Excerpt

Excerpt from Chapter 1

"We'll take it in the library," Ned said to the waiter, who bowed and hurried away. Julian pushed himself to his feet and followed his friend down the dark-paneled hall. As he anticipated, the library was empty, though the clatter and voices from the billiards room next door suggested that was fully occupied. Ned waved vaguely toward a pair of armchairs by the enormous fireplace. Julian settled himself opposite, stretching his feet out to the fire crackling nicely on the hearth, and another waiter appeared with a tray and two enormous brandies. He scurried away again as soon as they had taken their drinks.

Julian lifted his glass in a not-entirely-ironic toast. "I'm impressed by the service."

"It's a good part of what we pay for. For most of us—most of the membership, I mean—the idea is to have a place where you can get a decent meal and not have to put on airs."

Ned winced just a little, as though he wished he could take the words back, and Julian looked down at his drink. They had been lovers for a few months now, ever since the end of the Nevett murder case, but they had been friends since their unhappy school days at Sts Thomas's. They had gone up to Oxford together fully expecting the friendship to continue, and instead had grown apart over just that question of airs and tastes and friendships. Ned had gravitated to the sportsmen while Julian had found men who shared his tastes among the literary and theatrical sets; the two groups had never mixed, and the two friends had singularly failed to find a way to remain close in the face of general disapproval. Julian was far from sorry that Ned had made the effort to rekindle the friendship, and their affair, and if it meant a night or two at the hearties' club, he was prepared to make the sacrifice. To be fair, it had hardly been difficult.

"The food's quite good," he said.

"The salmon's been better," Ned said, judiciously. "But the chops were good, I thought."

"And you keep a good cellar."

"Our steward's very good. We're hardly the most wealthy club about, but the claret's always excellent."

Julian let his gaze range over the shelves that ran from floor to ceiling: a proper library, certainly, the sort of place every club had, with its tables for writing the occasional letters, but most of the books seemed to be bound volumes of magazines, and there were more than a few shilling shockers drooping at the ends of rows, or tucked in among the more solid bindings. That didn't surprise him—it was what he would have expected of the club's membership—but the frank acknowledgement of their tastes was rather charming. "You seem well-supplied."

Ned paused as though he wasn't sure what to make of the comment, and Julian looked at his brandy again, scowling. He certainly hadn't meant it badly. Ned knew how many copies of the Police Gazette decorated his rooms, but if he chose to take it that way—

There was a sudden rise of voices from the billiards room, a sharp note of alarm, and they both looked up as a figure darted past the library's open door, then stopped and turned back.

"Mathey! Thank God! Come quick, we need you—"