Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [31]
The narrow swath of woods ended at a wooden fence and its flimsy gate, both of them shaggy with lichen. The gate’s hinges, however, opened without so much as a squeak; I deduced that this was a regular escape for the seventh Duke of Beauville. The lane we found on the other side of the gate led into a village; Marsh, a man of his word, led us straight to the public house.
It was an inn, two storeys of ancient, leaning ramble with a faded sign proclaiming DUKE’S ARMS hanging over the door through which we all, even Marsh, had to duck our heads. The room inside was warm and smokey, low of ceiling and even dimmer than the dusk outside. Brass gleamed around the bar, however, and the rush-scattered stones beneath our feet had none of the reek of long-spilt beer.
Half a dozen patrons sat in two groups; judging by the nods and greetings they exchanged with our leader, this was by no means his first visit here in his four months of residence at Justice. I, the only woman in the place, created more of a stir than the entrance of the duke himself, and the only curious looks were directed at Holmes and me. The dogs made a bee-line for the enormous fireplace and collapsed into a satisfied heap on the black hearthstones, quite obviously at home there.
Marsh turned to us. “A pint? Sherry? They could probably do you a cocktail, if it wasn’t anything too complicated.”
Holmes agreed to a pint, I said I’d have a half, Alistair merely shook his head, and Marsh gave our orders to the ruddy-faced man behind the bar, ending with, “And I’ll have my usual, Mr Franks.”
Marsh Hughenfort’s “usual” turned out to be a double measure of whisky, downed at a toss, followed by an only slightly more leisurely pint. A fairly committed regimen for a man who had spent twenty years a teetotaler.
For Alistair, the innkeeper’s wife came through with a pot of tea. He, too, had clearly been here before. As she approached our table in the corner of the low-ceilinged room, Marsh picked up his pint glass, cradling it to his chest as if to warm himself.
“Evening, Mrs Franks. How’s Rosie today?”
“Worlds better, Your Grace, bless you. That syrup you sent down tastes like the devil’s brew, she says, but she sleeps just fine, and the cough’s clearing up.”
“Mind you don’t give her too much.”
“I measure it out like you said, Your Grace. And I watch the clock, every four hours, no sooner. I’ll be ever so careful. Anything else for you now?”
“In ten minutes you can have your husband bring us the same, thank you.”
“Opiates for the masses, Marsh?” Holmes asked when the woman was out of earshot, referring to the soporific effects of the cough potion. None of us mentioned Mahmoud’s generous dose of pure opium paste that had nearly been the death of Holmes a few years before, but all of us had it in mind.
“The child’s cough was painful to listen to; customers were staying away. I thought a night’s sleep might make everyone feel better.”
Holmes set down his glass, and it was clear that he had dismissed the plight of little Rosie Franks from his mind. “How did your—,” he began, then stopped.
A man carrying with him the palpable aura of cow barn stood a few feet from our table, hat in hand. Literally so, but also figuratively.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Your Grace, but I was out the—oh.” His gaze had fallen from Marsh to the empty glass before him; his face fell as well. “Missed me chance, have I? Sorry to bother you, Your Grace. Another time.”
“Tomorrow morning, Hendricks? When you’ve finished the milking, come and see me.”
The man’s face brightened. He pulled on his cap, rubbed his palm against his trousers (which improved the state of neither), thought the better of shaking any aristocratic palms, and tugged his hat instead, wishing us all a happy evening as he retreated.
Holmes, for once, was sidetracked. “What was the significance