“There’s a man after my own heart,” said Sir Denis, with a laugh. He clapped Mr. Clemens heartily on the back, then led us back to the sitting room where he had poured us drinks. He took a moment to finish his own drink, then went out for a few minutes. When he returned, he was wearing a shooting jacket and carrying the big air rifle. “Ready when you are,” he said.
My employer and I put on our coats, which the butler had brought us during Sir Denis’s absence. Then we followed Sir Denis down a long hallway to the rear of the building. On the way, we got a more extended look at the building and its furnishings. I must say it was everything I expected of an English lord’s home. He gave us a bit of running commentary on some of what we saw, mainly the portraits of some of his ancestors. “That’s Sir Roger, who was at Charles Second’s court. Used to go out drinking and wenching with Rochester, they say—not that I consider that any great distinction.”
“No, since half the court apparently did it,” said Mr. Clemens. “But perhaps your ancestor at least had enough sense not to write poetry about it.”
“If he did, he was sensible enough to keep it out of print,” said Sir Denis, with a wink. “For all I know, there’s trunks full of it somewhere around the place. If any turned up, I expect I’d have it burned. Can’t always trust posterity to have good sense.”
“I reckon you can’t,” Mr. Clemens agreed. “It’s a rare enough commodity at present. No guarantee the next generation will have any more than we do now. Though I suppose I’m lucky; my girls seem to have more sense than their father.”
“Ah, I envy you,” said Sir Denis, shaking his head. “We lost poor little Emily quite a few years ago. Alice was heartbroken; she hasn’t really been the same since. That’s partly why she began to take an interest in spiritualism, to get in touch with the hereafter.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Clemens quietly. “Livy and I lost a son, little Langdon, not long after our marriage. A terrible thing to lose a child.”
“Yes, so you can understand,” said Sir Denis. “Now, we’ll go down this stair—this was rebuilt in George Second’s time, after a fire. Luckily it was put out before it spread. The portrait up there is my great-great-grandmother, Lady Caroline, by Joshua Reynolds. She was quite a beauty in her day, as you can see . . .”
We went downstairs to a less ornately decorated part of the home, out into a sort of shed. It was full of dirty boots, riding gear, and other outdoor items. Despite its humble function, even this room showed a quality of craftsmanship and finish far superior to what one would expect in an American home. How many generations of DeCoursey baronets and their retainers had used this room to dress for riding or hunting? It was almost beyond my imagination.
Outside, we followed a gravel path through a perfectly groomed lawn. We passed a bit of garden, followed a path that led behind the stables, and found ourselves at last in a roughly rectangular area about fifty yards across, bordered on one side by an apple orchard and on the other by woodland. At the far end was a steep gravel bank, and at various distances in front of that were wooden frames for tacking up targets. In the near corners were spring-loaded catapults for hurling clay pigeons into the air for target practice. Sir Denis’s shooting range, obviously.
“Here we are,” said Sir Denis. “This’ll be fun—I’ve not had the chance to fire this one for some years, now. Give me a minute, and let’s put up a target or two so I can check its sights, while we’re at it.” He pulled a few pieces of folded paper out of his pocket.
“I’ll put those up if you’ll tell me where,” I said.
“There’s a good lad,” said Sir Denis. “Why don’t you put one up at twenty-five yards—that’s the first stand, there—and another at fifty. That’ll be long enough to find out what I want to know today.”
I walked down the range, attached the targets to the stands (there were small metal pins there to hold them in place), and trotted back to join the two older men. Sir Denis nodded and said, “Perfect! Now I’ll ask you two to stand off a few feet, and I’ll try a shot or two.”
Mr. Clemens and I stepped back a pace or two, and watched Sir Denis pump a long lever that I assumed must compress the air the weapon used. After three or four pumps he was evidently satisfied; he said, “Heads up, ready on the firing line,” lifted the air gun to his shoulder, and pointed it at his target. There was a moment of anticipation while he sighted, then I heard a soft sound like a wine bottle being uncorked. The thwack! as the bullet hit the wooden frame, twenty-five yards away, was almost as loud as the report of the gun.
“That is quiet,” said Mr. Clemens, clearly impressed. “Still, I think I might have heard it if there weren’t some other noise to mask it. What do you think, Wentworth?”
“I probably could have heard it if I’d known what I was listening for,” I said. “Not expecting it, I can’t say for certain I’d have noticed it.”
“It’s almost completely quiet compared to a regular gun, I can tell you that,” shouted Sir Denis. “Let me pump it back up and try another. You two can have a go, too, if you’d like.”
“I’ll pass,” said Mr. Clemens. “I found out long ago I couldn’t hit a church with a gun, unless maybe I was inside it.”
Sir Denis chuckled, working the lever to recompress the air cylinder. “Maybe so, but a
