The Servants by Michael Marshall Smith Page B

through the door at the end, the main door.
    Even though this door was still closed.
    “Mrs. Wallis, ” the man in the suit said, in an airy tone.
    “I wonder if I might borrow a moment of your so-valuable time.”
    “If you make it quick,” the woman said. “And try not to be infuriating.”
    “This young gentleman was in the kitchen .”
    “Well, well.” The woman looked down at Mark. “Good afternoon, young sir. And where did you come from?”
    “Upstairs,” Mark said, again. It was about the only thing he was sure of, and he’d decided he would just keep saying it.
    “He entered the quarters from the front, Mrs. Wallis. From your area of influence, to be plain.”
    “Did he, now?”
    “He did. Do we find this is acceptable? Do we run an open house ?”
    “Didn’t see him.” The woman shrugged. “And now, if that’s all, Mr. Maynard . . .”
    “No, it is not all,” the man said, and Mark realized he was becoming very angry. “We have spoken about this before . If
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    someone like the young gentleman can make his way in here, then any vagabond or thief might do the same. Is that a state of affairs we wish to encourage?”
    “Of course not,” Mrs. Wallis said. “But I didn’t see him. I told you.”
    The two then started to argue, along what sounded like familiar lines. Mark was distracted, however. First by noticing that the smoke, when it finally made it to the ground, was settling in wet-looking clumps. Then by the sound of footsteps. He turned to see someone hurrying out from the side passageway, perhaps summoned by the sound of a new bell, which had started ringing in the kitchen, a bell with a low and ominous tone.
    It was the girl he had seen when he’d been here before. The one with red hair. Once again she glanced at him in passing—and this time she stopped dead in her tracks.
    “Good afternoon, sir,” she said hesitantly. Both Mr. Maynard and Mrs. Wallis turned to look at her.
    “Emily—do you know this young gentleman?”
    “No sir, Mr. Maynard,” the girl said.
    Mark knew she wasn’t quite telling the truth. He knew she recognized him—that she, alone of all of them, had somehow glimpsed him when he’d been here the other night.
    “Well, hurry on then,” Mrs. Wallis snapped. “I hear bells—don’t you? Run along.”
    The bells were indeed still ringing, but that wasn’t the only thing that Mark could hear. There was another sound, too. It was like . . .
    It was the sound of a police siren.
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    m i c h a e l m a r s h a l l s m i t h Far away, but getting closer—as if a patrol car was zipping along the seafront road. Mark realized that he couldn’t hear Mr. Maynard and Mrs. Wallis as clearly anymore, though they were still talking heatedly to each other, their dispute escalating. The air seemed to be getting in the way, deflecting the sound of their voices and sending it past him in a way he couldn’t catch.
    It didn’t feel as warm in the corridor now, either, and the glow that had been warming the walls since the man in the suit had snatched the spoon from Mark—walls that, he saw, were stained from where the smoke had clumped on them, to slide down toward the ground, leaving dark smears behind—
    was fading, as everything became more dark once again. Oh no, he thought, his stomach dropping. The siren . . . He knew he had to get out of there— now —before the siren disturbed the old lady. He’d left the drawer in her room open, to make it easier to drop the key back in when he returned. She’d see that as soon as she woke, and know immediately what he’d done.
    “Excuse me,” he said urgently. “Excuse me? I’ve got to go.”
    Neither of them seemed able to hear him anymore. The woman was making a point by poking the man in the chest with her finger. He was not taking this well. Mark said
    “Excuse me” once again, even louder—still with no response. He couldn’t get past them: they were blocking the