The Half Killed by Olson Quenby

Author:Olson, Quenby [Olson, Quenby]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780989446075
Publisher: World Tree Publishing
Published: 2015-08-24T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

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I imagine that some years from now, I will remember it differently. The pungent odours of perfume and pomade will not strike me as having been so harsh, nor will the spicy scent of perspiration lay so thick on my upper lip. The press of bodies will be the same, the tight circle of guests gathered around the two figures on the floor, the one kneeling over the other. But will I remember my first thought as I move near enough to peer over the shoulder of a woman whose breath reeked of spirits? That particular detail, I believe, will be better left forgotten.

Chissick is quite near to me, but I’m struck with a sudden wish to send him off on some trivial errand, anything to take him away from the tableau before us. But as the kneeling figure stirs to life, his shoulders rounding beneath his jacket as he pushes back onto his heels, I know that nothing short of my own peril would remove him from my side.

It is a man on the other side of the circle who is the first to speak, an oath muttered beneath his breath as Lord Ryall’s body is revealed first to that section of the room. That single whisper of profanity is enough to instigate a buzz of voices from all around me. Another cry goes up, this one from the man formerly on his knees, his deep rattle of a voice running down a list of orders made to no one in particular. He gesticulates wildly, as if this physical movement will lend authority to his words, but no more than a few people pay heed to him, everyone else too busy marveling at their own shock to do more than stand still and murmur.

"I want to go," I say to Chissick, but if he hears me, he makes no sign of it. In fact, I feel his weight shift as he leans forward, the better to see over and around the people in front of us, the better to see the dark gash that nearly severs Lord Geoffrey Ryall’s head from the rest of his body.

"Miss Hawes." His eyes are bright when he looks back at me, and I see the mingling of emotions that I have no desire to identify. "Do you see?"

I want to think that he would understand by now. I don’t have to look. I don’t have to rise onto the balls of my feet or crouch down to find a window in the crook of someone’s arm. I know very well how Ryall is laid out, down to the bend of his wrists and the strange, unnatural curve in his lower back. I know that his eyes are open, that his face registers no expression of horror or fear. And this, I know, is what startles the assembled guests more than the crime itself—that Lord Ryall looks to have welcomed his last breath with a smile.

"Chissick, please." I grasp for his arm, but only succeed in snagging the edge of his cuff.

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