The Sugared Game - K.J. Charles Page 0,95
It was a better position than a lot of the ones they could have been in.
“What about the rest? Telford?” he asked.
“Well you may ask. What on earth did you do?”
“Rabbit punch. It’s a blow to the back of the neck. They don’t let you do it in boxing.”
“I should hope not, since he’s dead.”
“Bugger.”
“I wouldn’t worry. He had a charge sheet as long as your arm; you saved the state some rope. As for Anton, the chauffeur, he seems to have got away.”
“You’re joking.”
“No. Looks like he woke up, stole one of Waring’s cars, and drove off. Not yet traced.”
“He must have a hard head. And Waring?”
“Also dead,” Kim said, his voice humming in Will’s ribs. “When Telford struck him, it caused the wall of the aneurysm to split—I have the verbiage from the doctors. He bled out too, though internally, so at least he was less messy than Johnnie. He lasted about twenty minutes.”
“Oh God,” Will said. “How is Phoebe?”
“It’s a lot for her to cope with.”
That seemed to be all he had to say. Will didn’t push it.
“We’ve got rid of the idiots,” Kim went on. “Not to be ungracious, I know their arrival saved our bacon, but there is only so much I can take.”
“Where in God’s name did they spring from?”
“A Saturday spree. They drive around the countryside at random, thrusting themselves on households at ungodly hours and demanding ‘drinkie-poos’,” Kim said, handling the word as if it were contagious. “I find it deeply galling that I have to be grateful for that. Gratitude also goes to Maisie for turning off the lights at that moment.”
“Oh, that was her? How is she?”
“Fine. More than fine. She’s been a tower of strength for Phoebe.”
Will nodded. “What does Phoebe know?”
“Most of it, now. It seems Maisie told her everything when they were sent upstairs.”
That reminded Will. “How did they get out? I thought Telford locked them in.”
“This is Phoebe’s childhood home. She knows how to jimmy her own bedroom lock.”
“So the final butcher’s bill—”
“Three dead, one gone, you injured. DS is delighted, as you may imagine.”
“DS? Your boss?”
“The Private Bureau is here en masse to clean up. Talking of which, I rescued your knife; it’s in your bag. And I regret to report that DS wants a personal interview with you, so if I were you, I’d go back to sleep, and stay that way for the next six months.”
Will was not inclined to do that. He did stay in bed long enough to eat a sandwich, drink a restorative few cups of beef broth, and have a mug of tea and several biscuits, all brought to him by a wide-eyed maid, and then he got up. He was bored.
His arm hurt a fair bit. He put his jacket over his right arm and managed to turn the empty left sleeve into a sort of makeshift sling, then headed downstairs.
The blood had been cleaned up from the hallway, which was good. Will followed voices, and found several men in the dining room going through piles of paper and ledgers spread out on the long table. One of them looked round. “Who are you?”
“Will Darling.”
“Oh, yes.” The man straightened, extending his hand, which Will shook. He had a serious sort of face, brown hair going grey, and ink on his fingers. “I’m a William myself—Merton of that ilk. Pleased to meet you. You’ve done your country a service.” He slapped a ledger affectionately, much as one might pat the flank of a horse. “We’re going to run what remains of Zodiac up a flagpole with this lot. Have you seen DS yet?”
“No.”
“No time like the present. He’s in the study. Good luck.”
Will headed in that direction and knocked. The door opened, and Will found himself face to face with Kim, who was looking harried. “Will?”
“Ah, the famous Mr. Darling,” came a voice from inside. “Our bellicose bookseller. Do come in.”
Kim rolled his eyes and let Will in.
The study had been considerably disarranged, not to say ransacked, since Will had seen it last. The safe stood open, as did the filing cabinet, and there were piles of paper on the floor.
The man at the desk was a smooth-looking, handsome chap of Jewish looks, extremely dark of hair and eyes, but sufficiently into middle age that Will wasn’t convinced the jet black hair was entirely due to nature. He wore natty horn-rimmed spectacles and a wearily sardonic expression.
“Sit down, both of you,” he said. “You’re Secretan’s Darling, yes?”
That was a