The Sugared Game

by KJ Charles

  Cheveley looked around at the large, rapt audience, down at Telford’s unmoving body. Something ticked in his face, a man realising the odds had changed. “We must of course call the police but the telephones are out of order. Someone will have to drive to Berkhampstead in the morning.”

  “Stop it.” Phoebe’s voice was icy. “My father’s chauffeur attempted to assault Maisie in a vile manner, and you tried to defend him. You’ve been scheming against her, against Kim—I don’t know what else you’ve been doing, but I have had enough of you. And I want to know where my father is!”

  “He’s in the drawing-room,” Kim said. “Cheveley ordered his man to assault him. It doesn’t look good, Fee. Maisie, go with her.”

  Phoebe’s eyes snapped wide. She stood for a frozen second and then ran, heedless of the revolver. Maisie hurried down the stairs. Cheveley shouted, “Stop!”, raising the revolver, and Will scooped up the shotgun and said, “Don’t.”

  Several of the Bright Young People shrieked. Cheveley sneered. “I don’t think you’ll find that’s much use to you.”

  Will checked the safety was off. “We’ll see.”

  Cheveley swung the revolver up at him and pulled the trigger. Will dropped amid the chorus of screams, rolled, and came up firing, or at least squeezing the trigger. The hammer clicked uselessly.

  “As if Telford loaded it for the old man,” Cheveley said. “You think we’re fools?”

  “You’re a flaming lunatic, is what you are,” Bubby Fanshawe said, from where he and Miss Moran cowered in the corner. “Put that gun down!”

  “What’s happening?” shrieked a woman.

  “Cheveley’s gone off his bally rocker!”

  “Johnnie,” Kim said. “You can’t win this. There’s a roomful of witnesses. Shoot anyone and you’ll hang for murder. It’s over.”

  Cheveley’s eyes darted back and forth. Adela Moran said, “Oh, yes, do put the gun down, Johnnie. This is too panic-making.”

  “Shut up, you silly bitch,” Cheveley said. “Did you drive here in your Hillman, Bubby?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s out the front.”

  “Does it have a door key?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s awfully—”

  “Give it to Secretan.”

  “Eh? Why?” Fanshawe asked blankly.

  “Because he’s going to drive me wherever I choose. Aren’t you, Secretan?”

  “The hell he is,” Will said.

  The muzzle of the revolver swung to him, a gaping black hole. “He is if he doesn’t want you dead. Get on your knees, hands on your head. Now!”

  There were only a few yards between them. Too far for Will to catch him, too close for Cheveley to miss. Kim said, quietly, “Do it, Will. Please.”

  Will knelt. Cheveley said, “Right. Any funny business and I shoot him. Understand that, Secretan?”

  “If you kill him in front of this crowd you’ll swing. Do you understand that?”

  “Give Secretan the keys, Bubby,” Cheveley repeated. “Throw them to him.”

  “Yes, but, I say—”

  “Do it now. Now, or I shoot! Where are you going, you moron?”

  “To get the keys! They’re in the jolly old car!” Fanshawe protested.

  Cheveley said, “Jesus Christ.” Will might have felt a moment’s sympathy, except that he could imagine the sound of a shot on an isolated road, Kim’s body left unmoving in the moonlight, Cheveley driving away alone.

  Kim would not be getting in that motor-car, and that was all there was to it. His muscles tightened.

  “Just try it, you jumped-up shopkeeper,” Cheveley said softly. “I’ll blow your head into red mist. All right, Secretan—”

  The lights went off.

  No expense had been spared in Etchil’s electrification. The hall had a chandelier hanging from the ceiling and lights on the landing and more on the walls. They’d been beaming out this whole time and the darkness now was absolute. Several people screamed. Will hurled himself sideways as the revolver boomed out, and found himself sent rolling by a hard, painless impact on his left arm.

  He knew that one. It was always painless at first.

  The lights blazed on again, blinding. Will put his right hand to his left biceps, took it away, and stared at the wet red on his hand as pain began to sear through his arm. He looked up, at Cheveley’s face, and the muzzle of the revolver swinging to him, and the Bright Young Idiots shrieking, and then Adela Moran screamed in real earnest, and Will turned and saw Kim.

  He was running across the hall, with a cavalry sabre in his hand. Will stared, Cheveley simply gaped, and Kim swept the sword up like he’d done it all his life. The blade bit cleanly, deeply, and all but right through Cheveley’s outstretched arm.

  He dropped the gun. Well, he would.

  Everyone was screaming now. Kim dropped the sabre, eyes wide, as Cheveley folded at the knees and hit the floor. Blood sprayed.

  “Get a tourniquet on him,” Will snapped. “Quick!”

  “Shit.” Kim bent over Cheveley. “Hell. Are you all right, Will?”

  “No. He fucking shot me.”

  “I saw,” Kim said through his teeth. “But if one of you is going to bleed to death I’d rather it was him, so talk to me.”

  Will was bleeding a fair bit himself, now he looked, and starting to feel rather rough as the initial shock was replaced by the throbbing heat of a bullet wound. “Uh.”

  “Will!” That was Maisie, arriving in a flurry. “Oh God. We need cords, ties. Now!”

  She got something from somewhere; Will wasn’t paying attention. He heard her whispering unladylike language under her breath as she pulled a cord round his upper arm, painfully tight. “Ow.”

  “Is that too much?”

  “Ignore him,” Kim said. “He always complains when he’s shot.”

  “Arsehole,” Will managed. “Excuse my French, Maisie.”

  “Don’t mind me,” she said. “Hold on, I’m going to—”

  Will knew what she was going to do—she had got a pencil in the loop, and she turned it now to tighten the tourniquet. He breathed out hard. “All right, that’s slowed the bleeding,” she said. “He needs a doctor quick.”

  “He’s not the only one,” Kim said. “Bubby, you useless sack of meat, get in the car and find a telephone. Doctors. Police. Now!”

  Maisie brought a chair for Will to lean against. His arm was an unpleasant combination of the jabbing pain of the gunshot wound, the nauseous dull pain of his broken knuckle, and the outrage of nerves cut off by a ligature. He’d had significantly better evenings than this in the trenches.

  “Cheveley?” he asked.

  “Not so good,” Kim said. He had stuffed his jacket over the man’s wound, for what use that might be. Will let out a long breath, and waited in silence for the bleeding to stop.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Things got a bit fuzzy after that. A doctor arrived eventually; Will tried to explain that he was probably the least in need of the various casualties but nobody listened, and then he got a needleful of something and went out like a light.

  He woke up somewhere that, eventually, he identified as the room he’d been allocated. His entire left arm felt hot and resentful, his head was muggy, and he was painfully thirsty. There was a jug of water by his bedside, but it had been placed on the table to his left, which felt like a bigger obstacle than it should have. And there was nobody here. Not that he had any great expectation of a kindly nurse or trusty friend sitting by his bedside, because his experience to date had pretty much never included that, but it would have been nice.

  He allowed just a moment for self-pity, then worked himself to sit upright. His hand had been strapped up and his upper arm was tightly bandaged. The bandages were stained, but not much, and the stain was dry which was presumably good. He got his feet to the floor so he could drink most of the jug of water more easily, and was contemplating lying down again when the door opened a crack and Kim peered in.

  “Will?
Good God, why are you up? Get back in bed.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re shot. The bullet was lodged a quarter of an inch off an artery, and don’t talk to me about arteries. Lie down, damn you.”

  Words harsh, hands gentle as he helped ease Will back, and brushed the hair off his forehead. “God, you scared me. When he shot you—”

  Will would have liked to hear about Kim being afraid for him, and then again, not. He didn’t quite feel he could keep his equilibrium at this moment. “You scared me. What the hell was that, a sabre?”

  “French, a relic of Waterloo. One of Waring’s most prized possessions. If you had any better ideas, you were welcome to put them into action.” Kim stroked his hair again. It felt good. “Oh, Will. Christ alive.”

  “What happened to Cheveley?”

  “Bled out. I cut his arm damn near off. The doctors did their best—said I’d done my best to save him, and that he could probably have lived if we’d been in London to get him a transfusion. We weren’t.”

  “Was that your first?”

  “My first kill?” Kim’s fingers moved through his hair. “Yes. Yes, it was. I’ve indirect death to my credit but I never...”

  “He’d have killed me,” Will said. “I saw it in his face.” He couldn’t swear to it, in truth; Cheveley had looked panicked and desperate, but you never knew what a panicked, desperate man would do. He might just as likely have run for the motor, or shot someone else, or himself. But Kim needed the reassurance, and the touch of fingers to his right hand suggested it was appreciated.

  “Thank you,” Kim said softly. “You know, the worst part is, everyone keeps telling me that it’s all right because I didn’t mean it.”

  “Yes, you did. You don’t slash at someone with a sodding sabre if you don’t mean it.”

  “My aim was to make him drop the gun, but I had absolutely no interest in preserving his life, especially at your expense. I intended to hit him as hard as I could, and I did, and it killed him. I killed him.”

  Will squeezed his hand. “I owe you one. I don’t know why the bastard had it in for me like that.”

  “I do,” Kim said. “I wouldn’t have stood a chance without you, and he knew it. And more than that—when he threatened you, he was watching my face. He’d have killed you to hurt me. I’m quite sure of that.” His voice was strained.

  “Then no guilt. Or I’ll think you regret saving me, and that would hurt my feelings.”

  Kim bowed his head, brushing his lips over Will’s fingers. “We couldn’t have that. Thank you for the idea, by the way.”

  “What idea?”

  “‘The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall.’ I’ve seen those swords so often; it hadn’t previously occurred to me they had a use beyond decoration.”

  “It wouldn’t have occurred to me that anyone covering their walls in blades would be fool enough to keep them sharp.”

  “Same,” Kim said wholeheartedly. “I was expecting the bloody thing to be dull as a stick: that’s why I hit him so hard. I wanted to knock the gun out of his hand.”

  “Well, it worked. Sort of.”

  Kim laughed at that, but it was the kind of laugh that hurt. Will disengaged his fingers in order to reach up, and get an arm round his neck, and hold on to him while his shoulders heaved.

  “Sorry,” Kim said after a while. He’d slid to his knees, leaning over the bed so his head was pillowed on Will’s chest, and Will could stroke his hair. “Sorry.”

  “Nothing to apologise for. We’ve all been there. I threw up after my first.”

  “Done that. Twice.”

  “Well, then.”

  A moment slid by in silence. That was all right with Will, feeling Kim’s warmth and weight. It was a better position than a lot of the ones they could have been in.

  “What about the rest? Telford?” he asked.

  “Well you may ask. What on earth did you do?”

  “Rabbit punch. It’s a blow to the back of the neck. They don’t let you do it in boxing.”

  “I should hope not, since he’s dead.”

  “Bugger.”

  “I wouldn’t worry. He had a charge sheet as long as your arm; you saved the state some rope. As for Anton, the chauffeur, he seems to have got away.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No. Looks like he woke up, stole one of Waring’s cars, and drove off. Not yet traced.”

  “He must have a hard head. And Waring?”

  “Also dead,” Kim said, his voice humming in Will’s ribs. “When Telford struck him, it caused the wall of the aneurysm to split—I have the verbiage from the doctors. He bled out too, though internally, so at least he was less messy than Johnnie. He lasted about twenty minutes.”

  “Oh God,” Will said. “How is Phoebe?”

  “It’s a lot for her to cope with.”

  That seemed to be all he had to say. Will didn’t push it.

  “We’ve got rid of the idiots,” Kim went on. “Not to be ungracious, I know their arrival saved our bacon, but there is only so much I can take.”

  “Where in God’s name did they spring from?”

  “A Saturday spree. They drive around the countryside at random, thrusting themselves on households at ungodly hours and demanding ‘drinkie-poos’,” Kim said, handling the word as if it were contagious. “I find it deeply galling that I have to be grateful for that. Gratitude also goes to Maisie for turning off the lights at that moment.”

  “Oh, that was her? How is she?”

  “Fine. More than fine. She’s been a tower of strength for Phoebe.”

  Will nodded. “What does Phoebe know?”

  “Most of it, now. It seems Maisie told her everything when they were sent upstairs.”

  That reminded Will. “How did they get out? I thought Telford locked them in.”

  “This is Phoebe’s childhood home. She knows how to jimmy her own bedroom lock.”

  “So the final butcher’s bill—”

  “Three dead, one gone, you injured. DS is delighted, as you may imagine.”

  “DS? Your boss?”

  “The Private Bureau is here en masse to clean up. Talking of which, I rescued your knife; it’s in your bag. And I regret to report that DS wants a personal interview with you, so if I were you, I’d go back to sleep, and stay that way for the next six months.”

  Will was not inclined to do that. He did stay in bed long enough to eat a sandwich, drink a restorative few cups of beef broth, and have a mug of tea and several biscuits, all brought to him by a wide-eyed maid, and then he got up. He was bored.

  His arm hurt a fair bit. He put his jacket over his right arm and managed to turn the empty left sleeve into a sort of makeshift sling, then headed downstairs.

  The blood had been cleaned up from the hallway, which was good. Will followed voices, and found several men in the dining room going through piles of paper and ledgers spread out on the long table. One of them looked round. “Who are you?”

  “Will Darling.”

  “Oh, yes.” The man straightened, extending his hand, which Will shook. He had a serious sort of face, brown hair going grey, and ink on his fingers. “I’m a William myself—Merton of that ilk. Pleased to meet you. You’ve done your country a service.” He slapped a ledger affectionately, much as one might pat the flank of a horse. “We’re going to run what remains of Zodiac up a flagpole with this lot. Have you seen DS yet?”

  “No.”

  “No time like the present. He’s in the study. Good luck.”

  Will headed in that direction and knocked. The door opened, and Will found himself face to face with Kim, who was looking harried. “Will?”

  “Ah, the famous Mr. Darling,” came a voice from inside. “Our bellicose bookseller. Do come in.”

  Kim rolled his eyes and let Will in.

  The study had been considerably disarranged, not to say ransacked, since Will had seen it last. The safe stood open, as did the filing cabinet, and t
here were piles of paper on the floor.

  The man at the desk was a smooth-looking, handsome chap of Jewish looks, extremely dark of hair and eyes, but sufficiently into middle age that Will wasn’t convinced the jet black hair was entirely due to nature. He wore natty horn-rimmed spectacles and a wearily sardonic expression.

  “Sit down, both of you,” he said. “You’re Secretan’s Darling, yes?”

  That was a hell of a start to a conversation. “I’m Will Darling.”

  “Delighted.” The man smiled, though not in a reassuring way. “You may call me DS if you have to call me anything. Killed anyone interesting recently?”

  “Uh—”

  “Let me be frank, Mr. Darling,” DS said. “I feel as though I have been clearing up after you for months. There was a smashed head in the North Wessex Downs last November, Price from the War Office to explain away, then Libra’s mangled remains though I suppose you can’t be blamed for that. Then that fellow off the balcony, which required mops, and now you’ve broken Tommy Telford’s neck to go with Secretan’s exsanguination of Sir Alan Cheveley’s brother and the demise of Lord Waring. Are you two planning to stop leaving a trail of dead? Because I’m not your damned housemaid.”

  This felt rather harsh to Will. “Waring wasn’t our fault. And Zodiac came at us first.”

  “‘They started it’ is an excuse that works on playgrounds,” DS informed him. “All right, tell me about it.”

  “Which part?”

  “All of it. Start with a shifty character walking into your bookshop last November. Not this one,” he added, indicating Kim. “The other one.”

  It took a while. Will wasn’t sure if it helped that DS already knew about him and Kim—it felt at this point as though everyone did, which was a whole pile of peculiarity he didn’t have time to think about—but it was something of a relief not to have to watch his words too carefully. He told the truth, and felt Kim listening by him, and waited to find out what would happen.

  What happened immediately was that DS steepled his fingers, leaned back in his chair, and said, “What was your rank in the Army, Mr. Darling?”