Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [91]
Two distinct patches of shot were embedded in the rubbery skin. One followed the upper edge and tip of the right wing; the other, the shot that actually killed it, formed a cluster along the left side of the head and body.
“The bird could conceivably have got those two injuries at the same time,” I suggested, “if the right wing was up in flight.”
“Russell, Russell,” he scolded, plopping the disgusting object into my lap and tugging at the half-frozen body until its wings were outstretched. “Which way is the shot on the left side buried?”
I poked at the clammy skin, and hazarded an opinion that was half guess. “As the bird flew, almost immediately below.”
“And the right wing?”
“Harder to tell.” Plucking a bird leaves it looking comprehensively raw.
“What about this?” His naked finger traced a half-inch welt along the wing that ended at a tiny hole in the body.
“That came from in front of the bird, level, and at a forty-five-degree angle.”
“I agree. Two shots, then.” Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a folding knife and two wadded-up sheets of writing paper. He dug half a dozen small, rough pellets from the bird’s wing, folding them into one sheet, then did the same with those in the body. I looked at the resulting large, smooth shot, and was glad: Peter Gerard had brought down a bird, not a duke. Holmes cleaned his knife on some moss and folded it away, then rose and looked down dubiously at the mutilated pheasant.
“We can’t very well carry it back with us, Holmes.”
“Pity. I’ve grown rather fond of it. Without that bird’s testimony, a degree of uncertainty would remain.”
“Leave it here for the foxes, Holmes.”
“I suppose so.”
We arrived back at Justice in time for tea, to find the house guests still in residence and embarked on various pursuits of childhood, the two children returned from their week-end banishment looking on in adult disdain, and Marsh ill but demanding that we continue our consultation.
He was ensconced on an elaborately ornate brocade divan with fringes along its lower edge, propped into a great number of pillows in a room of tropical heat. Holmes and I stripped off as many layers as we could without impropriety, and fell on the tray of tea and sandwiches with enthusiasm.
Marsh waited with growing impatience, his face flushed with heat both internal and external, his eyes feverish but focussed. Alistair did not look much better; between Monday’s head injury and the scatter of shot in his own arm, I thought he wanted nursing himself. Holmes drank his tea, but when he reached for the pot, Marsh spoke up impatiently.
“You must have found out more, about Gabriel. What else did your four soldiers say?”
“Those four, and three more Saturday morning. Do you object to a composite—the statements of the men and what there is of an official record?”
“By all means,” Marsh growled. Holmes claimed an armchair with a nearby perch for his cup, and drew out his pipe.
“Gabriel Hughenfort sailed to France in December 1917, following a scant five months’ training, and joined his regiment on the twentieth. They were occupying a supporting position, behind the lines, and moved back up to the Front in early January. By the time he first stood in the trenches, the young man had picked up enough common-sense knowledge to keep his head down. He acquitted himself honourably, and without mishap, during that period on the Front, then through the cycle behind the lines.
“His second front-line duty, he was not as lucky. His section of trench took a direct mortar hit, and he was buried—in, as one of my informants picturesquely described it, ‘a blast of mud that was thinner