The Sugared Game

by KJ Charles

  Fuller stood rigid, mouth slightly open, mouthing her name. Kim said, “Oh, dear.” And Will returned his attention to Fuller very nearly too late.

  He’d got a hand under his coat already. Now as he turned, he pulled out a second gun, and his arm swung to Kim, point blank.

  Will was already moving, launching a solid, savage boot to the groin. Fuller went backwards, arms flailing wildly, so that the bullet went up to the ceiling instead of into Kim, and he had nothing to grab on to as his foot slipped off the balcony edge.

  There was no saving him this time. Not that Will tried.

  Fuller’s scream was cut off by an extremely final thud. Will went to look over the edge and saw the body splayed in a dark pool of blood that would doubtless get bigger. The angle of his neck told its own story.

  “Silly bastard,” he said.

  Kim looked down too, then nodded. “I’m going after her. Wipe your fingerprints.”

  He set off downstairs. Will managed to fish out a handkerchief and rubbed, clumsy and weak, at the baluster they’d both held and the table he’d used. Once he’d finished, he retrieved the Messer with sausage fingers and went down to the office.

  The safe stood wide, the chocolate boxes empty. It looked like Mrs. Skyrme had taken the chocolates, the gun in the waste-paper bin, and the cartridges. He hoped Kim would be careful.

  His partner returned a couple of minutes later, unharmed and alone. “She’d locked the door on her way out. By the time I got it open, she’d long gone. All right, I’m going to clear the safe. Put that bloody knife away.”

  Will’s arms were starting to feel more like they belonged to him. He sheathed the Messer, then rubbed down the drawer-handles and anything else he could remember touching while Kim stuffed papers into his satchel. “That’ll do. Come on.”

  They hurried downstairs, Will very aware of the body on the floor. Kim grabbed his arm as they approached the back door and pulled him round to scrutinise his appearance. “Stop looking like you’re at war.”

  Will had no idea what that meant, but he breathed out hard, trying to smooth his features. Kim reached out to straighten his clothing with quick, impersonal tweaks, hesitated, then ran his hand through Will’s hair, finger-combing it to order. Will let him, resisting the urge to push his head into the touch of his hand.

  “Better,” Kim said at last. “I’ll go first. Give me a minute, then head home.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get this lot to the office. It’ll be a race against time once Zodiac hear about this.”

  “Are you calling the police?”

  “Christ, no,” Kim said. “Go home, pretend it didn’t happen, and I’ll catch up with you as soon as I can. If you get in any trouble, contact me. If I’m not there, tell Peacock it’s urgent and he’ll reach me. Are you all right?”

  “Just the arms. It’ll be fine.”

  “I meant, what with having killed him.”

  Will shrugged, for lack of anything useful to say. Kim gave him a sort of half smile. “You do realise you saved my life?”

  “Get going.”

  Kim slipped out of the back door. Will gave it a few moments before he followed, emerging into the grey watery daylight. There was nobody in the street above and if anyone had heard the racket from the High-Low, they were clearly unconcerned.

  He set off down the street, hands in his pockets because they’d started shaking.

  Chapter Twelve

  Will didn’t have a marvellous day after that. He didn’t regret Fuller’s death as such: he would have preferred a different outcome, but the silly sod had pulled a gun on Kim. All the same, he didn’t feel much like explaining his part in the whole thing to the police. Kim had better be right about his shadowy organisation’s powers.

  It seemed he was, because after three days, nobody had come to ask Will questions, and he hadn’t seen anything in the papers. He’d bought the Standard and Evening Standard daily, and seen nothing about ‘Shocking Discovery In Night-Club’. That meant he felt less like he was about to be arrested, which was nice, but increasingly in the dark as to what the hell was going on. He wanted to know what happened now, what Mrs. Skyrme was likely to be up to, and what was in those account books and papers Kim had taken.

  But he wasn’t finding out, because along with the rest of the silence, there hadn’t been a peep from Kim.

  Not a call. Not a visit. The nerves receded, the time passed, the hours mounted up without communication, and Will discovered he was furious.

  He had killed a man, another man, to save the bastard’s life. He’d trusted Kim enough to put himself at risk of a prison sentence, and Kim couldn’t take three minutes to say, By the way, what’s happening is... He must have found out plenty by now from the contents of Mrs. Skyrme’s safe; he’d had a private conversation with her that had clearly ended in some sort of deal, given she’d left the safe open. A private conversation Kim hadn’t wanted Will to hear.

  There was something else, too. He’d lied to Mrs. Skyrme about having Flora Appleby ready as a witness, which was fine—Will had no problem with him lying to other people—but it was also, very clearly, what he should actually have done, which raised the question of why he hadn’t. Will had been all too ready to believe that Kim had respected his promise to Beaumont. Now, as the silence ticked on, he had a growing feeling that he’d fooled himself again.

  He didn’t want to believe that. He didn’t want to believe that Kim would spoil everything that had grown between them. But here he sat with another body added to his tally and the dead man’s fingermarks dark on his wrists, and didn’t hear a bloody word.

  He’d thought things were changing. He’d truly thought Kim was letting him inside in a way that mattered, and he’d been wrong. The barriers had come crashing down again and he was sick of it. Sick of being dragged into messes not of his making (he was aware he’d signed up eagerly, that wasn’t the point), sick of being used for dirty work, and thoroughly, deep-down heartsick of feeling like he was good enough for fighting or fucking, even for Kim to vent his feelings on much as Beaumont had, but no more. Not a partner. Not an equal. Not included.

  He called Maisie to see if she’d have dinner with him, but she declined. “I can’t. Will, we’re going down to Lord Waring’s house on Saturday, to stay! He told Phoebe yesterday to bring me so he can meet me properly in a comfortable setting, and he’s even sending his chauffeur to drive us. Can you imagine?” Her voice thrummed with excitement. “So kind—and I’ve got such a lot of work to do before we go to Paris, Phoebe is having dozens of ideas and there’s no time at all to prepare. I’ll tell you all about it later. I’ve got to go.”

  She hung up, which was him told. Will glared at the phone. He didn’t have Phoebe’s number since she always called him, but he had a copy of Kelly’s London Royal Blue Book. He looked up Viscount Waring, found the address in Grosvenor Square, and asked the operator to put him through.

  A plummy voice answered the telephone. “The Waring residence.”

  “Is Miss Stephens-Prince in?” Will had a sudden, random urge to call her Lady Phoebe, just to balance out the poshness. “It’s William Darling.”

  After a lengthy pause, Phoebe came on the line. “Will, darling? Oh, it is you, how lovely.”

  “I wondered if I could take you to dinner. If you’re not busy.”

  “Dinner tonight? I can’t do that, but have you had lunch yet? No? Wonderful. I can be with you in two shakes of a lamb’s thingy. Oh, not that thingy, how awful. I shall meet you in our usual place at one.”

  That was fine, Will decided. And he’d go to the cinema in the evening, and generally get himself out and about. If he sat around here thinking about Kim any longer, he’d break something.

  He picked up a paper to read since Phoebe was reliably fifteen minutes late, and was embarrassed to arrive at the restaurant at five to one to find her already there.

  “Hello, darling,” she said, kissing him on both cheeks. “Marv
ellous to see you, and thank you so much for calling. I was quite desperate to leave the house.”

  She spoke lightly, as she always did, but there was a look in her eyes that made him say, “Is something wrong?”

  “Oh, not wrong, not to complain about. My mother is endlessly wearing. Well, she would be, of course.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Lady Waring. Kim always says he doesn’t know if it’s a title or a description.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Never mind. She is herself, and she will say things, and she’s dreadfully annoyed by my plans with Maisie. Well, life is full of disappointments. Hers certainly is.” She smiled dazzlingly at the waiter who handed her a menu, but didn’t open it.

  “Because you’re working?” Will guessed. “Or because it’s with Maisie specifically?”

  “They haven’t met; I wouldn’t inflict Mother on her. Honestly, it’s mostly because Daddy supports me. I do wish they’d divorce. Still, I’ll be away soon.”

  “Maisie said you’re off to your place in the country.”

  “To meet Daddy, yes. He’s being awfully good. I dare say Johnnie will be there too, but never mind. Have you decided?”

  The waiter was hovering. Will hadn’t even looked at the menu. He asked for the pâté and boeuf bourguignon—French for stew—adding a carafe of wine. Phoebe ordered something involving salad, and glowed at the waiter again. “You were heroic at the dinner, by the way. Teddy really was struck by you.” She gurgled with laughter. “So was Bubby, of course, just differently. Poor Will, what an awful time Kim gives you. It was terribly nice of you to support Maisie through it.”

  “I can’t see what good I did.”

  “Oh, just being there, darling. You’re a desperately comforting presence, you know. Safe. Not that you’re safe yourself, but one feels that nothing can go terribly wrong if you’re about.”

  “That’s not true, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, of course not, but one still feels it. I feel better now just talking to you. I really don’t know why I let Mother bother me so. And to be fair to her, she sent Johnnie Cheveley packing. He came for her blessing to court me, would you believe? As if he could charm her into forgetting he’s Daddy’s man, no matter how much she dislikes Kim. I’m not sure I could bear it if she was on at me to marry Johnnie on top of the rest of it. I can’t wait to go to Paris.”

  “I bet you can’t,” Will said, watching her eyes. “Look, if you want someone to have a word with Cheveley, I’m happy to. He can’t carry on at you like this.”

  “You’re sweet to offer, darling, but you can’t punch everyone in the face.”

  “I don’t mind trying.”

  Phoebe’s mouth moved in the sort of smile that might go into laughter or tears. She squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Will. You are kind. I shall carry a mental picture of you giving Johnnie what-for in my heart, and that will sustain me.”

  “Up to you. Why doesn’t your mother like Kim?”

  “Well, so few people do. He was always the black sheep, long before the War, and he’s always taken my side, which she dislikes. You might think that she would have been grateful he swooped in to rescue me, but no. Do you know the most absurd thing, though? She objects to me marrying him, and to the long engagement. She actually said, ‘Don’t marry him, but if you must, do it at once.’ Have you ever heard anything so silly? It’s like that joke about the bad restaurant—‘Such terrible food! And such small portions!’ Oh, not you, darling,” she added swiftly to the waiter, who had arrived with their first course at that inopportune moment. “This looks wonderful.”

  Will managed to hold back his laugh until the waiter departed. Phoebe made a comically embarrassed face. “Well, that serves me right. Anyway, you didn’t want to hear me rattle on about Mother. How are you? What’s happened with the High-Low?”

  Will lifted a hand, not dramatically, but enough that she stopped at once, eyes widening. “Oh. Is it hush-hush?”

  “Well, you know. Kim business.”

  She pressed her lips together, smiling. “Naturally. Talking of whom, where on earth is he? I haven’t heard from him in days.”

  “Nor have I.” Will wasn’t sure if it helped that Kim hadn’t been chatting to Phoebe. It didn’t make things worse, but that was a pretty low bar. “He’s vanished again.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Is he being Kimmish?”

  “Yes. Yes, he blasted well is.”

  “Oh, darling. I did think—not that it’s my business.”

  “Does he trust you, Fee?” The words spilled out without him quite meaning to speak them. “Sorry. That’s not my business.”

  “It’s a fair question,” Phoebe said. “Does he? As far as it goes. He trusts me with some things, but not everything by a very long way. He loves me, but he doesn’t tell me about what matters most. He holds onto things that hurt as if it would be cheating to let anyone help.”

  “He told me some things,” Will said, leaning forward a little as if the very mention was secret. “About what happened with his brother. I thought he was talking to me. And now he’s gone again, and I think he’s hiding something. Again.”

  “Something he ought to share.” Phoebe was watching his face. “Personal or professional?”

  “Professional, but—well, it is personal. If he asks me to do things and then slams the door in my face, it’s personal.”

  “Yes,” Phoebe said. “It is. And he ought to know better, and he does know better, and he ought to do better. I couldn’t agree more.”

  It was just words, just a bit of sympathy and understanding. There was no reason for Will to feel a hard lump in his throat. “Yes, he ought. Thanks, Phoebe. I’m sorry, I brought you here just to moan at you.”

  “We clearly both needed a moan. It’s a very good thing you called or we’d have ruined two other people’s lunches instead. I am sorry, Will. I wish I could help.”

  “You have,” Will said sincerely. “If I make you feel safe, you make me feel better.”

  “I’m glad of that.” She forked up a bit of salad. “I suppose one needn’t consider that we’re the people Kim wants around him.”

  “Or the people he pushes away.”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “He does, doesn’t he.”

  “He does something bad, one of those his-own-worst-enemy things, and he makes sure not to let anybody forgive him for it, still less tell him not to be such a, a—” He couldn’t think of a term fit for a lady’s ears.

  “Prima donna,” Phoebe said. “Oooh, for once I knew what you meant, that’s new. And you’re quite right. He’s never happier than when he’s making himself miserable. Why now, though? I know you and he were getting on better. What changed?”

  Their visit to the High-Low had changed things, but Will couldn’t talk about that. He gave an awkward shrug. She looked at him with uncomfortable shrewdness, then shook her head. “Honestly. The bloody man.”

  Will blinked. Phoebe raised her wineglass with a wry smile, and he clinked it. “Bloody man.”

  TIME WITH PHOEBE MADE him feel better for a while, as did a trip to the cinema so that he wasn’t sitting around waiting, but as Thursday passed without a word, it took the remnants of his patience with it. He went to the pub on Thursday night, threw his darts rather too hard for accuracy, and returned home around eleven to see electric light from upstairs illuminating the stairwell.

  He couldn’t even be bothered with subtlety. “Get your arse down here so I can kick it!”

  “Are you talking to a burglar, or to me?” Kim called down.

  “Either,” Will snapped, and stamped up the stairs.

  Kim was in his armchair again. He looked shocking.

  “Jesus,” Will said. “Have you not slept?”

  “Slept? Yes, I’m sure I did that.” He was grey, his eyes dark slits, like a bad black-and-white cartoon of himself. “Not for a while, but I’m sure I did at some point.”

  “Feeling guilty, are we?”

  “O
ooh. Temper.”

  “I bloody killed someone on Sunday, Kim. During the commission of a felony. A word would have been nice, along the lines of all hushed up, don’t worry about it.”

  “That’s a sentence,” Kim said enragingly. “But it’s hushed. Believe me, it’s hushed. The body’s gone, the club is closed, and Mrs. Skyrme took the boat from Dover with a bagful of chocolates and hasn’t been seen since.”

  “She’s gone? Why didn’t you have the ports watched?”

  “Because I made a deal. She opened the safe for me, and I let her clear off with the loot. Admittedly she left before we’d entirely finished our conversation, but she did her part. Not one of the true-believer idiots, Mrs. Skyrme, she got when the going was good. When the getting was good? When the going had got good, by God.”

  “You’re drunk,” Will said, noticing.

  “I’m not fucking drunk. I’m drinking. So would you be.”

  There was an empty bottle by the chair which had been half full of cheap Scotch this morning. If Kim had put that away voluntarily, they were probably in big trouble.

  “Why did you let her go?” Will demanded. “What was the deal?”

  Kim shrugged. “Didn’t want her. I wanted Capricorn. A big pile of lovely incriminating undeniable evidence all about Capricorn. That’s what I asked for.”

  “And did you get it?”

  “I got lots of stuff. Lots and lots. Codenames, references. Financial johnny piecing it together as we speak, page after page. Sodding marvellous.”

  “You never gave a damn for Skyrme,” Will said. “You never meant to arrest her for what she did. You meant to get at Capricorn all along, and you leant on Mrs. Appleby so you could lean on Skyrme.” He looked at Kim’s face, the empty bottle. “And you haven’t got him. Have you?”

  Kim met his eyes, murder in his dark gaze. They stared at each other for a couple of seconds that made Will’s knife hand itch, and then Kim looked away. “He isn’t in the stuff from the High-Low. She told me he wouldn’t be. ‘You won’t find him here,’ she said, and we haven’t and won’t. And she’s fucked off and Fuller’s dead, and there’s still no bloody evidence, which means I still can’t pass the cup and say, This is Capricorn. Deal with him, so it’s still down to me. I don’t know why I ever thought it wouldn’t be.”