cut me to the heart, Viscountess,” Dylan said, putting his hand over his heart in a gesture of overacting. “Strike me down like a dagger, your words do!”

“It would take a sledgehammer to strike your heart down! Go on and tell the story. David will give you no peace until you do.”

“Right, you! As I was saying, David, when King Arthur was just a boy, nobody knew he was to be king of all of England, not even he himself. There was a deep mystery about his birth, and he had been raised by a wizard named Merlin.”

“Was he a good boy like me?” David grinned mischievously.

“Oh, much better than you,” Dylan said, winking slyly at Serafina. “He was a fine boy indeed. Always minded when he was told to do something. Never argued. So you see you’ve got a way to go before you’re anything like the young King Arthur.”

“Well, how did he get to be king if nobody knew who he was?”

“It’s very simple. There was a huge stone, and there was a sword plunged into it, and everyone in England at that time knew that whoever could pull the sword out of the stone was to be the rightful king over the whole land.”

Serafina listened as Dylan put the finished kite aside and now began to gesture, and his face was alight as he told the story.
He’s a marvelous storyteller,
Serafina thought,
but I suppose that goes with being an actor
.

“Everybody came from miles around, David, strong men. There were knights of courage and boldness and strength in those days, so all the knights came, and all of them wanted to be king, of course. So they would all go to the stone and grasp the handle of the sword and try to pull it out, but none of them could do it.”

“Not even the strongest one?”

“Not even the strongest one. There’s more to pulling a sword out of the stone than you may think.”

“What about Arthur?”

“Well, everyone had tried, and people were going home. Arthur saw that sword in the stone, and he walked over to it and something seemed to whisper inside his very head
. Pull the sword out of the stone, for you are the rightful king of England!”

“And did he do it?”

“Yes, he did. He reached down, and the sword slid out of that big rock like it was made of butter. Someone cried out, and they all gathered around and stared at Arthur. One of the knights said, ‘This can’t be the king of England; he’s only a boy.’ But he had pulled the sword out of the stone, so he
was
the rightful king of England. Then all the people gathered around and began to shout, ‘Long live the king! Long live the king!’”