Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [173]
Then the sun filled the hollow, and The Circles were just a double round of worn rocks sitting beneath an English dawn, as they had done three-quarters of a million times before.
We finished our coffee, ate our bread rolls in a feeling of communion, and walked back across the sun-warmed hills to Justice Hall.
Iris and I paused on the last hill, as we had the time before, to examine the Hall while Holmes walked slowly on, deep in his own thoughts. Justice Hall was a sad building today, despite the sunshine, lonesome and a little embarrassed: The groundsmen had taken advantage of the family’s absence to drain the Pond. Ogilby had informed us, abjectly apologetic, that this procedure was done every other winter in order to clean the bottom and service the fountain and dam at the far end. The house’s dignity was severely challenged by its current setting overlooking a mud-hole.
“The place looks bereft, without the water,” Iris said.
“You think she’d rather we didn’t see her like this?” I asked.
Iris giggled unexpectedly. “Like a very grand lady whose knickers’ elastic has given way.”
I joined in her laughter. “Repeating to herself, ‘One must not look down!’ ”
Iris stood for a while with this imaginary conversation going through her mind, and then her smile grew sad. “I have a cousin who’s just had to tear down his country house. It was such a lovely place, but with death taxes, it had to go. I’ll admit, I hope Justice can survive. She’s a pompous old thing, but she is very beautiful.”
“When she’s got a lake at her feet,” I added.
Iris chuckled, and moved off down the hill. I started to follow her, then looked up sharply: There had been movement behind the Justice Hall battlements. I strained to see. At first I thought it might be Mahmoud looking down; then my eyes caught the shape and drab colour of the man’s clothing, and for a brief instant I imagined a youthful second lieutenant, honour restored, come home to his beloved Justice to find his wife and young son. I blinked, and it was neither Gabriel’s shade nor his unacknowledged father’s figure, merely a workman clearing the remains of Egypt from the Hall roofs.
We left Justice two hours later, none of us knowing if we should ever return. Holmes had gone off to look at something while I went to take my wistful leave of Mr Greene’s riches; when I came down again I found Iris in the Great Hall, saying a long good-bye to Ogilby and Mrs Butter. Holmes swept in from the western wing, his eyes sparkling as if someone had just told him a great joke. He took my coat from Ogilby; as he was settling it onto my shoulders, he leant forward to whisper in my ear.
“Go take a look in the Armoury.”
Puzzled, I made my way out of the Great Hall, past Christopher Hewetson’s bust of the third Duke and the heavy-laden porcelain cabinets and assorted grim Hughenfort ancestors, to the room that had been the centre of the house for generations of Hughenforts, and for the monks before them. I walked into the thick-walled museum of arms, and looked around for what had so amused Holmes.
I spotted it immediately I faced the door: The sunburst of Saracen blades arranged against the wall was missing the small, decorative element in its hub. Mahmoud’s knife was gone from Justice Hall.
EPILOGUE
The following week, the day after Christmas, Holmes and I read in The Times that a body had been found on Saturday in the lake at Justice Hall, the day after we had walked with Iris to The Circles. The corpse had been identified as Mr Ivo Hughenfort, recently implicated in a disturbance at the Hall. Police were speculating that Mr Hughenfort had wandered in (without, unfortunately, having notified the Hall staff of his presence) to explore the temporarily drained bottom of Justice Pond, unaware that the repairs had only that morning been completed. He