Hawk frowned. 'First thing, all the men draw their swords. Just in case. I'll go
first, then you and Alistair. The women will come after us, with the rest of the
men bringing up the rear.' He looked back at the others and gave them his best
reassuring smile. 'There's no reason for anyone to be worried. We're just taking
sensible precautions, that's all.'
None of them looked particularly convinced. Hawk sighed, and gave up on the
smile. He'd always done better with a glare than a smile. He looked at Jamie for
help, and the MacNeil quickly got everyone moving with a brisk mixture of tact
and authority. Hawk nodded approvingly. Jamie had the right touch; that
particular mixture of arrogance and charm that was the hallmark of the
aristocracy. Hawk led them out into the corridor, and headed back to the drawing
room at a carefully unhurried pace. It wouldn't do to take it too quickly; most
of them were so rattled they'd break into a run first chance they got. And that
would be a real recipe for disaster. Once they were all just running wildly, the
freak could pick any one of them off without being noticed. So Hawk strode along
at a casual pace, carefully checking each turn of the corridor as he came to it.
Luckily he had a good head for direction. Unlike Isobel. She could get lost
going to the jakes in a strange inn, and had done, before now.
The corridor seemed subtly different than it had the last time he'd walked it.
The light grew dimmer as they left the windows behind them, and came to depend
more and more on the wall lamps. The shadows grew darker and larger, and it was
easy to imagine something cruel and menacing waiting patiently in the darkness
for them to pass. Every door was a potential threat, every turn in the corridor
a potential trap. The quiet seemed increasingly sinister, broken only by the
soft scuffing and shuffling of their feet on the polished floor. Hawk hefted the
light dueling sword in his hand, and wished more than ever for his axe.
He scowled furiously as he tried to figure out what to do next. The last time he
and Fisher had been trapped in an isolated house with a group of guests and a
killer on the loose, things had gone terribly wrong. He and Fisher had put a
stop to the killings eventually, but not before too many innocent people had
died. Hawk's frown deepened. He was damned if he'd let that happen again. He
tensed and lifted his sword as someone came up alongside him, but it was only
Alistair.
'Hold your water, lad, it's just me. Wanted to congratulate you on how you're
handling things. You've had military experience, haven't you?'
'Actually, no,' said Hawk. 'I know it's not really my place to be taking charge
and giving orders, but everyone else seemed too shaken, and there were things
that needed to be done. We weren't safe in the dining room.'
'You'll get no arguments from me on that, lad. I haven't felt easy in the Tower
since I arrived. Place feels… secretive. But… do you really think the freak is
that dangerous? He's only one man.'
Hawk scowled unhappily. 'I don't know. He's a mystery, and I don't like
mysteries. When you get right down to it, the freak is most dangerous because he
doesn't fit any normal pattern. Most murders involve people who know each other,
people who kill either for business reasons or in the heat of passion. But we're
dealing with someone who's spent centuries in solitary confinement, building his
madness year by year and honing his hate to a cutting edge. He could do
anything, for any reason; which means we haven't a hope in hell of out-thinking
him. All we can do is stack the odds in our favor as much as we can.'
'Very sensible,' said Alistair. He looked thoughtfully at Hawk. 'No offence,
Richard, but you do seem to know an uncommon lot about murders and murderers.
Mind telling me how you came by that knowledge?'
'Of course not,' said Hawk, thinking quickly. 'There's not much to do in Lower
Markham, so I read a lot. Crime fascinates me. Especially murders. So that's
what I read about. Mostly.'
Alistair made no comment, just nodded and dropped back to rejoin Jamie. Hawk
signed. It wasn't the best answer he could have come up with, but then, thinking
on his feet had never been what he did best. Except when he was fighting. But he
was going to have to be more careful. He had to think like a Guard if he was
going to solve this case, but he couldn't afford to act like one. If Jamie was
to find out he'd revealed his Family's darkest Secret to an outsider, and a city
Guard at that…
There was a collective sigh of relief as they hurried down the last stretch of
corridor and reached the drawing room without incident. Hawk was first in, and
quickly checked the room was secure. He then ushered the others in, and checked
the door for bolts. There weren't any, so he wedged a chair up against the door
and settled for that. Some of the tension went out of him, and he let out a
long, weary sigh. In a situation like this, looking out for yourself was tiring
enough, without having to worry about a bunch of civilians, half of whom were
jumping at their own damn shadows.
They were already splitting up into smaller groups, turning to those they
trusted most for comfort and support. Jamie and Alistair were talking urgently
together, with a fair amount of arm waving from both of them. David Brook and
Lord Arthur were trying to help Katrina soothe Holly, who was still trembling
pitifully. Marc stood with them, holding a drink for Holly, his face as calm and
composed as ever. Hawk studied him a moment, frowning thoughtfully. Of them all,
Marc had coped best with the situation. He might well prove a useful ally if
things started getting out of control. Whatever else you could say about Marc,
the man had guts. Hawk looked away, and his gaze settled on Brennan and Greaves.
They were standing patiently together not far from Jamie and Alistair, waiting
for orders. Fisher came over to join Hawk with a snifter of brandy in each hand.
Hawk accepted his gratefully.
'Well?' said Fisher. 'How do you read this? What the hell's going on here?'
Hawk shrugged. 'You got me. What little evidence there is points in half a dozen
different directions at once. I did some thinking on the way here, and I've
managed to narrow it down to three main possibilities. First, and most obvious,
is that the freak really has got loose, and has graduated from breaking up the
furniture to killing people. That doesn't explain who the dead stranger is,
though, or why the freak chose him as his first victim, rather than one of us.
'Second choice, equally obvious: This is all something to do with the spy
Fenris. Perhaps the dead man was to be Fenris' contact, and someone killed him
to prevent that contact taking place. Or, the dead man could be Fenris, killed
by his contact for screwing up his mission. That would explain why the man's
face was burned away, so that we wouldn't be able to tell who Fenris really
was.'
'And finally, there's choice number three: Someone in this room is a murderer,
and killed that man for personal reasons that have nothing to do with Fenris or
the freak.'
'Great,' said Fisher. 'Just what we needed. As if this case wasn't complicated
