The Killing Hand (7 page)

   "Do you love him?"

   She scowled. "Stop being a child, Eric. Either accept the circumstances or get out of this house." She was resolute. Her face was stern in such a manner that I had never seen before. My sister was no longer a girl as I had left her, but a full woman. She had made her own choices in life and taken her own path.

   I bowed my head. "I am sorry. With everything happening at once it is hard for me to tak
e it in. If you are happy, then I am happy too, and that is all there is to it."

   Her shoulders slouched and the strictness left her, once more returning to the sprightly youth I remembered her for.

   "I am surprised you did not move into Fathers' home to be truthful," I continued.

   "I would not allow it. Where would you go upon your return? You have a right to that house as much as I. Besides, it was left in your name upon their death. Gilbert could not have forced it from me if I wanted. And, like Fa
ther, I still hoped for your return."

   I am almost certain he would have wanted to as well. His asking of my home the other day seemed much more malicious with this knowledge in mind.

   "I am glad you came anyway," she smiled. "And stayed."

   "I could
not just ignore my own sister. Besides, I had to see this house of yours you told me so much about – and what a house it is!"

   Her face beamed at these very words. "I am so glad you think so, Eric. It is lovely, is it not? But what is a home without mann
ers! Would you care for a cup of tea?"

   I nodded politely and Lilly left the room. Mere seconds later I could hear her pottering about in the kitchen with cups and teapots. I strode over to the fireplace, examining the rif
le hung above it. The weapon was fascinating to me, having never seen one before in my life. I had only heard of the rifles used by the men in the wars via the newspapers, but rarely did such objects make their way back to England. The only weapon I had ever seen was a sabre – now seemingly so primitive compared to the industrialised warfare being waged out in Europe. Still, having a weapon hung up and admired as like art seemed almost primitive in itself, too.

   From the doorway behind me, the voice of Gilbert run
g out. "Ah, I see you have noticed my pride and joy." He grinned widely as he strode up to it, running his finger along the barrel. Apparently, Gilbert was under the impression that to ignore the obvious truth would be to resolve it. He continued, "Do you know much about rifles?"

   I shook my head.

   "Countless tribesmen were felled with this rifle, dare say I would not be here without it."

 
  I nodded, unable to give a response. I had known Gilbert was previously a soldier, although I did not know that he saw battle. Was I to congratulate a soldier for killing another man? It did not seem just. I could not help but imagine a world where Gilbert had been without his rifle, but immediately dismissed the thought. As much as I detested the man, I would not wish death upon him. Besides, he was making Lilly happy, and as her brother is was my duty to support her in whatever decision she made.

   Lilly returned with a tray of tea in time to save me from furthering the conversation. We each took our cups and drank in awkward silence. I
realised that this was the first cup of tea I had drank in over a year now, something so common now appeared like a luxury. Gilbert, apparently perceiving our idle chat to be over, made his excuse and left the room.

   Lilly watched him leave the room befo
re speaking. "I see that you and Gilbert are now best of friends."

   "
Oh, yes. Actually, he was just showing me his prized possession."

   "The rifle? Nasty thing, I do not care much for it myself." I could see the disappointment in her eyes as she looked
at it, almost as if it were an unwelcome guest in their home. She let out a sigh as if she hated herself for being so spiteful against it. "I should be happy that such a thing allowed him to survive out there, but still, must it be hung up as a reminder?"

   I had learnt long ago not to speak my opinions of war, for they were not shared with the rest of the populous. The only reminder we should ever have of war should be a grave, for that is all it results in. Legions of dead fighting for a purpose that ma
ny of them cannot justify, nor understand – and often fighting in vain. I believe Gilbert had picked up on my disapproval of war in my silence and perhaps that is why he did not push me for further conversation.

   When I did not respond, Lilly spoke again
. "But enough about such things; how was your return to work?"

   I smiled. "He is still as arrogant as ever."

   She giggled. "It is work – and good work at that. You should be thankful that Gilbert retained such an opportunity for you. I would wager that many other men would have pushed to have you declared dead. What of your friends? Have you reacquainted with everyone?"

   "James and Francis are still as they were, I am fortunate to have such friends here."

   "There were more though, were there not? You used to know others from the University, too."

   "I have not seen them," I lied, partially out of defence, partially out of shame. "Nor do I care for their company much."

   She smiled, surveying my face for a while. I could tell something was on her mind, but did not wish to probe her for it. Eventually, in her own time, it came out by itself. "You are staying, are you not?" she asked once more for reassurance.

   Could I tell her the truth? In reality I had merely returned to London out of necessity. I
had found myself nearing England more and more as my funds ran thin and felt as if I finally had no option but to return home in hope of a further grant from my father. But could I tell my dear sister that I had returned to London, not to see the faces of my family, but only for money? Of course not, it would break her. "Of course I am," I spoke, scaring myself at how easy the lie slipped out.

   She smiled. That warm reassuring smile that I loved so much. It was the only thing that made me want to stay in
London when everything else seemed to drive me away.

It was a week later when we all gathered at The Flying Knave once more. The nights had grown darker and the
weather colder by that point. The season had finally begun to slip into winter, its cold grasp tightening over London. The walk up was bitter and I found myself wishing I had stayed at home instead with the warmth of the fire to keep me company. Instead, driven by the prospect of gain, I walked on. By this time I had all but forgotten about the murder of Charles Ashdown, my mind having written it off to be nothing more than mere coincidence.

   I arrived at the club at the same time as Francis and we made
our way in together. His eyes were sagging, but the smile across his face tried to ensure me that all was well. After pushing our way through the regulars, we found Rufus alone in the function room. He was already drinking. He had begun to lean into the centre of the table as if being pulled in, only managing to break away to sway a little and take another drink. Harry and Palmer followed us only moments after, laughing heartily between themselves over some unknown joke. There was a short wait before Lucius appeared, and he offered no excuse for his lateness. He strolled into the room making something as mundane as walking look like an art form in the style of power and arrogance. Without a word he made himself comfy at the table and began dealing cards.

  
By this time the newspaper with the headline of Ashdown's murder was already in full discussion. Francis had brought in a copy to pass around the table.

 
 Rufus was the last to take the newspaper, eyeing it tentatively before peering out from behind it. "Is this not the man you were attempting to buy out, Palmer?"

 
  "Yes, talk about a stroke of luck! This saves me a great deal of hassle. I reckon his son will be more willing to sell."

 
  "Maybe somebody out there likes you."

 
  "More likely somebody out there really hated him."

   Francis picked up some of the cards he had been dealt and arranged them in his hand. "It is strange that Ashdown was killed so conveniently, do you not think?"

   Palmer hummed in agreement. "Having being unfortunate to meet the man in my time, it would not surprise me if the entire thing was planned."

   "Indeed, it is almost as if the killer was waiting for Ashdown, judging by the report."

   Lucius placed the remaining cards down on the table with a thud and cleared his throat – a sign that he had finished dealing. We picked up our cards. Rufus immediately placed three pairs on the table.

 
  Palmer stared at the pairs on the table and growled. "Heavens save us, we have barely started. I have scarcely glanced over my cards!"

 
  "What can I say? I must be particularly lucky today," Rufus remarked.

 
  We played, but the game appeared to have been won before it even started. With barely a hand left, it was not long before Rufus managed to clear his entire hand and win the game before anyone else was able to even match a pair.

 
  "It must be said – that was the shortest game we have played so far," Lucius quipped. "I think I spent longer dealing than we spent playing."

 
  "Just luck, is all," Rufus assured.

 
  "Well, a win is a win."

  We played on; a desperate struggle to not be the last one remaining. Palmer was second out, although he was too annoyed at Rufus' victory to relish in his near victory. Harry was next, followed by Francis. After that Lucius and myself spent several minutes passing the same cards back and forth before I finally managed to make the pair that caused his loss.

   "It appears I am the unlucky one," Lucius said, pushing the remaining Jack into the centre of the table and laying his remaining cards down in defea
t. He took a gulp of wine before turning to Rufus. "As the victor, the choice falls to you. Do you have a target for us this week, Mr Nichols?"

 
  Rufus stared into nothing for a while, thinking for a minute or two before actually responding. "You will have to let me think on it. I was not prepared for such a win and as such have nobody in mind.' He slid back into his chair, looking preoccupied. His eyes seemed to stare straight through everything for a while. He finally uttered from nowhere, "Harvey Brewer."

 
  "Of Green Union?" Lucius queried. "What the devil has he done to you?"

 
  "Ask me not for it is a long and frankly boring story."

 
  "You know full well he would not sell to you," Lucius warned. "There is no way we could match his cost even if he would sell. You understand that as well as anyone."

 
  "I just want to test the waters, so to speak."

 
  Lucius appeared disappointed. "Right, well, your loss I guess." He stood, gripped his wine glass and downed the remaining drink. "If our business is concluded?"

 
  The men nodded and stood to go their separate ways. Francis and I exited first out into the foyer, pushing our way through crowds towards the exit. Although neither of us said it, it was obvious neither of us wished to linger in that place.

   "Will you not join me for a drink again?" came a voice from behind us as we neared the exit of the club. It was Rufus, who had barely manage
d to catch up to us in our hasty retreat.

   Francis shook his head. "I am sorry Rufus, but I really cannot. I must return home."

   Rufus turned to me with a hopeful smile."'What about you, Eric?"

   "I am afraid not Rufus
– I have work to attend to in the morning."

   Rufus, looking somewhat deflated, gave a slight shrug and turned back to the crowd, focusing instead on his drink as Francis and I left once again into the cold night.

   "That was odd," I murmured the moment the door to the club closed behind us.

 
  "Tell me about it," Francis responded as we began to walk the streets. "I do not think I have seen a card game won that quickly before."

 
  "No, I was referring to Rufus. He seemed preoccupied."

 
  "Everyone is preoccupied in there, Eric. I have no doubt illicit things go on in their private lives. The business is not the only way some of those men are bending the law."

 
  "Something must have shaken him up though; he seemed pretty out of it."

 
  "I do not know what Rufus does behind the scenes. Nor do I want to know. Neither should you. I would leave him to his own devices."

 
  "Yes, maybe you are right. What about his request though. That Harvey Brewer?"

 
  "I do not know what he was thinking. There is no way anyone could buy Harvey Brewer out. The man is one of the most successful businessmen in London. I do not know what he was thinking."

 
  "Neither do I."

 
  We approached the stoop of Francis' house and he smiled to himself. "Anyway, I would not dwell on it. Do not let Rufus' problems become your own. You do not want to get involved in some of the stuff they do. If I were you, I would forget about it. I will see you next week?"

   "That you will."

   He turned to his door and placed his hand on the handle. I called out to him before he had chance to turn it. "I have been meaning to ask you something."

   He turned back towards me. "Whatever is it?"

   "These meetings - why did you join? I mean, I know for the money, but you were never one for breaking the law Francis. Why this?"

   He let out a
hard sigh. He paused for a moment, as if he were going to continue into his home and ignore the question, but instead looked up at me. "Please, come in Eric. I will explain inside." He unlocked the door and entered, holding it open for me to follow behind.

  
Francis' house was warm. It was the kind of home that when you return to from the streets you felt instantly safe in. The place was well decorated and cleaned – no doubt by his hardworking wife. Instead of going to his lounge, he led the way upstairs to a door, which he entered, and I followed. It was a cosy bedroom, well furnished with art and bookcases. The whole room seemed still, and I barely noticed the figure lay on the bed, covered in a thin sheet. After studying her I realised it was Francis' wife Mary, albeit more withered since I had seen her last. She looked sickly; wisps of hair barely attached to her flaking head, and did not stir from her slumber upon our entrance.

   "The doctors do not know what is wrong with her," Francis spoke when he s
aw that I was unable to. "They have tried everything, but she is only worsening."

   I managed to mumble, "I am sorry Francis. I did not realise."

   He shook his head. "It is not something I have exactly been open about. Although, perhaps I should have told you. It is my hope that with the extra money I can find a way to save her. Some way."

   Her head angled in the bed, stirring exhaustedly from her sleep. "Who is it?"

   "It is only me. I am here with Eric. Do you remember Eric?"

   Her head nestled back down into the bed and she did not respond.

   Francis continued. "She is weak, and has been for some time, but she is holding on. I just hope I can save her before it is too late."

   I wanted to tell him something to make him feel
better, to give him hope, but there were no words that I could find to offer him. What could one say to such a situation? I could see in Francis' eyes that even he had little hope of saving her. Perhaps that’s what made it all the harder to bear; knowing that he was against all odds. And yet he was still fighting. I told him I would hope with him too and that I would pray for her health. I no longer judged Francis for being in those meetings. I now understood it to be the lesser of two evils. He was putting his wife before any moral standing of his own. In myself however, I felt vile. Francis had only become a part of this thing out of love for his wife, yet I had joined purely for wealth. To fund a lavish and reckless lifestyle. From where I stood, I did not feel like a great man.

   I left. But, before I did, I embraced my friend. I found that I lacked the right words to offer him. I wanted to say something, anything, in order to aid him. To lessen the pain. But there was nothing I
had that sounded strong enough and so the embrace was the only thing that seemed to fit.

   I returned home afterwards, disillusioned. I reacquainted myself with the liquor cabinet for a while, drinking out the thoughts in my head. I did not want to th
ink. I did not even wish to be awake. All I wanted to do was slip into a sleep and re-emerge at a time where everything was well. But even I knew that this was beyond reality. Instead, I continued my night by drinking and smoking. I lounged in my chair. The crackle of the fire kept me company for a while. I observed the night through the sanctity of my living room window. Everything gave way to the darkness as night rolled round and all the life disappeared from the streets. Businessmen quickly marched home from a late shift. Children were rushed inside for their teas. Drunken men returned home in fits of laughter. As I watched everything unfold before me I was finally struck with a harsh bout of loneliness. I felt so detached from the lives playing out around me. Finishing my drink, I willing succumbed to the notion that I would not be resigning to tiredness anytime soon tonight. No matter how much I wanted it, my mind refused to succumb to sleep. Instead, I got up and grabbed my cloak and decided to go for a walk.

   I did not think about where to go, nor did I care. I simply strolled the streets
– occasionally turning down lanes that I had never walked before, if only for the sole reason to see what existed beyond my own boundaries. Without knowing quite where I was going, I went. Repetitious London lanes passed me by. Each one was as droll as the next. Cobblestone streets and stone buildings. The entire place so cold and mechanical. The smog of the industry loomed on the horizon from silhouetted funnels that rose to the sky like arms reaching for salvation. They were burning - and they would burn all through the night.

   Through illuminated windows I could see families nestled in their cosy little homes and I could not help but fe
el a bout of jealousy as I saw the exact same scene, house after house. Did the occupants of those buildings realise just how lucky they were to have their families to return to after dark? Or did they live every day, all the while trying not to think about it? I missed my Father. As much as his ideals did not align with mine, I still missed his presence. I found myself still angered at the fact that someone had felt the right to remove him from the world.

   Who has the right to do such a thing?

   I discarded the thought. No amount of anger or sorrow would bring him back. Besides, I was too drunk to think about such things. Even in my state I knew better than to go where that path led. I refused to think about it - if at least for a just a while. The thoughts would return, of course, but hopefully they would do so when I was in a better state.