| I would think you’d be grateful that you had suddenly become the heir.” “You’d think that, wouldn’t you, if you didn’t know. I’d rather dig ditches than be the heir of Godolphin House. It was Paul that wanted it so much. He’d have been good at it.” “Nevertheless,” my employer said coolly, “the duty has fallen in your lap. What do you intend to do about it?” He poured himself another drink. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m doing it.” “Mr. Burrell, do you know a man by the name of Jack Hillary?” “Not that I’m aware of, but I’ve got a number of cousins on both sides of the family.” “Have you ever heard the name Henry Pelham?” “Not that I can recall. Can I offer you a drink?” He held out the bottle, though we had not a glass to pour the Scotch into if we wanted any. “No, thank you,” Barker said. “Where was I?” “Mr. Pelham and Mr. Hillary.” “Don’t know either one,” he said. It was obvious that Burrell was getting drunk. Something about the way he drank told me he hadn’t been drunk before. “Breakfast will be served soon,” my employer pointed out. “That’s why I’m drinking,” Percy said. “I’ll have to go downstairs and pretend to be something I’m not. You’d think that wouldn’t be so hard for an actor, wouldn’t you? Well, it is. That was Paul’s role. I’m just the bloody understudy.” Barker frowned. He’s not one who enjoys self-pity. “It’s like I’m |
and the cigars bounced harmlessly off him. Jack Hillary lifted an arm and fired. The Guv had indeed lowered his arms in front of his chest, in the act of doing something. Perhaps he was about to draw his pistol from inside his jacket, or a handful of the sharpened coins he kept. The sound of the gun going off was especially loud in the quiet of the library. I heard and even fancied I felt the impact of the bullet. Philippa screamed. The sounds traveled up and down my spine as if it were a xylophone. I saw blood spatter across his white shirt. Across from me, Lady Alicia burst into hysterics. Her English reserve had finally been shattered. The Guv teetered for a moment, then fell back full length on the carpet and stopped moving. “Your Webley draws to the left, old man,” Jack complained. “Mine doesn’t,” said a voice behind me. I turned. A man was standing in the doorway, rain and blood dripping off him. There was a gash in his head and his nose was broken. One arm hung unnaturally at his side. His face was covered with scratches and grime. But one doesn’t forget the face of the man who shot at you. Nigel Pelham stood in the doorway at the entrance to the library, freshly drenched in rain and blood. His head had been gashed open, then coated in sand. He was muddy from the knees down. His knuckles were burst from dragging |
