Now Jon was glad to have the gun. As the lights snapped off and the world was lit only by a dying fire and the snow outside, the Royal Family panicked. It was not pitch black, but it was enough to inspire terror. Marjorie screamed first, followed by Emeline, and then a male cry. The family bundled together, even David and Marjorie gravitating towards their youngers, and then suspicion tore them apart.
‘What happened?’ Emeline cried.
‘The lights!’ Maud cried.
‘Who is that?’ Marjorie was flailing her arms around.
‘Me,’ Martin said flatly. She had accidentally slapped him in the face.
‘Assassin! Outside!’ shrieked David. ‘He is making his move! Cutting the power!’
Jon couldn’t blame the man as such – he thought much the same himself at first. But he remembered Tony Speck’s security system. The red dots. They were the only people there on the entire grounds. Not even a skilled assassin could survive miles upon miles of blizzard to get to the castle in the time since Jon saw the readout.
‘It could be Speck?’ Matthew asked.
‘No. It’s Thomas Crockley out there,’ said Jon. ‘He must be having a cigar. I let him borrow my coat earlier in the day. He is doing it again.’ It didn’t sound like the right explanation, but it was the only possible one. It had to be him.
‘That idiot!’ Surprisingly this came from his wife. ‘Why would he do something so reckless? He’s risking his life out there. For a smoke.’
‘What about the lights, Jon?’ Matthew said.
Jon’s eyes were finally adjusting properly. Everything was dark greys and blacks apart from Maud, the closest to the fire, who was blessed with colour playing on her cheeks. ‘It’s the blizzard,’ he said. ‘The power system wasn’t built for this kind of weather. The breaker must have tripped, that’s all. I just need to go and turn it back on.’
Did he believe that it was just the blizzard? He had no idea. He was just guessing about the power system. Or maybe he was hoping?
‘Are you sure, Jon?’ Emeline said. ‘This really could be some kind of . . . sign.’
‘Exactly,’ David pounced. ‘In the films, the lights go out and a second person dies! I’m going to need that gun back, butler.’
‘This isn’t a film,’ Jon said. ‘I will go and turn the power back on. The box is down in the servants’ quarters. It’ll only take five minutes.’ He didn’t want to leave them again – but it had to be him who took the gun.
‘The gun!’
Jon shifted the gun on his shoulder. ‘The gun is going back to the store.’
David seemed as if he were about to combust. Even in the black and white of the low light, he was crimson. ‘How dare you defy me and take my ability to protect my family.’
Matthew stepped between them, standing up to his granduncle, maybe for the first time. ‘You don’t want to protect us, you want to protect yourself.’
‘I . . . ’
‘Go, Jon,’ Matthew said.
There was a disgruntled moan from David as Jon stalked away. Jon looked back at the family before he left. They were all cowering, terrified in their own ways. They were broken.
The corridor was darker, not having the benefit of the light from the fire or the window. It had to be dark now, but the white snow clouds were still acting as if it were day.
Jon fished around in his right-hand trouser pocket for his torch. He never used his right pocket much, being left-handed, so he mostly put things in there he didn’t need as often. He happened upon something thin and metal and had no idea what it was. All that mattered in that moment, however, was that it wasn’t the torch. A few more grasps and he found it.
He set off, with the torch in his left hand and the rifle slung over his right shoulder. Balmoral was always the eeriest of the King’s castles even in the bright light of day. The dead animals mounted on the walls watching you; the disorienting tight corridors, juxtaposed with the bigger ones, inspiring a discomfort; the constant draughts as if an ethereal force were guiding you somewhere. There was always some sound happening throughout the castle, even if it was completely empty. A creaking, a moaning, a groaning. As if Balmoral itself were alive.
Jon passed the pantry, where he had met with Martin earlier. Something about that location, and Martin’s caginess, piqued his interest, but the darkness was not the right moment to take a look. Besides, he soon forgot all about it.
Something clattered in front of him. Just beyond the torchlight. It sounded as though something had been thrown from a side table.
Jon stopped. The pain in his gut was throbbing with every step now. He could even convince himself he was stopping for that, and not because he was utterly terrified. ‘Crockley?’ he whispered into the dark. ‘Speck?’
Churchill the cat came trotting into the light, looking up at him and meowing.
Jon shook his head at himself for being so silly.
He got down to the servants’ quarters with a renewed bravery and was shadowed by Churchill every step of the way. At finding another living soul, the cat had started purring, and it felt as though Jon were being followed by a biplane.
The kitchen was just as he had left it – in a state of disarray that he couldn’t quite accept. It seemed even worse in the light of the torch, like some kind of postapocalyptic bomb site. He would not have allowed any of his chefs to leave the majestic beast in such a disrespectful way, and he felt ashamed of himself for doing so, regardless of the feats he had achieved this morning. It was ungracious, making a beauty into an eyesore.
Jon had no time to mourn his loss of standards, however – there were things to be done before he lost his nerve. He propped the Winchester against the counter and went out into the hall, starting as Churchill jumped up on one of the kitchen counters and mewed in his face. The breaker box was just beside the entrance to the kitchen, so Jon had seen it being maintained almost every time it was serviced. He opened the box.
The breaker box was much like a larger version of the kind of electrical box anyone would find in a standard British home. The only differences were that there were far more switches and the primary trip switch was less a switch and more a lever. It seemed exactly like the kind of lever one would use to activate some kind of evil plan, or to create a Frankenstein, and many of the chefs had remarked all manner of other similar sentiments. Jon shone the torch on the box to see that none of the smaller switches had been tripped, but the large lever had been set to ‘off.’
Jon pushed the lever back up to the ‘on’ position, and power came back instantly. His vision was flooded with white and he blinked away sunspots.
Could that lever have moved down on its own? And if so, why were none of the smaller switches off too?
‘Meeew.’ Churchill seemed to be offering his input. Jon went back into the kitchen to see the cat sitting in the sink licking at the bowl Jon had used to make the bread sauce.
‘You’re hungry?’ Jon asked, picking Churchill up and putting him back on the counter. ‘I think I have some food for you around here.’
Cats were not usually allowed in the kitchens – especially the lower kitchen – but Jon did have some sachets of food somewhere. He thought, maybe, he had put them in the top cupboards with the empty jam jars. An odd two things to group, he would have been the first to admit, but even in a kitchen so big, he was starting to run out of cupboard space.
Jon got the stepladder he used to reach the top shelves and climbed it, reaching up. His gut groaned as a ripping pain pulsed through him. He doubled over and almost fell from the ladder. That was not psychosomatic, whatever the doctor would say.
Churchill regarded him impatiently.
Jon rolled his eyes and reached back up to the cupboard. Curious – inside he found the pack of cat food just as he’d thought. The rest of the cupboard was empty. All of the jam jars were gone.
As he fed Churchill, he cursed the maids. They must have mistaken all the jars for recycling. How was he going to make more jam now? Nobody loved his jam more than the King, so he supposed maybe there was no need for him to make it anymore.
As Churchill tucked into his own Christmas dinner, Jon thought on the lever and the whole idea of the power going off. They had seen Crockley outside, so no one was here to turn the power off. And what would be the reason for turning it off when it could be so simply turned back on?
Jon’s heart thrummed against his chest.
What if this was . . .
Jon grabbed the Winchester and charged out towards the stairs.
What if this was a distraction?
Jon ignored the pain in his gut and forged ahead, looking upwards to his destination.
He stopped in his tracks.
Crockley was standing on the stairs, looking down at him. Well, the figure in the red coat was. And Crockley had the hood pulled all the way up and down over his forehead, so it was pretty much impossible to see his face.
How was he here? When he was just outside?
‘Crockley,’ Jon said reasonably. ‘What are you doing out of bed?’
Crockley said nothing. He started coming down the stairs.
‘Were you behind this? Did you turn the lights off? To what end?’
Nothing, but getting closer.
Jon raised the Winchester. ‘Did you kill the King?’
Crockley got to the bottom of the stairs, maybe thirty feet from Jon. Jon remained steadfast. All of a sudden, Crockley launched himself at Jon, and the chef found he did not have the fortitude to pull the trigger. He braced himself for collision, but instead Crockley ran straight past him.
Jon whirled around to see Crockley already at the end of the corridor, pulling open the door and letting the blizzard in. Crockley dove into the white. Jon was not far behind, acting on pure instinct and, thankfully, pure adrenaline.
The door stood open, as a cavalcade of fresh snow was forcing its way in. The icy wind whipped through Jon. His coat was gone, of course. If he were to give chase, he would be exposed to the elements. But was there any doubt anymore that this was the King’s murderer?
This was it.
Jon raised the Winchester and braced himself, muttering the mantra ‘For the King and for the Crown,’ before thrusting himself out into the wilds and wrenching the door closed behind him.