From a Drood to a Kill - Simon R. Green Page 0,68

I said.

“Jack’s clothes will be recycled among the family,” said William. “Nothing is ever wasted. Same with all of his belongings, except for whatever you and I decide we might like for ourselves.”

“We get first pick?” I said.

“We get the only pick. No one else is interested. The family doesn’t do sentiment, remember?”

“What about his lab assistants?” I said. “Past, and present? I mean, I understand there were some he was . . . closer to than others.”

“Ah! You mean the ladies! His lovers!” William dropped me another roguish wink. “I think they’ll probably lie low. Won’t want to draw attention to themselves. Probably just as well. Last thing we need in here is a major catfight. Not so much bad language and hair-pulling . . . more like improvised weapons and depleted-uranium knuckle-dusters! Really not good, in such a confined space . . . No, let sleeping lab assistants lie, I think. Oh, don’t look so shocked, Eddie. Your uncle was a much-loved man. Especially on weekends. He was old, not decrepit. And he was always discreet. Ish. If anyone does come forward, quietly, I’ll see what I can do.”

“It’s all such a rush,” I said. “No time to think . . .”

“You know the family likes to do this quickly. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Get the pain over with as quickly and efficiently as possible. And move on.”

It didn’t take us long to sort through Uncle Jack’s belongings. When we’d finished, we stood by the door and looked round the room one last time. I didn’t know what to say.

“You don’t have to wait around for the removal people if you don’t want to, Eddie,” said William. “If you’d find that . . . difficult. I can take care of things.”

“I have to do this,” I said. “It’s my duty.”

“This isn’t duty, boy,” said William. “It’s a privilege. You’ve already done everything your uncle would have expected of you.”

“He didn’t have much to leave behind,” I said. “Just a room full of bits and pieces. Not much to show for a life of service to the family.”

“The measure of a man isn’t his possessions,” said William. “It’s his legacy.”

“The Armoury?”

“No, boy. The family he protected. And you. He helped make you the man you are today. Didn’t he?”

“Yes,” I said. “He did.”

CHAPTER SIX

It’s Not a Proper Wake Until Someone Does Something They Shouldn’t

The Bentley was still waiting patiently outside the main entrance to Drood Hall. I’d broken all kinds of rules by leaving her there, but no one was going to mess with one of the Armourer’s best-known and much-loved creations. In fact, quite a large admiring crowd had gathered around the car, and I received a great many jealous and downright envious looks as I settled down behind the wheel again. I smiled happily on one and all, in a not at all smug way, and then fired up the engine and drove away, scattering the fans like a flock of chickens. I drove round the side of the Hall, then round the back, and straight into the Drood garage.

The heavy doors in front of me were quite definitely closed. I put my foot down hard and the Bentley leapt forward. She’s a lot like me; tell her you can’t go somewhere, and nothing on earth will stop her going there. The garage doors slid smoothly aside at the very last moment, providing just enough room for the Bentley to pass between them without actually scraping the paint off her bodywork. I could have stopped outside, sounded my horn, and waited politely, like a good little Drood, but I really wasn’t in the mood. I rarely am, when I’m home. Being around my family does that to me. And I absolutely wasn’t in the mood so soon after Jack’s funeral.

I brought the Bentley to a sudden halt just inside the doors, because there wasn’t anywhere left to go. The Drood garage is really just a long, wide shed, packed from end to end and from side to side with more assorted forms of transport and death on four wheels than the human mind can comfortably cope with. And not just the famous ones, of which there are always a few. Just sitting there in the Bentley, I could see the Nineteen Sixties Black Beauty, a shocking pink Rolls-Royce, and the only occasionally successful Lotus submersible. Thick shafts of golden sunlight dropped down from massive skylights in the vaulting roof, shining brightly back from the highly polished

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