Free Justice Hall by Laurie R. King Page B

lip in the absence of moustaches—he looked like Feisal in fancy-dress.
    His cousin, on the other hand, presented the very essence of English Lord. He was bent over the green table, studying the lay of the balls, and ignored our entrance as assiduously as he was ignoring his fidgeting companion. The birch-and-ivory cue rocked three times over the prop of his fingers, then with a sharp crack his ball flew over the green felt and into its pocket. Two more followed, one of those a complicated ricochet shot, and then the table was clear. He replaced the cue in its rack, picked up a smouldering cigar from its rest on a small table and took a last draw before circling the burning end off in the bowl, then picked up a squat glass with half an inch of amber liquid in it and swallowed it down. He caught up a heavy tweed jacket tossed over the back of a leather armchair and strode towards the French doors, giving a short whistle between his teeth. A pair of retrievers scrambled out from under the billiards table and shot out in front of us. Marsh held the door for us; as I went past him, I smelt whisky.
    He set a brisk pace through the formal terraces and around the western wing. The perfect lawns stretched away in all directions, nestling around the Pond and gardens, speckled with deer and broken by enormous oaks and beeches, set here and there with buildings—a Gothic-style boat-house on the lake, a Palladian music house surrounded by trim gravel nearby, and a picturesque ruin atop a distant hilltop. As we marched up the grassy slopes, I kept an eye on Alistair, but he was not about to admit to weakness by being left behind. Past the layered centuries of stonework we went, along the path that followed the northern bank of the stream, and up the parkland until the house and lake had disappeared and we were in the park proper.
    There, Marsh’s pace slowed. He glanced over his shoulder at the lagging Alistair, and for the first time noticed his cousin’s infirmity. However, he did not then exclaim, as the Algernons had, “What happened to you?” Instead, he watched Alistair approach, then stepped forward to tug the injured man’s shoulder down and squint at the plaster. One brief look, and he stood away.
    Alistair met his eyes, and shrugged. “An accident. In London.”
    Marsh’s gaze lingered on the other man’s; emotion moved not so much across the duke’s face as in the muscle beneath it, an emotion composed of apology and bewilderment, that he’d spent hours in his cousin’s company without taking notice. I saw Marsh’s hand come up to trace the scar on his face, a thing Mahmoud had done when deeply troubled. Marsh was no more aware of his gesture than Mahmoud had been, and I clasped to myself this sign of Mahmoud’s presence beneath the unknown exterior. Then Marsh turned away, and we were walking again across the manicured landscape as if nothing had happened—although this time at a slow stroll.
    “You two have been busy?” Marsh asked us.
    “Reasonably so,” Holmes replied. “We have just returned from Dartmoor, a somewhat interesting case involving land fraud and family inheritance. Why do you ask?”
    “No reason. You look tired, is all.”
    “Nonsense. You, on the other hand, look distinctly unwell.”
    “I have put on nearly a stone and taught myself to sleep in a feather bed again. How could I be unwell?”
    “Mahmoud, we—”
    “Do not use that name here.”
    Holmes caught his arm and forced him to stand still. Deliberately, he said again, “Mahmoud,” and followed it with an Arabic quotation: “A man feels shame at the mistreatment of his brother.”
    He might have been speaking Mandarin Chinese; Marsh reacted not at all to the guttural syllables. He merely said, “In Palestine, you may have known a man of that name. You may even have considered yourself to be his brother. Here, there is no such man.”
    “Whatever the trouble, it would be best if you were to permit us to