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John woke the next morning aware he ought to speak to Abel.
He didn’t want to. He wasn’t sure he could explain why he believed Barnaby Littimer was a crook without giving away something. That he was hiding a secret, that he was angry, that he was hurt.
He would probably have to avoid the subject of the Veneerings robbery altogether. Abel was all too likely to think he was casting about for someone else to blame, and in his low moments John might wonder the same thing. Perhaps he could just say that he’d heard word of Littimer’s dishonesty. The swine could see how he liked to be talked about.
But John couldn’t do it today because it was Christmas Day, and wild horses wouldn’t make Uncle Abel talk of business or finance at Christmas.
There would be divine service: Abel, who was entirely irreligious on three hundred and sixty-four days of the year, insisted on that. The staff were obliged to go in shifts, with half of them at worship while the other half worked frantically. Every guest would be roused from bed and put into a carriage, like it or not.
There’d be hardly anyone around, and the remaining staff would be preoccupied. A man who didn’t go would have the run of the house.
John contemplated that. Then he got dressed with the very strong intention of seeing what Littimer was up to.
He wasn’t down for breakfast, and John couldn’t find him, so he drifted over to Uncle Abel about half an hour before they would have to depart.
“I say, sir, where’s Littimer?”
“Oh, around,” Abel said. “Lord of Misrule, you know, he has all sorts to do.”
“But he’ll be coming to church, won’t he?” John pressed.
“Been already. Went to the early service with the kitchen staff to get it out of the way. Why do you want him?”
“I don’t. That is, I had something to ask. Don’t worry about it.”
John retreated, feeling entirely sure of himself. Early service was at seven in the morning: nobody got up for that if they didn’t have to. Well, Barnaby Littimer had wasted his time. Whatever he’d planned, John would not give him the chance to do it.
In pursuit of that, he girded his loins to announce he wasn’t going, then reconsidered and told Abel he’d be walking to church, for the fresh air. If he was missed, he’d deal with the consequences later.
He therefore went out, trying to radiate an air of hearty good health that would make sure nobody accompanied him. He ducked through a path in the woods to be well out of sight of the road, lurked in the apple orchard for a while feeling chilly and furtive, and returned once the noise of carriages and people had departed. He went back into the house, moving quietly through the holly-bough-decked halls. He’d lurk somewhere near Uncle Abel’s study and listen out for Littimer skulking around.
Unfortunately for that plan, he instead found the man walking briskly back from the kitchens, with no effort at surreptition, if that was a word.
“Ah. Garland,” he said. “I was hoping to see you.”
“No you weren’t.”
“Expecting, then.”
“You were not. You expected me to be at church like everyone else.”
“Leaving me in possession of the field? As if you would. You’ve made your mistrust of me very clear.”
“For bloody good reason!”
Littimer didn’t respond for a moment, face still, then he said abruptly, “Would you talk to me? In private?”
“You’re joking,” John said. “The last time I was in private with you, it ruined my life.”
“Oh, come now.”
John could have slapped him. “I lost my job. My career, because my reputation has been destroyed and Veneerings have told me the sort of reference they’ll give. What sort of place will hire me now, with a theft attributed to my incompetence at best, and the victim’s son telling everyone I was in cahoots with the thieves? I’m living on my savings, and it’s only a matter of time till I’m reduced to scrounging off my family, just like my father after all. And I know it was my fault I walked into your trap, but you still set it for me!”
Littimer seemed, for once, lost for words. “I,” he said, and then, “John...”
“Don’t argue. You’ve taken enough from me without making me more a fool than I already am, so don’t tell me I imagined it, or that I’m trying to make excuses. I know what you did, damn you!”
Littimer swallowed. He looked much his usual self—the artistic floppy hair, the well-groomed beard and heavy-lidded mocking eyes—but there was tension around his mouth now. “Yes. I know that too. I suppose you wouldn’t hear an apology?”
“I don’t want a damned apology and I don’t want to talk to you! What do you have to say that will change what you did?”
Littimer pushed both hands through his hair. John had done that, messing up the elegant waves: he could feel their phantom silk against his fingers now. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t intend any of what happened.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right, then,” John said furiously.
“I’m not saying it’s all right. I’m trying to explain—not explain, precisely—it was an unfortunate concatenation of events. A number of awkward coincidences—yes, all right, I can see this isn’t helping.”
“No, it damned well isn’t! Ruining my life to commit a crime isn’t a coincidence!”
“I didn’t mean that. John, I truly didn’t intend you harm.”
“Balls,” John said with force. “You led me on. You—” He wanted to say took advantage of me, except that made him sound like a fainting maiden. It was still how he felt. “First you made a fool of me, then you made a scapegoat of me. How is that not harm?”
“Oh, it is,” Littimer said flatly. “Of course it is. I realise it is, even if I didn’t quite appreciate how much harm. I suppose I was trying not to think about it. But can I please say one thing, and beg you to listen?”
“What?”
“I didn’t lead you on. Granted, our encounter was—not right, and the outcome terrible, but my intentions toward you until then had been—not pure, the very opposite of pure. Sincere. I thought—well, you doubtless don’t want to hear it now, but I was looking forward very much to going to dinner with you. I had reserved a table at the Cafe Royal. And I ruined everything, I know that, but I didn’t mean to and I wish I hadn’t. I don’t flatter myself you’ll forgive that, but I wish you’d believe that I wanted nothing more than to take you to dinner.”
He was a liar, John reminded himself. The promises, the yearning in his voice, the heated glances: they’d all been lies. Naturally he was claiming he’d wanted John for himself: what else would he say? No, I whored myself for jewels and I’m proud of it?
“Marvellous,” he said. “Very touching. How does it affect you coming here to rob my uncle?”
Littimer made a strangled noise. “I’m not. If I swear to you that I don’t want to rob your uncle, or your cousin, if I promise on my life not to do anything that will harm you or your family—”
“As if I’d believe you.”
“—is there any chance you’d go away?”
John struggled to form words. Finally he managed, “You actually think I’m that gullible?”
“I’m not trying to gull you. But I really do promise it would be better if you just go home and let events take their course.”
“Why?”
Littimer gave a mirthless smile. “Because I’m trying to keep several balls in the air at the moment, most of them made of nitro-glycerine, and I’d prefer you to be somewhere else when I drop them.”
“What do you mean?”
“That I’m facing the immediate and unpleasant consequences of my own stupidity. If you think you fell into a trap and brought trouble on yourself, I can only say you are speaking to a master of that art. I’ve bollocksed things up so badly that all I can hope to do now is limit the damage. I think I owe you that.”
That had come out in a raw-voiced rush. John had no idea what to make of it. “Are you in trouble?”
Littimer swallowed, hard; John saw his throat move, and remembered how he’d kissed it, how it had convulsed when Barnaby spent. “A quite remarkable amount.”
“Captain Algy?”
“Don’t ask. I mean that: don’t ask.”
“Why don’t you go to the police?”
“Oh, please,” Littimer said. “Really, John, if you want to be helpful, go home.”
John shut his eyes, exasperated at himself, then gave Littimer a long look, up and down. “Do you know, that very nearly worked? Good try. Eight out of ten for plausibility.”
Littimer breathed out hard. “Fine. I was trying to do you some good, but—fine. Do what you want. Since my life is a farce, I have wassail and misrule to organise before everyone’s back from not paying attention in church, so if you’ll excuse me.”
He walked off: one might even say stormed. John stared after him.
***
JOHN LURKED NEAR HIS uncle’s study for an hour after that. Littimer didn’t come near it, which was good. John didn’t go and see what he was doing, assuring himself as some sort of salve to his conscience that the man would be doing the job he was paid for: he could hardly skimp on the Christmas Day festivities and keep Abel’s goodwill.
He didn’t know what to make of that conversation at all. Why did Littimer want John away so badly?
Because I know what he’s up to, John thought, then remembered he didn’t. Because I know the sort of man he is. Because he’s afraid I’ll get in his way.
That seemed the most plausible, and therefore suggested John should take steps to get in his way as much as possible. Unfortunately, that would involve seeing him, and that was...difficult.
That conversation. Talking intimately, intensely, face to face. He’d seen fear in Littimer’s eyes and believed it in the moment; he’d wanted to say, Tell me all about it. I’ll help you. It doesn’t matter what you did.
But it did matter. And whatever connection John might imagine lay between them, Littimer had shown very clearly that he didn’t care about it when he lured John away from his duty and ruined his career. That was what John needed to remember and not be confused by a mass of half-truths and hints designed only to cloud his thoughts.
The churchgoing party returned, most of them giving the impression of having had a refreshing nap, and they were plunged into a whirl of celebration. The choir reappeared, and sang beautifully again. John recognised a few of them as Abel’s staff, either servants or from his office. There were other faces he didn’t know, and it struck him that if Littimer was Captain Algy, or working for him, he could have imported his entire gang into the house in the guise of carol singers. Was the rotund tenor who sang so richly and enthusiastically too good to be true? Was the excellent baritone on the left, a lean man with sardonic eyebrows, scanning the room for details, or simply making eye contact with the audience? He hadn’t decided by the time the performance came to an end.
After that, it was time for Christmas gifts. Ivy had clearly persuaded, or ordered, Abel not to don the false beard and bishop’s robes of Father Christmas. John was glad of that—he didn’t want to see his uncle mocked—but he couldn’t help a stab of regret to watch Abel diminished by his ill-fitting suit, squashed into mundanity by the need not to seem ridiculous to people who would ridicule him anyway.
Abel handed out gifts all round, beautifully wrapped little boxes with golden tie pins for the men and brooches for the women. These at least were received with great exclamations of delight, as well they might be: Lord knows what this had cost. John naturally didn’t receive one, since he hadn’t been an invited guest, so he just sat and watched, too aware of Littimer moving around in the background, swift and graceful. He was surprised when Ivy came up to him.
“We weren’t expecting you, you know, and you do make me cross. But I am glad to see you, John. Merry Christmas.” She kissed him on the cheek and handed him a box.
The gift was a silver pocket-watch. Quite possibly one of Abel’s hastily repurposed, far too fine for a disgraced hotel detective, and a small act of love that made John warmer than any blazing fire or mulled wine could achieve. It gave him strength to face the forthcoming feast in the company of the guests.
Christmas dinner at Abel Garland’s was a trial in itself. John hadn’t been in a few years, so had forgotten the wisdom of starting the day with a ten-mile walk, but at least the stupefying quantities of food shut people up. There was oyster bisque and lobster patties to begin with, served with iced champagne. John detected Ivy’s iron hand there, but the main course was entirely traditional and set the table groaning: roast goose fragrant with sage and onion stuffing, a great joint of beef, potatoes both roasted and mashed, roasted parsnips, Brussels sprouts cooked with bacon, apple sauce, and gallons of gravy, all washed down with endless red wine. That was followed by an immense gleaming-dark pudding, burning blue with brandy. Lady Hexam’s slice held the traditional sixpence, and she squealed with more pleasure than she’d shown on receiving a sapphire brooch. As the meal concluded, there were sugar-plums and candied dates, walnuts and roasted chestnuts, oranges and apples to fill any crevices, and with it, hot punch sharp with gin and lemons.
Abel encouraged the guests to get up and change seats, to make the conversation merrier. John had no intention of getting up: that felt like work. He sat in contented silence, dizzy with wine and far too much rich food, and watched the serving-men make their way around the table with the gin-punch.
Someone dropped into the empty chair next to him. “That footman’s got a nerve.”
It was Barnaby Littimer. John ought to have told him to find another seat, clear off, go to the devil. Since all his energies were being spent on digestion, leaving very little for thought, and his general mood was of befuddled benevolence, he said, “Which?”
“The one who just offered Lady Jarndyce gin-punch. I bet she’s never touched gin in her life. No, you fool, don’t offer it to Box. Argh.”
At the far end of the table, Lord Sidney Box recoiled from the steaming jug with a pantomime of dismay. “He could just say no,” John remarked. “You’d think they were giving him horse piss.”
“If only,” Barnaby said. “Look, Dombey’s having some. I didn’t expect that.”
John watched the peer take a glass of gin-punch and raise it to Abel. “Good for him. Though he’d probably drink horse piss if you gave it to him. Jolly good vintage, eh what?”
Barnaby snorted inelegantly, which made John grin himself. He was dizzily aware he’d had too much to eat and drink, and also that he ought not be having a friendly conversation with Barnaby Littimer. On the other hand, he was too replete to move, and Barnaby couldn’t be doing anything bad while he sat there, so really John was guarding Codlin Hall against his dark deeds by not discouraging him. Pleased with this logic, he said, “Have a sugar-plum.”
“Do you want me to die? I’m never eating again. This should club the guests into submission. I expect they’ll agree to anything as long as he stops feeding them.”
“What do you want them to agree to?”
“I could name a number of things, but in fact we’re putting on a mummers’ play.”
John blinked. “You mean your choir?”
“Heavens, no, they’re all staff. Better things to do. No, the mummers’ play will be performed by our distinguished guests. Think of it as Yuletide charades writ large.”
John was fairly sure he couldn’t have heard right. “You’re asking this lot to do a mummers’ play?”
“I’ve got to do something with the blighters,” Barnaby said. “Which is to say, I am here to make their stay an enjoyable and memorable one, and the wedding’s not until the thirtieth. Five days. Amateur theatricals are just the ticket to fill the time.”
“But a mummers’ play? Have you ever seen one?”
“I know of them.”
“You mean you haven’t. I have. It’s generally a pack of drunken fools in silly costumes, playing silly buggers. They prance around talking rubbish, and demand to be treated lavishly for it.”
“In that case, I have the perfect cast,” Barnaby said, with a sweeping gesture at their distinguished company, and John couldn’t hold back a laugh.