Justice Hall by Laurie R. King Page A

turned up the road, which, though equally difficult to see, was identifiable by the surface underfoot and the occasional lighted cottage along its length, and which presented no brambles at our legs.
    Marsh began to recount the history of the Franks family—the arrival of the publican’s grandfather during the third Duke’s time, the family’s losses during the War, and an elder son in trade down in London, but I did not listen much, being more interested in keeping my feet on the track and wondering just how late the Hughenfort family took dinner. It would take us at least an hour and a half, even at a brisk pace, to circle the wall and follow the entrance drive, and our pace could hardly be termed brisk.
    It would appear, however, that part of the evening’s sequence involved a telephone call from village to Hall, because before we reached the metalled main road, a set of powerful head-lamps approached from the direction of the Justice gates. They turned into our track, caught our figures, and halted. The driver’s door opened; Holmes and I piled into the back, followed by the dogs.
    Marsh came last, Alistair’s surreptitious hand on his elbow. He dropped hard into the seat, but before the hand could retreat, he seized it and gripped it hard for a moment before letting go. “Good night, my brother,” he said, and Alistair shut the door.
    Marsh closed his eyes, smiled to himself, and muttered something under his breath. I realised with surprise that it had been in Arabic: “Eyes like a cat,” he had murmured. A phrase I had once heard him apply to Ali when we were crossing the desert by night.
    With this phrase two things became clear. One, that despite his recent injuries, Alistair would be walking alone to Badger Old Place through the moonless night. And two, that Marsh was very drunk indeed.
     
     
       He sobered during the drive back to Justice Hall, and went up the steps with straight back and steady pace.
    “Have you rung the gong yet, Ogilby?” he asked that gentleman.
    “Not yet, Your Grace. Lady Phillida suggested they might wait a while longer.”
    “I can’t be bothered changing, Ogilby. And I’m sure my guests are famished. Give us five minutes, and ring.”
    I scurried up to my room to rid myself of overcoat and muddy shoes, and was straightening the pins in my hair when a hollow reverberation began to rise through the house. We reached the drawing room before the Darlings, and were thus witness to the astonishment followed by vexed disapproval with which Lady Phillida greeted the sight of her brother, still dressed in mud-spattered tweeds and holding what was clearly not his first drink of the evening. She then glanced at us, saw that we were similarly under-dressed, and her face went polite again.
    “We’d have been happy to wait—but it does not matter in the least. In fact, it’s rather fun to be Bohemian; the business of changing is so stuffy, don’t you think?”
    Bohemian or not, Sidney Darling stepped forward to present his properly clad black arm for me to go into the dining room upon, leaving the rest to sort themselves out as best they would. He deposited me at Marsh’s right hand.
    We were seated at one end of a table that could have accommodated thirty with ease. As it was, a great deal of empty wood stretched out to one side, and only two of the room’s forest of candelabra had been lit for us, a pair of Baroque silver objects that reminded me of the fountain outside, although I could not make out any pelicans in the tangle of figures. A display of plate glinted on a side-table, and the walls glimmered here and there with gilt. Three footmen and Ogilby were on hand to ensure we did not starve, die of thirst, or pull a muscle in reaching for the salt.
    I wondered if the family dined in such lonely splendour every night, and on the whole imagined not. There would be a smaller family parlour, or the breakfast room put to dual purpose. I was honoured, if uncomfortable, not