Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [149]
At midday, we stopped at an inn for luncheon. On the way inside, one of the drivers took me aside for a consultation.
“The farther into the countryside we go, Miss Russell, the worse the roads will be. If you want to stop the night and continue tomorrow, just say the word.”
“If this turns to snow, the roads could be completely impassable tomorrow,” I noted. He said nothing, not even to answer my unspoken question, leaving the decision up to me. “Let’s go on after we’ve eaten. If the driving gets too difficult, that’s your word to speak.”
He looked offended, although it was the conditions I was questioning, not his skill. We ate quickly, and upon returning to the motorcar I took the seat beside the driver, to leave more space for those behind the glass. Ben stretched his legs across the seat, Gabe looked at picture books on his mother’s lap, Iris stared out the window, and we drove on through the darkness, the drizzle changing to snow in our head-lamps, then back to rain.
We passed through Arley Holt and past the deserted train station, and at the turning with the post saying JUSTICE HALL, we went left, spurning the crowded manor house, whose every guest room would soon be bursting, for the quieter spaces of Badger Old Place. These larger motorcars seemed almost certain to become wedged between the tight sides of the lane, but in the end we emerged unscathed. Down the frozen track, through the gates and the outer yard, threading into the lodge-house tunnel and there was Badger’s neat gravel, the chapel, and the high Elizabethan windows, glowing with light and welcome.
Gabe had fallen asleep with his thumb in his mouth, and he clung to his mother’s side while our two drivers deftly eased Ben into his chair. Introductions were made, and while Mrs Algernon bustled and welcomed like the excellent housekeeper she was, Alistair had eyes only for the boy, this cranky, waist-high snippet of Hughenfort on which so much rested, the futures of two men and of a great house; apart from his distraction, Alistair’s welcome was warm (for him) and he waited until we had been given hot drinks and rooms before he climbed into one of Mycroft’s motorcars and was driven away.
We changed our clothes, while Gabe pounded up and down the various stairways to rid himself of the tiresome journey. This took a quarter of an hour, after which we sat down to Mrs Algernon’s plain and excellent dinner, then adjourned to the Hall, where the child eyed the huge boar’s head uncertainly and the rest of us settled into the novelty of a floor that didn’t heave or bump beneath us. The entire time, from the moment we climbed down from the car, throughout the meal, and as we took our places before the fire in the Hall, we moved in a kind of limbo. In part this was tiredness compounded by the disorientation of our Canadian companions; but we were also simply waiting. At last our ears caught the sound of tyres on the gravel outside. Ali came in first, and then Marsh, with Holmes behind them closing the door.
Marsh stood in the doorway, a stone thinner but restored in his energies, apparently unaware of Alistair’s hands tugging away his coat and plucking the hat from his head. All of Marsh’s tremendous powers of concentration were focussed upon the woman standing in front of the fire and on the child grown suddenly shy, taking refuge in her skirts. Marsh’s fingers went up to his face—not, as I first thought, to trace the scar, as he was wont to do in Palestine when troubled. Rather, his fingers came to rest across his lips, a gesture of such uncertainty, I should not have imagined him capable of it.
Iris eased him into the moment, crossing the room to greet her husband with a very European sort of kiss, then looping her arm through his in order to lead him forward. “This is Ben O’Meary,” she told him; I doubt Marsh even noticed he was shaking the hand of a man in a wheeled chair. “And Helen.”
Helen stood before him, straight and proud, her son half hidden behind her. Marsh stepped forward