by KJ Charles
So could Will. “Christ.”
“It was somewhat trying,” Kim agreed. “And it also left him out of options for Henry. So many of his peers had lost sons and heirs by then, and he had his elder two safe and sound. He couldn’t find a way around it, so Henry had to go. Which he did without protest. He had been brought up to do his duty, and he did, and he was dead a week after he set foot on the Continent.”
“Just like a few million other men who didn’t have anyone to get them out of the war. And it’s your fault because your father pulled strings you didn’t ask him to, but it’s not Chingford’s fault for taking a cushty office job?”
“It’s never Chingford’s fault.”
Will snorted. “War Department. Doing what?”
“Supplies,” Kim said. “Procurement of goods, I believe—what?”
Will had sat up. “Supplies? They put him in Supplies?”
“Well, someone found him a sinecure on my father’s behalf, but yes. Why?”
“I thought they’d put him somewhere harmless!”
“I believe he was rubber-stamping assurances of quality on shipments.”
“Do you have any idea how often Supplies bollocksed up?” Will demanded. “Crates of left-footed boots with no rights, and gloves that came apart when you put them on. Cans of spoiled meat. We’d run out of tea half the time and I dare say that sounds funny till you’re sat in a trench freezing your arse off in soaking wet socks because your boots leak, and you can’t even have a decent hot drink. God, we used to curse the bastards. And if any of that was down to people like Chingford—some brainless, clueless arsehole put in the chair by Daddy so he didn’t have to take his chances with the rest of us—Jesus Christ. What was he doing all day? A few drinks at lunchtime, sign whatever got put in front of him, and go home at three?”
“Probably.”
“Your father’s a son of a bitch,” Will said. “And so’s everyone who put your brother and people like him in responsible positions. Did it not matter at all that there were people at the Front who needed those jobs done properly while we fought the war he was too important to go to?”
“No,” Kim said. “No, it didn’t matter. Chingford is my father’s heir, and he counts for more than other people.”
“Jesus. He couldn’t fight, you couldn’t go to gaol, and your father’s whining because one of his sons had to get off his arse?”
Kim was sitting up now with his arms wrapped round his knees. “I told you, Will. Rotten to the core. There’s a reason I turned Red.”
“You weren’t wrong. And I don’t ever want to hear that Henry dying was your fault again. Your father’s a piece of shit, and he owed the war a son.”
Kim didn’t react in any of the ways he might have. He just sat in silence, until Will got a grip on himself and said, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Not out loud, perhaps. It doesn’t matter. Henry’s beyond harm.”
“You’re not.”
Kim sighed. “You’ve every right to be angry with my father. It’s corruption, nothing more.”
Will flopped back onto the bracken again. “How come you aren’t an arsehole like the rest of them?”
Kim resumed his position with his head on Will’s stomach. “I am: you tell me so often enough. And to the extent I’m not, I dare say it’s because I didn’t get a fair share of the privilege showered on my brother.”
“Or because you can tell right from wrong. Can we talk about beating the shit out of Chingford again?”
“Don’t tempt me,” Kim said, and they lay together in silence.
THEY RETURNED TO THE house for lunch. There was no sign of Lord Chingford or the Marquess, which was nice.
The newspapers had arrived: The Times and the Telegraph. Kim scooped them up along with a Daily Mail that he got off the butler, and they retired to another drawing room, this one mostly green and gold. Will couldn’t wait to find out what they called it. There they read the papers with, in Will’s case at least, a distinct sense of unreality. Yesterday he’d been a wanted man fleeing from the law; today he was a wanted man having coffee in a stately home.
“We’ve got ‘brutal murder of key witness’ in The Times, and ‘suspect fled’ with a description but still no name,” Kim announced. “Well built man, fair hair, plainly dressed. How delightfully unspecific. I wonder if that’s Merton helping. I wonder if DS knows.”
“That’s what the Telegraph has too, only they ‘understand that the Metropolitan Police are pursuing several avenues that will lead to the apprehension of the murderer’. What does that mean?”
“At a guess, that the Met don’t want to admit they lost you. I wish to God I could call Rennick without having to answer awkward questions.”
“Oh, bloody hell,” Will said. “Look. The Mail has a picture of the Messer.”
Kim leaned over to have a look. There was a photograph of the ‘distinctive murder weapon’ with a ‘do you recognise this knife?’ headline which Will found unpleasantly intrusive. At least it wasn’t a photograph of himself. He did a quick mental riffle through people who might recognise it, and came up with an obvious answer. “Hell’s teeth. Have you told the girls what’s happening?”
“Damn. No. I can telephone Phoebe at the Savoy.”
“If you would.” Will didn’t want to consider the girls seeing his face in the newspapers as a murderer. Maisie wouldn’t believe any such thing of him, he had no fear of that, but she’d want to be told what was going on, more so if she found the shop shut and empty. “Does that mean a flunky bringing in a telephone on a salver?”
“I was planning to go to the butler’s pantry and use his, for privacy, but if you prefer—”
Will indicated that he wouldn’t prefer, so Kim went off, leaving him alone. He read to the end of the paper without taking much in, checked the cricket scores, stared out of the window a bit, and then took a turn round the room, out of a vague sense that he ought to try and appreciate the place. He had nothing to say to porcelain vases; the furniture was good work in the old style but not particularly interesting, being mostly straight lines on spindly legs. There was a very nice walnut-wood cabinet though, beautifully carved, which repaid attention as a stunning bit of joinery and art combined. He ran a hand over the smooth grain of the wood, wondering how much it had cost, who’d bought it, how often anyone actually looked at it.
“Seeing what you can steal?”
Will didn’t move for a second. Then he straightened and turned to Chingford, scowling in the doorway. “Just admiring the furniture.”
Chingford’s lip curled. “I suppose we can all guess what that skulking little wretch brought you for. Pocket the teaspoons and I’ll kick you out myself.”
He was absolutely not going to react to this, Will told himself. “We’re here because you’ve been charged with murder. Your brother’s trying to help you, since you won’t help yourself.”
Chingford swelled like an inflating balloon. “You insolent lackey. You? That? Help me?”
“Kim’s your best chance of avoiding the gallows right now. He’s about the only person in England who doesn’t want you to hang. And to be honest, that’s touch and go,” Will couldn’t help but add.
Lord Chingford’s face went bright red. It was almost impressive, the instant switch to rage: his eyes bulged, and his fists were up and clenched. He took a menacing step towards Will, who forced himself against every instinct to take one away. “I’m not here to fight you, Lord Chingford. I don’t want a fight. But if you lay a hand on me, I’ll break every finger you’ve got.”
“Mother of God,” Kim said from the corridor. “Do not brawl in there, the furniture’s early Sheraton.”
Chingford turned on him. Will saw his arm go up, fist clenching, and he took two strides, but Kim had already skipped back, dancing out of the way. Chingford snarled an obscenity, but clearly decided pursuit was beneath his dignity. He swung round, narrowly missing Will with his shoulder, and stormed off. Will wa
tched him go, feeling his blood thump.
“Need I ask?” Kim said.
“He told me not to pinch the spoons. And a lot else.”
“Mmm. How about a very long walk? Another one?”
They went off in the other direction this time, across the lawns. After five minutes in the sun, Will was able to let out his breath. “Damn. Sorry. I said I’d keep my temper.”
“You didn’t do badly. I don’t expect you to grovel, and it wouldn’t help if you did: he sees weakness as an invitation to abuse. Actually, Phoebe asked me how I could do this to you, and says if we don’t leave at once she’ll come and get us.”
“Doesn’t get on with your family, then?”
“She’s met Chingford a couple of times and loathes him as far as she can loathe anyone. I don’t honestly know what would happen if she and my father were in a room together. The irresistible force and the immovable object.”
“My money’s on her.”
“Perhaps,” Kim said. “They’re off to visit Florrie Jacobs to check she’s all right, by the way. And she says Maisie hasn’t seen the papers but she’ll give her all assurances.”
“Good. Thanks. Here, did you know—”
“Of course I did. Phoebe was pining for months.”
“You could have told me. And she’s going to come and rescue us?”
“I wish she would,” Kim said, and they walked on.
Chapter Seventeen
Lord Flitby returned around five that evening, in a hell of a mood.
Will and Kim were in the gold and green drawing room again, which was apparently called the Sheraton Room. Will hadn’t got any fonder of the furniture for knowing its provenance. He heard the shouting from down the hall, mostly Lord Chingford’s bellowing outrage, and before long a footman appeared. “His lordship requests your presence in the Blue Drawing-Room, Lord Arthur.”
“I bet that’s not how he put it,” Kim said. “Right, time for the big event. Shall we go?”
“He didn’t request Mr. Willerton, Lord Arthur,” the footman said. His face was impassive but his eyes were alarmed. “That is, he specifically said just you.”
“I’ll tell him you passed that on,” Kim said. “And we’ll conduct ourselves there.”
“Thank you, Lord Arthur,” the man muttered, and disappeared.
Will got up and squared his shoulders. “Here we go. You ready for this?”
“Oddly, yes,” Kim said. “I am. This conversation will be the nadir of my relationship with my family: things literally cannot get any worse than they’re about to. That’s rather liberating, in its way.”
He set off down the endless corridors. Will followed, reflecting not for the first time that they might as well be different species.
The raised voices were audible through the door. Kim gave a perfunctory knock and went in. “Sir.”
Lord Chingford was standing by the window, bright red in the face, arms folded. Lord Flitby swung around to glare at Will. “I gave instructions—”
“I received and ignored them.”
The Marquess swelled. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, I ignored them. Shall we get to the point?”
Will had seen Kim like this before, speaking with a breathtaking fuck-you coldness. It was impressive in an unnerving sort of way, and it seemed to stun his old man into temporary silence. Will moved to the side of the room, leaned against the wall with his arms folded, and watched with interest.
Kim had gone on while his father was speechless. “There is a rope around Chingford’s neck. It may yet be a noose—”
“My son is not guilty!”
“And this is none of your bloody business!” Chingford snarled. “Keep your sneaking nose out of my affairs!”
Kim gave him a frozen look. “The sooner we have this conversation, the sooner I can leave. As I was saying: The rope around Chingford’s neck may be a noose. It may also be a snare.”
That at least got the Marquess listening. He levelled an unloving glare at his younger son. “Your meaning?”
“It is possible Chingford is the pawn in a bigger game. That he has been made to look guilty—”
“Of course I bloody have, you damn fool!”
“Quiet!” The old man’s voice was a whipcrack.
“That he has been made to look guilty, or at least guiltier than he is,” Kim repeated. “There is something else going on here. If I can unpick it, we may stand a chance.”
Lord Flitby took that in. “I want to know your intentions, Arthur.”
“I hope to find some means to get Chingford off the gallows. Which—”
Chingford’s bull-like snort interrupted him. “You? You want nothing more than to take my place, you creeping little shit!”
“I do not,” Kim said. “If you can do us all the courtesy of not being hanged for murder, I will be delighted never to darken these doors again. For that happy outcome, you need to start telling the truth. What did you argue with Fairfax about?”
“I said, it’s none of your bloody business. Are you deaf?”
“You are the chief suspect; your fingerprints are on the murder weapon; you had a violent row with the victim. You might as well paint ‘guilty’ in red on your forehead as refuse to talk.”
“I’ve a right to remain silent!”
“And the jury has a right to draw its conclusions from that silence, and they will hang you for it. Will you both listen to me? This is all a great deal more tangled than you know, and there are other elements at play. I may be able to do something with that, but not if I don’t know what actually happened.”
“What are you blethering about?” Chingford snapped.
Lord Flitby raised a thin hand for silence. “Stratton made certain assertions to me about your recent activities, Arthur. Professional activities. What truth was in that?”
Kim gave it a long moment before he replied. “I have spent several years working for a particular organisation in Whitehall. One that carries out confidential investigations on behalf of the powers that be.”
“You?”
“Me. And as such, I have obtained certain information that may affect—”
“You—chose to work—” Flitby’s hand closed into a fist. “You would not enlist. You would not fight. You would have been thrown into prison had I not intervened. I lost Henry because of that, because of you, and now you tell me you serve your country? Now you are ready to do your duty to this family, over Henry’s corpse?”
The words rang in the air. Kim said, white-lipped, “If you listen to me now, I may be able to help Chingford.”
“You didn’t help Henry,” Lord Flitby said. “You damned him, when you would not fight, or work, or even make a decent excuse for yourself—”
“I wouldn’t start that if I were you,” Will said. “I really wouldn’t.”
Flitby turned on him with cold fury. “Be silent. Your opinion is not required.”
Will shoved himself off the wall. “No, you don’t care about the enlisted men, do you? Didn’t care what might happen when you put your heir into a Supplies post he wasn’t fit to hold. Didn’t care if men at the Front suffered or died because of what he did in that safe backroom job you got him. If you want to throw around accusations, or talk about dead soldiers—”
That was the point he realised Chingford’s jaw had dropped, and Flitby was staring at him, the colour visibly draining from his face. They both looked shocked. No, more than that: they looked afraid.
“If you want to talk about dead soldiers,” he said again, slowly, and glanced at Kim for help.
Kim was standing poised, face very still. Blank, even, in the way it went blank when his mind was working. Flitby had his lips pressed together, for control. “What do you mean?”
Will had no idea what he was supposed to have meant, so he folded his arms again and gave the Marquess a menacing look. Flitby’s gaze went to his younger son. “What do you know? What does he know?”
Kim’s stilln
ess abruptly relaxed, and he took a pace forward. The effect was rather like a snake uncoiling to strike. “Ah. Well, sir. You understand that I can’t disclose Will’s position, or even the organisation in which he operates, and it would be highly indiscreet for me to tell you with what rank he left the military. Suffice to say his work during the war was what one might call cloak and dagger. I suggest you assume he knows everything, and has the power to act on it.”
Will had left the Army like he’d joined it, as a private, and ‘cloak and dagger’ was accurate if you meant ‘stabbing people in the dark’. Kim was a bloody twisting slippery weasel liar, and Will had to hold back a savage grin of pride.
“And you came here to—what, to entrap your older brother?” Flitby said. “The future head of this family?”
“The very opposite,” Kim said. “I’m doing exactly what I said: trying to save his neck. But that depends on you admitting the truth, without bluster or denial. Those won’t work any more.” He held his father’s gaze for a long moment. “We were talking about Chingford’s career in the War Department.”
“That is my affair!” Chingford pushed himself to his feet. “I will not be picked at—”
“Quiet,” Flitby said. “And?”
