'Nobody looks like

what they really are on the inside.

… It's true of everybody.'

Neil Gaiman

DEAD MAN'S SWEETHEART

14

Dinner at the Sherman mansion that night was fashionably late and more than usually prolonged by the presence of numerous guests, men of business or influence and their women, whom Nathaniel was cultivating.

Catherine sparkled as her uncle's hostess, her flawless white skin and black mourning dress setting off to perfection the diamonds which he had given her to wear; their provenance was dubious but their beauty was as undoubted as that of the woman who wore them. There was a certain sleekness about her, a secret smile of satisfaction, which made Nathaniel wonder. He looked along the table to where Bradley and Warwick sat amongst his guests. Bradley was studiously ignoring the other man and paying gallant court to the ladies on either side of him, rather as if he was trying to demonstrate his popularity. Caine Warwick was, as always, entirely courteous, largely silent and apparently disinterested in his dining partner and in Catherine. If there was anything between them, he was not displaying the sheen of conquest. In fact his expression suggested the readiness to violence which Nathaniel had observed when he had stabbed Bradley's hand and tortured the child.

Nathaniel went on wondering. He wondered particularly why he had received a note by hand from Colonel Frobisher, requesting a meeting when the dinner was finished. It was unlike the Colonel – a man of very regular habits – to be anywhere other than his own domicile at that time of night. As the men finally finished their port and brandy and rose from the table to join the ladies in the drawing room, Nathaniel held Bradley back: "Make sure you have all the men on guard and the house is secure tonight. Especially upstairs! I'm not happy about the Colonel's visit."

Bradley nodded and left the room. Nathaniel beckoned to Warwick, who strolled round the table, glass in hand. "I may need your skills tonight, if you would care to employ them, Warwick. That is, should I require my uninvited guest to make a speedy return to his own home!"

"Anticipating trouble, Mr Sherman? Surely the good Colonel is entirely beyond reproach? He's hardly likely to start a rough-house, is he? At least, unless he's able to turn up with a military escort!"

"I don't think so. I would just like to know why he's turning up at all."

"Probably to ask you to run me out of town," Warwick responded lightly. "I'm afraid I threatened someone in his house this afternoon. But he was begging for it!"

"Indeed? Not the red-headed man whose face you rearranged?"

"The same. He seems unable to take a hint not to trespass."

Nathaniel made a note to relay this piece of information to Catherine. Warwick evidently did not confine his attentions to one woman at a time. Out loud he laughed and said, "That's a relief. If such a minor matter is the only problem, I assure you he will not succeed in persuading me to change my guests or my habits."

"That's a relief!" The low tones sounded mocking as Warwick refilled his glass but, contrary to his usual habit, did not drain it at once. When they left the room, the glass, like his wine glass at dinner, remained untasted on the table. As they crossed the hall to the drawing room and passed the foot of the stairs, Warwick fell slightly behind Nathaniel in what looked like deference, but in fact enabled him to give a secret hand-signal which was picked up by the man crouching in the darkness on the landing above.

# # # # #

Andy stood, irresolute, in the middle of his room as darkness gathered and the evening wore on. There had been no sign of Jess when he had returned from his ride, but this was scarcely surprising as his contact with other adults in the house – baring those detailed to escort him – was minimal. He was still in a state of shock, part elation at the answer to his prayers, part fear because Jess was so changed.

The change ran so deep. It was as if Jess had become someone else entirely, someone who Nathaniel Sherman called 'Warwick' and with whom his uncle was obviously on familiar terms. The name rang a bell somewhere in Andy's mind, but recent events had blotted out almost all memory of his past; he did not recall the time Vin and Cal had come to the relay station and, even if he had, he had been so pleased to be on first name terms with them that their surnames never really registered with him. The name could have comforted him a little, but, as it was, it only compounded the strangeness and the dread which arose because these people, whom Andy had come to hate, seemed to be only too friendly to Jess.

For Andy remembered that woman, Catherine, coming out on to the landing. Remembered her standing there, coolly assuming the man would escort her. Remembered them following him down the staircase, arm in arm. Andy had wanted stop it, to drag Jess away from her, to demand his undivided loyalty. But Jess had signalled 'wait' and Andy was to wait and say nothing – the order was clear enough. He just didn't know how long he was to wait.

It was impossible to undress and lie in bed, knowing Jess was somewhere in the house and trusting, with all the fervent power and hope of extreme youth, that he was going to do something to end the barely disguised captivity into which his brother's death had plunged Andy. But he could not guess what or when. The helplessness was unbearable and Andy found himself pacing up and down the room until he felt he would wear away a track in the thick carpet. There was nothing he could do to get ready for whatever was going to happen. He just had to wait and be silent.

Silence enveloped the house, once dinner was over and the guests of the night had departed somewhat noisily. It seemed to stifle Andy's hopes and made him feel as if there was, after all, no-one and nothing beyond this room he loathed so much. Time seemed to be suspended, just as it had been in his first grief, but now he was tormented by hope and fear together.

Just as he felt he could bear this suspense no longer, his strained senses alerted him to something strange. He heard a faint sound outside his door. It might have been a slight scuffle followed by a very soft thud. He stood, staring, as the lock moved with a faint click, then the second lock and the door swung open.

"Andy? It's Cal."

"Where's Jess?" It wasn't the most thankful or tactful response he could have made to being rescued at last, but it was the only and the most urgent question.

"He's downstairs. We're goin' to join him in a minute," Cal told him reassuringly, glad to see that Andy was still awake and dressed and ready for action. He took the boy by the shoulders as, very seriously, he added, "Andy, we're still in a dangerous situation. When we go downstairs, there are goin' to be things which puzzle and surprise you. Can you do as Jess asks?"

"Keep quiet and wait? Yes – like we do when we're hunting something dangerous."

"You're well trained! But he did expand the order a bit: he says give him one hug and then keep out from under his feet."

Andy gave a shaky grin. "That sound exactly like Jess! Yes, I will, of course!"

"Good. Just keep alert and ready and do exactly as you are told, whatever happens. Now, come with me. We'll find them all in the drawing room."

# # # # #

After bidding farewell to the last of her guests, Catherine remained in the drawing room with the men and her uncle, as Colonel Frobisher, in full dress uniform, was ushered in for his meeting. She was fairly sure he had come to complain about the incident at his tea-party, but knew that her uncle would hardly wish to dismiss someone as ruthless and as useful as Caine Warwick had proved to be. This suited her very well. The controlled violence of the afternoon had only added to her pleasurable anticipation of a further liaison which she, and not Eleanor Frobisher, would enjoy that night.

It was a considerable surprise when not only the Colonel entered, but with him the man she recognised as the other St John Warwick, the one who had been at the Frobisher's in the afternoon. This was, presumably, some relation of Caine's – she remembered him being involved in the altercation with the red-headed man - but his presence here and now was puzzling. She was so perturbed by this that she did not notice Caine himself move unobtrusively to the door and slide through it. Neither did Nathaniel.

Neither, too, were Nathaniel nor Catherine to puzzle long over the reason for this meeting. The Colonel gave the briefest and most formal of greetings: "You know who I am, Mr Sherman. With me is Lieutenant Stewart St John Warwick, late of the Confederate army and now in the employ of the US government."

Nathaniel accorded both men a very slight bow, acknowledging that they had the status and the power to challenge him. The Colonel continued: "Mr Sherman, I have come here to confront you with your attempts to create and utilise an illegal network of distribution centres across our country for criminal purposes. In pursuit of this aim, you and your employees have used systematic intimidation and violence to achieve your ends. You also stand accused of the capture, captivity and torture of one of your opponents and of the kidnapping and detention of a minor. These are serious charges."

"These are ridiculous charges!" Nathaniel blustered. "You haven't a shred of evidence to support such allegations."

The Colonel and Lieutenant Warwick exchanged glances. They seemed to be waiting for something. Almost at once there were distant sounds of a fierce struggle, much heavy movement, a few brief cries and several loud thuds. Catherine started, looked at her uncle and said, "There seems to be a problem upstairs. I will get the servants to deal with it." She made a swift exit from the room, ignoring the call from the Colonel that it would be better for her to remain where she was.

She had only just reached the foot of the stairs when two men appeared on the landing, carrying a heavy stretcher. To her utter disbelief, they descended slowly and carefully, handling their burden with attention. As they drew level with her, she looked down and addressed the man on the stretcher with venom: "You stupid fool, if you'd told us the truth, you needn't have suffered any of this."

"You are always so considerate to your guests, Miss Catherine!"

The sarcastic tones made her look up abruptly. Caine Warwick was standing above them on the stairs, looking, for once, slightly dishevelled and wiping clean the knife he held in his hand. "I think if he had told you anything, he certainly wouldn't suffer any more – he really would be dead now!" He turned to the men carrying the stretcher. "Take him into the drawing room," he ordered.

"Caine!"

"You'd better come in too. You may need to make some decisions about your public and private reactions to the truth."

He walked straight past her, as impersonal and unresponsive as a passer-by in the street, and went into the room. Catherine followed him like someone under compulsion or hypnosis.