Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(67)

“It wasn’t dried this morning,” Saul said, rather hopelessly. “I don’t know much more, I’m sorry. I felt appalling, and I tried to sleep, and then after what seemed an age you arrived.”

“Did you imagine yourself in Camlet Moat, at all?”

“I did at first. I, uh, I don’t like being in cells much, you see.” He didn’t look at Sam. “I was in rather a funk. I tried to calm myself down. You know. And I saw a face, a Green Man, with living eyes.”

“I expect that was me,” Randolph said. “I saw you too, it’s how I knew to come after you, though it took half the damned day to track you down.”

“You saw— Right. And that was when I got sick. Nothing personal.”

“You thought of Camlet Moat, and the sickness came on,” Randolph repeated. “And now what?”

“Well, we have to go there,” Saul said with certainty, and blinked. “Uh...”

“My uncle Robert gets—got that sort of thing quite often,” Sam said. “Apparently it’s best to say what you know and not worry about how you know it.”

“Easier said than done,” Saul muttered.

“Isn’t it all. Why are we going to Camlet Moat?”

“Because— I don’t know. It’s important. Something’s not right.” Saul crushed the leaf between his fingers. “Not right at all.”

“Tell me more about Peabody,” Randolph said. “What did you go to the Fens to see?”

“Mr. Abchurch has a collection relating to de Mandeville. I never saw it—we were to take a look after I’d stretched my legs that morning, but then you and I found ourselves on that blasted road. I don’t know what he had.”

Randolph made a face. “Can you speak about what happened with Theresa?”

Saul was silent for a few moments. Finally he said, “I’m very reluctant to. I’m sorry. I feel as if I shouldn’t.”

Sam nodded. “Fair enough.”

Randolph didn’t respond. He was struggling with an unfamiliar sensation, something contemptibly like jealousy. That Theresa’s last efforts had been for someone else; that she’d put her mark on Saul; that this was between the two of them alone.

Which was absurd. What was there for Randolph to envy in that contact? Only that it was private and secret and he wanted to be part of it, not excluded by silence. He’d wanted to protect Saul from the stain of shadows, then and now. He wanted, ludicrously enough, to be Saul’s knight in shining armour, a role for which he was unfitted by ability or temperament even if Saul needed one.

He’d unquestionably needed help earlier today, though, and in the course of providing it Randolph had let loose the ancient strength of the Green Man in the middle of a building, unleashed Barney and Isaacs, and kicked away the last pretences of rapprochement with the Shadow Ministry, all without the slightest compunction.

“Oh my God,” he said aloud.

“What is it?” Sam asked.

“Nothing. Nothing that need concern you, at least.”

“Randolph.”

“Entirely private. Forget I spoke.”

Sam made an irritated noise. Randolph sat back as the taxi-cab chugged on through the evening streets, letting his thoughts curl carefully around his feelings like a cat nudging kittens into order.

He’d never thought of more than casual encounters even before the War; he hadn’t really been aware that was a possibility and in truth he hadn’t cared to find out. He had been very happy with the idea of a cousin-marriage, decoupling trust and companionship from sordid bodily need and the vulgarity of violent feeling. It had seemed perfect. And now here he was, seething with jealousy of his dead cousin for an entirely necessary claim on the attention of the lover for whom he’d abandoned duty and restraint without even thinking, because the idea of some bastard hurting Saul had gone from unacceptable to unbearable.

You’ve spent one night with him, you fool. Two if you count the one where he was unconscious for half of it.

Except it was worse than that, because he’d felt like this when he’d kissed Saul on the road. He wasn’t cockstruck, he was sure of that: he was far too old to be led by his prick. He was...taken with him, that was the term for it. Intrigued. Charmed, even. He liked Saul very much; he trusted him; he valued his friendship, delighted in his company, wanted to talk to him, ached for his body, needed the smile in those dark eyes to remind him why he bothered to keep on.

Randolph had a feeling that “taken with” wasn’t actually the term for it at all.





Trent Park was closed to the public for the evening, its gates locked. Randolph directed the cabbie to leave them at the north side, nearest to Camlet Moat, then contemplated the high brick wall with disgust. Sam rolled his eyes, found a point with an overhanging branch, and shinned up the wall without effort. Saul followed, being apparently equally familiar with illegal entries, and they both leaned down to give Randolph a hand.

That undignified scrabble done with, they jumped down one at a time into the woodland that ringed the park. It was sunset now and would be dark soon, and the trees cut out what little light there was.

“Hold on,” Sam said, searching in his ever-present satchel. “I’ve a flashlight in here.”

“Dig it out, then,” Randolph said with a touch of impatience. Other people’s inability to see in the dark was always tiresome. “I doubt Saul—” He glanced round. “Oh, hell. Saul?”