Wolf in the Fold Page 8

  Hawk studied the man unobtrusively while he spoke. Alistair MacNeil was tall and muscular, though obviously well into his fifties. His stomach was intimidatingly flat, his back poker straight, and if Alistair was carrying a few extra pounds anywhere, Hawk was damned if he could spot them. His clothes were undeniably old-fashioned but exquisitely cut, and Alistair wore them with unconscious style. His iron-grey hair was cropped close to his head, military fashion, but he had the same beaked nose and piercing eyes as the man in the portrait. Alistair caught Hawk glancing from him to the portrait over the fire, and chuckled dryly.

  "There is a resemblance, isn't there? You're not the first to spot it. Doesn't look such a bad type to me. Probably just too much energy and not enough wars to keep him occupied."

  "Don't glorify the man," said Marc, staring up at the portrait, a large drink in his hand. "A soldier in those days was just a paid killer, nothing more. All his masters had to do was point him in the right direction and turn him loose. Probably killed women and children too if they got in his way."

  "They were hard times," said Alistair coldly. "The Low Kingdoms faced threats on all sides. The minstrels like to sing of honor and glory, but there's damn all glory for the quick or the dead on a battlefield. There's just the blood and the flies, and the knowledge it will all have to be done again tomorrow. You should try a spell in the army yourself, Marc. You might learn a few things."

  "If you say so," said Marc. He turned his back on Alistair, and stared coldly at Jamie. "May I enquire how much longer we have to wait before the reading of the will? The sooner this tedious ritual is over and done with, the better. The Tower is undoubtedly charming, for its age, but I have business to attend to in Haven."

  "We'll get to the will soon enough," said Jamie evenly. "There are two more guests to join us, and then breakfast will be served. I think we'll all feel better for a good meal before getting down to business."

  "I'm not hungry," said Marc.

  "You speak for yourself," said Hawk.

  The door opened, and a faded-looking jester hurried in, unannounced by the butler. At least Hawk assumed the man was a jester. He couldn't see any other reason for wearing an outfit like that, short of an extremely convincing death threat. Personally speaking, Hawk would rather have taken his chances with the death threat. The newcomer was a rotund little man, brimming with eager nervous energy. His bright eyes flashed indiscriminately in every direction, much like his smile, and his quick bow to Jamie MacNeil was little more than a familiar nod. The newcomer was well into his sixties, and looked it, but his costume looked to be even older. It had clearly started out life as a bright and gaudy coat of many colors, but over the many years the colors had faded, stitches had burst, and a whole mess of new patches, clearly more functional than decorative, had been added. And then, finally, Hawk saw the guitar in the man's hand, and his heart sank. Jamie smiled briefly at the man, and then turned to his guests.

  "My friends, this is my minstrel, Robbie Brennan. Been with this Family for almost thirty years, haven't you, Robbie? I have to leave for a moment, so play something for my guests; some tale of my father's exploits, in his memory."

  Brennan nodded cheerfully, tried a few quick dissonant chords, and launched into an uptempo ballad. He sang three songs altogether, each of them highly romanticized tales of Duncan MacNeil's past. They were all cut from the same cloth, full of great adventures and daring escapes, but though they couldn't seem to decide whether Duncan had been a saint or a warrior, a mighty lover or a devoted family man, they all had one thing in common: All three songs were irredeemably awful. They were badly written, played with no style and too much feeling, and Brennan's voice was all over the place. He had the kind of singing voice that made you long for the sound of fingernails scraping down a blackboard, and an extremely irritating habit of shifting his voice up or down an octave when he couldn't reach the right note.

  Hawk's hands closed into fists halfway through the first song. By the second, Fisher had to physically restrain him by clinging determinedly but unobtrusively to his arm. Hawk didn't care much for minstrels at the best of times, which this definitely wasn't, and he had a particular loathing for this kind of smug, cleaned-up hero worship. He usually tended to express this unhappiness by throwing the offending minstrel through the nearest window. Fisher, feeling strongly that this might not go down too well with Jamie MacNeil, clung firmly to Hawk's sword arm with both hands.

  Brennan finally ground to a halt in a series of crashing chords and bowed more or less gracefully to his stunned audience. There was scattered applause, possibly out of relief that the performance was over. Hawk was grinding his teeth behind a fixed smile.

  "Clap him, dammit," said Fisher, out of the corner of her mouth.

  "Forget it," growled Hawk. "If we encourage him, he might do an encore. And I swear if I hear one more hey-nonny-no out of him, I'm going to ram his fingers up his nose till they stick out his ears."

  Katrina got the minstrel a drink, and the two of them stood chatting together. Jamie came back into the room and went over to join Hawk and Fisher. He checked to make sure Brennan wasn't watching, and then shook his head ruefully.

  "He's not very good, is he? Sorry to put you through that, but it's expected of me that I have my own minstrel. Family tradition and all that. Robbie was my father's minstrel, and I seem to have inherited him. He hasn't improved over the years. Dad had cloth ears, but liked to sing, even though he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. Robbie suited him very well. Besides, when all is said and done, he and Dad fought back to back on a dozen major campaigns, when they were both a lot younger. Least I can do is give Robbie a safe berth at the end of his days. I just wish I could convince him to retire…"

  He looked round as the door opened yet again, and the butler Greaves ushered in two more guests. Hawk looked too, and his stomach lurched as though one of his feet had just slipped over the edge of a precipice. He knew one of the men in the doorway, and worse still, that man knew Captain Hawk. Jamie moved quickly over to greet the new arrivals, grinning broadly. Hawk struck his best aristocratic pose, and smiled determinedly. It seemed he was about to find out just how good his disguise really was.

  Lord Arthur Sinclair smiled graciously at Jamie and strolled amiably forward into the drawing room, wineglass in hand, blinking vaguely about him. He was short, barely five foot tall, and sufficiently overweight so that he looked even shorter. He had a round, guileless face and smiled a lot at nothing in particular, but his uncertain blue eyes gave him a lost, confused look. He was in his mid-thirties, with thinning yellow hair and the beginnings of a truly impressive set of jowls. He was also a drunk.

  He had no talents and no abilities, and thanks to his Family, little or no self-esteem. He spent most of his time at parties, while the more conservative members of High Society murmured darkly that he'd no doubt come to a bad end. To the surprise of everyone, not least himself, he'd inherited all his Family's wealth, and for want of anything better to do had spent the last few years trying to drink himself to death. All in all, he was making a pretty good job of it; the first and only time he'd made a success of anything. He dabbled occasionally in politics, just for the fun of it, and had briefly been a member of the infamous Hellfire Club. Which was where Hawk had met him, while working on a case. Hawk tried not to feel too worried. Sinclair had been pretty drunk when they met. But then, he usually was…

  Fisher, meanwhile, had been keeping an eye on the other new arrival. Jamie had introduced him to the room at large as David Brook, an old friend. Like most people in Haven, Fisher had heard of the Brook Family; they had a long tradition of high achievement in the army and the diplomatic corps. To excel in one or the other was not unusual, but to excel in both was almost unheard of. Particularly in Haven, where diplomacy was usually just another way of sneaking up on an enemy when he wasn't looking. But, that was the Brooks for you; brave and intelligent. A deadly combination.

  David himself was a brisk, heavyset man of
slightly less than average height, well into his late twenties, and dressed impeccably if somewhat gaudily in the very latest fashion. He clapped Jamie companionably on the shoulder, and strode forward to shake hands with the bemused Hawk. He lingered acceptably over Fisher's hand as he kissed it, and Fisher's smile widened approvingly, almost in spite of herself. David Brook was devilishly handsome, in a dark, swarthy way. And he knew it.

  He excused himself with polished regret, and moved quickly over to join Holly. She smiled shakily at him with open relief, and for the first time that morning, some of the fear seemed to go out of her. She and David smiled and murmured together with the ease of long affection, their heads so close as to be almost touching. Lord Sinclair shook Hawk's hand and kissed Fisher's, smiling vaguely all the while, and then wandered over to join David and Holly, blinking owlishly as he waited to be noticed. They broke apart reluctantly, and Holly smiled at Sinclair with the kind of resigned affection usually reserved for puppies that are cute and lovable but only barely housebroken.

  Jamie returned to top up Hawk's glass, and he nodded gratefully. Jamie noticed Hawk's interest in Holly's admirers, and he raised an eyebrow. "Do you know David or Arthur?"

  "No," said Hawk quickly. "But I have heard of Lord Arthur. I understand he likes his drink…"

  Jamie snorted. "That's like saying a fish likes swimming. But you don't want to believe everything you hear. Arthur's a decent enough sort, when you get to know him. He and David have always been close. And Holly and David have been practically engaged since they were ten. Childhood sweethearts, and all that. And I'll say this for Arthur; he stuck by us when all our other so-called friends ran for cover."

  "He wouldn't be the first to find courage in a bottle," said Marc, appearing as usual seemingly out of nowhere. "Probably too drunk and too foolish to be scared."

  "You think so?" said Jamie. His voice was polite, but his eyes were hard.

  Marc sniffed. "I know his sort."

  "No," said Jamie. "You don't know him at all. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to consult with Greaves about breakfast."

  He smiled at Hawk and Fisher, nodded briefly to Marc, and left. Hawk didn't blame him. Marc's voice had the kind of insensitive arrogance that would have had a saint's hands curling into fists. Fisher fixed Marc with a thoughtful stare.

  "You don't approve of Lord Arthur?"

  "He's weak. I despise weakness. You have to be strong in this world or it'll grind you under."

  "We can't all be strong," said Fisher.

  Marc smiled coldly. "You don't have to be. You're beautiful. There will always be someone ready to be strong for you."

  He turned away, ignoring Hawk's glare, and went to stare out the wide window at the morning sunlight.

  "Take it easy," said Fisher amusedly to Hawk. "We're supposed to be brother and sister, remember?"

  "So I'm a very protective brother. Watch yourself with that one, Isobel. I don't trust him."

  "I don't trust any of them, but I take your point. Don't worry; I know how to handle his sort."

  Hawk looked at her quickly. "We're Quality now; if there's to be any rough stuff, I'll take care of it. You concentrate on being demure and ladylike." Fisher raised an eyebrow, and Hawk had to smile. "Or at least as close as you can get."

  Fisher gestured surreptitiously, and Hawk fell silent as Katrina Dorimant came over to join them. She nodded briefly to Fisher and then unleashed the full force of her smile on Hawk. It was a warm, intimate smile, suffused with promise, backed up by dark and unsettlingly direct eyes. Hawk smiled uncomfortably back, unconsciously standing a little taller and sucking in his gut. If Isobel hadn't been there he might have just relaxed and enjoyed it, but as it was… He glanced at Isobel and was relieved to find she was smiling, apparently amused at his discomfort. Hawk decided he'd better play this very carefully. On the one hand, he couldn't afford to antagonize his host's Aunt, but on the other hand, if Isobel stopped finding this funny long enough to get jealous… Hawk winced inwardly.

  "I'm so glad you're here, Richard," said Katrina smoothly.

  "Really?" said Hawk, his voice nowhere near as even as he would have liked.

  "Oh yes," said Katrina. "I was starting to think I'd have to spend this weekend all alone. I do so hate to be alone."

  "There are other guests here," Fisher pointed out.

  Katrina shrugged, without taking her eyes off Hawk. "Alistair's too old, Arthur's too fat, David only has eyes for Holly, and Marc gives me the creeps. I don't like the way he looks at me. I'd begun to despair, until you arrived, Richard."

  "I understand you're… separated from your husband," said Hawk, out of a feeling he ought to be contributing something to the conversation.

  "That's right. My husband's Graham Dorimant, a sort of somebody in local politics. We're going to be divorced as soon as I can get the goods on him."

  Hawk felt a strong inclination to turn and beat his head against the nearest wall. Was this case going to be nothing but one complication after another? Not only did he have to worry about Arthur Sinclair recognizing him, but now the woman who was making eyes at him turned out to be the estranged wife of someone else who knew him. Hawk and Fisher had met Graham Dorimant on a previous case, not all that long ago. If by some chance Graham had discussed that case with Katrina… A sudden thought sobered Hawk like a rush of cold water. Hawk and Fisher had made a great impression on Graham Dorimant. It could be that he'd described the two Guards he'd met fully enough for Katrina to recognize them even through their disguises. And if she had, what better way to distract them than by making a play for Hawk? But that assumed she had a reason for distracting them, which meant…

  The door opened, and Greaves entered to announce that breakfast would be served shortly in the dining room. As everyone present moved towards the door, Katrina quickly latched onto Hawk's arm.

  "It is good of you to escort me into breakfast, Richard. You will sit with me, won't you?"

  "I ought really to sit with my sister," said Hawk, knowing how feeble it sounded even as he said it.

  "Oh, don't mind me," said Fisher promptly. "You enjoy yourself, Richard."

  Hawk gave her a hard look.

  "Breakfast won't be much, I'm afraid," said Katrina chummily as they moved out into the corridor. "Cook left two days ago, along with what was left of the kitchen staff. But Greaves and Robbie Brennan have been managing between them until the new staff arrive."

  Hawk looked at her sharply. "I thought you couldn't get servants to stay here, because of the sightings?"

  Katrina laughed. "This is Haven, Richard. Money can buy anything here. They won't be top-notch staff, of course, but they'll do. Until we can sort this mess out. Now, what was I saying? Oh yes; breakfast. Cold collation, I'm afraid, but I suppose I shouldn't complain. It's very good for the figure, and I have been putting on a little weight recently."

  She glanced coquettishly at Hawk, obviously expecting some chivalrous denial. He was still trying to come up with an answer that was both polite and noncommittal when they reached the dining room, at the end of the long, twisting corridor. The room was grand in design, if not in scale, most of it taken up by the single great table, which looked as though it could easily seat thirty, and another dozen or so if everyone was feeling chummy. A magnificent white tablecloth lay half hidden under the glistening silver service and three blazing candelabra.

  Everyone took seats at one end of the table with a minimum of fuss, and Hawk ended up with Katrina on one side and Fisher on the other. Arthur Sinclair was sitting opposite him, and Hawk's heart missed a beat as that gentleman suddenly leaned forward and addressed him.

  "Tell me… Richard?"

  "Yes."

  "Yes, Richard… something I've been meaning to ask you. Why is your hair black and your sister's yellow?"

  "Mother was frightened by an albatross," said Hawk solemnly.

  Lord Arthur blinked at him, nodded, and returned his attention to his wineglass. Hawk looked at the settin
g in front of him and panicked briefly as he found he didn't even recognize some of the more sophisticated cutlery. Start at the outside and work inwards, he told himself firmly, reaching for the outer knife and fork. It's got prongs on it; it's got to be a fork… Greaves and Robbie Brennan appeared through the swinging service door, carrying trays of cold meats and artfully arranged raw vegetables.

  "When you're ready, Greaves, do you think you could do something about the fire?" said Jamie. "It seems rather cold in here today."

  "Of course, sir." Greaves gestured for Brennan to put his trays down on the table and see to the fire. Brennan gave him a look, but did as he was bid.

  For a while, there was only the occasional murmur of conversation as everyone heaped their plates and then set about the serious business of breakfast. Hawk in particular tucked into his food with gusto, but Marc, sitting opposite Fisher, seemed to be just toying with his. Hawk assumed he was one of those people who couldn't face a heavy meal first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, the minstrel had called on Greaves to help him get the fire going. Hawk smiled slightly. The butler obviously didn't care at all for being involved in such a menial task. He gave Brennan a hard look, and then reached gingerly up into the chimney to tug at some obstruction. Whatever it was, it didn't want to budge, and Greaves had to try again, harder. And then he and Brennan jumped back from the fireplace with cries of shock and horror as a body fell down out of the chimney and crashed into the grate. It was a man, entirely naked and stained with soot, and very obviously dead. The whole of his face had been burned away by the fire.

  Chapter Four

  Wolf in The Fold

  For a long moment nobody stirred, and then there was a general scramble round the table as people surged to their feet. Greaves backed away from the body, unable to take his eyes off it, until he bumped into the edge of the table behind him. Brennan stayed where he was, rooted to the spot. Hawk pushed past them both and knelt down beside the dead man. Jamie and Alistair crowded in behind him, peering over his shoulder but apparently unwilling to get any closer than that to the body. Fisher leaned gingerly into the fireplace and peered up the chimney, just in case it held any more nasty surprises. Everyone else huddled together at the far end of the table, torn between edging closer for a better look and making a mad dash for the door. Holly's face was bone white, and she clung desperately to Katrina for support. Katrina patted her niece's hands in an absent-minded, comforting way while she craned her neck to see what was happening. David and Arthur had both moved to put themselves between the ladies and the dead man, as much out of gallantry as anything. Marc stood beside them, gazing with fascination at the dead man.