With a sigh and a grunt, Mr. Elliot forced his bulk to a creaking posture by Mr. Portal’s head. A quick twitch of the covering linen; a shrewd appraisal; and a forefinger bluntly probed at the dead man’s chest.

“And where is the knife?”

Dr. Gibbs cleared his throat and glanced at Lord Kinsfell. The Marquis sat with bowed head and slumped shoulders, his attention entirely turned within. The physician reached for the bloody thing, which had been laid on a napkin by one of the footmen, and handed it to the magistrate.

“Ah, indeed,” Mr. Elliot said through pursed lips. “A cunning blade, is it not?”

No reply seemed adequate to this observation, but none was apparently deemed necessary.

“And you, sir, would be—?”

“Dr. Gibbs, of Milsom Street,” the Moor replied. “I have the honour to attend Her Grace.”

“Then I venture to suppose that you will declare the gentleman dead, will you not, Dr. Gibbs? What a quantity of blood there is, to be sure!”

Mr. Elliot sat back upon his massive haunches, and surveyed the body with a rueful look. “To come to such a pass, and in such a suit of clothes! I fancy you should not like to end in a similar fashion, eh, Gibbs? — A similar fashion, d’you see?” The corpulent magistrate laughed heartily. “Aye, that’s very good.”

A sudden whirl of skirts brought the black-haired Medusa furiously to his side.

“Mr. Elliot — if that is how you are called — I would beg you to comport yourself with some decency and respect! A man has been foully murdered — and you would make witticisms upon his attire? It is intolerable, sir! I must demand that you apologise immediately!”

“Apologise?” Mr. Elliot heaved himself painfully to his feet, and regarded Maria Conyngham with penetration. “And to whom must I apologise, pray? For the gentleman in question is beyond caring, my dear. And now tell me. Are you not Maria Conyngham, of the Theatre Royal?”

“I am, sir.”

“Enjoyed your Viola most thoroughly. Now be a good girl and stand aside. Your Grace!”

“Yes, Mr. Elliot?”

“I should like an account of this evening’s amusement.”

The Dowager glanced about her helplessly.

“I shall tell him, Grandmère,” interjected the Lady Desdemona. She had been seated near her brother, her hand on his, and now rose with an expression of fortitude, her countenance pale but composed. “Mr. Portal is the manager of the Theatre Royal, whose company we intended to celebrate this evening. The masquerade was some hours underway, when we were so fortunate as to enjoy a recital from Macbeth, performed by Mr. Hugh Conyngham—”

“Mr. Conyngham is where?”

“At your service, Mr. Elliot,” the actor replied, stepping forward.

“And in the recital you were positioned where?”

“In the drawing-room opposite, before the fire.”

“The assembly regarding you?”

“Of course.”

“And Mr. Portal was—?”

Lady Desdemona broke in with an exclamation of annoyance. “But that is what I am telling you!”

Her brother stood up abruptly. “Mr. Portal was within the anteroom where his body now lies. I know this, because I thrust open the door in the midst of Mr. Conyngham’s speech, and found him expired upon the floor. His assailant must have escaped through the anteroom window.”

Lord Kinsfell’s eyes were blazing as he conveyed this intelligence to the magistrate, but he swallowed painfully at its close; and I guessed him to labour under an excess of emotion all the more pitiable for its containment.

Mr. Elliot’s gaze swept the length of the Knight’s figure. “Do I have the honour of addressing the Marquis of Kinsfell?”

“You do, sir.”

“Heir to the Duchy of Wilborough?”

“I may claim that distinction.”

“—and possessor of the knife that murdered Mr. Richard Portal?”

A hesitation, and Lord Kinsfell bowed his head. “The knife has long been in our family’s possession, yes. It is a decorative blade from Bengal, bestowed upon my father by the directors of the East India Company.”

The magistrate looked puzzled. “Might any person have come by it so readily as yourself, my lord?”

“I must suppose so. The knife was generally displayed upon the mantel of this room.” Lord Kinsfell gestured to a small platform made of teak, ideal for the positioning of a decorative blade, now forlorn and bare above the fireplace.

“Am I correct, my lord, in assuming that you pulled the blade from Mr. Portal’s breast?”

A muffled cry broke from Maria Conyngham.

“I did, sir,” Lord Kinsfell retorted, with a glance for the actress, “but I was not the agent of its descent into Mr. Portal’s heart.” He passed a trembling hand across his brow. “I was discovered in the attempt to aid or revive him only — and should better have pursued his murderer.”

“Ah — his murderer.” Mr. Elliot turned his back upon the Marquis and paced towards the mantel, his eyes roving about the panelled walls to either side. “The fellow, you would have it, who dropped from the window. A man should require wings, my lord, to achieve such a distance from casement to paving-stone. But perhaps your murderer came disguised this e’en as a bird. Or an imp of Hell, intent upon the snatching of a soul. We may wonder to what region Mr. Portal has descended, may we not?”

“Mr. Elliot!” Maria Conyngham cried. “Remember where you are, sir!”

The magistrate bowed benignly and crossed to the anteroom window. A quick survey of the ground below, and he summoned a constable with a snap of the fingers.

“You there, Shaw — to the chairmen, and be quick! You are to enquire whether any observed a flight from the sill of this window.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Mr. Elliot,” the Dowager broke in, “my footmen, Jenkins and Samuel, attempted to pursue the assailant some moments after his flight. But having little notion of the villain’s appearance or direction, alas, they could not find him.”

“Naturally not. Their slippers,” Elliot rejoined with a critical air, “are hardly conducive to pursuit. Lord Kinsfell—”

“Mr. Elliot?”

“For what reason did you follow Mr. Portal into this room?”

“I did not follow Portal anywhere,” the Marquis objected hotly. “I thought him already thrown out of the house.”

“Indeed? And upon what pretext?”

A brief silence; the exchange of looks. Lady Desdemona attempted an answer.

“Mr. Portal had so far forgot himself, Mr. Elliot, as to behave with considerable impropriety before Her Grace’s guests. My brother thought it best that he be shown to the street before his actions became insupportable.”

“That is a gross prevarication!” Hugh Conyngham burst out. “Had your brother not seen fit to challenge poor Portal to a duel, my lady, he might yet be alive!”

“A duel?” Mr. Elliot enquired with interest. “And what could possibly have inspired a duel, pray?”

Lord Kinsfell drew himself up to his full height — which was not inconsiderable. He was a very well-made young man. “I am not at liberty to say, Mr. Elliot. It was a matter of some delicacy.”

“An affair of honour, in short.”

“As all such matters must be.”

“Of that, my lord, I am hardly convinced. Duelling is murder, as you must be aware.”

“In cases where one of the opponents is killed, perhaps,” the Marquis replied dismissively.

“Are you so certain of your aim, my lord, as to intend to miss? Or so contemptuous of Mr. Portal’s?”

Lord Kinsfell did not reply, but the colour mounted to his cheeks. “It is of no account whatsoever what I intended, for Portal is dead, and by an unknown hand.”

“Is he, indeed? And why, may I ask Your Grace,” the magistrate continued, with a glare from under his eyebrows at the Duchess, “was Mr. Portal not conveyed to the street?”

“Whatever my grandson’s feelings, I deemed it necessary to comport myself as befits a hostess,” Eugenie replied with dignity. “It seemed to me more suitable to allow Mr. Portal an interval of rest and quiet, until some member of the company should be able to escort him home.”