Subtle Blood

by KJ Charles

  “The obvious inference is that he found it when he was left alone in the billiard room to guard the body. It was discovered in a drawer with a pile of cash, so we may assume that he used it to blackmail Chingford, who had him killed.”

  “Shitting hell,” Will said wholeheartedly.

  “Well, yes,” Kim said. “Except it’s been set up to look like he had him killed by you, and the only reason you’d do it is because I asked you to, and the only reason I’d do that is on Chingford’s behalf, and even he isn’t stupid enough to set up a killing where the false evidence points directly at himself. So what’s actually happened is that Zodiac decided we’re a threat, and set this up to strike at you, me, and Chingford together. I imagine Leo’s been keeping that handkerchief for a rainy day. I’d like to think this is a show of panic that indicates I’m getting close to him.”

  “Are you?”

  “No. Don’t have a clue.”

  “Pity,” Will said. “What do we do now?”

  Kim flicked a glance over. “I admire your faith. It seems to me the priority is to get you right out of the way while we unpick this mess. Somewhere the Press can’t go, and people won’t talk even if they were to recognise your face when it inevitably appears in the papers.”

  “Sounds marvellous. Where might that be?”

  “We’re on our way.”

  “Where?”

  Kim kept his eyes fixed on the road. “My father’s house.”

  “Your— What, the big one?”

  “The big one. It’s about eighty miles.”

  Holmclere, seat of the Marquess of Flitby, and Kim’s family home. “Are we expected?”

  “I telephoned my father and informed him we would be coming.”

  He didn’t sound overjoyed. “I thought you weren’t allowed to set foot in the place.”

  “I told Father I had information about Chingford’s case which could not go through a third party, and he gave in with surprising ease. He’s clearly worried. Don’t expect a warm welcome.”

  “I wasn’t, but if I’m going to be in the papers as a murderer—”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Look, Holmclere is exceedingly remote. It’s in the countryside between Ipswich and Felixstowe, on reasonably extensive grounds. You won’t be spotted by casual passers-by because there aren’t any. Chingford’s there on bail, so talking to the Press will already be a sackable offence, and the vultures can’t get near the house without being seen coming. It’s an excellent place for you to lurk out of sight, and that’s all we need for a few days. We’ll have to give you a false name—”

  “I’ve already met your brother under my own name, remember?”

  “I do, but he won’t,” Kim said with absolute assurance. “You aren’t important.”

  “Right.”

  “This going to be bloody awful, and I apologise in advance, but it’s the best I have. We need to hide you, and I need to find out what Chingford’s involvement is, because he’s in this up to his neck.” He breathed out hard. “I found his name in Fairfax’s notebook, Will. A regular monthly payment going back three years. He was without question being blackmailed.”

  “Hell’s bells,” Will said. “What will that mean?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “What did DS say in your meeting?”

  “We didn’t have it. Bill Merton told me you had murdered Quiller and were on the run. I felt that was more urgent than a chat with DS, so I left.”

  “It wasn’t a chat. You were going to trade Fairfax’s papers for Chingford!”

  “I was,” Kim said. “Which, as you so eloquently pointed out, stank. I’m not going to do that now.”

  “Then what?”

  Kim didn’t answer for a moment. At last he said, “I promised not to lie to you and I won’t. That being the case, if you’d kindly promise me not to over-react to what I’m about to say—”

  “Kim? What the bloody hell did you do?”

  “I called Peacock,” Kim said. “I thought you’d have ’phoned, and you had. I told Merton you’d been framed up, and that he could have Fairfax’s papers at once if he backed off and didn’t tell the Met anything about you. He agreed. So I handed them over, called my father, and waited for you to ring.”

  Will’s mouth was moving but it took him a few seconds to manage sound. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were going to agree that, with DS, and you gave it up for me?”

  Kim didn’t take his eyes off the road. “It’s trivial.”

  “How is it trivial? It’s Chingford’s life. The one thing you wanted!”

  “That is almost hilariously wrong. I can’t have you paying the price for my mistakes, Will, still less for my convenience.”

  “There’s a bit more than your convenience at stake. For Christ’s sake, Kim, I know what you just did for me!”

  “And you know why.”

  That was unanswerable. Will stared at the road, lit by the Daimler’s powerful headlamps, but with the dusk closing in on them outside that little bubble of light. “Look—”

  “We’re not discussing it,” Kim said, in a tone that didn’t brook argument. “First, because we said we’d leave the subject for now. Second, because I told you not to over-react and the least you could do is oblige. And third, because you’re about to be faced by what I laughably call my family, at which point you may well develop strong views on how much of this you can take.”

  “Oh, rubbish.”

  “Are you going to tell me they can’t be that bad?” Kim’s tone was light and bitter as a gin and tonic.

  “Of course I’m not. I’ve seen your scars. But I’m not planning to blame you for whatever they do.”

  “You may find that easier said than done.”

  Will glanced at his profile, the tension round his jaw. “Do you want to talk about it? Because if I’m going to meet them, maybe I should know.”

  Kim shrugged one shoulder. “My brother is a brutish bully who despises everything about me. My father prizes our heritage and position above all, and has a very strong sense of the directions in which power and duty flow. He’s well aware that Freddie Secretan is an oaf—one could hardly miss it—but as his heir, Lord Chingford is sacred and may do as he pleases. Thus, the issues between us were by definition my fault, the more so because of my obstinate refusal to amend the situation. If I complained of Chingford’s behaviour at home or school, I was whining; if I hit back, I was violent and uncontrolled; if I retaliated in other ways or hid from him, I was sly and deceptive. And so on. It wears one down eventually, or at least it wore me down. Others would doubtless have been more resilient. I expect it would have been water off a duck’s back to you.”

  “Maybe,” Will said. “Then again, I wasn’t brought up to be a punchbag in the first place. Isn’t Chingford a fair bit older than you?”

  “Seven years.”

  “So we’re talking about a fifteen-year-old kicking an eight-year-old? God’s sake. What about your younger brother?”

  “Ah, Henry. I believe Maisie used the phrase ‘thick as day-old porridge’ the other day, which rather sums it up.” Kim gave a thin smile. “A nice boy, obliging, cheerfully obedient. Did what he was told. I didn’t, you see. I realised early on that I’d rather be disliked than subjugated, so I made life as unpleasant as possible for everyone. I spied on Chingford shamelessly and reported his goings-on, breaking windows or bothering the housemaid or what-have-you. Once or twice those discoveries obliged my father to punish him, for which they both bitterly resented me. Actually, I nearly got him expelled from Eton once.” He said that in a tone of fond reminiscence. “That was a high point. I stole, sneaked, and generally made a damned nuisance of myself because those were the weapons I had. Or possibly my natural inclination, who can say. Happy families.”

  Will’s mother had been firm-handed, and not demonstrative in her affection, but if anyone had ever tried bullying him she’d have been out the
re with her sleeves rolled up and the copper stick in her hand. He couldn’t imagine growing up in the feverish, spiteful atmosphere Kim described. “That sounds bloody miserable.”

  “Henry had it easier. In part because he was twelve years younger than Chingford, so he spent less time living with him and they weren’t at school together, but mostly because he didn’t protest. If you slammed his head in a door, he might muster an injured ‘I say!’ but he wouldn’t hold a grudge, still less do anything about it.”

  “Slammed...?”

  “One of Chingford’s little tricks. It hurt.”

  “Fuck’s sake,” Will said. “And fuck your brother. Let him hang. Why are we going to do a bloody thing for him?”

  “We aren’t. We are going to find out what exactly he was up to with Fairfax and use that to get this business untangled and you out of trouble. My father will take it extremely poorly, and the whole thing is going to be awful, but it’s all I’ve got.”

  “You’ve got me out of being arrested and you’re hiding me in a stately home while you solve a murder, and that’s all you’ve got?” Will rolled his eyes. “Bit of a poor show, really.”

  “Let’s see if any of it works,” Kim said, and they drove on into the gathering gloom.

  Chapter Fifteen

  They reached the house around ten that night. The drive had taken longer than expected, partly because they stopped for a leisurely dinner at a pub, taking advantage of Will’s as-yet unbreached anonymity, and partly because Kim hadn’t used the accelerator with his usual recklessness. Will didn’t fear for his life even once, which suggested Kim didn’t much want to get there.

  When they did arrive, things started badly and got worse.

  For a start, the ‘reasonably extensive grounds’ were massive. They drove through a large elegant gateway, and then through what seemed like acres of meadow, and past a wood, and on, and on. Will saw the distant lights of a house twinkling in the June dark, and thought they were nearly there, but the road kept going, and as the house came closer, it just got bigger.

  “It’s sodding huge,” he said at last.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a castle.”

  “It’s not a castle. It’s an extremely large house.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “It doesn’t have a portcullis. Please don’t say it’s a castle. This is bad enough.”

  The great building loomed over them as Kim pulled up in front, ghostly-pale. They probably had ghosts, didn’t they? Several servants in black and white—basically evening dress, which they wore a lot better than Will had ever worn his—were waiting to open the Daimler’s doors as soon as Kim switched off the engine.

  “Lord Arthur,” said a bald man, with respectful warmth. “May I say that it is a great pleasure to welcome you home once more.”

  “As long as you don’t say it in anyone’s earshot,” Kim said. “Thank you, Hastings, it’s good to see you. Were you informed I have a friend with me? This is Mr. John Willerton. Will, Hastings has been the butler here for many years.”

  “Welcome to Holmclere, Mr. Willerton.” Hastings bowed. “You are both in the East Wing, on the Floral Stair. James will take your bags. My lord and Lord Chingford are in the Blue Drawing-Room.”

  “Waiting up? Oh good,” Kim said. “I trust there’s brandy available. No, we’ve eaten, that’s all right. Thank you, Hastings.”

  “Old friend?” Will said, low-voiced, as they headed into the castle. House. Mansion.

  “Good man. That’s all the welcome we’re going to get, by the way.”

  Will had stayed in stately homes before, or two, anyway. Viscount Aveston’s place was not much more than a large old farmhouse, if very large and very old, and actually quite homely in its way. Lord Waring’s Hertfordshire house had been bigger, grander, and far less normal, decorated as it was with armour, flags, and oil paintings of battles, as well as extremely sharp swords on the walls. Will wouldn’t forget those in a hurry.

  Holmclere left them both standing. The entrance hall was huge, with porcelain vases and marble busts on pedestals, full-length portraits of dead aristocrats in gilt frames, elaborate carving and ornate silverware. It was gigantic and silent, and the money dripped off it everywhere you looked.

  A palace. That was the word. Kim had been born in a sodding palace.

  They handed over their coats, and Kim led the way through a procession of rooms and halls. The decoration was pretty old-fashioned to Will’s mind, although his main point of reference was Kim’s well-lit flat with its clean lines and bright colours. This place was ornate, designed for display rather than comfort, giving no sense of the owner’s personality beyond his well-stuffed wallet. Lots of furniture, lots of oil paintings, lots of things. It was impeccably clean, and it looked like nobody lived here at all.

  Maybe he’d been born in a museum.

  The smell of cigar smoke was almost a relief. It led them through to the Blue Drawing-Room which was, unsurprisingly, decorated in blue: deep dark shades for the upholstery, paler on the walls, dominated by a painting of a woman in powder blue satin and sapphires. She had very dark eyes and the sort of uncompromising expression that, were she three decades older, would see her called hatchet-faced, and if she wasn’t Kim’s mother, Will would eat his hat.

  And, talking of his family...

  They were both wearing evening dress, although there was nobody else here. Lord Chingford sat with his legs spread wide in a velvet-covered chair, cigar in hand. His gaze passed over Will as though he were furniture, and rested on Kim with the expression of pop-eyed hostility that seemed to be his instinctive response to his younger brother. “It’s here, Father,” he remarked, and puffed hard on his cigar.

  The other man in the room was significantly older, in his early seventies, perhaps, tall and thin. Facially he resembled his elder son more than the younger, except that his expression was reminiscent of Kim at his most unpleasantly sneering. “Arthur,” Lord Flitby said.

  “Sir.”

  “Only the extraordinary circumstances, and your extraordinary claims, have caused me to permit this visit. I expected you earlier.”

  “Once again, I disappoint,” Kim said. “I beg your pardon.”

  Lord Flitby’s nostrils flared. “It is far too late to discuss your business tonight and I am engaged with Stratton tomorrow. I shall not rearrange my affairs for your convenience. You may stay until my return. I hope you understand the tolerance that is being extended to you. Send your man to the servants’ hall.”

  “John Willerton is my friend and a guest in this house,” Kim said. “Charmed as ever, sir. Chingford.” He wheeled around and stalked out. Will followed in silence, through corridors and up stairs and round corners, until they reached a second-floor stretch that was wallpapered with a profusion of peonies. Kim tried a couple of doors. “Here we are.”

  ‘Here’ was a guest room, with a decent-sized bed and the usual trappings, plus watercolours of more flowers on the walls. It was a perfectly nice room by normal standards. Will guessed it wasn’t even close to the best Holmclere had to offer. His bag was placed on a nightstand, looking oddly empty, so he went and checked. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  He took out the kitchen knife. “I packed this in case, and your people have unpacked all my clothes and left it in here. What’ll they have thought of that?”

  “It doesn’t matter. They aren’t employed to think.”

  Will bit back the reply he’d normally have made. “Is that you talking or your father?”

  “Take a guess. Christ, Will, I’m sorry.”

  Will put the knife down and walked towards him, arms out. Kim folded into them. “Hell. I wish you weren’t here.”

  “You want me to go?”

  “No. God, no, I need you. It’s just that having you witness my delightful family adds an additional layer of humiliation to the whole thing that I didn’t expect.”

  “I don’t see why,” Will said. “I me
an, I do. They’ve no right to talk like that. But they’re the ones who look like arseholes.”

  “Would you say so? Because to be on the receiving end of that level of contempt—”

  “My mother scrubbed floors in a house a tenth the size of this one, and if I’d ever spoken to anyone that way, I’d have had the back of her hand for bad manners. A marquess ought to do better, not worse.”

  That won a weak smile. “God, I love it when you play the stolid bourgeois.”

  “I’d rather be that than a mannerless blue-blooded prick in a museum. Is it just the two of them in this whole place?”

  “It’s normally just my father. And about forty staff, of course.”

  “No wonder he’s so miserable. Where are you sleeping?”

  “Somewhere on this corridor, I suppose.”

  “You don’t have your own bedroom? In a house this size?”

  “That privilege was removed.”

  Will pulled him a bit closer, hating this. “I don’t suppose you could stay in here.”

  “It would probably be ill judged.”

  “In that case, can we get a drink?”

  Kim disengaged himself, went to the wall, and pressed a bell. Will gave him a look. “I meant going downstairs and getting one. Not making some poor sod run halfway across East Anglia to ask what you want.”

  “That’s their job,” Kim said. “And it’s been a long and fairly awful day, so I’d prefer not to risk meeting my brother again before I have to. And mostly I’m Lord Arthur here and this is how things are done. I’m afraid, for the present, you will have to accustom yourself to that.”

  WILL WOKE EARLY. THERE was a reasonably modern bathroom on the corridor, so he treated himself to a good wash, which he needed after yesterday’s running around, and went to the room they had identified as Kim’s because his baggage was in there.

  He knocked quietly, and let himself in. Kim glanced up at him, turned over in bed, and grunted without enthusiasm.

  “Morning. Didn’t sleep well?”

  “No.” Kim rubbed his face. “You look revoltingly perky.”

  “I’ve slept in worse places.” Will sat on the bed. Kim was wearing satin pyjamas of a lurid purple shade. He slept naked when they shared a bed, which was preferable on several levels. Will wondered if he’d be amenable to having his pyjamas taken off for him, and decided not. He wasn’t in the mood himself. This place was pretty passion-killing: the sterile atmosphere, the simmering hostility, the sense of being unwelcome and under siege, and the heavy hand of privilege pressing down from every direction. It was giving him an urge to kick things, and Kim didn’t look too bright either.