Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(19)

He’d have grown old with his best friend and considered himself blessed, but the War had taken her, and everyone else, and since then he’d had only empty encounters, nothing and nobody worth remembering, because what was the point in wanting more? Theresa was gone, and there was no lifelong companionship to be had with another man.

Except, on Sam’s word, there was. Twenty-three years.

“Did you mind?” he asked abruptly. “I mean, about your uncles. The two of them.”

That was a damned intrusive question, but Sam didn’t seem moved. “It wasn’t up to me to mind. Uncle Simon and Uncle Robert belonged together, and it was nobody else’s business. And Jo isn’t quite usual either, come to that. I can’t see why it should have mattered a damn to me or anyone. They plucked me and Jo off the streets, you know. Everything they gave us, everything they did—they deserved to be together, and instead it was used against them.”

“How?”

“Oh, the Shadow Ministry blackmailed them into service in the War,” Sam said, in the kind of calm tone one laid like planks to bridge a pit of rage. “Uncle Simon was a conscientious objector, and over age too, but there were letters, indiscretions. You know the sort of thing. The Ministry said it was because the war effort needed every man, but Uncle Robert always thought it was spite. He and Uncle Simon had made sure Jo wasn’t installed as HQ’s private crystal ball, you see, so Whitehall took its revenge by sending them to the trenches instead.”

“Dear God.” Randolph had known Sam’s loathing for the Shadow Ministry; he hadn’t known this. “Sam, I am appalled. Disgusted. I had no idea.”

“I can’t tell you how much I hate those pen-pushing bastards. I truly can’t. My uncles— Oh, the devil. I miss them hellishly.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sam shut his eyes, exhaling hard. “Well. You lost your father.”

“We weren’t close,” Randolph said, with some understatement.

Sam tapped the desk with his pen. “Look, not to insult you by suggesting that you have human feelings, but—”

“I should bloody well hope not.”

“But,” Sam repeated, “if you wanted—”

The bell rang in the hall, a long urgent clanging that meant Come down right now. Randolph turned and ran, taking the stairs two at a time. It was a tall, thin house so the stairs turned on each floor; he cantered down, vaulted the handrail at the bottom, and skidded into the parlour, Sam thundering after him.

There were four men in there. Randolph didn’t bother to look at the other two, because Barney was scarlet in the face, his jaw set, and Isaacs, by his side, had his hands clasped tight behind his back.

“Report,” Randolph snapped. Military discipline had saved them before.

“Gentlemen from the Shadow Ministry, sir,” Barney said through his teeth.

“I’ll handle this. Dismiss.”

The soldiers turned on their heels as one and stalked out, making Randolph’s skin prickle unpleasantly as they passed. Sam would manage them far better than Randolph could, so he swung back to the two remaining men. One of them wore a scornful expression; the other was sweating. If Randolph hadn’t already known which of them had occult senses, that fact would have told him.

“Bracknell, you bloody fool,” he said, without preamble. “What do you think you’re playing at?”

Bracknell set his quivering jaw. He was in his late fifties, as were many of the arcanists who worked for the Shadow Ministry. That was inevitable: the younger generations were mostly dead, and those still upright tended not to think fondly of Whitehall. “I might ask you the same thing, Glyde. Those two—”

“Are war heroes, honourably discharged, with more medals than they can carry.”

“Are not safe.” Bracknell pulled out a handkerchief to mop at his face. “Good Lord, man, do you think they ought to be running around London without supervision?”

“They’ve been running around London for three years,” Randolph said. “You seem to have driven them to incoherent fury in three minutes. As an argument for you assuming control, it fails to convince. Who’s your friend?”

“Mr. Delingpole is the new Under-Secretary at the Department of Special Affairs. Mr. Delingpole, this is Randolph Glyde, of the great family.”

“A family that has served the British government long and well.” Mr. Delingpole extended his hand.

Randolph looked at it, unmoving, until the man took it away again. “My hands are dirty, Mr. Delingpole. That happens when one works. And, to be clear, my family serves England. Not Britain, since the Welsh and Scots and Irish are their own lands, and not the Government, because the forces we handle are not temporal, bureaucratic, or at man’s disposal.”

Mr. Delingpole smiled tightly. “That is very quaint, but I fear it is hardly an attitude for the modern world. Parochial individualism belongs to a gentler, kinder era. We are facing new challenges, and we must face them together.”

“Under your authority?”

“Under the authority of the Chief Secretary, who serves the Crown.”

“I already serve the Crown. My duty is mine, Mr. Delingpole. I have been bred to my knowledge. You are not in a position to tell me how to do it.”

Delingpole’s eyelids drooped. “My department seeks to coordinate those who can serve the country in time of need. Is there any reason you cannot discharge your duties within a wider structure of administration and support that will allow us to work together? Your responsibilities may be hereditary, but your family suffered appalling losses in the War, and you are unmarried. Ought there not to be arrangements in place?”