Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [77]
“Show me where it happened,” I suggested.
He glanced at his father, but readily led me to one side to illustrate how the mishap had come about. “I was here, you see? Father and Roger were by that log.” Discarded cartridges still marked both boys’ positions.
“Which way were you standing?” I asked.
He planted his feet, then stepped a little to one side. “About here. It’s hard to tell—it’s getting so dark.”
“And you heard something from those bushes?”
“A rattle. Like a bird panicking through the undergrowth.”
“And you turned . . .”
“I took a couple of steps, and then the bird flew out.”
“From the bottom, near the ground?”
“About halfway up. Sort of where that dead branch is.”
“And you brought up your gun.”
“I counted two. It helps, to count. Steadies the gun on the bird’s path.”
“One thousand one, one thousand two, is that how you count?”
“Faster. One. Two. Bang.”
I picked my way in the direction of the holly clump, where Marsh was fighting to get to his feet (cursing all the while, in English now, ladies or no). The pheasant lay tumbled on the forest litter; I knelt beside it, trying to tell if there might indeed be blood of two different ages on the feathers, but it was impossible to tell. That on the wing might have been marginally more dried, and thus indicate, as the boy thought, an earlier injury that had made the bird both clumsy and nervous enough to flush from what was actually a safe haven. There was no telling. I left the bird there and went back to the boy.
“Did you use both barrels?”
“I just had one. I’d tried for a bird a minute before, and missed. Father was loading for Roger. We didn’t need a loader before His Grace lent me his gun.”
We both looked down at the elegant weapon the boy still carried, his face gone stark with renewed horror, mine no doubt fighting a rueful smile: Marsh had been shot with his own gun.
The beaters devised a rough pallet to carry their wounded duke off the field of battle. While dogs and men scurried to retrieve the birds before darkness rendered them invisible, one of the motorcars that had been waiting to transport us back to Justice was pressed into service as an ambulance. Alistair and Iris rode with Marsh; the women who had stayed on piled into the other vehicles; I walked a ways apart from the men trailing cross-country back to the house; they, in turn, kept their distance from the grimly limping Sir Victor and his two silent sons. There was little of the merriment that normally accompanies a returning shoot, and I for one had much to think about, as I trudged tiredly through the swirls of fog towards the glow of Justice Hall.
As we approached the house, I fell behind to allow the others to enter before me. In fact, I sat at the foot of the pelican fountain for a while, allowing my thoughts to quiet, considering what had happened that day, the effects and implications. When finally I stood up to brush off my trousers, the drive and entrance were empty. I went up the steps, and had my hand on the elaborate brass latch when the door was jerked open from within. Ogilby held the door, his professional calm worn so thin he looked almost harried. As I entered the Hall, I understood why: Our staid little party had expanded exponentially. The Hall was a tumult of colour and motion. And sound—voices shouting over what sounded like two gramophones playing different songs at full throttle.
“What on earth is this?” I asked the Justice butler.
“It would appear that some friends of Mrs Darling were in the neighbourhood and decided to drop in.” Ogilby’s face gave nothing away, but I could just imagine the state of the kitchen at the moment, with what looked to be thirty unexpected dinner guests.
I gave the butler a look of commiseration, and stepped inside. The very air seemed to push out of the doors past me, fleeing for the still terraces.
“Where did they take the duke?” I asked him.
“His Grace was taken up to his apartment,