Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [88]
“They mourned him,” Iris said in a soft voice.
“Precisely. And at a stage of the War when few souls had any capacity for mourning left in them.”
I looked at my companions, and found that the soldiers were not the only people to mourn this “sprig of the aristocracy.” Iris was staring unseeing at the flames, her eyes dry but tragedy on her face—she’d been fond of the boy, this representative of a lost generation of golden youth. Alistair was scowling and kicking with his heel at the basket of logs. And Marsh—
One glance at Marsh, and I shot to my feet in confusion, exclaiming, “Look at the time—after mid-night already; I’ll tumble into the fire with exhaustion. Holmes, surely we can continue this in the morning?”
I practically hauled at his ear-lobe to get him out of the room; fortunately, he caught my urgency, if not its reason, and we made our hasty farewells.
But I knew that the image of Marsh Hughenfort, his face half covered by one hand and actual tears trembling in those black eyes, was one that would stay with me for a long, long time. The man looked decades older than Holmes, and far from any source of vitality or hope. We had no business inflicting the vivid reminder of an innocent’s death on the man when he was in his current condition.
Let Iris drug him to sleep with the tale of Ratty and Toad.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
In the morning, however, Marsh’s rooms were silent, and I for one was reluctant to break into his rest. We continued downstairs to join those house guests who were upright at this hour, a pair of unshaven young men still in dinner jackets, who seemed to have not bothered about going to bed at all, and who were in no condition to intrude on our peaceful enjoyment of eggs and toast. After breakfast, I gave Holmes a brief tour of the house (passing by the ancient stairway into the cellar-chapel, as I had no key) and ended up in the riches of the Greene Library. That was where Iris found us.
She was wearing a remarkably conventional wool dress and carried in her gloved hand a small, maroon-covered Book of Common Prayer. It took no great effort to discern her intent, although I was rather surprised at her willingness to attend the Sunday services; why, I do not know.
“Marsh is awake, having some breakfast; the doctor’s coming in an hour, so we thought we might resume after that. You’re welcome to join me in the chapel, if you like. Or not to join me—it is by no means compulsory.”
“Thank you,” I told her, “but I think we’ll commune with The Divine among the stacks.”
“I’m sure God dwells here as much as in the chapel. More, perhaps, since it’s considerably warmer. Shall we meet in Marsh’s rooms at noon?”
We agreed, and she left us to our reading.
Today was November the eleventh. At 10:58 the house gong sounded a brief warning. It went off again precisely at 11:00, somehow conjuring up a sombre sound, rather than the energetic crescendo it produced at mealtimes. We rose to our feet for the nation’s two minutes’ silence, and then returned to our books.
Holmes, appropriately if uncharacteristically enough, was poring over an immense and ancient family Bible. Not the printed section, but rather the generations of Hughenfort names, beginning with the eighteenth century.
“Write this down, Russell,” he ordered; I uncapped my pen. “Ralph William Hughenfort, born 1690, eighth Earl of Calminster, made first Duke of Beauville in 1721. Probably lent some sage advice to the Crown and saved George I from losing his breeches over the South Sea Bubble. At any rate, duke he was. Sons William Thomas, born 1724, second Duke, died without issue, and Charles John, born 1732, third Duke. Charles’ son Ralph Charles, born 1761, had three sons and two daughters, then died before his father. Those sons were Lionel Thomas Philip, born 1792; Charles Thomas, born 1798; and Gervase Thomas Richard, born 1802. Lionel became the fourth Duke in 1807 at the tender age of fifteen. His children were Gerald