Come to Dust by J.S. Cook

Author:J.S. Cook [Cook, J.S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press

GALLANT WAITED while Hoare twirled the flowers in his slender fingers. It was very late. John Ponsonby had long since gone to bed and could be heard snoring gently from the bedroom. The gas jets over the mantelpiece had been turned low, and the entire room had a feeling of lassitude about it, unless one looked at Jeremy Hoare. The solicitor seemed to crackle with energy, his strange eyes sparkling, his nostrils flared like some exotic stallion’s.

“El Ceibo,” Hoare said. “I hope the constable remembered to pass the information on to Raft.” He tossed the blossom onto the settee.

“Ah.” Gallant retrieved it, pressed it to his nostrils. “It smells lovely. Lord Dewberry?”

Hoare’s mouth curved down. “He is rather less redolent.” He lit a cigarette and paced the turkey rug for a moment. “That man. That man.” His long fingers stabbed the air. “He introduces his Bill tomorrow.”

“You don’t approve.” Gallant had his own theories about civil governance.

“It seems a personal vendetta with him and makes absolutely no common sense. It’s ridiculous, and why he continues to pursue it—” The solicitor seemed on the verge of a long-winded speech, so the discreet tap at the door was rather a welcome relief. “Yes, Mrs. Cadogan?” The landlady’s face appeared in the minuscule opening Hoare allowed the door. “I apologize for the noise. Now go back to bed, if you would?”

“Mr. Hoare, I am dreadfully, dreadfully sorry.” She held out a yellow telegraph envelope, edged in black. “It came just a few moments ago.” She laid it in his hand as though glad to be rid of it and vanished down the stairs.

Gallant, sensible to a sudden, wordless tension, sat upright. Hoare didn’t seem to know what to do with the envelope: he put it in his pocket and took it out again, laid it on the mantelpiece, and looked at it. “That black,” Gallant said quietly. “That’s a mourning letter, isn’t it?” Another of their curious customs he had never truly understood.

“How perceptive you are,” Hoare murmured. “Despite popular sentiment, you have never wanted for brains.” His voice broke, but he mastered himself admirably. He drew the telegram from its envelope and read it quickly, then folded it away. “My mother is dead,” he said.

Gallant drew a breath. “Dead.”

“Will you come to….” Hoare tried again: “Will you….” He paced the rug, then stopped in front of Gallant. “I wonder if you could come down to the… where she lived, to take charge of the body?”

“Of course.” Gallant stood up, reaching for his coat. “And Inspector Raft?”

“Will find out in time,” Hoare said, “as he does everything.”

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