Free The Death of Marco Styles by J.J. Campbell

I
    â€˜â€¦Â so Richie and Jerry took the guy’s trousers off and kicked him out into the street. You should have seen his face!’
    Marco Styles laughed as he finished his story, drained the last of his Sauternes, and put the glass back down, grinning cheerfully.
    â€˜I think that one might have been better over the port, dear,’ Irene Styles remarked as she got to her feet. ‘Ladies?’
    Charles Kingsman de Lacy watched the four women leave the room with both regret and surprise. He had been enjoying his conversation with Elaine Styles, who shared his love of the English countryside, even if her preferred use for it was as a backdrop to the slaughter of everything from rabbits to deer. She had been seated to his right at the great mahogany table that occupied the centre of Elthorne House’s dining room, and her departure left him next to his host, Marco Styles, an old school friend of his father’s and now retired from his career as frontman of a once-famous rock band. De Lacy knew very little about contemporary music and less about the band, Marco Lawless, while what he knew of the old man’s exploits at school in the early sixties didn’t make for easy conversation. Fortunately Marco had noticed de Lacy’s surprise and spoke first.
    â€˜I hope you don’t mind us being so formal, but Irene believes the old ways are the best, so we dress for dinner and the ladies leave the room while the gentlemen drink port.’
    â€˜Not at all,’ de Lacy answered, with a brief, self-conscious gesture to the perfectly-formed butterfly of the black bowtie at his throat. ‘It’s nice to see tradition kept up. And speaking of port, I see you’re giving us the Dow 1997. You have an excellent cellar.’
    â€˜Another of Irene’s foibles,’ Marco replied, ‘as with the servants. They’re hired, of course, although old Hartfield has become something of a regular.’
    De Lacy had guessed as much, from the manner in which the two maids had served dinner: polished but hesitant, as if unfamiliar with their surroundings. The butler evidently knew what he was doing, or had been given exact instructions by the forceful Irene Styles, with the port decanted well before dinner and standing ready on the sideboard with the bottle beside it. Hartfield now moved forward, placing the decanter on the table beside Marco Styles, who poured a glass before offering it to de Lacy.
    Following the familiar ritual, de Lacy filled his own glass before passing the decanter to Adam Carradine on his left, then took a sip of the deep red liquid. It was everything he had hoped for, and the perfect finishing touch to the excellent selection of wines which had accompanied equally excellent food. Irene Styles might be somewhat overbearing and uncomfortably insistent on out-of-date etiquette, but there was no denying that she did her guests well.
    â€˜I apologise for the port,’ Marco Styles remarked. ‘It’s rather bitter.’
    â€˜Not at all,’ de Lacy assured him. ‘1997 seldom fails to meet the mark, and the Dow is no exception. A purist might argue that it has been taken up a year or two before its prime, perhaps, and the tannins are still very much in evidence, but …’
    He broke off. His host appeared to be asleep, the glass of port still held in his fingers but his eyes shut and his face set in an expression of absolute peace.
    â€˜Don’t tell me Father’s dozed off again?’ Clive Styles said in apology as he turned from his own conversation.
    â€˜I’m afraid so,’ de Lacy replied, allowing himself a mildly embarrassed smile before turning his attention to what Clive was saying to Adam Carradine.
    Both men worked in the City, at jobs de Lacy only vaguely understood, and much of what they were saying was entirely incomprehensible to him. After just a few moments of trying to follow the conversation he turned away,