Free Whom the Gods Love by Kate Ross

of the window on the right—"
    He went to the right-hand window and experimented with concealing himself behind the curtains. "This would do very well as a hiding place in near darkness. But it seems an extraordinary stroke of luck for the murderer that Alexander came and stood by the other window with his back turned, like a lamb to the slaughter—if you'll pardon that image, Sir Malcolm. All in all, it's a daring and uncertain plan. Anyone who attempted it would have had to be bold, cool-headed—and desperate."
    He took up his quizzing-glass—the little gold-framed magnifying glass he wore on a black ribbon around his neck—and prowled about the two window embrasures for a time, then moved on to the niches by the fireplace and other spots where the murderer might have lain in wait. "Apparently he or she wasn't obliging enough to leave stray coat-buttons or scraps of lace about for us to find. I suppose that would be making things a bit too easy. This lack of physical evidence is devilish inconvenient. No wonder Vance attaches such importance to motive."
    "What you're saying is, you're as baffled by this crime as Bow Street," Sir Malcolm said sadly.
    Julian perceived that solvers of crime, like physicians, are not allowed to confess to even a momentary bewilderment. This was the first time he had embarked upon a murder investigation under the eyes of the victim's distraught relatives, and it was certainly an education. He smiled quizzically. "What I'm saying, Sir Malcolm, is that our murderer was very clever, or very lucky, or both. That we'll find him out in the end, I have no doubt. But it might be rushing our fences to expect to do it in one morning."
    "You're right, of course. I know I've been riding at this thing neck or nothing."
    "That can be a mistake. One misses details."
    "I'm sure no one could ever accuse you of that, Mr. Kestrel," Sir Malcolm said, smiling.
    Julian had a distinct sense of missing something now. He gazed around the room, but it still eluded him. He shrugged. "Well, why don't we speak with the servants."
    "Of course. Would you like to see them all at once?"
    "Yes. I'll start with the full orchestra—then, as needed, move on to duets."
    *
    The servants were gathered in the parlour. They made a strange picture, their stark mourning clothes set against the vivid colours around them. The parlour was Turkish: all bright ottomans and billowing cushions, mosaic-topped tables and sumptuous carpets. After the austere greys of the study, it was almost too dazzling, like being inside a plush-lined, gem-filled jewel-case.
    Julian amused himself with trying to identify as many of the servants as possible before they were introduced. Luke he had already met. The other tall, strapping young man must be the second footman, Nelson Beale. He was dark rather than fair, and, unlike Luke, he seemed to be enjoying all this excitement. The dignified man, with his few remaining strands of iron-grey hair neatly lacquered to his head with pomatum, was surely Paul Nichols, the butler. Alexander's valet, Hippolyte Valere, was likewise unmistakeable: a fussily dressed little man, very like a grasshopper, with a small, triangular face, eyes made prominent by large spectacles, and wiry, tense limbs.
    The remaining servants were Alexander's French chef, the rest of the kitchen staff, the maids, and the stable servants. All these were of secondary interest, since they had alibis and had played no part in the events surrounding Alexander's murder.
    "There are two missing," Sir Malcolm told Julian. "Belinda's maid, Martha, is with her at my house—you saw her yesterday—and so is her groom, an Irishman named Nugent."
    "These will do to be going on with." Julian turned to the servants. "Please sit down. All of you," he added, smiling, as the scullions and stable-boys hesitated and twirled their caps between their hands. They obeyed, looking bewildered at this reversal of roles. Since when did servants sit and the Quality stand