The Man Who Was Death by Pat Herbert

Author:Pat Herbert [Herbert, Pat]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: New Publications
Published: 2014-03-10T04:00:00+00:00

Early Winter, 1963

Lord Mountjoy was feeling chipper. His health was back on track; the hospital had given him the all clear. If he had been the kind of man that did jigs, he would have done one. However, aware that his dangerous level of drinking would have caused him to fall over should he have attempted such a rash activity, he wisely refrained. He settled for humming instead.

Having given the good news to his lady wife, he decided to tell his gardener next. Having had a celebratory swig from his secret vodka bottle, he made his way into the garden, still humming. Forsythia Mountjoy had received his news with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, remarking that he should take better care of his health in the future otherwise he’d be back to square one. Silly old trout, he’d thought. She didn’t care if he lived or died although, on balance, he rather suspected she’d prefer it if he did the latter.

But not even his wife’s attitude could dampen his spirits that cold late November morning. He saw Dave attacking a particularly recalcitrant mass of brambles and started towards him, switching to another tune as he did so. “I Feel Pretty” seemed an apt song, he thought, having caught a glance of himself in the hall mirror on the way out. His looks had certainly improved recently, he noticed. Maybe it was because he had eased up on his drinking somewhat since being told he was seriously ill. But now he was well, there was nothing to stop him returning to his old friend, Mr Alcohol.

Dave looked up as he saw Lord Mountjoy march purposefully towards him. The black aura around his head was very pronounced now. Oh dear, he sighed to himself. Poor old chap, must be bad news. But he looks cheerful enough – more cheerful than usual...

“Hi, Dave,” Florian called, waving his hand. “How’s tricks?”

Goodness, thought Dave, what’s got into him? Thinks I’m his buddy now. It wasn’t often that his lord and master addressed him in such a matey way.

“Fine, sir,” said Dave politely. He still knew his place, even if his lordship didn’t.

“What’s with this ‘sir’ business? It’s a beautiful day ...” It wasn’t. It was November. “... And all’s right with the world. Everything’s tickety-boo. Having trouble with those brambles, I see...”

“Er, yes sir,” said Dave, quite at a loss. “But they won’t beat me.”

“I almost feel sorry for them,” said Lord Mountjoy, grinning from ear to ear. Dave found this a rather unnerving sight.

“Er, is there anything you wanted, sir?” said Dave, hoping he would go away. It was all too much. Since discovering that Florian was the father of Sybilla’s baby, he had avoided him as much as possible, finding it difficult to look him in the eye. He wasn’t jealous of him exactly; there seemed very little to be jealous of. The man was an old soak and obviously dying. He had heard that he had been diagnosed with some form of lung disease, which he presumed was cancer, and now the black aura confirmed this diagnosis.

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