Chapter 1.9 - Martin - That evening
Martin stamped his feet. “You alright?” Henry asked.
“Impatient,” he replied. “Remember, when the toff turns up keep out the way, unless I or he tells you otherwise. Clear?”
They nodded, and Angus muttered some affirming expletive. Martin glanced up at the sky. Still light, but the false light of evening. Surely the sun had bloody set by now. He glanced at the house.
“Constables, if there’s trouble I want one of you to leg it to the station, and the other to make sure no one gets in the way. Understood?”
“Yes sir,” the men said. One barely looked as if he learned to shave - he’d be doing the running. The other was older. Still, their presence gave an official look - which was why bloody Bartholomew had insisted on them being here. Martin didn’t like the Sheriff’s thrall, but the git knew his job. He was at the police station now.
It was Bartholomew who decided to spread the story about Richard Williams had his wife being attacked, planting the idea it was some dockyard violence - perhaps a gang unhappy with the man. “The more truth the better the lie,” Bartholomew had said - which Martin knew was right. Of course, he also knew his fellow servitor was just mimicking one of the Masters, aping the superiority. If only he knew … but Martin shut down that thought. His Master had long made it plain: he was never to brag, never to take offence. Let the goats bleat, his Master had said.
Meanwhile Martin and his two companions were passed off as some sort of special officers from the Port Authority. Once the locals had been assured Robert himself was suspect of no wrongdoing, and the Authority was even going to pay the hospital bill, they became almost friendly. More practically Bartholomew had also left them with a big bore hunting rifle.
Martin glanced at thy sky again - already darker through the evening smoke. “Right, we better get ready. Angus, Henry - in the kitchen. I’ll stay at the door. Angus - you on the gun. If it comes to it, don’t worry about hitting me. Just shoot.”
“Aye,” said Angus. As they ready themselves Martin thinks - how minutes to get to the tunnel at Greenwich, to walk under the river, and to get here. Surely Bartholomew would have a car or something at the gardens waiting for when his Master arrived. Of course, the cellar might be empty.
Just then a car careened around the corner and into the street, stopping just before the house. From the passenger side out stepped Sir Arthur Halesworth, the High Sheriff. Tall, broad, bearded, and with thick hair down to his shoulders, the Sheriff paused and held out a hand that was grasped by a more diminutive set of digits. Martin did his best not to gulp as out climbed the Lady Parr, in what he recognised to be her working clothes. Finally, from the front emerged Bartholemew who started to talk to the constables, drawing them to one side as Sir Arthur walked up to the house.
“Martin,” the High Sheriff said. Martin made a quick, functional obeisance. “How did you stumble on this one?” His voice was a deep rumbling baritone.
“I was about my Master’s business,” Martin replied. Sir Arthur nodded.
“No sound?”
“No - but I cannot be certain there is anything.”
“Mmm,” Sir Arthur considered, looking at the hallway. “My lady?” he said, turning to his companion.
She seemed to think a moment, her apparently gentle face unmoving. “If there is someone there they are staying quiet. And still.”
“Which would be the only sensible action,” Sir Arthur said, glancing at Henry and Angus down the hall. “Right. Martin - you guard the front door. Your men watch from where they are. We’ll descend. If anything else comes up - delay it.”
“Very well Sir,” Martin said. His own revolver now out.
“Are you ready my lady?” Sir Arthur asked.
“Let me go first,” she said.
“If you wish.” It took them but a moment to clear the way. Martin heard, rather than saw, the High Sheriff lift the trap. Lady Parr walked into the space beneath the stairs, and went out of sight. Martin waited. He saw Angus heft the rifle up and heard Sir Arthur begin his own descent.
From beneath the stairs came a sound not quite like a cat’s hiss, and Martin fancied he heard a voice - though he could not tell more. Then silence.
A few moments later Sir Arthur called up, “Martin. We are coming up. Make sure not to shoot us.”
Martin waved at Angus and Henry, who already stood easy. Up first was Lady Parr, and she was followed by another. A man, a little short perhaps, European, tanned, with the flat expression of one whose mind was no longer quite their own. Behind him came Sir Arthur.
“Martin,” Lady Parr said to him in her innocent soprano, “your surmise was correct.”
