Justice Hall by Laurie R. King

service’ like all the others, but the wording is different, more ambiguous. And the sympathy of the King and Queen is pointedly omitted.”
    “That is hardly conclusive,” I objected.
    “I think it is. And I think my brother knew. Henry kept a diary, although it’s for the most part simply a list of where the hunt went this day or how many birds were taken on that, with the occasional farm details. But he wrote one entry, in August of the year Gabriel was killed, in which he reflects on the nature of bravery and cowardice. Only a few lines, but it’s as if he was bleeding onto the page. Add to that the fact that he wouldn’t let his wife send out memorials. Sarah wrote to me about that one; she couldn’t understand. She was a gentle thing—ill a lot, but a good mother to the boy. My brother wouldn’t have told her that Gabriel’s death was anything but honourable, for fear of her health. As it was, Sarah died the following winter in the influenza epidemic. Other than Henry, and the four of us sitting here, no-one knows. I suppose Ogilby might suspect the truth; Ogilby knows everything that goes on in the house, but he won’t have breathed a word.”
    “But… why?” Why would a young aristocrat, so eager that he signed up the very day he turned eighteen, commit a capital offence a year later? Why would a boy of noble birth not have received a lesser sentence? Why would a Hughenfort… ?
    “I don’t know. I do know he was blown up in February, when a shell hit his trench and buried him in the mud along with half a dozen others. He nearly died before they dug him out, and spent the better part of a month in hospital and on leave. And then as soon as he went back up the line he was in heavy action—even in the desert we knew that the Germans were on the very edge of breaking through, so all hell must have been loose in France. I should suppose the boy’s nerves must have been dicier than anyone imagined, otherwise his commanding officer would have pulled him out.”
    Marsh dropped his head into his hands, both elbows on the scarred wooden table. “He wrote a last letter to Henry. ‘Dearest Pater,’ it begins, but it doesn’t say anything of substance, only some memories of summer evenings at the Hall and the hope that he can remain—” Marsh’s voice wavered, then caught. “—remain brave. Ah, sod it all, I wish I’d known the poor little bastard.” He stood up so fast he nearly upended the heavy table and hurled his half-empty glass into the fireplace. “Sorry, I need to… ,” he began, and waved in the direction of the public house’s back door. His stride showed little indication of the four measures of strong drink and the pint and a half of ale he’d put away in a short time. The inn went deathly still; when he had passed through the door, I felt the villagers’ resentful eyes settle on us: What had we done to their duke?
    When he came back past the bar, the duke stopped to have a word with Franks before resuming his place. More drinks soon joined the collection, although a number of the glasses on the table were nearly full. Before we’d had more than a couple of swallows, however, Marsh got to his feet again, more circumspectly this time.
    “We shall miss the dinner gong if we do not leave, and that will make my sister cross. Not that I mind making Phillida cross, but I prefer to choose my fields of battle instead of declaring outright warfare.” As he told us this, his pronunciation deliberate, he took up his overcoat and began to button it on with equally deliberate fingers. We followed his example, and the dogs, familiar with the sequence of events, rose, shook themselves, stretched with eager yawns, and trotted over to put their noses at the door.
    When the cold air outside hit Marsh, he stumbled against Alistair, but recovered immediately. I was glad to see that we were not about to attempt the now completely invisible path through the wall and into the parkland; instead, we