“You’re lying. Admit it!”
“All right, all right, I’m lying.” There was a contemptuous sneer in Daniel’s voice. “Of course your wife doesn’t prefer a lusty young lad between her legs to a fat old man sweating away. Of course James would never let you down, when has he ever done that? Of course the servants don’t know.”
Sir Hubert’s head jolted, as if struck. Preston was staring straight ahead.
“March?” said Sir Hubert. “Is this—”
“Darling, of course it’s not true,” said Lady Armstrong. “Honestly, you must see what he’s doing.”
“March?”
March glanced at his master and away. He opened his mouth and shut it, uncertain for once. “Sir…”
“It’s not his fault,” Daniel said. “After all, you already knew, really, didn’t you? All those energetic walks you don’t go on. All those trips to London while you work, those jaunts to the caves together—”
James was purple-faced. “Shut up you bloody dago. Shut up!”
“If you like.” Daniel grinned. “For the record, though, Armstrong…your mother’s a whore.”
“Don’t you talk about her!” James screamed, and there was all the betrayal anyone needed in that protective flare.
“You little swine.” Sir Hubert was staring at his son.
“Pater—” James said urgently.
“Ungrateful worthless beast.” The old man’s voice was thick.
“Yes,” Daniel said. “If only he’d died instead of Martin. Haven’t you always thought so?”
Sir Hubert’s face said everything. Father and son stared at each other, mouths working, neither able to find words.
“Hubert, listen to me,” said Lady Armstrong urgently. “This is all lies.”
“Holt told us everything,” Daniel said. “He begged for his life. Gave us all the juicy details.” He looked at James. “You might have chosen someone more trustworthy to brag to.”
Lady Armstrong swung to glare at James, lips drawn back over her pretty white teeth in a snarl. Sir Hubert gave a painful gasp. And James Armstrong howled his rage and frustration as he brought his shotgun up in a fluent motion, with Daniel at point-blank range.
Curtis shot him through the temple.
James’s head snapped back with a spray of blood. His body toppled and fell. There was a second’s silence, then both Lady Armstrong and Sir Hubert screamed, “No!”
Lady Armstrong fell to her knees, reaching for the corpse whose blue eyes gazed sightlessly up. “Jimmy,” she sobbed. “Jimmy, darling? Jimmy!”
Sir Hubert stared, jaw slack, gun loose in his grip. Preston was backing away. March had his shotgun pointed at Daniel, but he didn’t look about to shoot. He stared from master to mistress.
“James,” rasped Sir Hubert. He took a step forward, almost tottering. “Sophie.”
“Don’t come near us.” Lady Armstrong leaned over the body like a bitch protecting her pups, face distorted, tears running down her face. Her voice was raw. “Get away, you stupid hateful fat filthy old pig. Get away from me!”
“I expect Vaizey will be able to arrange some sort of pardon if one of you talks,” Daniel said. “The other will swing, of course. Who will it be?”
Sophie Armstrong turned to him, face distorted with grief, and began to speak. A single shot cracked, and blood bloomed across her chest. She stared stupidly up, mouth open, and then fell forward.
“Oh, sir,” said March.
Sir Hubert lowered his gun, gazing at the body of his wife slumped over the body of his son. At the window Curtis had the Webley in a two-handed grip, gaze locked on the old man. He was trying to say something, eyes vague, mouth working. He raised the rifle. The barrel wavered. Then, in an abrupt motion, he reversed it, jammed the end of the barrel awkwardly into his mouth, and reached for the trigger. His arm was just long enough.
Curtis winced at the shot. He looked away from the bloody ruin of Sir Hubert’s skull, out of the window, and saw something on the hills.
“Hell and damnation!” He took one swift look to check March wasn’t about to fire, then hurtled down the stairs, leaping over breaking glass and taking the steps in three strides. He slowed as he came out of the folly door, so as not to startle March into shooting, but the servant was bent over his master’s body, murmuring. Preston was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s the other one?” he demanded, scanning the trees around.
“Gone,” said Daniel. “He’s unarmed, and has as much to lose as anyone.”
Curtis looked him over. Dishevelled in the baggy stolen clothes, grubby and unwashed, heavy black stubble already turning to beard, face grey in the thin morning light.
“Daniel,” he said quietly.
March straightened to stare at them. Curtis levelled the Webley at him. “Gun down. Don’t be a fool, man, your master’s dead.”
March’s face worked, but he lowered his shotgun.