“Foxy, of course.”
“Why ‘of course’?”
“My title, and the red-brown hair,” I shrugged, “Not very imaginative.”
“I don’t know,” he studied me objectively, “‘Foxy’ suits you. Besides your hair, there’s something about your eyes and chin that suggests a fox, a sort of sharpness. But Sergeant Paget’s nickname, what does that mean?”
“I assume it’s because his Christian name is ‘Oliver,’ like Oliver Twist. Schoolboys aren’t usually terribly clever when it comes to making up those names. Did you have a nickname at school?”
“We all called each other by our surnames,” he said, returning to his omelet, “That’s even less imaginative.”
“More dignified, though,” I said, “What school did you attend?”
“Oaklands, in Bethnal Green,” he said somewhat dismissively, knowing I would never have heard of it; and he was right, I wasn’t even entirely sure where Bethnal Green was, other than somewhere to the east, “You’re an Etonian, aren’t you?”
“You know your Debrett,” I smiled at him.
“Not really, I only looked you up after we met.”
“If you’re finished with your supper, I’ll take you to your room so you can get settled in.”
He stood up with me, but when he looked at the door, his eyes suddenly widened with terror, “Can’t I stay with you tonight?”
“Of course,” I reached out and took his hand, “I wouldn’t want to be alone, either, in your place. Why don’t you go put on your pajamas and clean your teeth and do whatever you need to do before bed. I need to talk to Pond.”
“Thank you so much,” he came over and wrapped his arms around my chest, burying his face in my shoulder, then scurried away into the bathroom, passing Pond in the bedroom doorway.
“Pond, do I have any pajamas?” I asked him once the door was closed.
“Of course, my lord,” he looked at me strangely, “In the second drawer on the left. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I don’t want Gabriel to get the wrong idea by getting into bed with him in my usual state of undress.”
“What made you decide to take the boy on?” Pond asked with a little smirk, amused by my desire to keep my relationship with Gabriel as Platonic as could be.
“Well, honestly, I couldn’t just leave him alone. His brother has been murdered, his flat is crawling with coppers, and he’s been warned off his livelihood by no less a personage than Twister Paget. He’s in distress with nowhere to go, it would be like throwing a puppy in the Thames to just cut him loose.”
“I’m sure the lad has plenty of friends,” Pond suggested, clearing the supper dishes onto a tray.
“It’s easier to take him in, myself, than try to hunt through his friends for someone who is in a position to help. I mean, if all his friends are like Stan, people without surnames who live in the East End and the suburbs, what could they do for him?”
“And you like him,” he pointed out with a sly smile.
“I do like him,” I admitted, “But not like you mean, you dirty-minded old lecher. He actually reminds me of a boy who used to fag for me at Eton, Pongo Ponsonby.”
“Pongo?” he laughed at the silly name.
“Lord George,” I explained, “Second son of the Marquess of Faringdon. Ponsonbys are almost invariably called Pongo at school.”
“Ah.”
“He was a very sweet kid,” I went on, “A little bit sad but always good-natured and eager to please. He aroused my protective instincts. And I did protect him, he was probably the only boy in Eton who didn’t get caned in his first two years, though it cost me a few black eyes and the occasional bruised bum. Gabriel arouses those same instincts.”
“So what happened to your Pongo?” Pond asked in a tone that he only used when he was leading up to something.
“Nothing happened to him,” I frowned, “I haven’t seen him since I went up to Oxford. I expect he’s still at Eton, he’d be in his sixth year. What are you getting at?”
“All the bullying and caning and fagging at public schools? What’s it all for?” he looked at me very seriously.
“I can’t say I’ve ever considered it had a purpose,” I shrugged, “It just is. The prefects said it builds character.”
“And did it build your character?” he pursued.
“I suppose so,” I hedged, “I’ve never really thought about it.
“And what happens when you take those character-building canings away from a boy?”
“Oh, I see where you’re going,” I smiled, “You think I’m depriving Gabriel of an opportunity to build character by protecting him.”
“A boy like Gabriel will likely excite two responses in other males,” Pond explained, “To protect or to hurt. Neither builds character. He’s always looking for someone to protect him from those who would hurt him, instead of learning to protect himself, and so he ends up letting himself in for being hurt more easily. Do you see?”
“I do see,” I conceded, “And you have a point. But I don’t see how throwing him onto his own resources when he’s suffered such a horrible experience would help him.”
“It wouldn’t,” Pond turned and began tidying the room, which was already perfectly tidy; it was his signal that he was done being my friend for the moment and was again my valet, “Your lordship has a kind heart and a generous nature. One is only concerned that young Gabriel might become dependent on your lordship’s kindness when it would be better for him to learn to stand on his own.”
“Something to think about,” I considered the point, but was too tired to pursue it, “I’m going to bed. I’ll undress myself. See you in the morning, Pond.”
“Very good, my lord. Good night.”
I slipped through the door to the bedroom quietly, finding Gabriel was already asleep; I found a pair of soft maroon-striped French linen pajamas in the drawer Pond had indicated, took them into the bathroom, and performed my usual bedtime rituals. Creeping silently out of the bathroom, a little warm and flushed, I slid as gently as I could into the bed, turned off the little bedside lamp, and composed myself primly on my back as far away from the sleeping boy as possible without slipping off the edge.
Of course, without the interference of consciousness, the body does what it wants: I woke up in the middle of the night to discover us nestled together like two spoons in a drawer, my arms around his narrow chest and his arms folded over them, trapping them there. It was a good deal more intimate than I wanted to be with Gabriel, but it was comfortable, so I went back to sleep. Then, when I woke up in the morning, we were tangled together so tightly that it was simply inevitable that things got very un-Platonic very quickly: we’d committed half the usual sins before I was even properly awake, and it seemed rude to stop there.
“Good morning,” he said after we’d lain in blissful afterglow for a few minutes.
“Good morning,” I answered back, “Did you sleep well?”
“Extremely well,” he sat up and stretched his arms over his head, “You?”
“I always sleep well,” I scooted back against the pillows and watched him stretch his neck and his spine, then his legs; it was like watching a cat stretching after a nap, “I can sleep sitting up in a third-class train compartment; in a bed I always go out like a light and stay out for hours and hours.”
“Lucky,” he punctuated his exercises with a jaw-cracking yawn, then smiled sweetly at me, “I’m a terrible light sleeper, every little noise wakes me. But it’s so quiet here. You wouldn’t think you were in London at all.”
I don’t know if Pond heard us, or if he just had an infallible sense for when I was ready for coffee, but he appeared just as I was about to holler for him; his tray bore a number of silver pots, containing my coffee as well as tea, cocoa, and Ovaltine, plus the matching pots for the milk and sugar that I never used.
“I did not know if the gentleman takes coffee or tea in the morning,” Pond placed the tray on the bedside table and
trickled quickly out of the room without looking directly at either of us. This was his usual behavior when I had an overnight guest, so I didn’t notice it, though Gabriel thought it very funny.
“He’s an odd one, that Reggie,” Gabriel giggled while he poured himself a cup of tea and dumped an incredible amount of sugar into it.
“That was Pond,” I corrected him, taking my own cup and inhaling the fragrance, “Reggie would have made a tart observation, Pond just brings the tray and evaporates.”
“Surely they’re the same person,” Gabriel frowned at me as if I’d lost my mind.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” I grinned at him, “They occupy the same body, but they’re distinct personalities. Like an actor playing two roles in turn.”
“What for?” he asked, still confused by the turn of conversation.
“I’ve no idea. It’s just his way. You look awfully pretty in the morning, by the way.”
“Oh, go on with you,” he ducked his head and blushed charmingly.
“No, really,” I insisted, reaching out to touch his gold hair, which was tumbled and tousled and made him look like a child again, “I like looking at you.”
“You’re not so hard to look at, either,” he returned, a little bit awkwardly, as if coquettishness were a new garment he was trying on.
“Oh, we both know we’re pretty,” I said seriously, looking at him closely, “But I’m surprised I like you so much. I usually go for men a little older than myself.”
“I always go with men older than myself,” he said, taking a sip of his tea, “Not many young men want to pay.”
“If you weren’t on the game,” I was suddenly sobered by the reminder of his profession, “what would you want to do instead?”
“You think prostitution was my first choice?” he arched an eyebrow at me, a little annoyed.
“No, but you must know you can’t go on like this forever,” I reasoned, “What are you planning to do when you get too old?”
“I haven’t thought about it,” he said after a moment’s silence, a fearful, hunted look surfacing on his angelic face, then submerged again, “I’m only seventeen. I can probably work another five or six years before I start to lose my looks.”
“I didn’t mean to be hurtful,” I reached over and clasped his hand, “I just want to know how I can help you.”
“You’re already doing more than enough,” he put down his cup and leaned over to kiss me.
“I mean it, Gabriel,” I edged away from him, not wanting to be distracted, “What would you like to do? If you had a choice?”
“I really don’t know,” he replied, moving closer, “What difference does it make?”
“Will you tell me? When you’ve had time to think about it?”
“Why are you being so serious?” he sounded annoyed again, and confused. I realized that this was not the kind of conversation he was accustomed to having in a bed — beds were a workplace for him, it was like asking a dentist personal questions while he was poking around at your teeth.
“Gabriel, I like you a lot,” I slid away from him, out of the bed and into my dressing-gown, which I knotted decisively, “And while I would like nothing better than to spend the day in bed with you, I don’t want to have a professional relationship with you.”
“This isn’t for money,” he was obviously hurt, tears starting in his big green eyes, “I like you too, Sebastian.”
“I just don’t feel right doing this with you,” I explained further, gesturing at the mussed sheets, “This morning was very nice, but I feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”
“I don’t understand,” he sobbed a little.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I relented and sat beside him on the bed, taking him into my arms, “I don’t want to be your lover, I want to be your friend. I want to take care of you, but I want to be a brother to you, the kind of brother you deserve to have, not a client like you have had. Can you understand that?”
“Yes,” he murmured into my shoulder, “I get it. Do you want me to go?”
“Of course not,” I pulled back and looked into his face, planting a friendly kiss on his nose, “I want to have breakfast. Pond probably has it ready by now. Put on your dressing-gown and come along.”
He shook his head sadly, but did as I asked and followed me into the sitting-room, where Pond had indeed just finished laying out a hearty breakfast for two. We ate in a comfortable silence, which is my preferred way to start a day, then I glanced over the morning papers, handing sections of it over to Gabriel when I was done with them.
“Excuse me, my lord,” Pond stepped into the room with his tray, looking a little rattled, “Are you at home to Sergeant Paget?”
“Of course,” I looked up in some surprise, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“The Sergeant informs me that he is here in a professional capacity, my lord. There is a constable with him.”
“Oh!” I saw the problem: Gabriel and I en deshabille over a breakfast-table might look a little peculiar to a constable, “Well, no matter, shove them both in.”
Twister came in alone, however, telling the constable to wait in the corridor — using a tone that suggested one of us might try to escape that way. When he stepped into the room, his face looked like thunder, and I became alarmed.
“Have the two of you been here all night?” he demanded without preliminaries.
“Come in, won’t you, Sir Oliver?” I asked somewhat archly, hiding my fear in a joke, “Would you care for some tea?”
“Answer the question,” he snapped brutally.
“Yes, we have,” I said, standing up, “What’s going on?”
“You can swear that you’ve not been out of each other’s sight since we spoke in Wardour Mews yesterday evening?”
“Yes, of course! Now tell me what’s up!” I snapped back.
“You may be called upon to tell it to a judge,” Twister said, shaking his head sadly, “But I’m glad you can vouch for Mr. Baker’s whereabouts. Otherwise he’d be a suspect. Old lady Nazerman has been killed, and her shop robbed.”
“Oh my God!” Gabriel gasped and went white.
“When did this happen?” I asked, sinking back into my chair.
“Fairly early this morning,” Twister replied, finally taking off his hat, “Around six or seven, near as we can tell. The shutters were still up.”
“Why would Gabriel be a suspect?” I wondered.
“Among the items stolen, aside from all the money in the till and a good deal of jewelry, was her ledger. The ledger that I was going to ask to see when I went to visit her this morning. The one that would have revealed the identity of the person who’d redeemed that paper-knife. Smash-and-grab thieves don’t generally make off with the paperwork, so I have to assume the robbery was a secondary motive, the break-in was meant to silence Mrs. Nazerman as a witness.”
“Oh, that poor woman,” Gabriel sobbed, “She was always so kind to me.”
“Are you sure this is the only avenue of investigation?” I thought aloud, “Mrs. Nazerman, despite her airs and graces, was a receiver of stolen property. A fence, to put it plainly. Mightn’t one of her other customers have done this?”
“Might have,” Twister conceded, “But I don’t think so. She trusted whoever killed her enough to let him into the shop before opening hours, and to turn her back on him. She was struck from behind, with a heavy stick or a pipe. She wouldn’t turn her back on a known thief.”
“That’s awful,” I said, after sitting in an uncomfortable silence for some time, “I can understand someone killing Mike Baker, but to kill poor old Mrs. Nazerman as well? That’s just not right.”
“No murder is right,” Twister said with a good deal of asperity, “regardless of the nature of the victim.”
“Of course,” I agreed hastily, though I still considered the distinction valid, “But it puts a different complexion on the case, don’t you think? Stabbing a man might be done in the heat of the moment, but sneaking up
on an old woman takes a different state of mind. Malice aforethought, as they say.”
“Well, yes,” he conceded, “But murder is murder. There are degrees of severity, but they’re all wrong.”
“Yes, I understand you,” I regarded Twister closely, wondering why he was making such a to-do about the morality of killing. Perhaps his Norman blood was paining him: our ancestors wouldn’t have thought a thing of putting down a thieving beast like Mike Baker, but modern justice is meant to consider the lives of all persons as equally valuable, be they lord or commoner, merchant or thief, man or woman or child. All are equal in the law, or so the law would like us to believe.
However, I remained convinced that Mike Baker’s killer would not have been as energetically pursued as Mrs. Nazerman’s killer, who in turn would not be pursued with the fervour applied if a knight or peer had been the victim; Justice is blind, so she tends to stick to the well-worn paths of history rather than barking her shins on modern equality. But I did not wish to hurt Twister’s feelings by saying so.
Nevertheless, though I was not very interested in the identity of Mike Baker’s killer, and in fact would secretly applaud his heroic deed, Mrs. Nazerman’s murder put my back up: I was now interested in the case, when before I would have been perfectly happy to let Twister go on about his business unaided (or unhindered) by me.
“I’d better go talk to Baron van der Swertz,” I sighed, getting up from the table and heading back to my bedroom.
“I already did,” Twister smiled a crafty little smile at me, pleased to have stolen a march.
“Let me guess: he told you he had diplomatic immunity, and to bugger off,” I smiled just as craftily.
“More or less,” he laughed, “But he did answer my questions about where he was this morning.”
“Did you ask him why he was in Soho yesterday?” I wondered.
“Not relevant,” Twister frowned.
“I see. I’m going to get dressed. Gabriel, won’t you entertain Sergeant Paget while I’m gone? He takes his tea with lemon.”
Forgetting, in my excitement, that I was no longer allowed to dress myself, I had already pulled on a tennis shirt and was halfway into a pair of flannels when Pond came in and took over, vetoing my hurried wish to just throw on the necessities since I wasn’t actually going outside; instead, I was laboriously put into full gentleman’s town regalia, as if I were going to be calling on ladies in Mayfair all day. Twister was gone when I finally emerged, taking his constable with him, and leaving Gabriel sitting on the sofa with nothing to do.
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