Slippery Creatures Page 3

  He leapt to his feet when the door went again, or at least tried to. The cut on his foot still hurt, and his legs were stiff with kneeling. He cursed, stumbled, and straightened up fast as he heard the cascading thud of books hitting the floor.

  Will headed rapidly round two sets of shelves, and came face to face with a giant. The man had to be a good six foot five, heavily bearded, and he was sweeping brawny armfuls of books off the shelves near him and hurling them on the floor.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Will demanded.

  The big man turned, made eye contact, and quite deliberately dropped another armful of books onto the pile at his feet. He pointed a sausagelike finger at Will. “Where’s the information?”

  “You’re bloody joking. Who are you from?”

  The giant took a step forward. Will stepped back involuntarily: the bastard was huge. “Where is it?”

  “I don’t know!”

  The giant swung his other hand at a shelf, a careless gesture that sent books flying. “Oi!” Will shouted.

  “Tell me!” The brute bunched a massive fist.

  Will had left the Messer in the back room, hadn’t thought he’d need it in broad daylight. He retreated a couple of steps. The giant strode forward menacingly, and Will pivoted to kick him on the kneecap as hard as he could.

  The giant lurched and howled, but didn’t go down. That was worrying. Will tried another kick, aiming to keep his distance since he’d be murdered at close quarters, and the big man caught his foot and twisted. Will threw himself into the movement rather than risking a broken ankle by resisting. He hit the floor, tried to roll away, and found a bookshelf in his face. He scrabbled backwards, trying to get away and up, but he couldn’t kick himself free from the giant’s grip.

  The big man swung his foot with enough force to smash Will’s jaw if he’d connected. Will lurched sideways, thrashing his leg to get free. The giant growled in a deep bass, got his balance, and raised his foot again, this time to stamp.

  “Hoi!” someone shouted. “What’s going on? Stop!”

  The giant swung an arm behind him to bat away the intruder, and twisted over backwards with a yell, as if that arm had been seized. He also let Will’s ankle go.

  Will hadn’t survived the war by missing God-given opportunities. He sprang to his feet, took a step back for run-up, and kicked the giant in the balls with all the strength he had. The impact made a satisfying thud.

  The big man doubled over with a strangled noise. Behind him stood a slender, well-dressed man who appeared somewhat startled.

  Will’s instincts told him to follow up with a few solid boots to the giant’s head. He forced that down, given the presence of a witness. “Watch out!” he said instead. “Man’s a lunatic.”

  “I saw— Whoa!” The man recoiled as the giant lurched to his feet. It showed impressive stamina considering how hard Will had kicked him.

  Will grabbed the table lamp off his desk, jerking the cord hard to pull the plug from its socket. It was an ungainly thing with a heavy metal four-cornered base that should do some damage applied to a skull. He brandished it meaningfully. The giant weighed up the situation, gave Will a glare of pure loathing, turned, and lumbered for the door, knocking the newcomer out of the way.

  Sod that. Will went for him, but the other man moved at the same time and they collided with one another. Will attempted to get by without actually pushing his rescuer to the ground, but the other man was doing the same thing while moving the same way as Will, so they kept blocking each other. A jangle of bells indicated that the giant had pulled open the door.

  “Hell!” Will shoved the newcomer out of the way as courteously as possible, and ran. The giant had picked up speed and was heading out of May’s Buildings in the direction of Bedfordbury. Will sprinted a few steps, lamp in hand, before his thinking brain overtook his fighting one to enquire whether he really wanted to take on a man that size who might well feel quite ill-disposed to him by now.

  He stopped. “Damn.”

  “Has he gone?” The newcomer had followed him outside.

  “Seems so.”

  “A lunatic, you said? Was that an unprovoked attack? Shall I call the police?”

  Will thought rapidly. “N-no. Best not.”

  “Are you sure? If you say so,” the other man said dubiously, as Will turned back to the shop. “Oh, you’re limping. Are you hurt?”

  “No. Well, yes, but that was something else. I cut my foot.”

  “You’ve been in the wars. Can I get you a drink? Cup of tea, something stronger?”

  Will stopped in the doorway to have a shufti at him. The newcomer was a fraction taller than himself, notably slimmer of build, and perhaps a little older, maybe close to thirty. The body that had collided with Will’s had been firm enough, but if he was in training it was for long-distance rather than weights. He had dark hair under a fashionable sort of hat, and very dark eyes, the sort that appeared black in some lights, brown in others. Welsh colouring, Will thought. He sounded the epitome of upper-class English, and he looked upper-class too, of the nervy sort vaguely reminiscent of a greyhound, rather than the pink chinless kind. Not bad at all, if one liked the type.

  “I beg your pardon, I haven’t introduced myself,” the man said, offering a well-kept hand. Will’s were callused with heavy lifting, dusty with paper, sweaty from the fight. He wiped them on his trousers. The man didn’t flinch as they shook. “My name’s Secretan, Kim Secretan. Am I addressing a Darling, by any chance? You have a look of the late proprietor.”

  “Will Darling. He was my uncle.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Secretan said. “He was a marvellous bookman. Have you taken on the shop? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

  “He left it to me. I’m not a bookman myself, but I’m learning.”

  “When allowed to go about your business uninterrupted. Quite seriously, that must have been a horrible experience. At least sit down for a while and make sure you’re not too upset.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Being attacked is hardly nothing.”

  “I was in Flanders,” Will pointed out with a smile.

  “But this is England. You didn’t expect to risk life and limb when you got up this morning.”

  Will wasn’t sure if being fussed over like this was amusing or annoying. It might be both. “I’m fine. You’ve no need to concern yourself, I’m sure you have somewhere you need to be.”

  “My dear chap, this is a bookshop. There’s never anywhere better to be. Good heavens, that fellow made a mess.” Secretan contemplated the books on the floor with dismay. “These will all need reshelving. May I assist you?”

  “There’s nothing to assist with. They just go back on the shelves. There’s no order to it.”

  Secretan grimaced. “There isn’t, is there? Your uncle had the bibliophile’s habit of mind, rather than the librarian’s. Which is to say, I’m sure he knew where everything was.” He didn’t sound sure of that at all.

  “That’s about the size of it. It’s in no sort of order, there isn’t an inventory, and I don’t have a clue what I’ve got here.” That came out sounding more like despair than a statement of fact. Will pulled himself together. “It’ll be a task to sort out, but I’m jolly lucky to have it.”

  Secretan nodded. “The work would tax an experienced man, delightful though it is. Do you have someone who can help you go through it?”

  That was as polite a way of saying ‘you have no idea what you’re doing, do you?’ as Will could remember. “I wouldn’t know who to ask. I don’t know the trade. I didn’t know my uncle until a couple of months ago and I only did a few weeks’ work here before he died. I really am starting from scratch.”

  “Right,” Secretan said. “Could I return to the subject of a drink? You look like you need one.”

  “I—” Will did want a drink, he realised. It was one thing to confront a burglar at night, quite another to be attacked in broad daylig
ht by someone who could have broken him in half. That sort of alarm took a while to leave the body. In addition to which, Secretan appeared to be wealthy, friendly, and knowledgeable about the book trade. He’d be a fool to turn that connection down, or indeed a free drink. “All right. Thanks. Let me just ask the chap over the road to keep an eye out for giants.”

  They went to the Black Horse at the other end of May’s Buildings, as the best of the three pubs on the little street. It was around two in the afternoon, so the lunchtime rush had gone. They took a table, and Secretan supplied a gin and tonic for himself and a bottle of Guinness for Will.

  “To prosperity,” he said, clinking glasses. “I’ve been assuming you’ll keep the place on, which is doubtless selfish desire. Is that your plan?”

  “If I can. I don’t really know what else to do. I’d just turned eighteen in the summer of ’14, and joined up right at the start.”

  Secretan nodded. “And came out at the end to discover that employers are very grateful for your service, but unfortunately...?”

  Everyone knew the situation: too many men, not enough jobs. You could hardly miss it while men with military bearing and rows of medals stood in the street with trays of matchboxes, one step up from begging. “That’s the way of it,” Will said. “A fit country for heroes to live in.”

  Secretan gave a wry smile. “They say you can’t become a West End chorus boy without the Military Cross.”

  Will held the Military Cross, as it happened, and he’d have become a chorus boy like a shot if he’d had the build for it. “Exactly. And the shop’s a going concern so I’d be a fool to give it up.”

  “It’s certainly a marvellous opportunity. So bookselling isn’t the family business?”

  “Just my uncle. I don’t have any other family.” He expanded on that, in response to a quick, darting glance of concern. “My father died when I was very young. My mother got the Spanish ’flu.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s hard lines. And you didn’t know your uncle well, you said?”

  “Not at all. He and my father fell out before I was born and Ma never got in touch, as far as I know, but when I wrote to him earlier this year, he welcomed me with open arms. I wish I’d mended matters before, but at least I was with him for the end.”

  “Yes, that’s important. And he left you the shop?”

  “He didn’t have anyone else either. I’d like to keep it going, for his sake as well as mine. He loved the place.”

  “Here’s to that.” Secretan tipped his glass. His eyes were the colour of Will’s Guinness, deep and dark. “I could recommend some very good men to help you assess what you have, if that would be useful.”

  Will had no idea what that might cost. “It might well, but probate won’t be granted for a few months yet.”

  “Of course. Well, the offer’s there should you need it, though I’m sure you’ll find your feet.”

  “Thanks.”

  Will sipped his drink, staring into its depths because he felt somewhat awkward. He’d have very much liked to embrace the offer of help, but he didn’t know how to ask, Would these men work for a share of profits rather than cash up front? Secretan didn’t seem like he knew about not having cash up front, and the question might be embarrassingly naive. There probably wouldn’t be profits worth splitting anyway.

  Still, the man seemed friendly: he could ask. Will looked up from his pint to form a question, caught Secretan watching him, and instantly forgot what he’d been going to say.

  Because Secretan was watching him. His absurdly dark eyes were dwelling on Will’s face, and he didn’t look away when Will met his gaze, so that their eyes locked and held for a couple of seconds too long before Secretan lowered long lashes and picked up his gin.

  Well.

  He wasn’t sure what he thought about that. Secretan was decidedly attractive, and Will didn’t have so many opportunities for recreation that he was eager to turn one down. It was just that he could have really used a knowledgeable friend right now, and he wasn’t keen on offers of help that were contingent on getting his prick out.

  He opened his mouth, but Secretan spoke first.

  “You know, I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you really do seem worn out. And I can’t help thinking that if I were randomly attacked by an oversized lunatic, I’d make a considerable amount of fuss, whereas you seemed quite unsurprised. Added to which, I did hear what he was shouting and he didn’t sound like a lunatic. I’d have said he had a very clear purpose.”

  Will blinked, thrown by the unexpected words, and also by his own error. Had he misinterpreted that look as interest when it had been examination? That could have been catastrophic. He was clearly out of practice.

  His face must have showed something because Secretan added, “I realise it’s none of my business. It’s just that there’s clearly something up, I liked the little I knew of your uncle, and mostly I am insatiably curious. It’s my besetting sin. So I will ask once more whether you’re really all right, and if I can help at all.” He raised his hands. “And if you say no, I’ll drop the subject.”

  Will opened his mouth to say he was fine, and closed it again. He wasn’t fine. He was in a mess, with no idea what was going on or how to proceed, and no allies except a milliner with a vivid imagination. He found himself saying, “I’m...not entirely all right. No.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  So Will did. He told him how the strange man with the tattoo had demanded information, about the burglary, and the visit from Ingoldsby who claimed to be from the War Office. Secretan stopped him there.

  “Do you think he was a fake?”

  “I’ve no idea. He didn’t show me papers.”

  “I dare say he considered it beneath him to have to do any such thing. I see your concern. As it happens a pal of mine is in the WO. Would it be useful if I checked they had such a chap as this Ingoldsby on the books?”

  “Lord, yes,” Will said with his whole heart. “That would be marvellous. Would you mind?”

  “Not at all. I can see you have enough problems without additional uncertainty. Carry on.”

  Secretan was an extremely intelligent listener, mostly silent except to request expansion or clarification. When Will had finished, he drew a breath. “You have been going it. Tell me something: if Ingoldsby proves to be the real thing, will you give him this paper?”

  “I don’t have it to give.”

  “No, of course not. Let him search for it, I should say, or hand it over if it turns up.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t like any of this. Suppose it’s discreditable to someone? What if this Draven character had secret information he shouldn’t have had?”

  “Then wouldn’t the WO be the best place for it?”

  “I was in Flanders. I don’t have the highest regard for the War Office.”

  “Fair point.”

  “And suppose it’s private matters? Suppose someone trusted my uncle with a secret that might be unlawful, perhaps, but isn’t harming anyone else—”

  Secretan was already nodding, without needing that spelled out further. “Yes, I follow you.”

  “For all I know, whatever it is might belong to the other chaps,” Will said. “I can’t assume the War Office has the right of it just because they’re official. I’m not here to do Special Branch’s job for them.”

  “You think this is a Special Branch matter?” Secretan’s brows rose.

  “War Office, talk of national security, several men working together on the other side, the tattoo—I know it sounds like the worst popular fiction, but I honestly wondered if they might be some sort of...well, gang. The man who confronted me didn’t sound foreign, or Irish, but they could be anarchists or communists, I suppose.”

  “Would you sympathise if they were?”

  Will shrugged. “I’ll be voting Labour if this election comes about, and higher taxes and redistribution of wealth sound like good things to me. But I don’t like bombs, or blowing
up civilians.”

  “Moderate of you.”

  “Anyway, I’m probably wrong. For all I know, the information is a treasure map and they’re all seeking the lost crown of the Anglo-Saxons.”

  Secretan grinned at that. He had a good smile, one that warmed his eyes and made the nervy expression disappear. It was the sort of smile you’d want a friend to have. “Good Lord, Darling.”

  “I’ve been thinking about this too much.”

  “I can tell. Well, I doubt that’s the answer, though it would be delightful, but I see your dilemma. You want to do the right thing by your uncle, by anyone to whom he might have made a commitment, and by your own standard of morality. Unfortunately, you don’t know what that right thing is.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Then we should start by finding out,” Secretan said. “I will ask about Ingoldsby, and I will also see if I can track down this Draven chappie. It’s not a common name, is it? If it belongs to a known blackmailer or Bolshevik, we might have a better idea of what this is about.”

  Will sat back, startled. “Can you do that?”

  “I can try. I know plenty of people who are awfully good at getting things done and can tell me how to go about it if I get stuck. I shall put enquiries in motion, as I believe the police say. And then—would you care for a hand sorting your uncle’s papers, at all?”

  “You don’t want to do that.”

  “Oh, I do,” Secretan said. “You can’t tell me a story like this and not expect me to be fascinated. I’m desperate to know how this will turn out. If it earns me a seat in the front row, I shall search through papers till my eyes and fingers bleed.”

  Will couldn’t help laughing. Secretan smiled back, and like blazes had Will been wrong, because if that wasn’t an appreciative look, he was a Dutchman.

  No matter. Secretan was extending a helping hand. If he was also appreciative—well, Will had hoped for a friend. A friend who wanted to fuck would be even better.