CHAPTER TWELVE
Taking Care of Loose Ends Afterwards
Back at Drood Hall, I paid a visit to the Infirmary. One of the closed-off wards, where we keep the lost causes. For those Droods injured or damaged beyond all hope of recovery, but somehow still alive. Because out in the field, a bullet can be the kindest threat an agent has to face. We never give up on them, because they're family. And because every now and again, we win one. Alistair had a small private room all to himself, befitting his status as husband to the late Matriarch, my grandmother. He wasn't my real grandfather; that had been the Matriarch's first husband. Which might have been why I never cared much for Alistair.
He lay quietly on his bed, still wrapped from head to toe in bandages, even after all this time. Surrounded by the very latest medical equipment, apparently helpless to do anything more than monitor his condition. They made pleasant, efficient sounds at regular intervals, and lights made impressive patterns on their displays, but still Alistair lay there, held somewhere between life and death. He slept most of the time, I was told, waking up just often enough to take nourishment through a straw. He breathed slowly, evenly, without any help.
He'd been like this for months, ever since he tried to protect the Matriarch from me. He used a forbidden weapon, a witch-killing gun called the Salem Special. It fired flames called up from Hell itself, according to legend. I couldn't let Alistair use it on Molly, so I made it backfire. I can still remember the way he screamed, the stench of his burning flesh, as the flames ate him up.
Nurses and doctors had given me hard looks as I headed for his room. They couldn't deny me some time with the man, even though they blamed me for his condition.
I pulled up a chair, and sat down beside the bed. The heavy smell of antiseptic in the room bothered me obscurely, until I made the connection with the Red Room in Area 52, and pushed the thought from my head. I looked Alistair over. His bandages covered every visible part of him, the rest covered by a single light blanket. They were clean, white, spotless even, which suggested they were being regularly changed, at least. His face was as blank as any Egyptian mummy's, with only dark holes for the eyes and mouth. He breathed slowly, not moving, and if he knew I was there, he gave no sign.
'Sorry I haven't been to see you before,' I said. 'But I never had a good enough reason, till now. All the Immortals at Castle Frankenstein are dead. They're still dragging out the bodies, and piling them up. There are still some Immortals out in the world, scattered here and there, living their various lives as other people. But we'll hunt them all down eventually. We have their computer records, and the Armourer swears he's almost ready with a device that will always identify an Immortal, no matter how well they hide themselves. Isn't that good news?
'The Matriarch is dead. Martha Drood, my grandmother, your wife. Murdered in her own bed, by someone she thought she could trust. But of course, you already knew that. Because you killed her. Whoever you are, inside those bandages. When did you make the swap? After the bandages, presumably, when no one could tell the difference. Who would ever suspect a helpless invalid like you? Did you kill Alistair, before you took his place, or had he already died from his injuries? I'd like to think you were responsible for his death, not me. Because he did try to be a good man, at the end.
'You had the perfect disguise here, and the perfect place to hide. Easy enough for you to reprogramme the machines when no one was watching, so they wouldn't recognise your occasional absences. Were you planning on a miraculous recovery, at some point? It doesn't matter. The moment I saw the name Alistair on the computer's list of Droods who'd been replaced by Immortals, I knew you'd killed my grandmother. Who else would she trust, long enough for you to get close enough to stick a knife in her?
'There are so many things I could ask you. Things only you Immortals could know, about the infiltration of my family. I don't suppose you'd care to volunteer which of you was responsible for the summoning of the Loathly Ones? No? It doesn't matter. I have my list. One of you will talk.'
The bandaged head turned slowly on the pillow to look at me. I shot him twice in the head, with the Armourer's special gun, that fired strange matter bullets. I needed to be sure. Who was he, really? It didn't matter. Blood from the massive exit wounds had soaked the pillow. The machines fell silent, replaced by an alarm bell. I got up, and left the room.
For you, Grandmother. And you, Alistair. One last duty, one last service.
Later, in the Sanctity, I met with the rest of the Council. We were, after all, supposed to be running things in the Matriarch's absence. The Armourer was there, the Sarjeant-at-Arms, even William the Librarian, though he seemed even more distracted than usual. Harry was there, with his partner the hellspawn Roger Morningstar. No one objected to his presence, or to Molly's. With the Matriarch gone, we were all allowing ourselves a little more freedom from the old restrictions. I was relieved to see that Molly had recovered enough magic to mend her broken arm and crushed hand, though she still looked a little fragile to me. She was currently stuffing herself with mushroom vol-au-vents at the standing buffet.
Ethel's familiar red glow filled the Sanctity, but the once refreshing and revitalising energies of her manifestation now seemed distinctly weakened.
'Ethel?' I said. 'You seem a little off colour. Is everything all right with you?'
I don't know, she said. Is it really over, Eddie?
'Pretty much,' I said. 'It's just down to mopping up, now. Taking care of the loose ends.'
There were traitors and murderers right here in the Hall, and I never knew… The Droods are under my protection. I failed you.
'We can all be deceived, Ethel. Happens to the best of us.'
I never knew humans could be so… deceitful. I'm going to have to think about that.
I left Ethel thinking, and headed for Molly and the buffet, only to be intercepted by Harry. We nodded to each other, warily. He pushed his owlish wire-rimmed glasses into place with a fingertip, and considered me thoughtfully.
'We're going to have to talk soon, Eddie,' he said, in his most reasonable voice. 'About who's going to replace our dear departed grandmother. Someone has to take control of the family.'
'We'll organise an election as soon as the family's recovered from its various traumas,' I said. 'We've all been a little busy, in your absence.'
'An election?' said Harry. 'Yes, well, I suppose that's one way of doing it.'
He drifted away to join Roger Morningstar at the buffet, where they kissed briefly before taking turns to feed each other delicate little rolls of sushi. I saw the Armourer standing on his own, staring suspiciously at something palely loitering on a cocktail stick. I braced myself, and went over to join him.
'Uncle Jack…'
'You killed him, didn't you?' said the Armourer, not looking up.
'Yes,' I said. 'He didn't give me any choice.'
The Armourer sighed briefly. 'No. He wouldn't.' He looked at me directly. 'Tell me he died well.'
'As well as could be expected,' I said. 'He stood his ground, and fought to the end.'
The Armourer shook his head slowly. 'I thought that would mean something, but it doesn't.' He popped the thing on a stick into his mouth, and chewed fiercely. 'We took the dragon's head out to the old north barrow, and buried it there. Apparently it had got quite used to being covered, and felt… exposed, in the open air. Took a dozen men a whole day to manage it, but then, that's what lab assistants are for. Healthy exercise, I'm sure. Right now, our best historians are taking it in turns to sit and talk with the dragon, and take notes. That dragon has seen an awful lot of history in its time, before and after it was beheaded. A surprisingly amicable creature, I found, for a dragon. Spending centuries as just a head under a hill, winding down but unable to die, did a lot to mellow it. Now it's just glad for some company.' He looked at me sternly. 'But you can't keep bringing home stray pets, Eddie. The thought does you credit, but we just don't have the room.' He brightened abruptly. 'On the other hand, theoretically speaking, it does seem possible that we might be able to grow back the rest of its body! And stick it back on, of course. We could really hold our heads up, with our very own personal dragon! Even those snotty London Knights don't have their very own personal dragon! If only it hadn't been dead for so long… Still, that just makes it a little bit trickier. I do so love a challenge…'
'Speaking of which,' I said, 'how are you getting on with the Hand of Glory, and the remains of the robot dog?'
