The Dark Side of the Road, Page 3

  ‘Only I couldn’t help noticing the gun concealed in a holster at your back,’ I said. ‘And the knife in a sheath up your left sleeve. And the powder burns on your shirt cuff, indicating you fired a gun recently.’

  Jeeves looked at me for a moment. ‘You can see all that, sir?’

  ‘I’ve been around too,’ I said.

  ‘A butler’s responsibilities are many, sir,’ said Jeeves. ‘If you’d like to wait here while I take care of your coat, I’ll take you in to see Mister Belcourt. He was most insistent that he wished to speak with you, the moment you arrived.’

  ‘I’m more interested in speaking with the Colonel,’ I said. ‘He is why I’m here, after all.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jeeves. ‘Mister James Belcourt.’

  I raised an eyebrow, despite myself. ‘James?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Eldest child to Walter Belcourt.’

  ‘The Colonel … is James Belcourt,’ I said. ‘Well. I never knew. This is his family home?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He arrived late yesterday evening.’

  ‘And where is he right now?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say, sir. I’m sure he’s around, somewhere.’

  I was actually shocked to discover the Colonel’s real name so casually. In all the years I’d worked for him, I’d only ever addressed him by his rank. He never once discussed his life outside our working relationship. And as long as he never asked me anything, I never asked him anything. Some things are all the more binding, for being left unsaid. And then I looked round sharply as a harsh commanding voice barked my name. The master of the house, and of the family, was striding down the hall towards me. I’d known he was there for a while, but it had seemed only polite to wait until he made his presence known.

  ‘Thought it had to be you!’ Walter Belcourt said cheerfully, in a loud and carrying voice. ‘Heard voices in the hall, thought: that must be our impetuous young guest. Ishmael Jones; how do you do!’

  The old man stomped steadily down the hall, leaning heavily on a plain wooden walking stick. A good-looking woman edging reluctantly into her forties moved smoothly along at his side. Walter Belcourt looked to be well into his seventies, but he seemed sharp and hale enough, despite resembling nothing so much as a stooped and fiery-eyed vulture. Once a large man, he was now much reduced, all bone and gristle, with a face that had fallen in on itself. He was mostly bald, with a few tufts of flyaway white hair. His blue eyes were still sharp and knowing. His bristly white moustache reminded me irresistibly of the Colonel’s. Walter wore a country squire’s tweed suit, with tall woolly socks and heavy footwear, for long walks in the countryside. He finally slammed to a halt before me, took a moment to get his breath back, and then smiled briskly. He thrust out a hand and shook mine firmly. Just to make it clear who was the boss in Belcourt Manor.

  ‘Any friend of James is always welcome at the Manor!’ he said cheerfully. ‘Come far, did you?’

  ‘I drove down from London,’ I said. ‘Made pretty good time, allowing for the weather.’

  ‘Good God, man,’ said Walter, honestly taken aback. He looked shocked and a little impressed. ‘You drove … all that way?’

  ‘In this weather?’ said the woman at his side. Walter ignored her.

  ‘The Colonel seemed to think it important I get here as soon as possible,’ I said. ‘And I always do what the Colonel says.’

  Walter let loose a quick bark of laughter and nodded quickly. ‘The Colonel. Yes … James always did prefer to be addressed by his rank. Even if he won’t tell me what it is he actually does. Won’t even say which regiment he’s a part of … Still! None of my business, I suppose. Security, and all that … Yes … Glad to have you here, Ishmael! Just a family Christmas gathering, nothing too formal. Just good food, good drink, and better company! Eh?’

  ‘Such a pity James could never find the time to join us for Christmas before,’ said the woman at his side. ‘How many years has it been, dear?’

  ‘Now, Mel,’ growled Walter. ‘You know how busy the boy is …’ He fixed me with his fierce gaze again. ‘You work for my son … In the military?’

  ‘I work for him,’ I said. ‘And I think that’s all I’m allowed to say. You know how it is.’

  Walter grinned suddenly and actually winked at me roguishly. ‘Military intelligence, right? Couldn’t tell me anything if you wanted to. I get it, I get it. Probably why James is still just a Colonel, after all these years … But then, he always knew what he wanted out of life. What mattered to him, and what didn’t. Always went his own way, that boy!’

  I nodded respectfully. It was hard to think of the Colonel as a boy, after all the years I’d known him.

  ‘He hasn’t been back to visit his old home in … I don’t know how long,’ said Walter, frowning. His gaze softened, became suddenly doubtful, lost in the past. He looked at me vaguely, as though he’d forgotten why he was talking to me. ‘What … what was I saying?’

  The woman at his side slipped an arm firmly through his. ‘You were just telling Mister Jones here how pleased you are that James has come home for Christmas, this year.’

  ‘Of course!’ said Walter, his gaze immediately snapping back into focus. ‘Of course I was! Where is that boy? Arrived late last night, straight to bed, didn’t even join us for breakfast … Where has he got to?’

  ‘I’m sure he’s around, somewhere,’ said the woman. She squeezed his arm, meaningfully.

  ‘Ah! Yes! Allow me to present to you my wife Melanie!’ said Walter. ‘Don’t know what I’d do without her. This is Ishmael Jones, dear.’

  ‘I know, Walter,’ said Melanie. She bestowed a welcoming smile on me and gave me the tips of her fingers to shake.

  Melanie was very blonde, very trim, utterly assured, and good-looking in a characterless way. Up close, I could see she was well into her forties, though she dressed younger. Fashionable enough, and entirely undeterred by expense. She also wore strings of pearls round her neck and diamond earrings so heavy that they brushed against her shoulders. I could see signs of surgical improvement, in her face and in her neck.

  ‘I’m Walter’s second wife,’ said Melanie. And given the difference in age between the two of them, the words trophy wife drifted across my mind. Melanie considered me thoughtfully, frowning just a little, as she realized my details didn’t add up to any kind of man she was familiar with.

  ‘Ishmael Jones …’ she said finally. ‘What an unusual name.’

  ‘I like it,’ I said. ‘I chose it out of thousands. I didn’t like the others. They were all too ordinary.’

  Melanie nodded vaguely, suspecting a joke had just gone over her head, but not ready to admit it.

  Walter stepped quickly in. ‘We’d almost given up on you, Ishmael. What with the weather, and all. Beastly stuff. I mean, we all like a little snow at Christmas, for the festivities, but this is beyond a joke, eh? Eh?’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ said Melanie.

  ‘Still; James was certain you’d be here,’ said Walter. ‘Now, what are we all standing around in the hall for? Big fire in the drawing room, to warm a traveller’s bones; and a hot toddy, to warm the inner man. That’s what you need. Come along! Jeeves … Jeeves! Where is the fellow?’

  ‘Here, sir,’ said the butler, hurrying down the hall to join us. I’d spotted him sneaking away with my coat and suitcase, while I was talking with Walter. Jeeves bowed briefly, to Walter. ‘I have placed Mister Jones’ bag in the Rose Room, sir. I trust that is acceptable.’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ said Walter. ‘Just the one bag, Ishmael? Never mind; Jeeves can rustle up anything you need. He’s in charge of everything practical round here. Aren’t you, Jeeves?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘What is it exactly that you do, Mister Jones?’ said Melanie.

  ‘I work for the Colonel,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Melanie, drawing out the word till it sounded more like no. ‘I got that. But what do you do for him, exactly?’

  ‘Whatever he asks
me to,’ I said. I met her challenging gaze steadily. ‘He asked me to join him here, so here I am.’

  ‘But this isn’t work,’ said Melanie, with the air of one scoring a point. ‘This is Christmas. A time of celebration.’

  ‘I’m always working,’ I said. ‘Wherever I am.’

  ‘Don’t press the young man, Mel,’ said Walter. ‘You know there are things he can’t talk about. Can I at least ask you, Ishmael; how long have you worked for my son?’

  ‘Must be fifteen years now,’ I said.

  ‘But you’re not even thirty yet!’ said Melanie. ‘Did the Colonel take you straight out of school?’

  ‘I’m older than I look,’ I said. ‘But then, aren’t we all, these days?’

  Melanie’s left hand went instinctively to her throat, where she’d had the most work done.

  Walter plunged in, to fill the gap. ‘Must be more than fifteen years since James was last here for Christmas!’ he said. ‘Good to have him back, of course, but … You probably know him better than I do these days, Ishmael …’

  ‘The Colonel has always played his cards very close to his chest,’ I said carefully. ‘He only ever tells me what he thinks I need to know, when I need to know it. But I would be happy to sit down with you, at some point, and share my experiences of the Colonel with you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Walter. ‘Yes; I’d like that.’

  ‘My daughter is here too,’ said Melanie. ‘Penelope. Lovely girl. Almost indecently intelligent. The two of you should get on well together. I’m sure you’ll have lots in common.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘That would make a change.’

  ‘Penny! Yes!’ Walter said cheerfully. ‘You’ll like her, Ishmael, everyone does. Now come along, do; come through into the drawing room and meet the others.’

  He turned abruptly and strode off down the hall, his walking stick thudding loudly on the carpet, Melanie floating along at his side. Jeeves had already disappeared again, off about his business. I followed Walter and Melanie down the hallway, thinking: Others?

  Two

  Conversations Among the Damned

  Walter slammed open the drawing room door with a grand gesture and strode in with Melanie hanging on his arm. The gesture was somewhat spoiled by an uproar of raised voices blasting out of the room. Walter had walked in on an argument; an angry one, at that. The noise gradually died away as Walter and Melanie entered, and I hurried to catch up with them so I wouldn’t miss out on the fun.

  The few remaining voices cut off completely the moment I entered the extremely large room. I stopped just inside the door and looked interestedly around at all the flushed faces and startled looks. Everyone moved to stand a little closer together; it might be all against one and one against all in private, but they automatically closed forces in the face of an outsider. It was so quiet that I could hear the wind outside the shuttered windows. Walter drew himself up to his full height, slammed his walking stick on the floor, and glared about him.

  ‘I’ve told you all before; no arguments at Christmas! This is a time of peace and good will, and by God you’ll all play nicely together or there will be no presents in stockings for anyone! You leave your problems behind when you come to my home for Christmas; is that clear?’

  His voice cracked like a whip, and his gaze was cold and merciless as he glared round the room. There were a few reluctant nods among his guests and a lot of lowered gazes. I used the opportunity to take a look round the oversized room. You could have played five-a-side football in the space available while swinging a whole bunch of seriously-annoyed cats. The room was dominated by a massive Christmas tree that took up one whole corner all by itself, its top bent over as it brushed against the patterned ceiling. Wide spreading branches were weighed down by any number of shiny balls and baubles, along with tattered lengths of tinsel and strings of old-fashioned flickering lights. Long-established family favourites, brought down from the attic for the occasion, I presumed. Someone had spent a lot of time dressing the tree, but it still looked like the Christmas fairy had thrown up on it. Cheerfully-wrapped presents had been piled up around its base, all with carefully-applied name-tags. Someone liked their Christmas traditional and well organized.

  The drawing room was overpoweringly large for the handful of people standing around in it, as though the room had originally been intended for much larger gatherings. Large bulky pieces of antique furniture stood awkwardly around, like guests hauled in to make up the numbers, and the truly ugly carpeting looked much used and even worn away in places. An open fire crackled loudly in a massive stone fireplace. I could feel the heat it was putting out all the way across the room. But then, this drawing room was almost large enough to generate its own weather conditions. I half expected to see rain clouds forming around the heavy brass chandelier, which looked sufficiently precarious that I made a mental note never to stand underneath it.

  Dozens of assorted Christmas cards hung from lines stretched across the wall above the fireplace, as though to say: Look how many people we know! A radio was playing traditional Christmas carols, sung by syrupy massed choirs without an ounce of real sentiment, but turned down to an unobtrusive volume so people could talk over them. There was even a sprig of mistletoe, hanging miserable and unwanted in a far corner, just to keep the Druids happy. All in all, it could have been a jolly enough gathering, if not for the heavy silence my arrival had plunged the room into.

  ‘This,’ growled Walter, ‘is Ishmael Jones. A friend of James. So I expect you all to make him feel welcome!’

  Everyone in the room reacted when they heard I knew the Colonel; everything from dropped jaws to narrowed eyes. But none of them said anything, even as they looked me over in their own interested ways. Whatever they’d just been arguing about was clearly forgotten now they were presented with the possibility of a new target.

  I gave my fellow guests my full attention and smiled easily about me. Most of them managed some kind of smile in return.

  Walter took me firmly by the arm and urged me forward. ‘Come over by the fire, Ishmael. Warm yourself up! You must be frozen, after driving so long through the damned snows to get here.’

  An attractive young woman in her mid twenties immediately came to greet us, and Walter’s habitual scowl disappeared in a moment as he beamed fondly on her.

  ‘This is my daughter Penny, Ishmael. By my second wife Melanie, of course. Sometimes, I think Penny is the best thing this family has produced in a long time. Until the credit card bills arrive.’

  ‘Hello, Ishmael,’ said Penny. Her smile seemed genuine enough, as though she was actually pleased to see me. ‘A new face at Belcourt Manor! How delightfully unexpected. Are you my Christmas present? I can’t wait to unwrap you …’

  ‘Dear Penny,’ murmured Melanie. ‘Always so ready to say something inappropriate.’

  ‘Sorry, Mummy,’ said Penny. She didn’t sound it.

  She put out a hand for me to shake, and then raised an eyebrow as my hand closed around hers.

  ‘How very warm your hand is, Ishmael! I’d never know you’d been out in the storm. Don’t you feel the cold?’

  ‘I’m very warm-hearted,’ I said solemnly. ‘Can I have my hand back?’

  Penny let go of my hand, her scarlet mouth making a brief moue of mock disappointment. Melanie sighed quietly, while Walter chuckled. And only I saw Melanie’s pale pink lips silently form the words: Must you always be such a slut, dear?

  Penelope Belcourt had long dark hair, flashing dark eyes, a pretty face with a good bone structure, seriously dramatic make-up, and a smile that suggested there wasn’t much she took seriously. As though the whole world was one big joke laid on for her entertainment. Just standing still, she burned with barely-suppressed nervous energy. Like someone who had a lot to give and was just looking for the right person to give it to. She was dressed fashionably, but sensibly, for a weekend in the winter countryside. No jewellery, as though she didn’t want anything about her that might distract you fr
om looking at her.

  ‘It is interesting that Daddy didn’t see fit to inform any of us you’d be joining the party,’ Penny said smoothly.

  ‘Well, given the weather …’ said Walter.

  ‘I didn’t know I was coming here till I got the summons from the Colonel this morning,’ I said.

  ‘And you always do what James says?’ said Penny.

  ‘Always,’ I said. ‘Except for when I don’t.’

  ‘Penny, darling,’ murmured Melanie, ‘do get our new friend Ishmael a glass of our special hot toddy. Just the thing, to warm the inner man.’

  Penny shot Melanie a quick look, and then grinned briefly. She picked up a heavy china mug from a side table and presented it to me gravely, holding the mug carefully with both hands so as not to spill a drop. Heavy steam rose up from the mug’s dark contents. There was something in Penny’s gaze as I accepted the mug from her, so I sipped the stuff carefully before giving my opinion.

  ‘Vile,’ I said. ‘Truly vile, with a creeping undertaste of Oh My God.’

  I handed the mug back to Penny, who laughed out loud, delighted. She put the mug back where she found it, beside several other untouched mugs.

  ‘At last!’ she said happily. ‘Someone who’s actually prepared to speak his mind! How charming … You’re quite right, of course, Ishmael; it is a truly awful family concoction that only appears at Christmas gatherings. I think for the rest of the year they use it as a horse purge.’

  ‘Really, Penny! It’s an old established family recipe.’ Walter was trying to be annoyed with her, but couldn’t quite manage it. ‘Just a bit of an acquired taste, that’s all.’

  ‘Then why don’t you ever drink it?’ Penny said sweetly.

  ‘Well,’ said Walter. ‘A toddy that good isn’t something you want to overdo.’ And he smiled briefly at me, as though I’d passed some kind of test.

  Penny nodded, thoughtfully. ‘You’ll do, Ishmael,’ she said. ‘You have possibilities.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ I said. ‘Really. More than you can imagine.’