Lord John and the Hell-Fire Club (5 page)

"You tell me. Or rather, let us leave this place, and then you tell me."

Everett put out a quelling hand, urging silence. He thought for a moment, and then seemed to reach some conclusion. A slow smile grew across his face.

"Well enough," he said softly, to himself. He turned and reached toward Grey's waist, pulling loose the cord that bound it closed. Grey made no move to cover himself, though filled with astonishment at the gesture, given the circumstances.

This astonishment was intensified in the next instant, as Everett bent over the bed and wrapped the cord round the neck of the dead woman, tugging hard to draw it tight, so the rope bit deep into flesh. He stood, smiled at Grey, then crossed to the table, where he poured two glasses of wine from the flagon.

"Here." He handed one to Grey. "Don't worry, it's not drugged. You aren't drugged now, are you? No, I see not; I thought you hadn't had enough."

"Tell me what is happening." Grey took the glass, but made no move to drink. "Tell me, for God's sake!"

George smiled again, a queer look in his eyes, and picked up the knife. It was exotic in appearance; something Oriental, at least a foot long and wickedly sharp.

"It is the common initiation of the Brotherhood," he said. "The new candidate, once approved, is baptized -- it was pig's blood, by the way -- and then brought to this room, where a woman is provided for his pleasure. Once his lust is slaked, an older Brother comes to instruct him in the final rite of his acceptance -- and to witness it."

Grey raised a sleeve and wiped cold sweat and pig's blood from his forehead.

"And the nature of this final rite is --"

"Sacrificial." George nodded acknowledgement toward the blade. "The act not only completes the initiation, but also insures the initiate's silence and his loyalty to the Brotherhood."

A great coldness was creeping through Grey's limbs, making them stiff and heavy.

"And you have... have done this?"

"Yes." Everett contemplated the form on the bed for a moment, one finger gently stroking the blade. At last he shook his head and sighed, murmuring to himself once more. "No, I think not."

He raised his eyes to Grey's, clear and shining in the lamplight. "I would have spared you, I think, were it not for Bob Gerald."

The glass felt slick in Grey's hand, but he forced himself to speak calmly.

"So you did know him. Was it you who killed him?"

Everett nodded slowly, not taking his gaze from Grey's.

"It is ironic, is it not?" he said softly. "I desired membership in this Brotherhood, whose watchword is vice, whose credo is wickedness -- and yet had Bob Gerald told them what I am, they would have turned upon me like wolves. They hold all abomination dear -- save one."

"And Robert Gerald knew what you were? Yet he did not speak your name as he died."

George shrugged, but his mouth twitched uneasily.

"He was a pretty lad. I thought -- but I was wrong. No, he didn't know my name, but we met here -- at Medmenham. It would have made no difference, had they not chosen him to join us. Were he to come again, though, and see me here.

"He would not come again. He refused the invitation."

George's eyes narrowed, gauging his truth; then he shrugged.

"Perhaps if I had known that, he need not have died. And if he had not died, you would not have been chosen yourself -- would not have come? No. Well, there's irony again for you, I supposed. And still -- I think I would have killed him under any circumstance; it was too dangerous."

Grey had been keeping a watchful eye on the knife. He moved, unobtrusively, seeking to get the corner of the table betwixt himself and Everett.

"And the broadsheets? That was your doing?" He could, he thought, seize the table and throw it into Everett's legs, then try to overpower him. Disarmed, they were well-matched in strength.

"No, Whitehead's. He's the poet, after all." George smiled and stepped back, out of range. "They thought perhaps to take advantage of Gerald's death to discomfit Sir Richard -- and chose that method, knowing nothing of his killer or the motive for his death. The greatest irony of all, is it not?"

George had moved the flagon out of reach. Grey stood half-naked, with no weapon to hand save a glass of wine.

"So you intend now to procure my silence, by claiming I am the murderer of this poor young woman?" Grey demanded, jerking his head toward the still figure on the bed. "What happened to her?"

"Accident," Everett said. "The women are drugged; she must have vomited in her sleep and choked to death. But blackmail? No, that isn't what I mean to do."

Everett squinted at the bed, then at Grey, measuring distance.

"You sought to use a noose for your sacrificial duty -- some mislike blood -- and though you succeeded, the girl managed to seize the knife and wound you, severely enough that you bled to death before I could return to aid you. Tragic accident; such a pity. Move a little closer to the bed, John."

A man is not helpless, only because he is fettered.Grey flung his wine into Everett's face, then smashed his glass against the stones of the wall. He whirled on a heel and lunged upward, jabbing with all his might.

Everett grunted, one side of his handsome face laid open, spraying blood. He growled deep in his throat, baring bloody teeth, and ripped the blade across the air where Lord John had stood a moment before. Half-blinded by blood and snarling like a beast, he lunged and swung again. Grey ducked, was hit by a flying wrist and fell across the woman's body. He rolled sideways, but was trapped by the folds of his robe.

The knife gleamed overhead. In desperation, he threw up his legs and thrust both feet into Everett's chest, flinging him backward.

Everett staggered, flailing back across the room, half-caught himself, then froze abruptly. The expression on his face showed vast surprise. His hand loosened, dropping the knife, and then drew slowly through the air, graceful in gesture as the dancer that he was. His fingers touched the reddened steel protruding from his chest, acknowledging defeat. He slumped slowly to the floor.

Harry Quarry put a foot on Everett's back and freed his sword with a vicious yank.

"Good job I waited, wasn't it? Saw those buggers with their lanterns and all, and thought best I see what mischief was afoot."

"Mischief," Grey echoed. He stood up, or tried to. His knees had gone to water. "You... did you hear?" His heart was beating very slowly; he wondered in a dreamy way whether it might stop any minute.

Quarry glanced at him, expression unreadable.

"I heard." He wiped his sword, then sheathed it, and came to the bed, bending down to peer at Grey. How much had he heard, Grey wondered -- and what had he made of it?

A rough hand brushed back his hair. He felt the stiffness matting it, and thought of Robert Gerald's mother.

"It's not my blood," he said.

"Some of it is," said Quarry, and traced a line down the side of his neck. In the wake of the touch, he felt the sting of the cut, unnoticed in the moment of infliction.

"Never fear," said Quarry, and gave him a hand to get up. "It will make a pretty scar."