Free Gethsemane Hall by David Annandale

later.
    “So?” Corderman asked.
    “Let’s eat out.”
    The Leaping Stag was at the edge of town, just before the forest that separated Gethsemane Hall from Roseminster. Far from central, it was closer to the residential areas than the Nelson. Pertwee had stopped in briefly the day before, but the pub’s obvious potential hadn’t struck her until now. When she entered, she knew she’d hit paydirt. This was the local. This was where Roseminster came to relax and debrief. All the tables were taken, most by groups of four or more. The bar was packed. It occurred to her that if she wanted to make herself unpopular, this was the place for it. Swallowing was suddenly difficult. Corderman must have noticed. “Is this going to be okay?” he asked.
    “I don’t think things are going to become violent.”
    “Good.” His posture relaxed.
    What now, Genius? The grand gesture, seductive in the abstract daydreams of glory, lost its appeal now the moment had come. It shrivelled at reality’s touch. She was going to address the pub, was that it? Was that what she was really planning to do? How? Climb up on the bar? Draw everyone’s attention by doing a trick with ping pong balls? Was she insane?
    “So?” Corderman asked, and this time she had no good answer for him. “What’s the plan?” he prompted.
    The plan was to grow up. “I had a stupid idea,” she said. (If she had the nerve, though. Maybe. Maybe. Try something a bit more subtle first.) She approached the bar and ordered a pint of Kronenbourg. “Mind if I ask you something?” she asked the big man who served her.
    “One minute, luv.” He moved up and down the length of the bar, filling orders with the efficiency of a balletic automaton. He made a complete pass, then, caught up for the moment, he came back to her. “What can I do for you?” He laughed. Pertwee didn’t get the joke, didn’t even see it, but she caught the infection and joined in.
    She held out her hand. “My name is Anna Pertwee, Mr. ..?”
    “John Porter.” His grip was made for hoisting tankards. “Yes, I know who you are.” Still friendly, but a hair less jovial. His eyes gave away nothing.
    So far, Pertwee had behaved. She knew she could trigger at least some small media dust-ups if she wanted. She hadn’t in the past, that damned hope for credibility restraining her from making any overt alliances with the useful but dangerous tabloids. She hadn’t spoken to any reporters in Roseminster, didn’t think they even knew she was here. But the word of her presence was out, it seemed, at least on the local channels. “Do you know why I’m here?” she asked.
    “For the Hall.” That laugh again, but the eyes were wary.
    “Yes, but not for the same reason as all the newspapers. I’m not about making life worse for people.”
    “Never said you were, miss.”
    “But you think I am. My impression is that most of you do.”
    Porter shook his head. “We really don’t, you know.”
    “But you won’t help me get into that house.”
    “A man’s entitled to his privacy.”
    “What privacy? With every red-top in existence camped on his doorstep?”
    “They aren’t —”
    “You know what I mean. I’m sure Lord Gray hasn’t been able to answer the telephone in a normal fashion a single time since he returned from Africa. But to be honest, I’m thinking about the greater good. I’m thinking about all of you.”
    “Are you, now.” No laughter. He was very quiet. For a moment, he was impassive enough to take up residence on Easter Island, then he shifted his attention to her right. “Excuse me,” he said and did another lap of the bar. When he returned, he was still serious. “How, exactly, can I help you, miss?” Formal, almost stiff, that wall she’d run into so many times rising again.
    “You don’t seem to understand. I want to help you . All of you. The good name of Gethsemane Hall has been smeared, and so, through association, has Roseminster’s. You don’t want