Free Pleasures with Rough Strife by JL Merrow Page A

that, and soon he was up level with the clump of mistletoe he was after. It looked a sight further along the branch from here than it had from down below. Wishing he had some gloves, Danny started to inch along towards it.
    Suddenly his foot slipped. Danny had always thought it happened quickly, when you fell, but time seemed to have slowed right down as he tumbled through the air. Didn’t do him any good, mind. Branches whipped at him painfully, and Danny tried to grab onto them, but his arms were too slow and his numb fingers failed to catch hold of anything that might save him. His last thought was how mad his mam would be at him, and then with an impact that knocked the breath out of him an instant before everything went dark, Danny hit the ground.
     
    *  *  *
    When Danny woke up again, there was a large dog snuffling round his face. Its hot, smelly breath made him cough, which caused sharp, agonizing pains to cut through his chest like a gutting knife. Danny heard himself whimper.
    A guttural voice cut through the agony, and Danny’s eyes struggled to focus on a scowling face covered in greying stubble, dimly lit by the miner’s lamp the man carried in one gnarled hand.
    “Costesseys! Thieving bastards, the lot of you. You get what you deserve!”
    Dimly, Danny recognised Drayton, the gamekeeper. He just had time to think it must have made the old bastard’s Christmas, finding him like this, and then everything went mercifully black once more.
     
    *  *  *
    Philip stared at his tumbler of whisky. The firelight made the cut crystal sparkle beautifully and lent a sunny warmth to the amber liquid within. “You always liked amber, didn’t you, Robert?” he murmured. “You thought it such a wonderful thing, to be able to look at life trapped within some millions of years ago.” A bitter smile twisted Philip’s face. “You were so pleased with that amber-topped cane I gave you.” Philip felt a stab of pain at the memory and swiftly downed the contents of his glass as if to wash it away.
    He started as the door opened. “What is it, Standish?” he asked a little snappishly. Had the man heard him talking to himself?
    Standish gave no sign of considering his employer to be on the brink of madness. But then, he wouldn’t, would he? He’d been well trained. “Excuse me, sir, but Drayton has found a poacher.”
    “Well? Can’t he deal with it? I was rather under the impression that was what I pay him for, after all.”
    “Ordinarily, sir, yes. But it seems this one has taken a fall and broken his head.”
    Suddenly the fire did not seem as warm as it had only moments ago. “Not…?”
    “He is apparently still living, sir. Drayton begged leave to have a couple of the men bring him indoors, and I took the liberty of telling him you would not be averse to that.”
    “No! No, of course not, Standish. You did well. Have him put in one of the rooms in the west wing. Lord knows we have enough of them standing empty. And call Dr. Newton.”
    “Very good, sir.” Standish turned to go.
    “Wait. Do we know who the man is?”
    “Daniel Costessey, I believe, sir.”
    “Costessey? But I thought he’d—no, wait, I suppose this must be the son?”
    “Indeed, sir.”
    “Well, carry on, Standish.”
     
    *  *  *
    After the man had gone, Philip poured himself another three fingers of whisky almost without noticing that he did so. Daniel Costessey. Philip couldn’t recall ever laying eyes upon the son, but he remembered the father well enough. A swarthy fellow, with a great shock of dark, curly hair. Had the man had some gypsy heritage? Philip couldn’t remember now whether he’d heard something about that or only imagined it. Certainly it seemed likely enough given his looks. He hadn’t been over tall, but a heavyset and muscular man, his broad shoulders made broader, no doubt, by his work as a laborer.
    Idling his school holidays away wandering around the estate, Philip had seen the man often as he toiled.