by KJ Charles
Everyone else turned. Mitra said, “I have Lord Arthur Secretan—Lord Chingford’s brother—and his colleague, Mr. Darling. Detective Inspector Rennick.”
“We’re acquainted,” Rennick said. He was a short, shrewd-looking man who sounded North London. “Good evening, Mr. Secretan. It’s been a little while. I’m sorry to meet in these circumstances.”
“So am I, but extremely reassured you’re on the case,” Kim said. “It’s good to see you, Inspector. Hello, Knowle.”
That was to the address of a rather harried, balding man who said, “Lord Arthur? May I ask—?”
“I invited him to come,” Mitra said. “It seemed a good idea.”
“The bloody hell it does!” said the red-faced man twice as loudly as he needed to, and Will realised this must be Kim’s brother.
He looked like someone had drawn a caricature of Kim as John Bull and not been kind about it. He was significantly bulkier, with big shoulders and a square jaw where Kim was narrow, and a complexion that suggested he was about to have an apoplectic fit.
“What’s he doing here?” Lord Chingford demanded, glaring at Kim. “Why am I here, come to that, having my time wasted? I’ve told you what I know. It’s your own damn fault if you can’t understand plain English.” He groped in his breast pocket, made an irritated noise, and swiped the back of his hand across his brow, which was damp with sweat. It was a warm night, and the number of bodies in the room wasn’t helping the temperature, but still, it didn’t look marvellous.
“Has someone called a lawyer for him?” Kim asked.
“The gentleman has declined—”
“I am an earl, you jumped-up jackanapes, not a bloody gentleman!”
“No indeed, sir,” Rennick agreed tonelessly. “His lordship has so far declined to send for a legal representative, Mr. Secretan, feeling that he doesn’t need one.”
“Of course I don’t. If you imbeciles listened to me, this would be cleared up in five minutes!”
“I’ll listen,” Kim said. “Could I have a private conversation with my brother please, Inspector?”
“No you damned well can’t,” Chingford said. “Why the devil would I want to speak to you?”
“It would be a good idea, Lord Chingford,” Mitra put in. “If you won’t call a lawyer—”
“You’re a lawyer, aren’t you, when you’re not snouting around your betters here?”
“I’m not your lawyer,” Mitra said, with considerable emphasis.
“I don’t need one anyway, and I don’t want a private conversation with that.” Chingford jerked his head at Kim. “I found a body, that’s all, and I don’t see what the fuss is about. Listen.” He spoke with heavy stresses, as though to an idiot child. “I was having a nap in the reading room after dinner. Woke up, thought I’d look for a game. Went next door to the billiard room, went in, there’s a fellow lounging over the table. What ho, I said, you can’t sleep there. Bugger didn’t say a thing. Gave him a shake on the shoulder and realised there was something up.”
“You were close enough to touch before you realised there was something wrong?” Will asked incredulously.
Chingford gave him a pop-eyed stare. “Who’s this bloody rustic? And what the devil is going on here, with strangers wandering round the Club?”
“You were in the reading room, which is next to the billiard room, and you awoke unexpectedly from your nap,” Kim said. “Might that have been because you heard a noise from next door?”
“Mr. Secretan!” Rennick protested, even as Lord Chingford said, “What are you talking about? I don’t know why I woke up. I did, that’s all, and I went in and saw the body. Had a look, saw it was that swine Fairfax. Can’t say I’m surprised someone stabbed him. Fact, I’d like to shake the hand of the man who did it. Bloody mess, though. Damned thoughtless. Can’t treat a good table like that. Ruins the baize.”
“Terrible,” Kim said. “Getting back to the murdered man—”
“He had a knife sticking out of his head. Or a screwdriver or some such. I gave it a tug but it was stuck.”
Kim’s lips moved soundlessly. “You gave it—?”
“A tug. Are you deaf?”
“So we’re going to find your fingerprints on the murder weapon, Lord Chingford,” Rennick said. “Thank you. That’s very enlightening.”
Mitra massaged the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. Kim said, “Chingford, in the name of God, stop talking. Do not speak again until you have a lawyer by your side. I’ll call Stratton—”
“You stop bloody talking!” Chingford swelled like a turkey, neck reddening. “Who the hell do you think you are, waltzing in here? You were drummed out of this club for a good reason, you little toad, so get out and take your bloody stableboy with you! This is a place for gentlemen!”
Kim’s face blanked, not for the fraction of a second he usually took to hide his reactions, but for a count of three. Will had just shifted his weight forward to stop whatever he was about to do when he said, crisply, “Fine. Absolutely fine. Talk all you like. You are clearly in control of the situation and I shall withdraw at once. Thank you for a delightful evening, Harry, it’s been a pleasure.”
“Kim—”
Kim held up a hand. “Sorry. I do appreciate your efforts. Please accept my apologies, Inspector, for”—he glanced at his brother—“everything.”
Rennick nodded, one professional to another. “I’m sorry, too, Mr. Secretan.”
Kim turned on his heel. Will followed him out. As they walked down the hall, he could hear Lord Chingford shouting.
Chapter Three
Kim set off at a fast pace. That suited Will; he could use the fresh air, or what passed for it in London. It was about a mile and a half to Holborn from here, and only twilight still.
He extended his stride to catch up. “Shall we go down by the river?”
Kim didn’t answer, but he did take the next right turn down Villiers Street, and they came onto the Embankment. It was a beautiful evening, the waters of the Thames swelling with the high tide. The scent of flowers from Embankment Gardens stole on the air, as Cleopatra’s Needle gave a severe geometrical finger to the darkness.
“So,” Will said, since someone had to begin. “Did he do it or what?”
“If he didn’t, he needs to sue himself for slander. What a fool. What a fucking fool. How am I related to such a fucking fool?”
“I was going to ask. And where did he get his manners?”
“Privilege,” Kim said succinctly. “We were talking about the deforming weight of inheritance earlier, weren’t we? If Chingford had been plain Freddie Secretan, let alone Fred Smith, he’d have had the bluster kicked out of him by now.”
“He’s going to get that kicking pretty soon.”
“Yes, this one is beyond even my father’s powers. Or it will be when Chingford has finished tying the noose for his own neck. Dear God.”
“And he’s not going to make a good impression on a jury,” Will said, understating matters considerably. “Or will he be tried as a peer?”
“He will not. It’s a courtesy title, so he’ll face a jury of twelve ordinary people, and all the prosecution will have to do is put him on the stand and let him talk.”
“I’m sure your old man can get a good lawyer.”
“Nobody’s that good,” Kim said flatly. “He has a history—got arrested for assault a few years ago, though Father saw to it the charges were dropped. He had a recent public quarrel with Fairfax. And the order to apologise or be forced out of the Club would have sent him into a frenzy. I think he went into the billiard room, saw Fairfax in a vulnerable position, and let his temper rule his actions.”
“That’s not temper,” Will said. “Temper is when you get into a shouting match and whack the other fellow one. Picking up an ice pick, sneaking up on a man who’s concentrating on the billiard table, holding his head down—that’s not temper.”
Kim exhaled. “No. No, it’s premeditated murder, isn’
t it?”
“Sorry.” Will needed to ask the question nagging at him, even if it wasn’t the most pressing right now. “Is your brother always like that?”
“To other people? Yes. Or if you mean, does he despise me and make sure the world knows it, also yes.”
“Because of what happened with your younger brother?”
“Oh, long before that. He’s loathed me since birth, I think.” Kim gave a mirthless smile. “And I’ve loathed him ever since I was old enough to hate. Many people would say we deserve each other. Jesus wept, a second homicidal Secretan within a few months: Father will go mad. So will the Press.”
Will hadn’t thought of the Press. He should have done. The fuss around Cheveley’s death had been pretty awful: he’d had reporters in his shop and his face in the papers, albeit in small blurred images that were mere afterthoughts to the far worse pieces on Kim. And that had merely been an inquest, with no official fault attached. This was a murder, so the papers would drag it all up: Kim’s Bolshevik past, his martyred younger brother, and if they got wind of Kim’s private life—
“Hell.”
“Quite so. And that isn’t the worst of it, not by a long chalk. He killed Fairfax and he’ll hang for it, and I will be fucked. Christ!” Kim jammed his hands in his pockets with the sort of jerky movement that suggested he wanted to punch a wall, or kick furniture. Will had always considered himself the furniture-kicker of the two of them.
“Why?” he asked. “What’s worse than the papers?”
“For God’s sake, Will. You do realise what will happen when Chingford swings?”
“No.”
“He will no longer be my father’s eldest son, that’s what.”
“So?” Will said before it dawned. “You’re the next in line. You’ll be the new Chingford?”
“I doubt that, since the title is in my father’s gift. But I will certainly be the next Marquess of Flitby in due course, and there is nothing anyone can do to stop that. The title, the entailed property, and all that comes with it. The great machine of heredity will grind on, and grind me with it.”
Will felt a whole-body wave of refusal. It was bad enough Kim being Lord Arthur Secretan: he couldn’t become a marquess. It would be impossible. He’d vanish into a world of stately homes and impossible wealth, somewhere Will couldn’t hide and would never belong. They’d never belonged together in the first place. Everything between them had been built piece by piece over a chasm, and that bridge had proved fragile enough in the past without having to bear the crushing weight of Kim’s heritage.
They wouldn’t survive this. He’d lose him.
“Oh shit,” he said.
“This is a nightmare. My father hasn’t let me set foot in the house in years. I can’t recall when we last spoke. If he’s forced to accept me as his heir, he’ll never forgive me.”
“He can’t blame you for this.”
“Would you care to put money on that? I’ll get to be marquess when my older brother dies, just as I got to live when my younger brother died, and there is so very much in it for me that he’ll never believe I don’t want it. It doesn’t matter that I don’t want it, because I will have it anyway at Chingford’s expense, and that is all he or anyone else will see.”
“Hell’s teeth,” Will said. “What do we do?”
“Pray that Fairfax stabbed himself in the ear and was lying on a suicide note. Oh, that fucking fool. Would you care to flee to the South of France at all? I know we discussed it a while ago, but it seems even more appealing now.”
“Sounds good. In the meantime, shall we get incredibly drunk?”
“Let’s.”
They went back to Gerrard Mansions, where the telephone was ringing as they came in. Kim walked over, and jerked out the wire from the wall. Will didn’t comment.
Their abandoned dinner had been cleared away but Peacock had left a plate of sandwiches and a bottle of wine with two glasses. Kim filled both, and knocked back half of his in a gulp. Will ate the sandwiches while Kim worked his way to the bottom of the next glass, and then he got up and pulled Kim from his chair and kissed him, tasting red wine on his lips and tongue, until Kim’s rigid tension abruptly relaxed and he wrapped his lean limbs round Will’s sturdier frame.
Will tugged him through to the bedroom. Kim didn’t talk, which wasn’t usual, but sometimes there was nothing to say. Will took that cue and put his mouth to better use, licking and sucking Kim to hardness. He’d intended to bring him off that way, but Kim caught his hair and tugged, bringing him back up so they could kiss, and they ended up as they often did, Will fucking between Kim’s lean thighs, feeling the friction of Kim’s cock against his belly, bodies close enough to leave no room for thought. He didn’t shift off once they’d both done, just heaved his weight a bit sideways to make sure Kim could breathe, and they lay there in silence, heads together, arms and legs tangled, not letting go.
WILL WAS FIRST AWAKE the next morning. Kim was still fast asleep, which generally meant he’d had a bad night, so Will eased himself out of bed very carefully indeed, and helped himself to a dressing gown. He padded out through the flat barefoot, intent on tea, walked into the kitchen, and realised too late that Peacock was sitting at the kitchen table.
“Good morning, Mr. Darling,” Peacock said, unruffled as ever. “I hope you slept well.”
“Morning, Mr. Peacock.” Will had bumped into the manservant a couple of times in the early hours, but he’d always been fully dressed before. He felt exceedingly conscious of his bare legs. “Uh—”
“Would you care for tea?”
“Not to put you to any trouble.”
“Not at all. Is Lord Arthur awake?”
Will shook his head. Peacock lit the gas under the kettle. “I ask because there are several telegrams and a number of telephone messages, and the early newspapers are out.”
“Ugh. What are they saying?”
“No arrests so far but the mood is strongly against Lord Chingford.”
“Anything about Lord Arthur?”
“Not yet.”
Will considered his position. He was the master’s guest, but the kitchen was Peacock’s domain. He compromised by leaning against the doorframe, neither out nor in. “What do you reckon to all this, Mr. Peacock?”
Peacock gave him an assessing look, then went to spoon tea into the pot with a lavish hand. “Lord Chingford is a very difficult gentleman by all accounts. Exceedingly plain-spoken, not to say rude, and with a high opinion of himself. Not popular.”
“Nor’s Lord Arthur.”
“Lord Arthur is often the object of censure,” Peacock granted. “But his manners and his intelligence are beyond dispute.”
“How long have you been with him?” Will asked curiously.
“Five years. I believe his previous gentleman’s gentleman took exception to his political views.”
“Don’t we all. Or do you not?”
“Not my affair.” The kettle whistled; Peacock filled the teapot. “Service to Lord Arthur suits me very well. I mind my own business and he minds his.”
That was clear enough. Will nodded assent. Peacock placed the teapot precisely on the table, then brought out two mugs, and put them both down. It was an invitation, so Will pulled out a chair and sat.
There was a Sporting Life on the table, folded to the greyhound racing. “You follow the dogs?”
“I have the occasional flutter,” Peacock admitted.
They talked about that, and about the respective fortunes of Northampton Town and Crystal Palace, whose ascent to the Second Division a couple of years back was a source of some smugness to Peacock. Sport did very nicely to fill the air while they took one another’s measure, and by the time they were on the second mug, Will felt he had an ally here.
So did Peacock, it seemed, because he leaned back in his chair and said, “Will Lord Arthur be looking into the case?”
“I don’t know if there’s much to look into. It seemed pretty open and sh
ut.”
Peacock nodded slowly. “That’ll have repercussions. Re-per-cussions. Very unfortunate.”
“Some people might think it would be good for Lord Arthur,” Will said. “Promotion to the First Division, as you might say.”
“Some people don’t know any better. It’s no good for him, no good for me, and I shouldn’t think any good for you, Mr. Darling.”
That was frank. “Right,” Will said. “And what are we to do about it?”
They exchanged a long look, then Peacock’s head turned. “That’s Lord Arthur up. If you’ll excuse me?”
Will took his mug and cleared out. Kim came into the sitting room a couple of moments later, resplendent in his purple dressing gown, rubbing his face. “Good morning. I feared you’d left.”
Will jerked a thumb at the kitchen. “You’ve telegrams, apparently.”
“I’d be amazed if I didn’t.”
Peacock entered a few minutes later with a teapot and fine china on a tray—proper teacups on saucers now the master was up, and a sugar basin, which he always brought out even though neither of them took sugar—plus a stack of newspapers topped with a pile of buff envelopes. “Shall I prepare breakfast, Lord Arthur?” he enquired.
“A heaping bowl of arsenic would be very welcome.”
“And would you wish me to reconnect the telephone?”
“God, no.”
“Certainly, my lord,” Peacock said with profound disapproval, and left them to it.
Will poured Kim’s cup of tea before the brew could taste of anything, just how he liked it, while Kim took the heap of telegrams. “Christmas come early. One doesn’t know which delightful gift to open first. Let’s see. Journalist. Journalist. Harry Mitra would like me to answer my telephone. My father’s lawyer wishes me to contact him at my earliest convenience. Journalist. God.”
