The Influenza Bomb by Walt Larimore

Author:Walt Larimore
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Howard Books
Published: 2010-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

The flames licked higher and sparks flew as Margaret Knox threw a handful of papers into the rusted barrel. Lance, one of the servants, stood next to her, holding the box of papers, looking disinterested. It was his way. He never betrayed what he was thinking.

“Am I wrong, Lance?” Margaret asked.

“It’s not for me to say, ma’am.”

“It is if I ask you.”

His dull eyes went to her face. “I have no opinion, ma’am.”

The French doors from the study opened and a young man stepped onto the patio. He wore a smoking jacket and light-colored trousers. His hair was slicked back from the bath he’d just had and he looked pink-cheeked and fresh—much as his father did forty years ago. He shoved his hands into the jacket pockets. A carefully folded newspaper was tucked under his arm. He came close, eyeing the barrel and flames.

“So you’re doing it,” he said, coming closer.

“I thought it was best.” She lifted her cheek to him and he kissed it.

“This won’t make it go away,” he said. He opened the newspaper. “An anonymous source has revealed to the press that Father was the writer Philip Barrison.”

“Oh, dear.” Margaret swayed a little, feeling as if she might faint.

Nigel reached out to steady her. “Sit down,” he said, drawing her to one of the patio chairs.

“No,” she said, pulling away from him and returning to the barrel. She grabbed another stack of papers and threw it in. “From a tragic death to a laughingstock. All in the space of a fortnight. How like your father.”

Nigel crumpled up the newspaper and added it to the fire. “Don’t think about it.”

“I can only wonder what this will do to your military career.”

He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

“We had an understanding,” Margaret complained. “No one was to ever know about his foolish preoccupations. I sometimes believed your father suffered from some form of mental illness. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that he threw himself in front of that train.”

“We’ll never know,” Nigel said, then pressed his lips together. They had worried the day would come when the truth would be known about him. Now it was here.

Hermione, one of the servants, appeared at the French doors with a silver tray. On it was a small stack of letters. “Today’s post.”

“Put it on the desk in the study,” Nigel instructed her.

She paused, then took a few steps toward him. “One is marked ‘urgent.’ Perhaps you’d like to see it now?”

Margaret waved her hand at Nigel. “You deal with it. I can’t bear any more bad news.”

Hermione presented the letter to Nigel.

He looked at the envelope addressed to the family of Philip Knox, with the word urgent in the lower left-hand corner. Nigel opened it and read the letter, then grunted and tossed it onto the tray. “Put it with the rest of the condolences in the study.”

“Yes, sir.” Hermione did a slight curtsy and returned to the house.

“What was it?” Margaret asked.

“Do you know a vicar in Notting Hill named John Gillingham?”

“No.

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