by KJ Charles
Kim couldn’t be doing this to him, not again. He’d promised, and that promise had meant something to them both, and he couldn’t have thrown it away for a brother he didn’t even like. Surely.
All right, slow down, he told himself. He didn’t actually know what Kim had in mind, and they hadn’t had time to talk. The least he could do was withhold judgement till he’d heard the slippery bugger out.
Unfortunately, he probably wouldn’t get a hearing till Kim was a bit less highly strung. He was twanging with nerves right now, badly overstretched, and he’d sounded desperate. He was in a bad situation, one that Will had made even worse.
And, he reflected as he walked on and cooled down, he hadn’t done it to defend Kim’s honour, no matter what he’d like to believe. He’d thumped Cheveley because he’d lost his rag, nothing more, and losing his temper was not an excuse for anything.
“You made a mess of that, Darling,” he muttered to himself.
He couldn’t do anything to fix that. There might be something else he could do, though, which he hadn’t had time to tell Kim about earlier. If it worked, it might go some way to support the apology he probably—God damn it—needed to make.
He strode home to the bookshop with that resolution, and placed a call to the Symposium Club. He didn’t give his name.
The staff were very efficient indeed. Within just a few moments, he had a voice on the line. “Hello there. George Yoxall speaking.”
“Hello,” Will said, crossing his fingers. “Could you tell me, am I speaking to Captain James Yoxall’s son?”
“Nephew, actually, and he’s Lord Witton now,” said the voice. “Still, it’s much of a muchness. Who’s speaking? Is this about Uncle Jimmy? Is something wrong?”
“Nothing like that. My name’s William Darling. I served with Captain—Lord Witton—in the war. I was one of the Yoxall Raiders.”
“Oh, were you?” Yoxall’s voice increased appreciably in warmth. “Pleased to—well, not meet you, but you know what I mean. What can I do for you?”
“Uh. This is a bit awkward but did you have a run-in with Paul Fairfax recently? The man who was killed at the Symposium?”
A short silence. “I say, what’s this about?”
“I’m not looking to make trouble,” Will said hastily. “Only I’d be very grateful if I could ask you about it, off the record sort of thing. I’ve got good reason. Could we meet? It would be a lot easier to explain that way.”
“Umph,” Yoxall said. “I can’t say I much want to discuss this.”
“It really is important.”
“Yes but— Well, if you’re one of Uncle Jimmy’s chaps... Oh, all right. Can you be at the St. James Tavern in an hour?”
WILL TURNED UP AT THE St. James right on time. There were a couple of dozen drinkers, and he had failed to establish how he and Yoxall would recognise one another. He had no idea what the fellow might look like, and a quick look round turned up absolutely nobody who resembled his old captain. There was, however, a well-dressed black man in his early twenties looking his way, and as Will’s gaze skimmed over him, he tipped his head and raised a hand.
Will came over. “Er, I’m meant to be meeting a gentleman—”
“George Yoxall. That’s me. You’re Will Darling?” He was a handsome fellow, well built, with skin a few shades lighter than Maisie’s, and a smile that brought out the resemblance to Captain Yoxall after all. “I’m told you took a swing at Alan Cheveley in the Club earlier.”
Will cursed himself. “Er. Yes.”
“Don’t blame you. Man’s a stinker. I should say, I called Uncle Jimmy up after you ’phoned me, and he remembers you well. Had a fair bit to tell me, actually.”
“Flattering?”
“I should hope not.” Yoxall grinned. “Drink?”
They settled with a couple of pints and exchanged brief notes on their service. Yoxall had enlisted as soon as he was of age, in 1917. “They put me in the Tank Corps. Got out there just in time for Cambrai.”
“Oof. Do you know, you’re the second man I’ve met in a few days who was in the tanks at Cambrai.”
“Really? Who was the other?”
Will felt a spasm of embarrassment at what would doubtless look like name-dropping. “Well, it was Lord Aveston, only he wouldn’t be called that then.”
“Hugo Lavery. We were at school together. Lovely fellow. Rotten shot. How do you know him?”
Will explained about selling the Aveston library with a vague feeling of unreality that he was discussing a viscount with an earl’s nephew. Come to that, he’d punched a baronet and fucked a marquess’s son. Talk about the high life.
“And what about you?” Yoxall asked. “Whole show in Flanders?”
“Soup to nuts. Signed up on day one, demobbed ’19.”
“That’s a long stretch, especially for trench raiders. Uncle Jimmy told me some hair-raising stories.”
Rehashing those and telling more took up the first pint, and put them on a very comfortable footing. When Will returned to the table with the second round, Yoxall said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, but I suppose we ought to get down to brass tacks. You wanted to talk about that business with Fairfax.”
“That, and the murder.”
“I don’t know anything about that. Look here, may I ask what your interest is? You aren’t a journalist, are you?”
“Nothing like. I run a bookshop. And I’m not personally interested, as such.” He’d wondered how to phrase this, and concluded that he was no Kim to manage an elaborate lie. “The thing is, I’ve done some work with Kim Secretan in the past. Lord Arthur Secretan, I mean, Lord Chingford’s brother. He wants to find out what happened that night.”
“The word in the Club is that Chingford went off his chump.”
“Maybe he did. All the same, it’s odd that one person could hate a man enough to kill him, while all we’ve heard from everyone else is that he was a fine fellow, no trouble to anyone. I wondered if you could shed any light.”
“I see. Look, I have to say: you do know Secretan’s a Bolshevist? And one of the white feather crowd?”
“He’s not a coward, or a traitor,” Will said, keeping it measured. “He thought the war was wrong so he refused to fight, and if I had it all to do again, so would I. I’d stay home, and tell everyone else to do the same, and when they came for me I’d tell them where to stick their war, because the King and the Kaiser should have kept their family row to Christmas like everyone else!”
That hadn’t come out particularly measured by the end, but Yoxall looked delighted. “Ha!” he said, smacking the table. “Uncle Jimmy told me you got through on sheer bloody-mindedness. Said to me, ‘Come back and tell me he’s the most awkward bugger you ever met’, and I was just thinking you were a pleasant sort of chap and how disappointed he’d be.”
“God, you’re like him,” Will said involuntarily.
“Thank you.” Yoxall flashed him a brilliant grin. “What exactly is it that Secretan’s trying to achieve?”
“The truth,” Will said, wondering if that was true itself.
Yoxall sipped his pint thoughtfully. “There’s not many people with a good word for Arthur Secretan, but Uncle Jimmy speaks very highly of you. And I heard about that shocking business with Lord Waring and that rotter Cheveley, the younger one. Was that you with Secretan then?”
“Yes.”
Yoxall gave him an unexpectedly shrewd look. “Tell you what. I’ll assume you’ve got a good reason to ask your questions, and I’ll be upset if you let me down.” Will gave him a nod; Yoxall leaned back. “And I told the police, so I suppose I may as well tell you. De mortuis nil nisi bonum is all very well, but the man was a cad.”
“Right,” Will said, since it was usually best to ride out the Latin and wait for things to make sense again.
“First, I should say I didn’t know Fairfax, except to nod to. I don’t spend much time in London as a rule, but as it happens I’m engaged, and we’re doing the f
ormalities.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. So while I’m here I stay at the Club. The day before yesterday, I was in the morning room, and Fairfax asked me for a private word. And—ugh. Briefly, when I was three years old there was a rather nasty business in my family which didn’t reflect well on my mother. It might have made for an appalling scandal, but the chap at the heart of it did away with himself before it came to court. Mother went to a sanatorium, my grandparents took charge of me and gave me the family name, and it was all brushed under the carpet.” He grimaced. “Fairfax lifted the carpet.”
Will sat forward. Yoxall nodded. “He said he was sorry to rake up old tragedies, but wasn’t I the son of so-and-so who did such-and-such and so on. I was dumbstruck. You’d think if a man said such things to your face you’d knock him down, wouldn’t you? But I just found myself staring at him—stunned, you know. He made it clear he had all the lurid details, and then— Well, as I said, I’m getting married, to a marvellous girl who happens to be extremely well off. We aren’t, as earldoms go, so it’s the sort of thing people call a very desirable match, as if I hadn’t fallen heels over head the moment I set eyes on her. And the blasted man had the nerve to ask me whether she knew, and what her parents might do if the newspapers splashed the story on the front pages.”
“Would they?”
“Maybe. It’s old news, but on the other hand I’m heir to the earldom unless Uncle Jimmy produces a son, which would require him to marry, and he’s showing no sign of that. Lost the girl he loved twenty years ago, he says, though if you ask me he’s just too lazy.” His voice was warm with affectionate amusement. “So the papers might well take a Forgotten Scandal in High Life, dwelling on what happened and my parentage and my mother’s death, and so on. Painful and humiliating for me, Fairfax said, and terrible for the Witton estate if we lost that lucrative settlement. He expected I’d give a great deal to avoid that.”
“What did you say?”
“That he could go whistle,” Yoxall said crisply. “Not being a complete duffer, I’d told my fiancée and her parents the whole story before I asked for her hand. We’re prepared that it may come out. I’d rather it didn’t, naturally, but my mother’s beyond hurt and Laura is an absolute brick. So I told Fairfax I’d done nothing wrong and had nothing to be ashamed of. He said that I might want to avoid the unpleasantness for Uncle Jimmy’s sake and my mother and grandfather’s memory, and mentioned a name. I didn’t recognise it, but Uncle Jimmy did, when I told him, and said it was pretty discreditable to my grandfather.”
“Fairfax knew things you didn’t?”
Yoxall nodded, his pleasant face rather grim. “Well, by that time the shock had worn off and I was in a bate. I said I wouldn’t pay a penny to keep any of it quiet, and for tuppence I’d kick him round Trafalgar Square and drag what was left of his carcass to a police station. At which he cleared off.”
“Good for you.”
“I expected something to come of it. A demand, or a letter to the future in-laws, or some such. But he had that row with Chingford at lunchtime the next day, and by the evening he was dead. So there you are.”
“Did you tell anyone about this?” Will asked.
“I went to Knowle, the Club Secretary, the morning after Fairfax made his demands. Sounds like complaining to Teacher, doesn’t it? But I didn’t choose to have my family history become public property. I haven’t done anything wrong—”
“But you still don’t want people knowing your business.”
“Exactly. I spoke to him confidentially, and he said he’d look into it and ensure something was done.”
“Like what?”
“I’ve no idea,” Yoxall said. “Kick Fairfax out, I suppose? I don’t know how the Club deals with these things. Well, that’s the point: one doesn’t find out because they make sure it’s cleared away quietly. And as I say, there wasn’t time for anything to be done. I spoke to Knowle around eleven yesterday morning, and Chingford was shouting the odds at Fairfax barely an hour later.”
“Any idea what that was about?”
“No, but one might take a guess, mightn’t one?”
“And you told the police this?”
“After the murder, yes. They didn’t seem terribly interested. The chap wanted to know whether he’d asked for money in so many words, and was rather dismissive when I said he hadn’t. He said that technically Fairfax hadn’t threatened me at all.”
“Eh? ‘Wouldn’t it be awful if people found out about you?’ is a threat.”
“Of course it is. But the police fellow didn’t seem to believe me. In fact, he told me that if Fairfax had been blackmailing me, that would make me a strong suspect. Nice way to treat a witness.”
“God’s sake. Was that Inspector Rennick?”
“No, another man, Sergeant Hawes, he was called. I didn’t care to argue and I’d said my piece, so I left them to it, and I’ve heard nothing more since.”
“Right,” Will said, thinking hard. “You are sure Fairfax was after money?”
Yoxall gave him a look. “He’d delved into my family history to find out the worst things he could. I don’t think he did that out of concern.”
“I meant, could it have been racialist? I’ve a friend of your colour and the things complete strangers have said to her out of pure spite—”
“You needn’t tell me. No, I don’t think so. One can tell that sort easily enough.” He drained his pint. “Anyway, if you want a reason someone might have done away with the fellow, there it is, and a rotten business all round. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, but if you could give my regards to the Captain? I mean to Lord—er—”
“Witton, but I expect he’d be very happy with Captain Yoxall from you. I’ll do that. Actually, do you have a card?”
Will gave him one with the bookshop address. They parted with compliments, and Will went off, reflecting that he wouldn’t mind spending time with the upper crust if more of them were like that.
Chapter Six
He tried telephoning Kim when he got back to the shop. There was no answer. That was irritating, and he didn’t want to show up unheralded if Kim was still angry. He tried half a dozen times more throughout the course of the evening to no effect, cursed his erratic partner, and went to bed feeling impatient, guilty, and worried.
The next morning, Peacock answered the phone.
“Mr. Peacock? It’s Will Darling. Is he in?”
“Lord Arthur is in the bath, Mr. Darling.”
“Could you tell him I called, and I have information? Important. About Fairfax.”
He could almost hear Peacock’s ears prick up over the phone. “I will pass him that message.”
Will rang off, and went to make himself a sufficiently fortifying meal for the apology he had to make. He’d woken up thoroughly repentant for losing his temper, and chewing over Kim’s scathing remark. He didn’t think he’d gone off at Cheveley because he was uncomfortable with the upper classes—he was pretty sure it was because the arsehole had forgotten his existence and called Kim a murderer—but the words nagged at him all the same.
He ate a proletarian breakfast of sausage and onions and then went out to get the morning papers, since Kim still hadn’t phoned back. The idle sod liked lolling in the bath, but he was really taking his time today. Maybe he was angrier than Will had realised. Maybe he didn’t want to call back.
Or maybe he knew he’d slipped up and didn’t want to admit it. I might be able to prevent Chingford swinging...
Will went through the morning papers in an effort not to think about it. With a thrilling Murder in High Life to promote but nothing new to report, the editors had fallen back on character studies. All the papers were using the same photograph of Fairfax, a studio portrait that Will suspected had been taken a while ago, since he didn’t look the reported age of fifty-two. Will studied the bland, smiling face, wondering what it hid. He couldn’t see any signs of villai
ny there, or in the basic information the papers provided on the dead man. A financier for various businesses; early retirement on comfortable private means. No skeletons in the closet, no revealing information. Damn.
Far more interesting was the double-page spread in the Daily Mail on the Secretan family. Will read it with guilty fascination, and an uncomfortable awareness that he was learning things Kim hadn’t chosen to tell him.
The family was ‘troubled’, ‘difficult’, ‘dogged by misfortune’. There were a few paragraphs on various ancestors who had outraged sensibilities, morals, laws, and, in the case of the one with a pet lion, common sense. It said Kim’s mother Lady Flitby had died of childbed fever after giving birth to the youngest brother, Henry. Lord Flitby had apparently been unmoved by the loss of his wife, but Henry’s death in 1917 had devastated him. He was considered remote, stern, and autocratic even by the standards of the nobility.
The Mail wrote about the Marquess with a respect they didn’t extend to his surviving offspring. Lord Chingford was the subject of two columns on his notorious bad temper and worse manners. He had two failed engagements, one to an American heiress in 1920 that had lasted six days, the other in 1923 to a duke’s third daughter that had survived a full month. Both had been terminated when the ladies decided that the coronets weren’t worth the husband they came with. That was supported with a few quotes from ‘friends’ that added up to a portrait of a man with more pride than brains and a very short fuse. Will wondered how many future members of the jury would be soaking this stuff up.
And then there was a piece on Kim.
Lord Arthur, the Bolshevik, who had refused to do his duty in the war but somehow pulled strings to avoid punishment, whose estrangement from his family was well known, who lived the high life on, it said here, an inheritance from his maternal uncle who’d had a patent on some sort of dye. Will had wondered where the money came from. Plenty on the Red politics he no longer espoused, even more on his relationship with Bright Young Person Phoebe Stephens-Prince and their broken engagement after the events around her father’s death. It all read pretty damningly as a portrait of an unreliable, unpatriotic, nasty piece of work.