A Coldblooded Scoundrel
Page 15
The monster laughed - a gentle laugh, full of the most horrible loathing. "You shouldn't run about like you have done, Phillip. It weakens the body, so much haste."
Devlin slipped a hand into his pocket, felt about the lining of his coat with icy fingers. It would only take one, he thought - but he could be wrong, because the room was weird and tilting now, and things were sliding past him. The footsteps were back, above his head and all around him, and he could see the danger now, the danger in the revolver held in John Whittaker's gloved hand. He had to watch the hand, watch it move, see the fingers clasp and reach -
The shot rang out, and he was deafened by it, sickened by the stink of cordite and the writhing, slippery motion of the body as it fell face-down on the carpet. The blood was coming out and pooling all around the head, and he could see the jagged hole the shot had made - and he could see Violet Pearson in the passageway, her right hand white-knuckled on a revolver, a curl of smoke dying slowly in the stillness of the air. He saw all these things - saw them and noted them, before the darkness swirled up to meet him and he fell down into it, a blessed relief.
Epilogue
"Freddie, you don't have to keep bringing me things - I'm hardly on my deathbed." Devlin glanced up at the tall young constable hovering by his bedside. "The doctor says it's just pneumonia, and I shall be fine as soon as ever." He coughed, a terrible racking noise, and Freddie Lewis moved to prop him up.
"I'm not going away. You can bloody rattle on as long as you like and call me everything - but I'm staying here to see to you." Freddie positioned the tea tray over Devlin's knees, and poured a cup of the steaming brew. "Anyway, I've got good news that will make you happy." He withdrew a folded newspaper, handed it to Devlin. "Front page, three columns."
YARD MAN CLEARED OF CHARGES: SIR NEVILLE ALCOCK TO RETIRE AT MONTH'S END.
Devlin grunted. "About bloody time." He slurped his tea, oblivious to social conventions. "And what did they say about...?"
"John Whittaker's case has been...indefinitely suspended." Freddie twitched his moustache with a finger. "Violet will be very grateful."
"She was terrified of an open scandal." Devlin shook his head sadly. "Poor girl - having to serve justice on your own flesh and blood that way...it can't have been easy for her." He had seldom seen anyone as steadfast as Violet - widow of Captain Edgar Pearson, formerly of Her Majesty's 95th
Foot, brother of John Whittaker. "They will be very happy in Boston, she and Phoebe." "Boston?" Freddie was surprised. "Are they going to America?"
Devlin sighed. "Boston is normally located in America, yes." He smiled. "And what better place to have a 'Boston marriage'?"
Freddie was quiet for a moment as he sipped his tea. "Is that what we've got?" he asked, "A Boston marriage?"
"Gentlemen don't make Boston marriages," Devlin said - in a tone that would have done justice to Reginald Harker. "But I'll be here, Freddie - if you'll have me."
And 'here' was, truth be told, much better than Devlin's old lodgings, or Freddie's rooms, because 'here' was a very nice flat near the Yard, with large windows overlooking the street and a fine tobacconist's around the corner, and plenty of good brandy and their fire. It was understood, of course, that Inspector Devlin and Constable Lewis merely shared rooms in the interests of economy, and because they were both bachelors - and wasn't it a shame that the Inspector had been all set to marry Phoebe Alcock, and then she ran away to Boston with some red-haired woman who was probably an actress, or at any rate, not a very nice woman, certainly not the kind of woman who is ever received in polite society....
Such a shame, really.
The End