Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [85]
“And it wasn’t Sir Victor—he had no gun, and I could hear him talking to his sons,” I went on more seriously. “It could have been any of the four on the far side of the clump of trees. Then again, I heard someone moving behind the line, which could have been any of the four to my right, or the women who’d stayed on to watch, or any of a hundred men. Sorry, but between the distractions and the fog, it’s an open field.”
Holmes brought out his pipe and assembled a contemplative smoke. “What do we know about the two Germans?” he asked.
“They’re Sidney’s connexion in the City,” Alistair answered. “Sidney made a young mint during the war—profiteering, I’d call it, although nothing was proved. Freiburg and Stein did the same, smuggling black market goods into Germany. Luxury goods and foodstuffs, rumour has it, not guns. No-one was much interested in prosecuting them, particularly as they had a certain amount of loot to offer in return. Small, portable works of art that were formerly in museums within Germany are now to be found on mantels across England.”
“And the others?”
“I don’t know the Marquis; he’s a newcomer. Sir Victor was a front-line soldier until ’16, seconded to London after he lost some toes and got shell-shocked. He has at least two medals. Of the two Londoners, Matheson seems a good sort. I don’t know Radley.”
“And Ivo Hughenfort?”
“My cousin?” Alistair said. “He lives five miles from here, has always considered Justice his second home. His friendship with Darling does not recommend him, but it’s hardly a criminal offence. I don’t know him all that well—he’s eleven or twelve years younger, and lives just beyond easy horse range from Badger. I do know he was a staff officer during the War, in northern France.”
“You don’t say,” said Holmes thoughtfully.
“What do you mean by that?” Alistair demanded, but Holmes continued as if he had not spoken.
“We are agreed, then, that someone took a shot at the two of you, a more or less impulsive shot that took advantage of the mist, the concealing shrubbery, and the possibly wounded bird?”
We were all in agreement.
“It would be nice to know for certain who the target was,” Holmes mused.
“What do you mean?” Alistair said, sounding indignant. “The gun was aimed at Marsh.”
“Who was moving across the line of fire at the time, and who could therefore have been the inadvertent recipient of a load of shot meant for you.”
This time Alistair could not miss the suggestion, but the very idea that someone would place him over Marsh, even as a candidate for murder, offended his yeoman’s soul so deeply that he did not even deign to answer, merely moving off to rummage through Marsh’s desk for a packet of cigarettes. Iris watched him; Marsh did not.
“You have information for us, I think,” Marsh said. His voice was a bit slurred, either by the effort of keeping the pain at bay or else from some drug one of the others had forced upon him. Holmes studied him closely, and I knew that this would be a long and demanding tale, since he was wondering if the telling had not better wait until the morning.
Marsh saw the look, too, and responded with the ghost of a smile. “I’ll not sleep for hours yet, Holmes; you may as well provide me with distraction.”
His lips pursed, Holmes slapped the still-burning contents of his pipe into the fire and dug the bowl into his tobacco pouch. “You were correct in your suspicions,” he told Marsh. “Your nephew was indeed executed.” Alistair grunted in pain, Iris closed her eyes, but Marsh sat, mutely braced for the rest. “For refusing an order.”
Seeing that lack of reaction on the part of the wounded man, Holmes nodded, and began the tale of his time in London.
“You did not give me much to work with. I’m not complaining, you understand, merely making note of the fact that in general, a case begins with some starting point, be it a body or a missing necklace. Here, all we have is an untenable situation that wants straightening up. And as my