The House of Lost Souls - F. G. Cottam [139]
Sebastian Gibson-Hoare merely nodded at him. Young Mr Breene stood. The third man did not glance up from the cards. ‘Allow me to introduce you,’ Breene said.
‘No need,’ Seaton said. ‘Mr Gibson-Hoare and myself have previously met. The murderer, Edwin Poole, I have no wish to become acquainted with.’
‘Very good,’ Gibson-Hoare said. He chuckled. Poole still had not looked up from his cards. ‘You spotted the family likeness?’
Poole did not much resemble his cousin and victim. He had the vapid monochromatic handsomeness of his time. His hair was sleekly oiled and his jaw smooth from a professional shave, expensively administered. Outside, the torches flickered with the burn of pitch and there were screams and glass shattering and the lusty voices sang. Seaton had finally recognised what it was they were singing, at the same moment as he read the words on the blackboard, bolting from Peter Morgan’s classroom. It was the ‘Horst Wessel Song’.
‘What on earth do you think that commotion is outside?’ Breene said to him. He had sat back down.
‘It’s nothing on earth,’ Seaton said, thinking, its Göring and his wolf pack, marauding through the past these men had all of them helped contrive.
‘You were never a fighter pilot,’ Seaton said to Breene. ‘Archie McIndoe didn’t reconstruct your face. Some black-magic ritual that went wrong, was it, the scarring? Some sick ceremony that didn’t come off quite as you’d intended?’
Breene just looked at him. Gibson-Hoare chuckled.
‘You must all be very proud of what you’ve accomplished.’
‘Oh, you’ve no idea,’ Breene said. ‘My goodness. The fun we’ve had.’
Spare the rod and spoil the child, the teacher suicide had written on the blackboard. Seaton said, ‘How often is she obliged to beat the boy?’
And now, Edwin Poole did look up from the study of his hand. ‘As often as Mr Greb requires it,’ he said. He looked at the bag in Seaton’s fist. ‘Why don’t you rest your burden. Put it down somewhere.’ He gestured vaguely to a corner with his eyes. ‘You’re among friends, old man. You can relax.’
But Seaton had no intention of letting go of what he held. Poole was handsome, callow, unlined. Unlike the other two, raddled spectres at the table, he had apparently died young. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled Wheatley’s revolver out of it and put the weapon on the table. ‘Are you after being a gambling man at all, Mr Seaton?’ His stab at the accent was better than fair. But then, they were all of them skilled at mimicry.
Seaton looked at the revolver. The habitués of the house were showing an ominous, stubborn fondness for the weapon. ‘Malcolm Covey is Klaus Fischer’s son, isn’t he?’
‘Don’t you go minding all that, Pauly Boy,’ Gibson-Hoare said. ‘Now are you, or are you not, after having a little flutter here at the table with your ould pals?’
‘I’m not.’
‘Ah, come on with you.’
It was quiet outside now. Inside the pub, the tape behind the bar had started to play. Marvin Gaye was singing ‘Abraham, Martin and John’.
‘Coolie music,’ Breene said to him. ‘Sure, you’re fierce partial to it, so you are.’
‘Play with us,’ Gibson-Hoare said.
‘What would be the point?’ Seaton said. ‘You cheat.’
‘Doesn’t everyone cheat now,’ Breene said.
‘The point,’ Poole said, ‘is the stakes. Your ould pal Nicky has breathed his last breath. And you! Mr Greb is after being furious with yourself. Your prospects are looking gloomy, lad. But Mr Greb is terrible prey to his own obliging nature. And he’d give even the likes of you a sporting chance of survival.’ Poole had gathered the cards and he shuffled them above the tabletop between both hands, expertly, now, as he spoke. His facility with the cards, in death, was almost mesmerising. It was a skill contagious with the thrilling affliction of risk. ‘Let me explain