Caesar and Cleopatra and saw Helen, searching the Hall. I called to her, and she hurried down to me.
“What is it?”
“Is Gabe with Marsh?” she demanded.
“I don’t know,” I told her. “He’s just there . . .”
We both followed my pointing finger: Marsh, but no small snowy figure at his side. I flailed my arm in a wide circle. He caught the motion in the corner of his eye, saw instantly that something was wrong, and ploughed through the crowd with a speed that made Ali look like a polite old man.
“Tell me,” he commanded.
“Helen doesn’t have the boy.”
“The children wanted to play,” she gabbled. “I said they could, but Lenore went one way and Walter the other, and Gabe must have been with Walter, because he vanished in the blink of an eye. You don’t think—?”
What I thought was that the younger Darlings’ desire to initiate their new duke into the hide-and-seek potentials of Justice might just have killed the boy. But Mahmoud did not answer; he wheeled to bound up the stairs, his black robes boiling up around him, Ali at his shoulder and me at their heels.
The solitary figure of Holmes, coming out from the long gallery, told me all I needed to know.
“Hughenfort went into the lavatory and was out of the window before I could get around the house. The boy?”
“Gone.”
“We must split up and search. From which room did he disappear?”
“Walter and he were last seen going in the direction of the Chinese bedroom, at the far end of the long gallery.”
So much for the grey-haired competent matron, I thought darkly. Mycroft would be mortified at her failure.
There were any number of guests in the rooms we swept through, all startled at the sudden interruption of their private moments, but we found no small figure in the white robes of a sheikh’s son. In the Chinese room, however, angry cries and furious kicks shook a seemingly delicate wardrobe. Ali did not pause to look for the key, merely drew his knife from its jewelled scabbard and drove it into the exquisite centuries-old wood, jerking the haft sideways. The door splintered open; Walter Darling blinked at the sudden light, tears streaking his face.
“Which way did they go?” Ali demanded.
“I didn’t see!” the boy answered furiously. “I was locked in here.”
“You have ears. Which way did they go?”
The flat assumption in Ali’s voice steadied young Darling. He frowned, dashed his fist against his teary eyes, and decided, “Not through the gallery.”
“The window?” We were up on the main block’s first floor, but a brief roof line lay not far beneath the windowsill, the portico over a side entrance.
“No, I’d have heard that. They just went. I think the man was carrying Gabe.”
“Good lad,” Ali said, and left the room at a run. Even so, Mahmoud was before him.
But they were not in the next room, nor in the corridor that led back into the long gallery. We were now nearing the old part of the house again.
“Isn’t there a—,” I started to say, the diagrams of Justice clear in my mind, but Mahmoud had already darted into the other end of the corridor and leapt up a flight of six stairs to a small door that looked to be a service room, but was in fact the upper end of the ancient spiral staircase that led down to Marsh’s bedroom and into the Mediaeval chapel with the Roman tiles below. Mahmoud had the key out and the door open in an instant, and then he went still as a statue, listening with all his being for sounds, above or below. None came. Mahmoud snatched up two candle stubs and a box of vestas from the stone niche over the entrance, lit the stubs and thrust one at Ali, then started up the stairway with his hand cupped to shelter the other. I picked up the skirts of my costume and followed on his heels; Holmes plunged into the depths after Ali.
This upper level of stairs was less worn than those Alistair had shown me on our tour, but retained the shape of the others, a tight, shoulder-hugging spiral that ended at a small, sturdy door. It was not locked; Mahmoud blew out the candle and eased the door open.
Icy air rushed over us, blowing snowflakes and the stink of the roof-top torches. The heaving flames reflected off the day’s snowfall, giving a degree of substance to the roofs, and Mahmoud moved off with confidence into the shifting darkness. I went after him, trusting his childhood knowledge of the Justice leads, praying that he could see well enough to keep from stumbling into Ivo Hughenfort. As my eyes adjusted I could tell that the snow had been trampled—but that must have been by the servants, lighting those dramatic torches along the roof line. In the furious leap and ebb of the flames I glimpsed the roof as flat expanses of white cut by the sharp dark lines of chimneys and sections of pitched roof, with the dark wall of the crenellations surrounding the whole. Mahmoud’s night-dark shape moved silently before me, and then went still.
I too stopped. The flaring torches obscured as much as they illuminated, but I thought the movement across the snow fifty feet or so away was cast not by the torches, but by a moving figure.
Then the pulsing light caught on the dull gleam of metal, as the figure facing Mahmoud drew a gun. I was too far away to use my throwing knife, even if I could have hit him in the uncertain light, so I did the only thing I could: I shouted. I don’t even know what the string of words that tumbled out of me were, I merely had to let him know that he had a witness, that where he might have hoped to arrange a convenient accident for one Hughenfort, or even two, the problems had expanded beyond that.
The tableau froze, the leaping flames and the rising breath clouds the only signs of movement. I began to inch forward, hoping to get close enough to hit him with my throwing knife, knowing that a cornered man is at his most dangerous when he senses the heavy hand of failure descending onto his shoulder, knowing that the frustration of seeing his long years of planning turning sour might explode into pointless destruction. Knowing that there was not a thing I could do, should he decide to shoot Mahmoud. Knowing I had to try.
Then, seeming loud against the whip of the flames, came a small metallic noise from off to my right, a noise that would have been inaudible inside the house or had a wind been blowing, but a noise that broke the stillness of the roof-top like the gunshot it preceded.
Ivo Hughenfort was enough of a soldier to react to the sound of a rifle bullet being chambered behind his back. He jerked, half turning; I darted forward, but before I had taken two steps, the rifle went off with a flash that imprinted the stark image on my retinas: one man in the instant the bullet took him, a man and a boy behind him, braced for battle. Hughenfort and his gun both landed on the snow-muffled leads, and then I was on him, tumbling him face-first onto the snow. He struggled, but in a moment the rifle’s barrel was pressed into his cheek; when I looked up, I was somehow not surprised to see Iris, murder on her face and her finger ready on the trigger.
Mahmoud had not moved from his position in front of the boy. He had been closer than I to the revolver, close enough to dive for Hughenfort’s feet and grapple for the gun. Had the child not been present, I knew, he would not have hesitated an instant; instead, he had stayed where he was, using his broad body to block the young duke from a bullet.
Seconds later, Ali and Holmes erupted from the door onto the roof. Ali was all in favour of tossing his cousin over the side, giving to Hughenfort the fate he had intended for the child; it was Mahmoud who restrained him.
Instead, we handed Ivo Hughenfort over to Mycroft’s men for safe-keeping, to bind his bleeding shoulder and spirit him away to London.
And then we went back to the ball.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
