by KJ Charles
“Course you should. I might sod off to Paris any minute.”
“She said that she was looking forward to seeing me when they next come to visit. And she signed off with love.”
Will got up from his chair, walked round behind Kim, and put his hands on his shoulders, gripping them. “I told you. See? I told you she just needed time.”
Kim put his hand on top of Will’s, spreading his slim fingers over the hardened knuckles. “You can’t expect me to take your word for things when I could work myself into a frenzy about them instead. Where would that get us?”
“You might do something sensible.” Will squeezed his shoulders. “I’m bloody glad.”
“So am I. I knew you were right, in theory, but—”
“I was right.”
Kim tipped his head back and reached up to pull Will’s face down to his, which meant Will kissed him upside down, noses bumping chins, laughing against his mouth and feeling him smile. He slid his hands down under Kim’s jacket, over his chest and sides, feeling a stir of arousal that was ridiculous considering what they’d just been up to. “If we abandon dinner, do we get in trouble?”
“We’d be disapproved of.” Kim bit lightly at his lip. “And Peacock’s disapproval is a terrifying thing. I believe he dealt with a German machine-gun nest by disapproving of it.”
Will sighed. “Better not risk it.” He let Kim go with a swift final kiss and returned to his chair, and his excellent rabbit pie. “So the girls are visiting? When? Maisie didn’t say anything about that when she last wrote.”
“It may not be a plan as such. Phoebe is more of a ‘sudden appearance out of nowhere’ person. I suspect she may need to attend to the business of her title.”
“Oh, yes, that. Are they going to do it?”
Kim took a forkful of pie. “I think so. Lord Waring had got some way into the process of amending the letters patent for his own inscrutable reasons, which helps. And—do try to restrain your mockery for what I’m about to say—it’s only a viscountcy.”
“Only,” Will said. “Course. A viscount’s not much more than a barrow-boy, really. I don’t suppose you marquesses give their sort the time of day.”
Kim sighed heavily. “The point is, peerages that pass down the female line are baronies, viscountcies, a very few of the older earldoms. If Waring had been a duke, she’d have no chance. As it is, the Committee of Privileges will probably oblige.”
“And she’ll be Viscountess Waring.”
“Lady Waring, yes.”
“I should hope so. After all the hobnobbing I’ve been doing with you and Aveston, I don’t reckon I can keep mixing with commoners much longer.”
“You were born for the high life.”
“They ought to do it, though,” Will said. “I mean, why not? She was Waring’s daughter, it’s only fair she should inherit his title.”
“Hereditary peerage is unfair by definition,” Kim pointed out. “That’s what selection by accident of birth is. Look at my brother Chingford, whose very existence makes the word ‘aristocracy’ a contradiction in terms.”
Will sighed. “We didn’t all go to Eton.”
“Aristocracy means ‘rule of the best’, and I can’t think of any company in which Chingford would be counted as best, including the average gaol. Yet the hereditary principle demands we grant power, authority, and vast swathes of land to a man who couldn’t run a whelk stall if you gave him a copy of How To Run A Whelk Stall with corners turned down to mark the good bits.”
Will spluttered wine. Kim grinned. “Don’t tell me you disagree. I know how you feel.”
“Guillotines all round. But since the whole thing is a load of bollocks, why shouldn’t Phoebe get her unfair share?”
“Good Lord, Will, are you suggesting the House of Lords should treat women as equal beings? What next, painting the place green, white, and purple? Oh, for God’s sake.”
That last remark was at the sudden, jarring sound of the telephone ringing. Kim looked disgusted. “Interrupted in my own home, at my own table, and during the dinner hour. What sort of unregenerate villain calls at dinner-time?”
“Just answer it.”
“Certainly not. We’re eating.”
“I don’t know why you have a ’phone when you hate answering it so much.”
“Nor do I. Peacock will doubtless pick it up, he has an extension. What were we talking about?”
The ringing stopped, whether because the caller had given up or because Peacock had got to the other telephone set. Will helped himself to more rabbit pie, and had about a minute to enjoy it before there was a discreet knock and Peacock gloomed into the room.
“I beg your pardon, Lord Arthur,” he said. “There is a telephone call.”
“So I heard. Ought I care?”
“Mr. Mitra is on the line, my lord. He says it is exceedingly important.”
“Since when was I at Harry Mitra’s beck and—yes, all right, I’ll take it, you can both stop glaring at me.”
Peacock departed as Kim crossed the room and picked up the receiver. “Harry? Kim. What possible drama—” He cut off abruptly. “Say that again? ... You’re sure? Jesus wept. All right, I’m on my way. No, wait. I’ll want to bring someone with me. Not a member. Yes, I realise that, but I need him. Let’s say an expert on violence.” He shot a questioning glance at Will, who shrugged and nodded. “Thank you, Harry. I’ll be there as quick as I can.”
He put the phone down. Will said, “What’s going on?”
“We were talking about my brother Chingford, weren’t we? Speak of the devil.”
“What about him?”
Kim pushed a hand through his hair. “Harry was calling from the Symposium Club. It seems Chingford’s murdered one of the members.”
Chapter Two
Will had heard of the Symposium, one of London’s great gentlemen’s clubs, and even had a vague idea of what the outside looked like. He’d never been inside, because people like him were not welcome to set foot in those hallowed precincts, and in this case ‘people like him’ meant about ninety-nine per cent of the population.
The June evening was still light, but Kim’s face in the taxi-cab was shadowed and drawn.
“The chap who rang,” Will said, to break the silence. “Mitra? Do I know the name?”
“Harry took over Phoebe’s affairs after her father’s death. He’s a solicitor in his father’s firm, a very good one. He’s also Honorary Secretary at the Symposium, which is a Committee position—a voluntary responsibility taken on by members, rather than a paid post. I imagine the actual Secretary will find himself rather busy with a murder on the premises.”
“Is it certain?”
“It’s certainly a murder. Whether it was certainly Chingford is the question, I suppose, but Harry said it looks bad.”
Kim did not add, It must be a mistake, or Chingford couldn’t possibly have. Will had no siblings himself, but he was pretty sure you were meant to take their side in this sort of thing. “And what is it Mitra thinks you’ll do?”
“I suspect he’s hoping I can make it go away.”
“Does he know you were with the Private Bureau?”
“Mmm. It seems he doesn’t know that I was dismissed.”
“And you didn’t tell him.”
Kim didn’t trouble to respond. The taxi turned onto Pall Mall and pulled up by a building that looked more like the British Museum than anything else: huge, neoclassical, with columns and statues and a firmly closed doorway. Kim paid the driver and they hurried up the stairs.
The door opened, and they were greeted by an elderly, liveried man of some girth.
“Good evening, Lord Arthur,” he said, not moving out of the way. “Have you an appointment in the Strangers’ Room?”
“For God’s sake, Palgrave,” snapped a voice behind him. “Just let him in.”
The man moved back. Kim entered; Will followed at his heels, and found himself in magnificence.
The entranc
e hall was a gigantic, double-height space. It had a chandelier, and a glossy marble staircase that split and curved in two directions, and a glass whatsit at the top—cupola, some word like that—to let in the evening light, and oil paintings, and busts, and a red marble floor, and a lot of men in posh clothes, staring.
The man who’d got them in was a handsome chap of Indian looks aged around thirty, with an accent as perfectly cut as his suit, and an expression that suggested he hadn’t had the best evening. “Thanks for coming, old man. This is your colleague? Good evening, I’m Harry Mitra.”
“Will Darling. Pleased to meet you.”
“Will is unofficial,” Kim said, failing to add, And so am I. “Talk me through it, would you? Have the police been called?”
“Right away. We had to: the fellow is very dead indeed. Shall I take you to Chingford?”
“Can we see the body first?”
Mitra hesitated. “I suppose that will be all right, will it?”
“I can’t do anything without information. But keep it sub rosa for now, Harry. I’ll identify myself in due course.”
Mitra made a face. “If you say so. Well, come on.”
He led the way up the sweeping staircase. Kim followed. “Who’s the victim?”
“A chap called Fairfax, Paul Fairfax. Do you know him? He joined a few years ago. Nobody in particular—used to work in finance, I think, now a gentleman of leisure. A very clubbable chap and no trouble at all, until lunchtime today when he and Chingford had a blazing row in the dining room. And when I say ‘he and Chingford’, I mean that your brother was abusing him like a costermonger while Fairfax attempted to sidle out of the room. I broke it up, sent Fairfax off to find a drink, and informed Chingford he’d be reported to the Committee.”
“How many times does that make?”
“His fourth. A Club record.”
“They don’t want to sack him because he’s the Marquess of Flitby’s heir,” Kim informed Will. “They got rid of me very happily, but I’m only a second son.”
“You resigned,” Mitra said. “Let’s not drag that up now, shall we?”
They headed along a corridor, where various well-dressed men were hanging around in gossipy groups. They all looked at Kim, wide-eyed. Mitra said, “Just a minute,” in uncompromising tones to someone who accosted him, and poked his head into a room. “Here we are. Doctor, this is Secretan, he’s official, can he have a look? Thanks awfully.” He gestured Kim and Will in without allowing time for a reply.
It was pretty much what Will would have assumed a billiard room of a posh gentleman’s club to be. Three tables, well lit from above, lamps around the edges of the room, sporting prints, classical statuettes, silverware. The corpse slumped over one of the tables was probably not standard.
His whole upper body was flat over the table, as though he’d been going for a tricky shot. There was a cue trapped under his torso and hands, and bright-coloured balls scattered on the green baize. His head was turned sideways, and the rounded handle of what looked like a bradawl made of silver protruded from his ear, though not very far. A thin line of watery blood had trickled from his ear, over his jaw, and down his chin to the baize, which was stained dark.
“Charming,” Kim said thinly. “Are you the Divisional Surgeon? Sorry to bother you.”
“Not much to bother about,” said the chap who was examining the body. “It seems he was leaning over to take a shot when the killer took the ice pick from the bucket over there, and whack.”
Will glanced over to see a silver ice bucket, the kind Kim used for cocktails. They usually held a big block of ice, and a pick for breaking chunks off it. Will had hammered away at ice for Kim a few times: his pick had a blade about four inches long and you could apply an awful lot of force through its sharp point.
“Just whack?” he asked.
Kim gave him a questioning look. The doctor said, “You were hoping for something else?”
“It’s just, he bled a fair bit, so he didn’t die at once,” Will said. “Doesn’t look like there was a struggle, but I was wondering if people heard him scream.”
The doctor glanced up, then straightened. “Not so far as I know. I believe the body was discovered by someone walking into the room to look for a game. Are you a medical man?”
“I was a soldier.” He’d been the kind that killed people without letting them scream, but he didn’t say so, and the doctor didn’t ask. Doubtless he’d met a few of Will’s sort in the past years.
“My colleague has a great deal of experience in hand-to-hand combat and its results,” Kim said. He was leaning over the table, squinting at the corpse’s outstretched arms. “Expand on your thoughts, if you would, Will? It may be useful.”
That dumped Will right out of his depth, but Kim had met his eyes as he spoke, a single hard flick of a look that suggested he’d said it for a reason. Will looked around the room for inspiration. “Erm... All right, let’s see. I come in and there’s this chap bent over the table, head on the side and looking away from me. Ice bucket on the mantelpiece with the pick sticking out, I suppose. So I grab the pick, three steps, keeping nice and quiet because you’d have to be careful not to attract his attention, wouldn’t you? An ice pick wouldn’t be any use if it came to a fight. I sneak up—you know, I reckon I’d hold his head down, to be sure of my aim. Miss the ear hole and you’d just annoy him.”
“He’d be very annoyed, what with the new hole in his face, but I take your point,” the doctor said. “Go on.”
“Walk up behind him, hand on head, done.” Will mimicked the stabbing action. “Awkward angle, isn’t it? Maybe you’re pulling the head over to you a bit. Point goes into the brain, but that doesn’t kill him at once.” He frowned down at the corpse. “I’d expect him to cry out.”
“Perhaps he did. I’m just the medical examiner.”
“No, I meant, I’d expect that to happen, therefore I’d try not to let him,” Will said. “Not rely on the injury to take him out in silence, is what I’m getting at. I’d put a handkerchief over his mouth or something.”
“Personal experience?”
“Not going in through the ear. That’s why I’d take precautions. Better safe than sorry.”
The doctor nodded. “I follow you. Perhaps a handkerchief, yes. Holding the side of the jaw down while you muffle the mouth.” He mimed. “Interesting. I’ll mention that and see if one has been found. Any other thoughts?”
“Only that this was either an experienced man or a very good improvisation,” Will said. “Grab the pick, whip out a handkerchief, while moving fast and quietly. You’d have to think on your feet.”
“Possibly. That said, they have picks along with ice buckets in every room, for the convenience of members who want to stab each other. If you had mayhem in mind—”
“You might have planned it out in advance,” Will finished. “Good point.”
The doctor clicked his tongue. “Why not leave loaded guns around as well, I ask you. Who did you say you were?”
Kim had been bending over the billiard table throughout the conversation, paying no attention to the observations he’d demanded, but he intervened at that. “Several inches of metal right into the brain. Would that require a strong man, Doctor?”
“You’d have to put some force behind it, and as this gentleman remarks, you’d want to hold the victim still. But it’s a sharp point and not going through bone. I’d say the real question was to have the stomach for the blow, not the strength: it’s a cold-blooded way to kill. But physically, and with the advantage of surprise, I’d think most able-bodied men could do it, and some women.”
“Good Lord, what an appalling suggestion. You won’t find women in here. Thank you, you’ve been most helpful. Come on.” Kim jerked his head at Will and they left.
Harry Mitra was waiting outside. He nodded at them as they emerged. “What do you think?”
“Someone takes billiards too seriously,” Kim said. “Why is blame being placed at Chingfor
d’s door, other than his argument with the victim?”
“The argument doesn’t help, especially since he refuses to say what it was about. Nor does its corollary, which is that we gave him an ultimatum. He had to make a public apology to Fairfax or resign from the Club, and if he refused to do either, he would be expelled.”
Kim whistled. “I don’t suppose he was happy about that.”
“Hard cheese. Flitby’s heir or not, the Committee’s sick of him, and so is everyone else. We’ve had more complaints about him than anyone since—er—anyway, people have had quite enough.”
“Since me, I assume you were going to say,” Kim said drily. “Is that all there is against him?”
Mitra shoved a hand into his thick hair. “No. No, I’m afraid not. The thing is, the reason I got dragged into this in the first place—I was coming along here to see the Secretary perhaps an hour ago, just walking past, you understand, when Chingford strolled out of the billiard room, hailed me in his usual offensive manner, and said, ‘That swine Fairfax got what he deserved. You should deal with it.’”
Kim stopped dead and turned to stare at him. “Tell me you’re joking.”
“No. I begged his pardon. He asked if I was expletive deaf, repeated that Fairfax was dead, and sauntered off. I went into the billiard room and saw—well, that.”
“Dear God. Would you say that Fairfax was freshly dead when you went in?”
“It certainly hadn’t been long. The blood was still dripping. I’m awfully sorry, old man.” Mitra gave him a look that combined sympathy with considerable embarrassment. “I don’t quite know how one phrases condolences for this sort of thing.”
“‘Bad luck, your brother’s a murderer’,” Kim muttered. “Where is he?”
“In the silence room. He’s denying everything. You’ll need to hear him.”
They went down some stairs, past more people—all men, all wealthy-looking, almost all white—and into a room hung with Pre-Raphaelite pictures and wallpapered with huge curling, twisting flowers. William Morris, Will thought, probably the real thing. He had just time to reflect that Kim must like this room before one of the men present, a bulky red-faced fellow sitting in a chair, said, “What the hell are you doing here?”