Lethal Pursuit by Will Thomas

Author:Will Thomas
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The garden behind Barker’s home in Newington was dormant, giving a very good impression of being dead. The twisted Japanese maples were naked and shivering in the chill breeze and the many structures therein, the bathhouse, gazebo, potting shed, and porch that skirted the koi pond, were covered in snow. The pond itself was not frozen, being fed from an underground spring, but a necklace of ice encircled the edges. If the koi fish therein were still alive they did not rise to the surface. Barker did not wander his personal half acre in the mornings as he did the rest of the year. Everything had been prepared for spring by his Chinese gardeners, and there was little to do. He wandered his expansive garret over our heads, and looked down upon the garden from his dormer windows, planning the new year’s growth. There was a stoic beauty, but I wouldn’t go out in it on a dare. Even Harm, the little Cerberus that considers the garden his private domain, had spent the days since Christmas curled in a ball on a pillow in the front room.

“Lad!”

I stepped out of the kitchen into the hall, still clutching my teacup. It was the morning after the tent revival and I was still sore from my efforts.

“Sir?” I called to the stair.

“We’re going to the funeral of Major Drummond this morning.” The rough voice carried down two sets of stairs. “Dress appropriately.”

“Yes, sir.”

I finished the tea, crossed to the front hall, and knocked upon Mac’s door. It opened and he wordlessly handed me a black armband and a top hat freshly wrapped in crepe. He prides himself on being one step ahead of everyone. I let him because it means he does most of the work. I carried the articles into the kitchen.

With some trepidation, Rebecca set a plate in front of me, with a fresh hot pain au chocolat on it. Behind her, our chef Etienne Dummolard glowered, not that this was anything new. He is a growling bear and a tyrant to work for, but she did not protest. She is made of sterner stuff than most people realize.

I took a bite. The bread was a golden brown, hot and steaming from the oven. The chocolate squares inside were partially melted, the way I like them. It was delicious. However, it was not perfect. When one has been fed for six years by a culinary genius, one grows to expect certain things. The top was perfect, but the bottom was overcooked and chewy.

“Delicious!” I said.

Rebecca’s face fell.

“You see?” Etienne said in triumph. “Overcooked!”

I shot him a gimlet eye. If he wanted to insult my wife, I would give him his choice of sword or pistol. He glanced at the window, imagining the need to step outside, and became more polite.

“No, no, no, mon petit chou, we shall try again. You have the talent, now you must study and work hard in the craft. We shall try again later.”

“It’s really, really good,” I said, finishing the last of the roll.

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