The Sugared Game - K.J. Charles Page 0,92
now a mask of rage. Will had the barrel firmly in his right hand, but he couldn’t break the man’s grip.
Well, fuck. He tensed everything he had against what he was going to do, stiffened the fingers of his left hand, and drove it into the middle of Telford’s biceps.
It was staggeringly painful as the impact shot up his broken knuckle, but it worked. Telford’s fingers sprang open as he shouted with pain, and the shotgun dropped. Will slammed his left arm round Telford’s neck while he had the chance, putting his strength into crooking his elbow because his whole left hand was on fire now, and vented his many feelings on the man, hammering his temple with short-range blows. He could hear Phoebe shouting, “The police, go and get the police!” and screams, and what sounded for all the world like Bubby Fanshawe bleating, “I say!”
For Christ’s sake. He glanced up without stopping his work, and saw a group of gaping, shrieking Bright Young Things, all evening clothes and bottles of champagne. Fucking marvellous. All they needed now was a jazz band.
A scream from above cut through the chaos. He looked up the stairs. Maisie stood at the top, pointing down, to where Phoebe was facing Johnnie Cheveley.
She stood tall in the frothy dressing-gown and Cheveley had the revolver levelled at her point blank. There were a couple more screams as the Bright Young People caught up, and then a dreadful anticipatory silence fell.
With all eyes fixed on Cheveley and Phoebe, nobody was looking at Will, so he rabbit-punched Telford in the back of the neck with everything he had left, and let the body drop.
“What are you going to do, Johnnie?” Phoebe said into the silence. “Shoot me?”
“Don’t be silly, darling,” Cheveley said, lowering the gun, but not enough. “You’re being hysterical. You’re over-tired. Too much drink, too many late nights—”
“Liar,” she said. “Why did Anton attack Maisie? Why did you tell lies about her, and protect him? Why didn’t you call the police, or a doctor? Why didn’t Daddy?” She paused. “Where is Daddy?”
Cheveley looked around at the large, rapt audience, down at Telford’s unmoving body. Something ticked in his face, a man realising the odds had changed. “We must of course call the police but the telephones are out of order. Someone will have to drive to Berkhampstead in the morning.”
“Stop it.” Phoebe’s voice was icy. “My father’s chauffeur attempted to assault Maisie in a vile manner, and you tried to defend him. You’ve been scheming against her, against Kim—I don’t know what else you’ve been doing, but I have had enough of you. And I want to know where my father is!”
“He’s in the drawing-room,” Kim said. “Cheveley ordered his man to assault him. It doesn’t look good, Fee. Maisie, go with her.”
Phoebe’s eyes snapped wide. She stood for a frozen second and then ran, heedless of the revolver. Maisie hurried down the stairs. Cheveley shouted, “Stop!”, raising the revolver, and Will scooped up the shotgun and said, “Don’t.”
Several of the Bright Young People shrieked. Cheveley sneered. “I don’t think you’ll find that’s much use to you.”
Will checked the safety was off. “We’ll see.”
Cheveley swung the revolver up at him and pulled the trigger. Will dropped amid the chorus of screams, rolled, and came up firing, or at least squeezing the trigger. The hammer clicked uselessly.
“As if Telford loaded it for the old man,” Cheveley said. “You think we’re fools?”
“You’re a flaming lunatic, is what you are,” Bubby Fanshawe said, from where he and Miss Moran cowered in the corner. “Put that gun down!”
“What’s happening?” shrieked a woman.
“Cheveley’s gone off his bally rocker!”
“Johnnie,” Kim said. “You can’t win this. There’s a roomful of witnesses. Shoot anyone and you’ll hang for murder. It’s over.”
Cheveley’s eyes darted back and forth. Adela Moran said, “Oh, yes, do put the gun down, Johnnie. This is too panic-making.”
“Shut up, you silly bitch,” Cheveley said. “Did you drive here in your Hillman, Bubby?”
“Yes, of course. It’s out the front.”
“Does it have a door key?”
“Oh, yes, it’s awfully—”
“Give it to Secretan.”
“Eh? Why?” Fanshawe asked blankly.
“Because he’s going to drive me wherever I choose. Aren’t you, Secretan?”
“The hell he is,” Will said.
The muzzle of the revolver swung to him, a gaping black hole. “He is if he doesn’t want you dead. Get on your knees, hands on your head. Now!”
There were only a few yards between them. Too far for Will to catch him, too close for Cheveley to miss. Kim said, quietly,