‘He suggested to me that it is his work that may have made him enemies,’ Daniel pointed out. ‘Some person wishing to destroy him, in order to prevent his exposing their very serious behaviour, even crimes. He said they may have made him look guilty of Mrs Graves’ death in order to silence him. I think he would wish us to look into that possibility.’
‘Yes, sir, I think that is likely,’ Falthorne conceded. ‘I just felt that I should say something. It is my . . . duty . . . to do so.’
Daniel was surprised how easily he had given in. He would have expected much more resistance, even an argument.
Perhaps Falthorne wanted him to discover something? All the staff seemed more shaken and grieved by Mrs Graves’ death than by Graves’ conviction for her murder. Maybe they had expected it.
‘Sir?’ Falthorne interrupted his thoughts.
‘Yes?’
‘Perhaps considering the lateness of the hour, and the volume of papers, you would like to have a little supper first? Mr Arthur does not come downstairs, and Miss Sarah will eat with him. But you are welcome to eat in the servants’ hall if you wish. Or I can bring you something in the dining room? However, it has not been heated recently, and may be a little cold.’
‘Do you know what time the last train is to London?’ Daniel only just realised how late it was, because this time of the year the sun did not set until eight, or even nine o’clock.
‘No, sir, but we can look it up for you, or make enquiries. However, if you prefer, we can make up the guest room for you.’ There was a mild, polite smile on Falthorne’s face, completely unreadable.
Daniel hesitated only a moment. ‘Thank you. That would be very kind of you, Mr Falthorne. And will save me a great deal of time. It’s most thoughtful of you, and I will be delighted to have dinner with you, and the rest of the household.’
‘Very good, sir. It will be served in half an hour. I’ll show you to Mr Graves’ study, if you will be so good as to follow me, sir.’
Daniel went down the stairs behind Falthorne and crossed the hallway to the door of the study. It was a larger room than he expected, a cross between a sitting room and a library. There were extensive shelves of books, many of them leather-bound; some were sets of reference books, dictionaries, and a number of biographies of noted people. One section was devoted to his own works, several copies of each.
There was a large leather inlaid desk and a leather-seated chair to match. There were also three leather armchairs grouped around a handsome Adam fireplace, complete with gleaming brasses.
Falthorne noticed his glance. ‘Have to keep it clean, sir, as if we thought he was going to come home.’ His face was expressionless.
Daniel wondered what it would have shown had he allowed himself that freedom. His studied good manners masked everything, except the effort it cost him. Falthorne had been faultless all the time Daniel had been here. No emotion had betrayed itself but the natural gravity to be expected from a butler in a house of mourning – and scandal.
‘You are admirable, Mr Falthorne,’ Daniel said, looking directly at him. ‘The family and the staff are very fortunate to have you to guide them at such a time.’
That broke Falthorne’s composure. He blushed a deep pink. ‘Thank you, sir. I will do my best. It has been . . . a very difficult time for us all.’ He gave a slight bow.
Daniel smiled at him.
Falthorne avoided his eyes and gave the smallest of nods. ‘In half an hour, sir, I shall send the bootboy to fetch you for supper. If you will excuse me, sir? If you need to look in the desk the keys are behind the clock on the mantelpiece’
‘Of course. And thank you.’
As soon as Falthorne was gone, Daniel took the keys and opened the desk drawers one by one.
In a large central drawer, Daniel found a working manuscript. As Graves had said, he was clearly well advanced in research, and a preliminary draft of his new work. A Modern Machiavelli was the provisional title. It piqued the interest, if nothing else. The name of the Florentine Renaissance master political scientist had passed into the language. His work The Prince was legendary for its advocating intrigue, deception and ruthlessness. Daniel wondered who Graves was referring to. He did not know of anyone with that refinement of deviousness.
He began with the notes written in a bold, sprawling hand. A lot of dates were mentioned, along with initials. The letter N occurred many times. It appeared to be the record of someone who had had several changes of career: a brief spell in the Indian Army, then university to study law, and a period practising before being seconded into the civil service, in some position not specifically named.
What was clear was that Graves did not like him. There was to be the exposure of a ghost-like figure who manipulated others from the shadows offstage, rather than a man who showed himself, and took the praise or the blame openly.
The more Daniel read, the less he liked the man who was the subject of these notes. Graves clearly took pleasure in the thought of unmasking him.
Could he be to blame for Graves’ present situation? If the man were the master manipulator Graves believed him to be, it would not be beyond his power, or his morality.
Could Graves, dislikeable as he was, actually be innocent of the murder of his wife?
Why the burning of her face and upper body? To make sure her death was regarded as a murder, and not some sort of an accident? Daniel actually felt a twinge of pity for Graves.
And then the moment after, he wondered why Graves had not mentioned his current biographical work to Kitteridge before his trial. Could he have been so arrogant, so stupid, as not to see the relevance? It would have created at least a reasonable doubt, in the hands of a good lawyer. And Kitteridge was good.
Who was the Machiavelli that Graves was writing about? Could Graves be afraid of him? Or afraid of someone that ‘Machiavelli’ had power over?