“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “It’s never stopped me before.”
“But this is a new Matriarch,” said William. “And as you have already noted, Maggie is very serious about her responsibilities.”
“Nothing ever really changes in this family, William,” I said. “You should know that.”
“You’ve changed things.”
“Yes. I have. But I have to wonder how much, and how long the changes will last.”
“Well,” said William, “if you will keep going away . . .”
“Maintaining a distance is all that keeps me sane.”
“I know just what you mean,” William said solemnly. “Why do you think I spend so much time in the Library?”
I looked around the room again. “They’re all gone now,” I said. “Grandfather Arthur, and Grandmother Martha. Uncle Jack and Uncle James. The Grey Fox’s sons, Harry and Roger. And Jack’s only son, Timothy. Tiger Tim, rogue Drood and villain. I killed him, even after Jack asked me not to.”
“I’ve read the report,” said William. “You did what you had to.”
“Doesn’t make it right.”
“Jack understood.”
“Did he?”
William looked away. “The family goes on . . .”
“That’s not the point! The point is . . . the only close family I have left now are my parents. Charles and Emily. Still missing; presumed dead by most people.”
“I don’t believe that,” William said firmly. “And neither should you. First rule of the secret agent business: if you don’t see the body, they’re almost certainly not dead. And even if you have seen the body, they could still be faking it. You mustn’t worry, Eddie. They’ll turn up.” And then he stopped and looked at me sharply with his cool, fey eyes. As though he knew so much more than I could ever know, or hope to understand. “Are you sure you still want to find them? They betrayed you at Casino Infernale. Traded away your soul in a game of chance and then disappeared before they could be called to answer for it. Those are not the actions . . . of good and loving parents.”
“They didn’t betray me,” I said steadily. “I don’t believe that, and neither should you. And even if they did, they’re still my mum and dad. I’m sure they had their reasons. They’re still out there, somewhere. And I will find them. I have to.”
“We do seem to have lost a lot of Droods lately,” said William. He sat down on the edge of the unmade bed and kicked his heels idly. “It’s been a hard few years for the family. Our victories may have been great, even significant, but we have paid for them with the blood and suffering of our bravest and our best. Still, look on the bright side, eh? At least the Hall isn’t so crowded any more. We won’t have to move anytime soon. I really wasn’t looking forward to that.”
I looked at William. He didn’t seem to be joking.
We sorted through Jack’s few belongings. There weren’t that many. He never did care much for . . . things. Not outside of the Armoury, anyway. There were only two framed photographs, on the small bedside table. One showed Jack with his wife, Clara, not long after they were married. It was a carefully cropped close-up of just the two of them, with no background. Could have been taken anywhere. Tellingly, there was nothing in the photo to link them to the Droods, or to Drood Hall. Just two not-so-young people, smiling happily at each other, obviously very much in love.
I thought the other framed photo would be of their son, Timothy, perhaps when he was just a child. Instead it turned out to be a photo of me. Smiling broadly into the camera. I picked it up and looked at myself. It was hard to believe I’d ever been that young. I recognised the image immediately. The Armourer took the photo on the day I left Drood Hall for the very first time. Full of hope and ambition and confidence, with no idea how my life was going to turn out. I was so happy then, and so impatient to be off and put the family behind me. William moved in beside me.
“You look . . . very keen,” he said.
“Couldn’t wait to be on my way,” I said. “All I wanted then was to run away from home and never have to see any of my family again. I never knew Jack kept this photo all this time.”
I put it down on the bedside table. I could feel my throat closing up again.
Jack’s bookshelves were packed from end to end—not with science books or weapons manuals, but with dozens of old science fiction magazines from the Fifties and Sixties. Analog, F&SF, Galaxy . . . And a complete set of Arkham House first editions. They all looked very well read. I had to smile. I loved the idea of my uncle Jack sitting down after a hard day’s work and relaxing by reading the grim cosmic horror tales of H. P. Lovecraft.
“Would you like those?” said William. “I’m sure he’d want them to go to someone who’d appreciate them. The Matriarch would just sell them all off. I understand this kind of thing can raise a bundle on eBay.”
“Yes,” I said, “I’d like them.”
“No problem! I’ll hide them away in the Library,” said William, “until you’re ready to pick them up. Who’ll notice a few more books in a Library, hmm?”
“He doesn’t seem to have any films,” I said. “No DVDs or Blu-rays. Not even any laser discs, and I know he had a complete set of Hammer films on those.”
“He kept all his favourite films and television shows on his computer,” said William. “Though don’t ask me when he ever found the time to sit down and watch them. Don’t worry, I’ve already removed all his porn.”
He winked at me roguishly, and once again I had no idea at all whether he was joking.
I opened up the heavy old-fashioned wardrobe that took up half a wall. Inside were a dozen freshly laundered white lab coats, all of them positively crackling with starch. Hanging side by side, ready for use. Along with a dozen pairs of identical grey slacks, and a dozen pairs of freshly shined black shoes. So he could just reach out and take the next in line when he needed it, without having to think about it. He never could be bothered with things that didn’t matter to him. His thoughts were always somewhere else.
“Who did his T-shirts for him?” I said suddenly. “I don’t see any here, but every time I met him, he always seemed to have a new one, saying something appalling.”
“It was a competition,” said William. “The lab assistants got to make suggestions, and Jack would wear the ones he liked most. The winning assistant was honoured by being allowed to wear one just like it. I’m told competition was very fierce.”
“I never knew that,” I said. “What else didn’t I know about him because I couldn’t be bothered to ask?”
“You can’t know everything about anyone,” said William.
“I should have tried.”
“You’re too hard on yourself, Eddie.”
“Somebody has to be,” I said.
“Jack’s clothes will be recycled among the family,” said William. “Nothing is ever wasted. Same with all of his belongings, except for whatever you and I decide we might like for ourselves.”
“We get first pick?” I said.
“We get the only pick. No one else is interested. The family doesn’t do sentiment, remember?”
“What about his lab assistants?” I said. “Past, and present? I mean, I understand there were some he was . . . closer to than others.”
“Ah! You mean the ladies! His lovers!” William dropped me another roguish wink. “I think they’ll probably lie low. Won’t want to draw attention to themselves. Probably just as well. Last thing we need in here is a major catfight. Not so much bad language and hair-pulling . . . more like improvised weapons and depleted-uranium knuckle-dusters! Really not good, in such a confined space . . . No, let sleeping lab assistants lie, I think. Oh, don’t look so shocked, Eddie. Your uncle was a much-loved man. Especially on weekends. He was old, not decrepit. And he was always discreet. Ish. If anyone does come forward, quietly, I’ll see what I can do.”
>
“It’s all such a rush,” I said. “No time to think . . .”
“You know the family likes to do this quickly. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Get the pain over with as quickly and efficiently as possible. And move on.”
It didn’t take us long to sort through Uncle Jack’s belongings. When we’d finished, we stood by the door and looked round the room one last time. I didn’t know what to say.
“You don’t have to wait around for the removal people if you don’t want to, Eddie,” said William. “If you’d find that . . . difficult. I can take care of things.”
“I have to do this,” I said. “It’s my duty.”
“This isn’t duty, boy,” said William. “It’s a privilege. You’ve already done everything your uncle would have expected of you.”
“He didn’t have much to leave behind,” I said. “Just a room full of bits and pieces. Not much to show for a life of service to the family.”
“The measure of a man isn’t his possessions,” said William. “It’s his legacy.”
“The Armoury?”
“No, boy. The family he protected. And you. He helped make you the man you are today. Didn’t he?”
“Yes,” I said. “He did.”
CHAPTER SIX
It’s Not a Proper Wake Until Someone Does Something They Shouldn’t
The Bentley was still waiting patiently outside the main entrance to Drood Hall. I’d broken all kinds of rules by leaving her there, but no one was going to mess with one of the Armourer’s best-known and much-loved creations. In fact, quite a large admiring crowd had gathered around the car, and I received a great many jealous and downright envious looks as I settled down behind the wheel again. I smiled happily on one and all, in a not at all smug way, and then fired up the engine and drove away, scattering the fans like a flock of chickens. I drove round the side of the Hall, then round the back, and straight into the Drood garage.
The heavy doors in front of me were quite definitely closed. I put my foot down hard and the Bentley leapt forward. She’s a lot like me; tell her you can’t go somewhere, and nothing on earth will stop her going there. The garage doors slid smoothly aside at the very last moment, providing just enough room for the Bentley to pass between them without actually scraping the paint off her bodywork. I could have stopped outside, sounded my horn, and waited politely, like a good little Drood, but I really wasn’t in the mood. I rarely am, when I’m home. Being around my family does that to me. And I absolutely wasn’t in the mood so soon after Jack’s funeral.
I brought the Bentley to a sudden halt just inside the doors, because there wasn’t anywhere left to go. The Drood garage is really just a long, wide shed, packed from end to end and from side to side with more assorted forms of transport and death on four wheels than the human mind can comfortably cope with. And not just the famous ones, of which there are always a few. Just sitting there in the Bentley, I could see the Nineteen Sixties Black Beauty, a shocking pink Rolls-Royce, and the only occasionally successful Lotus submersible. Thick shafts of golden sunlight dropped down from massive skylights in the vaulting roof, shining brightly back from the highly polished metallic exteriors of hundreds of exotic vehicles, all of them ready for use at a moment’s notice. Provided you could show the garage chief all the proper paperwork and a chit personally signed by the Matriarch.
I shut down the Bentley’s engine, wrestled my way out of the seat belts, and got out of the car. I leaned back against the long green bonnet and waited for someone to notice me. I really should have gone through proper channels and bowed down to the mechanics and engineers until they were satisfied I had a right to be there, and then let them summon the garage chief . . . But I didn’t trust my self-control. All it would take was one wrong word, or even a look, and there would be harsh language, arse-kickings, and bad temper all over the place. Goodwill and cooperation would go right out the window. No. Much better to start as you mean to go on—stubborn and intractable, with a side order of pigheaded.
I looked around me, taking in rows and rows of cars and motorbikes, rescue vehicles and attack craft, tanks and field ambulances and camouflaged surveillance trucks. We’ve got at least one of everything you can think of because you never know from day to day just what the family is going to need in order to stay on top of everything. My family has always worked on the principle Better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it.
But the garage isn’t there just for the field agents; the family is always ready to hire out specialized vehicles and equipment to other people and organisations in our line of work. For a suitably eye-watering fee, of course; along with secret information, or the promise of future favours. We could afford to do it for free, out of the goodness of our hearts, but then no one would respect us.
The garage chief came striding through the parked rows to join me. Frowning so hard it must have hurt her face. Sandra used to be one of my uncle Jack’s lab assistants, until it became clear she was interested in working only on things that went really fast. So the then Matriarch made a virtue out of a necessity and promoted Sandra sideways, to work in the garage. It took only a few years before Sandra was garage chief, and very much in charge. Tall, statuesque, and burning with far more nervous energy than was good for her, Sandra had a face that would have been pleasant enough if she ever stopped scowling, under an unrestricted mop of curly red hair. Her dungarees were covered in fresh and old oil stains along with a great many other less easily identifiable discolourations. She believed in running things from the ground up, and positively delighted in getting her hands dirty. She planted herself in front of me, stuck both fists on her hips, and glared at me meaningfully.
“You’ve got some nerve, Eddie.”
“So they tell me,” I said pleasantly. “Hello, Sandra. You’re looking . . . very yourself. Blown up anything interesting recently?”
“What do you want, Eddie?”
“Just dropping off the Bentley.”
“You haven’t broken her already?” Sandra pushed past me to look the car over, like a mother whose child has just returned from school in the company of an axe murderer. “Jack should never have left you this car! You don’t appreciate her! I would have looked after her properly. Respected her! You’ve never respected anything in your life!”
“That is one of my more appealing qualities,” I murmured. “Unclench, Sandra, before you strain something. The Bentley’s fine. She just needs a good look-over. I did push her pretty hard, racing back here for the funeral.”
Sandra sniffed loudly, to make it clear I was not in any way forgiven. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten the mess you made of the Bentley the last time the Armourer let you drive her. Took us weeks to beat the dents out of the bodywork.”
“Cars are meant to be used,” I said. “And the world can be a very unforgiving place when you do the kind of work I do. If it was up to you, none of these vehicles would ever leave the garage in case someone breathed on them the wrong way.”
“You’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself one of these days,” growled Sandra. She patted the Bentley’s bonnet encouragingly. “Don’t worry, baby; Mama’s here to protect you from the nasty man.”
She yelled to her people, and a whole bunch of them came hurrying forward from all sides at once. They crowded round the Bentley, making excited noises and muttering barbed comments they only thought I couldn’t hear. They soon had the car up on the hydraulic ramp, so Sandra could check the underside for damage. I stood back and let them get on with it. I have all the mechanical aptitude of King Kong in boxing gloves. I can break things just by looking at them wrong.
Sandra darted back and forth underneath the Bentley, shining a hand torch into all kinds of nooks and crannies I hadn’t even known were there. The first thing she found was a long-stemmed rose, wrapped round and round the rear axle. She put on a pair of really heavy leather gloves, took a firm hold on th
e thorny stem, and pulled the thing free with a series of harsh, vicious jerks. I leaned in close for a better look, curious to see what I’d picked up. You’re bound to acquire the odd hitchhiker when you take short cuts through the side dimensions. Sandra made a pleased, satisfied sound as she pulled the rose free, and then said something really unpleasant as the thorn-covered stem lashed out at her. It whipped tightly round her arm and did its best to force jagged thorns through her reinforced sleeve. The blood-red rose hissed loudly at Sandra, its thick, pulpy petals curling back to show vicious teeth. Sandra glared right back at it, entirely unimpressed. She took a firm hold on the stem with her other hand, unwound the thing one curl at a time, and then broke its neck just below the flower. The long stem stopped thrashing immediately, and the rose screamed shrilly. Sandra threw the flower on the floor and stamped on it, hard. The rose went quiet, and Sandra nodded stiffly.
“I’ve seen worse,” she said. “Let’s see what else you picked up along the way, Eddie.”
“It’s not like I offered it a lift,” I said.
She ignored me. Further inspection turned up an extra exhaust pipe that had no business being where it was. Sandra looked at it thoughtfully, and gestured for two of her people to pry the thing loose with long-handled screwdrivers. It took them a while, because it really didn’t want to budge; but when the pipe finally came away it immediately changed shape, becoming a long metallic snake that shot straight for the throat of the nearest mechanic. Sandra stabbed it neatly through the head with her screwdriver, piercing it in mid-air, and then threw it down and pinned it to the hard stone floor. The metallic snake refused to die, whipping back and forth, but it couldn’t escape . . . as long as the cold iron of the screwdriver held it firmly in place.
“Another hitchhiker,” said Sandra. She wasn’t even breathing hard. “Just pretending to be a length of pipe, hoping not to be noticed, until it got a chance to drop quietly off and make a run for it. Hugh! Denny! Get the blueprints for the Bentley! We’re going to have to go over this car inch by inch to make sure everything is what and where it’s supposed to be.”
From a Drood to A Kill: A Secret Histories Novel Page 17