by KJ Charles
—
They found nothing more in the house, but lunchtime brought another discovery: a groundsman with an accent that made Mark think of ruminant cows, who insisted that he’d seen a pedal bicycle of the old boneshaker type left by “the offices,” which seemed to mean outbuildings, a couple of days ago. He hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, he said, but it wasn’t there now. Mark walked the distance from the house, and ascertained that you didn’t see much garden or grounds work done in January, facts which the man conveyed with jovial contempt for city ignorance. He left convinced that it would have been possible for a daring man to conceal a set of dry clothes, escape the moated house, and be on his way within a few minutes.
The four of them regrouped into a book-lined room as twilight drew its soft shadows around the house, about four o’clock. Tim went off to use the necessary, and Mark took the opportunity for a quiet word with the twins.
“First, I don’t reckon there’s anyone in the house at the moment. We’ll keep taking precautions, but we’ve looked in every nook and cranny.” Damp cellars, dusty attics, odd little rooms and hidey-holes behind doors set unobtrusively into wood panelling. “We’re taking Tim’s word that we’ve covered all the rooms”—Greta bristled visibly—“but there’s only so long someone can hide himself in a house, even one this size, once people are looking out. I reckon the attacker went off, probably on that bicycle, after the second attempt on Pen. Second, either he knew the house or he had an accomplice, no question. You can wander around this place for half an hour without seeing anyone at the right time, but I’ve been getting lost all day and I’ve a fair sense of direction. You’d never land up in the top floor north by chance, not without knowing the place, or without help from someone who did.”
“But where does this take us?” Greta looked tense. “What do we do now?”
“Lock the front door, for one,” Mark said. “This place is a fortress if that’s done. I suppose that’ll mean an argument with Phineas but that way the servants can record who comes in or out, from the butcher’s boy up. I’ll keep with Pen in the meantime and we’ll wait for Hapgood to turn up and take it from there.”
“That seems best,” Pen agreed.
Greta nodded, then shivered. “It’s freezing in here. I’m going to get a shawl. Shall I see you up in the Little Drawing Room? There’ll be a fire lit there.”
She left via a second door Mark had barely noticed, which he decided to blame on the fast-dimming light. “I’ll never get used to this house,” he muttered. “Do all the rooms have to connect? What’s wrong with corridors?”
“That’s what I think!” Pen said. “Greta loves it though, she loves the age and the carvings and the inconveniences and the moat. She thinks it’s magical. At least, if I must be an earl, she’ll have this.”
“You can have the townhouse in London instead,” Mark pointed out.
“Where my father killed himself.” Pen shuddered. “I suppose it’s convenient for the Haymarket, anyway.”
He’d only be a few dozen yards from the street of ill repute, with theatres and drinking dens, painted boys and women. A few dozen yards, and a thousand miles of impassable privilege he didn’t want. Mark muttered some sort of acknowledgement, and moved to the table to light a lamp.
“Wait. Mark?” He turned. Pen raised his hands to the back of his neck, untied his hair and shook it out, slow and deliberate, letting the dark locks tumble.
“Uh—”
“I’ve been pretending all day,” Pen said softly. “Can I stop for a bit? Please?”
It was wildly indiscreet, and Mark couldn’t care; not with Pen’s eyes dark in the twilight, and nobody around. He moved forward, and Pen backed against the wall, bending at the knees, so he was looking up, letting Mark stand over him. Mark took a handful of hair as he put his hand to the wall for balance, twining it through his fingers and letting strands fall.
Pen’s lips parted. Mark leaned in and kissed him. Mouth to mouth, he and his beauty, his Pen, vulnerable, tender, and brave. He felt hands coming over his arse and Pen curving pliantly into him, both of them lost in the wonder of it—
The door thumped open. “I say, Mr. Hapgood’s—Oh. Oh God. Oh, God, no.”
Mark jerked away from Pen, instinctively lifting his arm to shield him; Pen wrenched himself away, but Tim had already fled, his retreating footsteps echoing through the other room.
“Shit,” Pen said. “Shit.”
“How bad is he going to be?” Mark asked. “He’s Clem’s friend, does he—”
“He doesn’t know.” Pen was white-lipped. “If he says anything to Greta—Shit. I can’t have ruined this for her, I can’t. What do we do?”
“Go and talk to him,” Mark said. “Not much else we can do.”
“But you heard how he sounded. Horrified.”
“Shocked,” Mark said, but he feared Pen was right. Tim’s voice had been raw and appalled, which to Mark’s mind was a bit of a fucking overreaction; it was no skin off his nose what Pen did. “Just shocked. He’ll get over it.”
“Or he won’t get over it and he’ll say something horrible to Greta,” Pen said. “And if he does she won’t forgive him, even if she likes him. She’ll side with me and it’ll ruin everything—”
“Stop,” Mark said firmly. “You’re borrowing trouble, and we’ve got quite enough of that to be getting on with. Come on, let’s go and find her. Uh…” He indicated Pen’s hair. Pen set his teeth, but retied it.
Greta wasn’t in the Small Drawing Room. Pen headed off to check her bedroom while Mark waited, kicking his heels and cursing himself. He’d been a bloody fool to be so indiscreet; they might even count themselves lucky they’d only been caught by Tim. It could have been Phineas, and that wouldn’t have been much of a laugh.
He was practising denials in his mind a few minutes later, so he could lie fluently when asked, when he heard footsteps and the door opened. He turned, beginning, “Did you find—” only to see that the new entrant was Tim.
He looked pale and wretched, and he stopped dead and stared at Mark with something like hatred. Mark hadn’t thought the quiet, amiable clerk would harbour that sort of poison, but he did not at all like the look on the man’s face.
“Mr. Hapgood is downstairs,” Tim said, voice tight and hard. “He wants everyone there and I dare say that’s your business, isn’t it.”
“Yes. It is.”
Tim’s jaw set. “I suppose I can’t blame you but—You know, I don’t think I deserved this, I really don’t. I wish you joy.” He spat the last word, and turned on his heel.
“Oi,” Mark said. “You deserved this? Deserved what? The fuck is it to you?”
Tim froze still in place for a second, his entire body rigid. Mark was quite ready to advance on him given a smidge of an excuse, but he didn’t turn, simply flapping his hand dismissively and walking off.
Mark stared after him, mind racing. A man who could see two people kissing and turn that into a personal affront—well, he knew that sort; they waited outside the Jack and other such pubs, sometimes, ready to use moralising outrage as an excuse for violence. It suggested a deep-down dangerous nastiness; perhaps someone who felt the world should be a particular way and might take any steps to make it that way. Not the gentle, quiet chap he’d thought Tim to be, not at all.
He didn’t feel happy about this, and he wanted to know where Pen was.
He legged it down the stairs after Tim, hurried through a series of rooms cursing long-dead architects, and eventually tracked down the Large Drawing Room. Tim was in there, along with Phineas, Desmond, Mr. Hapgood, and a tall character with a big moustache whom he vaguely recognised.
“Where’s the twins?” he demanded.
Mr. Hapgood raised his hand against the chorus of disapproval that elicited. “A maid has been sent after them, Mr., uh…”
“Braglewicz. Private enquiry agent.”
“Yes, I recall you well. I had your partner’s company on my recent
travels.” Mr. Hapgood gave a little smile. He looked old and weary; he sat with a large leather document case on his lap. “You may remember Mr. Conyers, who acts for Mr. Phineas.”
Mark gave him a nod, placing the man back at the house in that miserable meeting when he’d betrayed Pen to this.
Mr. Conyers nodded back, very slightly. “May I ask why Mr. Brag—” He waved his hand to indicate the rest of the name. “—is here?”
“Apparently the twins couldn’t do without him,” Tim said, with an angry bite in his voice.
At that point the Starlings entered. Greta was flushed, her eyes reddened, her mouth clamped tight. Pen looked purely furious. “Tim,” he said savagely. “I’d like a word.”
“No,” Greta said.
“Ah,” Mr. Hapgood said. “Since we are all here—”
“Sorry, I need to speak to Tim first.”
“Mr. Hapgood has come down from Norfolk today, you rag-mannered mountebank,” Desmond said. “How dare you behave with such cavalier disrespect to a loyal servant of this family!”
“Of the estate,” Mr. Hapgood said, eyes flicking back and forth, as Pen went red. “Gentlemen, madam, I must ask your attention. I am tired after a great deal of journeying, and I believe this situation must be clarified as soon as possible. It is in nobody’s interest to let uncertainty drag on. Please, sit down if you wish.” Nobody moved. The lawyer went on. “As we agreed, I have been pursuing the question of Edmund, Lord Moreton’s marriage and children. My aim was, and is, purely to ensure the correct disposition of the title and estate of Moreton. I was accompanied during those interviews by Mr. Ainderby Conyers, on behalf of Mr. Phineas, and Mr. Justin Lazarus, Mr. Braglewicz’s colleague. We went first to Chepping Wycombe, where Edmund Taillefer married Emmeline Godfrey, then to Penn, where Miss Godfrey grew up and where her sister still resides. We proceeded to Diss in Norfolk, and to Magpie Green, where Lady Moreton resided under her maiden name with her children. I made all papers and interviews available to Messrs. Lazarus and Conyers at all times, and engaged a local solicitor on behalf of Mr. Conyers when he was indisposed.”
Conyers harrumphed under his moustache at Phineas’s accusing look. “Inflammation of the stomach. The man did well, sir.”
“I have compiled a dossier of the relevant documents, and drawn up a summary memorandum of the proofs and conversations held over the past days.” Mr. Hapgood indicated the document case. “If you would prefer to go through in detail first—”
“Give us the answer, man,” Phineas interrupted. “What have you found?”
“It is unquestionable that Emmeline Godfrey was the true and legal wife of Edmund Taillefer, later Lord Moreton,” Mr. Hapgood said. “The marriage certificate and other documents were at the Potters’ smallholding in Magpie Green. The information that the twins volunteered about their early lives has been confirmed. The picture supplied by Mr. Lazarus has been positively identified by Lady Moreton’s sister as a good likeness. I have spoken to several members of the circus troupe, all of whom identified the picture as the twin youths they took on to study the art of the trapeze, and who eventually left to perform in music hall under the name of Starling. The links between the deceased Lord Moreton, Miss Emmeline Godfrey, and Repentance Starling, or Godfrey, are overwhelmingly clear and numerous, and it is my professional recommendation that this dossier should be presented to the Crown Office forthwith, and the new Lord Moreton assume his estate and dignities without further delay.” He stood awkwardly, and gave Pen a solemn bow. “My lord.”
The room was absolutely silent. Desmond’s cheeks looked like parchment, in texture and colour. “You have taken his side,” he said, sounding stifled.
“Mr. Desmond, I assessed and collected the evidence in front of me with an open mind,” the lawyer said. “It is not my place to decide the succession of an earldom, and I sought to disprove as well as prove. You may ask Mr. Conyers if he found fault with my work. And, sir, you are not bound by my recommendation. If you wish to petition the Lord Chancellor and dispute Lord Moreton’s claim, you may do so, but I fear that I cannot in conscience act in any such suit on your behalf. I must also observe that there is no reason for the estate to bear the costs of such action.”
Desmond’s lips were drawn back. “Phineas. He—This man—This treacherous—”
“A loyal servant of the family.” Tim’s voice was tight. “Whatever you may think of our cousins, it is not fair to abuse Mr. Hapgood.”
“Be silent, you scrounger! I am the earl. Me.” Desmond was trembling visibly. “This, this—” He gestured at Pen in lieu of a noun. “—is not fit to be earl.”
“Mind your manners,” Mark snarled.
“I regret to say that my father is correct,” Phineas said. “I fear there are other issues, Mr. Hapgood, which you have not considered.”
Mr. Hapgood gave him a legal look. “What do you mean?”
“Mr. Repentance Godfrey’s fitness for the title.” Phineas shot a malevolent look at Pen. “Do you wish me to rehearse this now, cousin?”
“His fitness is neither here nor there, only his birth,” Mr. Hapgood said. “Anything else is not a matter for me to judge.”
“No,” Phineas said. “It was a matter for a judge.”
“What?” barked Desmond. “What’s this?”
“None of your damn business, that’s what!” Greta said furiously. “And you’d do well to remember whose house this is now. Cousin.”
“I won’t hand it over to this creature!” Desmond rasped. “I will not be cheated of my inheritance by a slut’s bastards!”
“Go to hell,” Pen told him. “Go straight to hell, you foul old man. If you ever speak one word about my mother again you can get out of this house, and—and I’ll cut you off like you and my father did Tim and Clem, understand? You can starve in the gutter for all I care. One word. One.”
“Lord Moreton, please,” Mr. Hapgood said. “Mr. Desmond, your disappointment is natural but I implore you—”
“I will fight it in court! I will take it to the highest court in the land. I will see you damned before I tolerate this usurpation.”
“Mr. Desmond, the dossier I have compiled—”
“He doesn’t care about the facts,” Greta said. “Don’t waste your time. He’s deluded. Or senile.”
“Don’t you dare speak about my father like that!” Phineas said furiously. “When you collude with your brother in perversity and unnatural offences—”
“What?” Tim almost screamed.
“You horrible man,” Greta said. “You vile piece of—”
“Your brother, the so-called Lord Moreton, stood trial for unnatural offences of the most unspeakable kind,” Phineas said savagely.
“And was acquitted.” Pen was white as a sheet but his voice was controlled.
“In a brothel. Wearing women’s garments. Every feeling must be disgusted. His name will be abhorrent to any decent society,” Phineas snarled. “I’ll make damned sure of that.”
“Protecting the family name only matters when it’s to your advantage, then?” Mark asked.
“Shut up,” Pen said. “For Christ’s sake, all of you, shut up!”
“We’ll bring another prosecution,” Phineas shouted. “There is a witness who will make a complaint to the police—”
“Is that a threat, Phineas?” Greta’s face was white. “Are you trying to blackmail my brother, you apoplectic overstuffed eelskin?”
“It’s horseshit, is what it is,” Mark said. “You try it, pal, and see what a judge makes of your spite.”
Pen slammed his hand on the side table near him. It was only a small table, standing on three delicate legs, and the force of the blow sent it flipping over. A vase crashed to the floor, the smash and tinkle seeming to last for a very long time.
“Sorry,” he said. “Or not, because that was my vase, I suppose, but I want all of you to shut your mouths and keep them shut. Phineas, you can do what you like but I will not be bullied. If you wa
nt to drag the family name through the mud along with mine, I can’t stop you, but I’ll still be the Earl of Moreton from a gaol cell. In fact, why don’t you do it? Let’s show the world exactly how vicious and cruel this family is. You abandon wives and commit bigamy, father bastards and cut off dependents and hire murderers, and then you have the bloody nerve to call me unnatural? My God, to hell with you all. I’m going upstairs. I’ll have a look at the dossier tomorrow, Mr. Hapgood.”
He walked out on that slight anticlimax, shoulders stiff. Greta fell into step behind him with an angry swish of skirts, ignoring Tim’s inarticulate noise.
“Well,” Mr. Hapgood said. “Well. This is most regrettable. There is a great deal to understand here.”
“There is nothing to understand. ‘Lord Moreton’ is a degenerate,” Desmond said.
Mr. Hapgood gave him a look of withering dryness. “He is Lord Moreton and there is no more to it. I must rest now. I suggest we begin again in the morning.”
Mark headed out into the hall, with a number of thoughts churning in his mind. Footsteps came rapidly after him, and Tim grabbed his elbow. “Excuse me.”
“Sod off,” Mark said, not mincing words.
“I need to speak to you. Please. For God’s sake, listen.”
Mark let Tim draw him round a few corners, into the billiard room. He squared up as Tim shut the door, quite ready for a fight.
“Right,” Tim said. He was stiff with tension. “Look. I need to ask—I really wouldn’t, and you may not like the question, but to be honest, the entire course of my life depends on this so I’m going to say it and I hope you won’t take offence. Er. Were you kissing Greta upstairs? Or was it, uh, not her?”
His eyes were wide and anguished. Mark took a deep breath. “I’ve never kissed Greta in my life. I can’t imagine she’d want me to.”
Tim sagged. “Right. Right. I saw you, and I assumed—and I shouted at her, I didn’t think— What a swine I am. What a bloody fool. I should have known she’d never—but the dark, and the hair—and to be honest it hadn’t remotely occurred to me you were that sort, so I didn’t even think it might be Pen, and of course it wasn’t her. Oh, thank God.” He seized Mark’s hand and shook it, an incredulous smile dawning. “Thank you so much, old fellow. Thank you.”