Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [69]
Iris even included a few of the hired men in her greetings, men she had known when they had headsful of hair not yet grey. “Webster—I’d know you anywhere. How have the years treated you? That can’t be your son? He’s changed a bit since he was two. And you’re . . . no, no, don’t tell me, you caught us damming up the trout stream one time, I thought I’d die of terror: Doyle? No—Dayle, that’s right. You still raise ferrets?”
Childhood knowledge of the country and its people, intimate and too deeply implanted to be worn away by twenty years of living abroad. The men looked at her sideways—they could not help being aware that her marriage to the current duke was somehow irregular, even if they didn’t know the details—but they responded to her as to one of their own, going so far as to venture a joke or two. It was a thing they would not do with Sidney Darling.
Marsh finally appeared, carrying a gun, with an unarmed Alistair trailing behind and looking resolute. Shooting, I guessed, was not a favourite with Alistair. We were twelve guns in all, it would seem, with the twins and their father holding one gun between them, and Alistair just out for the air. Iris and I were the only women. Twelve guns, plus loaders and dogs and however many men had been hired to drive the birds to us.
The drivers were, of course, already deployed in the fields and woods. A day such as this was a carefully choreographed affair; a well-conducted shoot was a work of art, balancing the timing and presentation of the birds with the number and abilities of the guns. I knew within seconds of Marsh’s appearance on the steps that the day’s planning was not his, but that of Darling in conjunction with the head gamekeeper, a short, taciturn countryman by the name of Bloom. After a brief consultation, Bloom gathered together his loaders and their dogs, and in two groups, the well-dressed and the working man, we moved out into the parkland.
In addition to the men introduced by Iris, our party included Sidney’s four business partners from the night before. The two Germans were called Freiburg and Stein, and were looked upon with mistrust by the others: They might dress like Englishmen and speak the language fluently, but the War was too fresh for easy acceptance of the enemy, even when he had lived here long enough to smooth out everything but his Rs and Vs. The Londoners Johnny and Richard were more formally a banker named Matheson and an industrialist by the name of Radley, who had made a major fortune on armaments during the War. These two were as thick as the proverbial thieves they probably in fact were, and spent most of their time talking about the American stock market.
Iris talked with Dayle for a while about ferrets; when he was called away by the chief gamekeeper, I turned to her.
“I was led to understand that the Darlings moved inside the London social whirl. These guests of theirs seem fairly staid.”
“Apparently they alternate their social circles. After one week-end when a trio of experimental artists sabotaged the shoot, got roaring drunk, and offended a magistrate, Phillida decided the two sorts were best kept apart.”
“Pity,” I said. The party looked as if it could use a bit of livening up.
“I don’t know. The Marquis and the twins look as if they might have some fun in them.”
I gave a snort of laughter, then nearly leapt out of my boots as a figure appeared at my shoulder—but it was only Marsh, silent as always in his approach.
“You found a gun to your satisfaction?” he asked.
“Iris found one for me, yes. Will you tell me why you wanted me to come shooting today?”
His answer was oblique to an extreme. “You have not heard from your Holmes?”
In a house crawling with servants, one could hardly expect that a message from London would go unnoted. I took his answer to indicate that my presence was required in Holmes’ absence.
“If I do not hear from him