by KJ Charles
That sent a pulse of alarmed excitement shuddering right through Will’s nerves. “Really?”
“God, yes.” Kim’s fingernails slid over his skin. “I would love to see you give it up. Watch you come apart.”
“You send me out of my mind,” Will whispered. “You know that, right?”
“I lost mine to you a long time ago.” He brushed a thumb over Will’s cheek, unbearably tender. “On which—” He stopped.
“What?”
“Nothing. Nothing. Are you hungry, at all? Peacock’s left food in the kitchen. It’s Quiller’s evening off and he’s taking him out for a drink, so the flat’s our own.”
Chapter Ten
There was noise in Will’s consciousness. A raised voice in the distance, giving orders. Senior officer, he vaguely thought, except he was in an actual bed, not a camp bed or a pile of sacks. He was in Kim’s bed, in fact, with the morning light filtering through the curtains and Kim breathing softly next to him, and there weren’t any officers here. Must be someone shouting in the corridor outside the flat. Except they must be pretty loud because it sounded close—
There was someone in the flat.
The realisation hit him just as the bedroom door opened. Will sat bolt upright, Kim gave a spasmodic jerk, and Peacock shut the door and leaned against it. “Lord Arthur!”
“What the hell,” Kim said thickly.
“I couldn’t stop him.” The normally imperturbable manservant spoke urgently, with none of his usual gloomy calm. “He’s in the sitting room, he wants you at once—”
“Who?”
“Lord Flitby!” Peacock said, as a voice from right outside bellowed, “Arthur!”
Will dived over the side in a frantic scramble of limbs, kicking his feet free of the sheets as he went, and rolled under the bed. Kim said, “Let him in,” and the door slammed open.
“Arthur, damn you!”
“I am in bed, sir.” Kim sounded cold, and as perfectly collected as if he didn’t have a bare naked lover hiding right under him.
Not to mention Will’s jacket, shirt, and trousers all thrown over the back of the bedroom chair, in full view. Sodding marvellous. He crossed his fingers the Marquess wouldn’t know what Kim normally wore, and concentrated on not coughing, sneezing, or breathing too loud.
“It is past nine o’clock.” The Marquess’s voice was as full of contempt as if it were three in the afternoon. “Have you nothing better to do at this time than loll around?”
“Forgive me for not anticipating your arrival. I wasn’t aware you knew my address.”
“Your telephone is disconnected. I might have thought you would have sufficient family feeling to make yourself available.”
“My regrets. What do you want, sir?”
“You spoke of acting on your brother’s behalf. What have you achieved?”
“A good question,” Kim said. The springs above Will shifted and Kim’s bare feet hit the floor. “I have confirmation that the man Fairfax was a blackmailer and a criminal.”
“What good do you call that?”
A rustle of silk suggested Kim was putting on a gown. “That very much depends what more I find out. At the least, he had other victims—”
“Other than whom? What are you implying?”
“Other than Chingford, sir,” Kim said patiently.
“Chingford was not being blackmailed.”
A flat statement that invited no discussion. Will blinked at the underside of the bed. Kim spoke carefully. “Sir, he refuses to admit what they argued about, and Fairfax had blackmailed another man in the Club the previous day. The conclusion is obvious. The jury will certainly draw it.”
“Then those matters must not be presented to the jury.”
Will’s lips soundlessly shaped You what? Kim said, “Unfortunately, the prosecution will present whatever evidence it pleases. Our best chance—”
“Your brother’s life cannot be left to chance. This so-called strategy of allowing twelve common men to decide his fate—”
“It’s the law of the land.”
“Don’t interrupt! It is unacceptable for Chingford to stand trial in these circumstances. I cannot countenance it.”
“Your countenance will not be sought, sir. The only way to avoid Chingford facing trial is to make the case that someone else killed Fairfax.”
“Can you do that?” the Marquess demanded.
Kim exhaled. “I don’t know, sir. It rather depends on whether he did it.”
“He has given me his word he did not. That will suffice.”
“For you, absolutely. However, the Director of Public Prosecutions—”
“He did not do it!” the Marquess shouted.
“Excellent.” Kim’s voice had the tight edge to it that suggested fraying nerves. “Then he can face his trial and be triumphantly acquitted.”
“No! Appearances are against him. The jury will draw the wrong conclusions. You said so yourself.”
“They will draw conclusions from the evidence they’re shown,” Kim said. “Sir, as Stratton told you yesterday, Chingford needs to start cooperating. If he didn’t do it—”
“He did not!”
“—then we will be in a better position to find the actual culprit. If—and I beg you will take this as a hypothetical—if he did, he will need to be frank with the police and the court if we are to have a chance of reducing this to manslaughter. Any jury will sympathise with the victim of a blackmailer.”
“He did not do it, he will not confess, and he will not stand trial,” the Marquess said, no contradiction brooked. “His private affairs are not public property.”
“If he goes in with that attitude, he will be convicted of murder before the judge has got his coat off.”
There was a thump, fist against furniture. “How dare you be so flippant! The police are clearly biased. They have placed the worst possible interpretation on matters. They are seeking proof of Chingford’s guilt, not confirmation of his innocence.”
“If the investigation is not full and fair, Chingford’s barrister will make hay with it in court.”
“He cannot appear in court!”
“Why not?”
“Because of you!” the Marquess shouted. “You killed John Cheveley and now Chingford is tainted as a murderer too! Your past, your disgraceful dereliction of duty, your perverse disregard for our name has stained us all. Of course everyone assumes the worst of him. How can he be treated fairly in these circumstances?”
Will wished he wasn’t hearing this. Why the hell was the man dressing Kim down in his own bedroom? It was grossly disrespectful to his adult son—and that would be why, of course. Will’s muscles were twanging tight, and not just because he was stuck in this damned uncomfortable position.
“My apologies, sir,” Kim said, voice level. “What is it you want me to do about it?”
The Marquess’s voice dropped back to a more reasonable volume. “You are on familiar terms with the policeman, the detective inspector. Renford.”
“Rennick.”
“Speak to him. Tell him that Chingford could not have done this thing.”
“I don’t think ‘my brother says he didn’t do it’ will count for much.”
“Then make it count! Do whatever needs doing, and get this dealt with!”
A long pause. “I hope I don’t take your meaning, sir.”
“Don’t be childish. You claimed to have influence: use it. Make an arrangement. I did it for you.”
“Rennick is an honest man,” Kim said. “And I doubt what you ask would be in his power anyway.”
“Then in whose power is it?”
Will was pretty sure he knew the answer to that. The Private Bureau covered things up all the time: it was, as he understood it, their job, for good or ill. Could they influence this, though? Could Kim make them?
Would he try?
He took a lot too long to reply. “Sir, this is not a matter of influence. It’s murder. Any attempt to evad
e the process of law will be seen as perverting the course of justice, and make things very much worse.”
“It is not justice to prosecute an innocent man!”
“Everyone is innocent until the jury finds them guilty,” Kim said. “That’s how justice works.”
“Are you enjoying this?” Flitby asked, with a tremor in his voice, which might have been barely controlled rage, or something else. “Does it give you pleasure to see our name soiled? Are you grasping for your brother’s place? His inheritance?”
“No, sir. I really am not.”
“If Chingford is taken from me—another son, and I am left with you—to lose Harry and Chingford and to have you—I could have had Harry! If you had gone to the war, I should still have had Harry! You owe me this!”
Will squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists. He could hear Flitby’s harsh breaths.
“I will do what I can,” Kim said at last. “But I repeat, Chingford must cooperate.”
“No, you must,” Flitby snarled. “Make yourself useful to me, for once in your life. Do something for your brother, because if you think you can sit back and get your hands on his inheritance, I will make you regret it till the day you die!”
“I have no doubt of that. I understand your wishes, sir. Peacock will show you out.”
Will lay unmoving, as the old man left in silence. He waited until the front door had opened and shut, and only then did he inch his way out from under the bed.
Kim was rigid and white-faced. Will straightened, brushed the carpet fluff off, and said, “Was it always like that?”
“Mostly.”
Will thought of Kim’s forearms, the thin faded lines of self-inflicted scars. “We could still go to the South of France. You’re paying, mind.”
Kim didn’t even attempt a smile. Will reached for his drawers, and started to dress. “Tell you what, Peacock keeps it clean under your bed. If it had been mine, I’d be sneezing for weeks.”
“Don’t,” Kim said. “Don’t joke this off. It isn’t funny.”
“No, it’s not. I expect it was bloody humiliating.”
“What do you think? To have him speak to me like that, knowing you could hear—”
“I was thinking of the part where a peer of the realm suggested bribing a policeman. What an embarrassment. Is that normal?”
“He’d normally do it himself. Though it wouldn’t be bribing a policeman, it would be a friendly chat with the Chief Constable and nothing spelled out. Christ, he must be desperate. I assume he’s sure Chingford did it.”
“Sounded that way.” Will pulled his shirt on. “Can’t risk the trial because the verdict’s a foregone conclusion, and trying to make that your fault.”
“Which makes me suspect he knows what the row was about,” Kim said grimly. “If the blackmail’s a red herring and the truth is worse— He’ll swing, won’t he? God.”
Will stepped close, and put both hands on Kim’s upper arms, feeling the tension twang through him. “Listen. Fairfax was Zodiac. You’ve got his papers. Your father doesn’t know everything. We aren’t giving up on this till you’ve found out exactly what happened, all right?”
“And what if I confirm he did it, as even my father clearly thinks? It scarcely matters what Fairfax was, if Chingford wielded the ice pick!”
Will couldn’t argue with that. He folded his arms round Kim’s rigid body instead. “I know. But there’s a chance he didn’t, so let’s not give up on that.”
“I can’t live on hope,” Kim said. “And if I could, the supply is finite and dwindling rapidly. What if Phoebe had the right idea and Chingford was involved in Zodiac?”
That was about the only way this could get worse and Will didn’t want to think about it. “Stop what-iffing. Get some breakfast.”
He tugged Kim through. Peacock had the table laid and was hovering apologetically. “I do beg your pardon, Lord Arthur. Lord Flitby insisted—”
“He’s bullied more powerful men than you,” Kim said. “But there’s a chain on the door, so for God’s sake use it next time: you have my permission to slam it in his face. Did you have any joy with Quiller?”
“Not as such,” Peacock said. “He said that Mr. Fairfax occasionally advised Club members on shares, in an informal way, and thought that he might have spoken to Lord Waring and Mr. Cheveley among many others, but was not aware of any particular relationships of any of those gentlemen. He was much more interested in using our meeting as an opportunity to ask about your lordship.”
“Was he, indeed? In what way?”
“He was keen to asked about your recent activities, whether you doubted Lord Chingford’s guilt, and what you and Mr. Darling had intended to do before the Incident with Sir Alan Cheveley.” The capital letter was audible, as was the disapproval. “He claimed he knew nothing of his lordship’s activities on the fatal night or earlier, and made a point of saying that he was with the Secretary for a good half hour before the body was discovered.”
“He’s seventy,” Kim said. “Does he need an alibi?”
“I would not have thought so, Lord Arthur, but he seemed very keen to provide one, all the same.”
“Hmph. What was your feeling on him? Frankly.”
“Well, Lord Arthur, if you will excuse the plain speaking, I thought him a tight-lipped, prissy little twerp with something weighing on his mind.”
Kim nodded. “Noted. Thank you very much.”
Peacock bowed and withdrew. Will said, “All right, how do I get a henchman? I want one.”
That won a smile, at last. “You can’t have mine.”
“Can I help?”
“At the moment, I don’t know. I’ll go through Fairfax’s papers in search of clues to any enemies, or Leo’s identity.” He sighed. “And I’m going to have to call Harry and grovel.”
“It was my fault. Do you want me to apologise?”
“Stay well away from the entire place, please. I don’t think you and the Symposium mix. I will telephone if I need you.”
That sounded like a busy man’s dismissal. Fair enough, Will supposed: he wasn’t sure what he could do either. He just wished to God there was something. Even if Kim just wanted him sitting quietly in the corner to talk at.
He also wished Kim had mentioned the Private Bureau, if only to say he didn’t have a chance of using their influence. Or that he wouldn’t if he could. Especially that, maybe.
Not a subject he wanted to raise now. “I’m here if there’s anything I can do.”
Kim gave him a quick smile. “Thank you.”
The day dragged after that. Will called the Savoy and asked for Mademoiselle Zie, but the girls had gone out. He sat down with a bit of paper and tried to come up with brilliant insights into who else might have killed Fairfax, but got nowhere.
There was the billiard room, and nobody had been in it except Fairfax. The reading room next to it, and nobody had been in there except Chingford having his supposed nap. Knowle and Quiller had been together in the office around the corner; Harry Mitra had come up to the billiard room with a friend and left him there just before Chingford came out. Apart from that, according to the statements Inspector Rennick had shared with Kim, nobody admitted being in the area in the period between Fairfax’s last sighting and the body being found.
Which didn’t mean they hadn’t been there. Theoretically, a fair number of people on the Symposium premises at the time could have nipped up and done Fairfax in—if they’d known he was alone in the room, of course, and if they’d been confident of slipping away unseen.
Will had no brilliant insights on any of it. He pushed the paper away, feeling useless. He hated this, and the part he really hated was that Kim’s fears were spot on. Flitby clearly thought Chingford had done it, and that was a very bad sign. If the silly sod hanged, if Kim found himself the new heir, what then? They’d have to find some sort of way forward, but Will couldn’t imagine one that involved Kim taking up his responsibilities to his family. He’d had hear
d him with his father, and he didn’t think Kim could take that relentless battering forever. Something would break.
They had to get out of this. Will wished he knew how.
Chapter Eleven
Kim called that evening. All he said was, “Can you come?” but it was enough to bring Will in a hurry.
He was waiting when Will turned up, around seven. No cocktails, for once, but he poured Will a glass of cold, crisp white wine, welcome given the June heat in which Will had walked most of the way because he couldn’t get a tram and he was too jumpy to stand and wait.
“So what’s up?”
Kim turned the glass in his fingers. “I spoke to Harry. He very reasonably told me to go to the devil: he can’t possibly let me in again. He also said he hadn’t noticed Waring or Cheveley being particularly chummy with Fairfax, or Fairfax with anyone else. That may just tell us they were careful: the Symposium is full of rooms where one can have private conversations unobserved. But it doesn’t help.”
“No.”
“And I spoke to Rennick.”
“Not—” Will said, before he could stop himself.
“Of course not, it wouldn’t work,” Kim said, apparently not insulted by the idea that he might seek to bribe the police. “I asked him if he was coming under any pressure from his superiors, in any direction. He said no, though he has received heavy hints of willingness on the Symposium side to support a M’Naghten plea if Chingford were to make one.”
“But you don’t think that will fly.”
“No, it’s hopeless. Rennick also let me look at the statements taken from the Club, for those without witnesses to their whereabouts.”
“Any use?”
Kim swallowed a deliberate gulp of wine. “If it is, I couldn’t see it. There’s twenty-odd men who were on their own for five minutes or more at the relevant time. Some of them are decrepit, several others barely muster half a brain between the lot of them. There’s perhaps nine possibles, but none have motives for killing Fairfax that have been discovered, except for your friend Yoxall, who would be a marvellous culprit if he hadn’t voluntarily brought his complaints to the Club and the police. I asked Rennick if they should not all be investigated for hidden sins and he very kindly didn’t laugh in my face as he reminded me Chingford had means, motive, opportunity, and his prints on the murder weapon.”
