The next morning started promisingly, as Mark woke tangled round Pen, with hair in his face and a warm body against his. That meant he also woke with a solid morning stand, and had to spend a moment easing himself carefully away. He’d have liked nothing more than to cement their reunion in shared pleasure, but he was well aware that Pen didn’t always want to be reminded of the parts of his body that didn’t fit his mind, and it was obvious the last days had been a hellish strain.
Christ, what it must be like. Mark felt a hot, sick anger thinking of the difficulty of Pen’s path. And for what? Who did it hurt if he wore eye paint? Why should what you had in your drawers dictate if you cut the hair on your head? He couldn’t see what good it did anyone to set rules about hair: it was simply a because we say so law. You had to do as you were told even when—especially when—it was bloody stupid, and show how obedient you were by turning on people who didn’t obey. His mother always said those were not merely the hardest laws to change, but also the hardest to break, because they were the hardest to see.
She was right. Mark had never thought twice about why he cut his hair or wore trousers before Pen; he’d simply done it because you did. He was beginning to understand the daily courage and effort it took his lover not to contort himself into the shape dictated by birth and the world around him. Pen was as profound an anarchist as Mark’s mother, he decided, in his own way.
He would have wished the burden off Pen’s broad shoulders, except that would be wrong. He was perfect as he was, changeable, rare, flinching, and brave, and Mark couldn’t want him different. The problem wasn’t Pen, it was the rest of the world, and Mark felt at this moment quite ready to burn the lot of it to the ground. That wasn’t possible—though if and when he got hold of the Fogman he intended to administer the kicking of a fucking lifetime—but he would stand with Pen through whatever the day held.
It was a good resolution, one cemented by the look of sleepy content on Pen’s face as he woke up. “Mark.”
“Morning.” Mark twisted round to kiss him. “Sleep all right?”
“Better than last night. Better than since I’ve been here. I missed you.”
“Me too.”
“And not just you. I missed us. What we had. It felt like that hadn’t been real.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t apologise,” Pen said. “I didn’t mean to reproach you, that’s not what I’m saying. I meant—it mattered so much, so quickly, and it was devastating to think it hadn’t been true. I’ve been miserable as sin, and I’m fairly sure I wouldn’t have liked it here anyway, but an awful lot of what was wrong was you.”
“Ah, Pen.” Mark hid his face in Pen’s thick hair. “Honestly, the last few days. Not good.”
“No. And I don’t know what we’re going to do but if I know this, us, is true—”
“It really is.” Mark pushed himself up on his elbow. “I don’t know either, but I’ve never known anyone like you, and I’ve never felt like this in my life, and whatever you have to do or choose to do, I’ll work round it. I’m not letting this—you—go again. Not till you send me away.”
“You’d better not, and I’m not planning to. I love you.”
“Me too. Oh, mate, what the hell do we do?”
“I don’t know,” Pen said. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Not here, now. I can’t let it. I might have been killed the other night, but then, I could have fallen off a trapeze at any point in the last ten years. Obviously I’m terrified about what’s going to happen but I’m not going to let that take this morning away from us. Greta says I’m irresponsible because she thinks about what’ll happen in twenty years’ time but I just want to enjoy what I can while I have the chance.”
“I’m with her, in general,” Mark admitted. “But I’d have made less of a balls-up of this if I’d thought more about the now, so maybe you’ve a point.”
Pen snaked a hand round the back of his head, pulling him closer, the caress of his fingers sending shivers through Mark’s scalp. “And as it happens, we’ve got each other now, with a locked door.”
Mark blinked. “You sure that’s all right? With you, I mean?”
“Yes. Yes, it is. I’d rather you didn’t touch me down there, but I want you to touch me.”
“And it’s safe?”
“If we’re quiet.”
Mark examined his eyes. “What do you feel like?”
“Not a man,” Pen said softly. “Love me like I’m not.”
Mark rolled over, getting a leg astride him and bracing himself on his forearm. They’d both slept naked, preferring contact and body heat to nightgowns. He dipped his head, kissing his way over Pen’s ear and cheek, avoiding the bristly jaw area altogether, took hold of a handful of long hair and pulled it up for a kiss. “God, you’re a beauty,” he said hoarsely.
Pen purred response. His hands were on Mark’s chest, exploring his muscles, circling the nipples and sending exquisite sensation rippling down his nerves. Mark lowered his hips a bit, making contact, rubbing their bodies together. He could feel Pen’s hard-on under him and felt a momentary twinge, because he’d have liked nothing more than to take that in his mouth and get Pen writhing and yelping, but it wasn’t that kind of day. If it was never that kind of day again, he’d live. Anything that made it right for Pen.
He bucked his pelvis, thrusting a bit harder, running his tongue over Pen’s lips. “I want to fuck you.”
“That’s lucky,” Pen murmured. “I want you to fuck me.”
Their mouths met, hard. Pen was opening to him, and Mark thrust with tongue and pelvis at once, letting Pen take his full weight. He got his hand down to Pen’s chest, cupping the well-developed pectoral, saw Pen’s eyelids flutter, had to swallow against a sudden tightness in his throat. My Pen, my flier.
He pushed himself down a bit, getting his prick between Pen’s muscular thighs. “Like this?”
“I think so,” Pen said. “I…God, Mark, I want you to fuck me all the way some time, but not today. It isn’t—”
Mark touched a finger to his lips. “The day we’re doing that is the day you want to, all right? Not before. And if you fancy taking a turn, let me know, but it’s still only when you want to.”
“Ooh. I wasn’t sure you liked that.”
“Tell you the truth, I’ve only done it with women,” Mark admitted. “Girl I was with for a year or so had a sort of harness affair with a pego attached. Well, and Phyllis, but that was a while back.”
Pen paused, considering. “Are you saying you take it up the arse from women, but not from men?”
“Well, it’s not like a policy,” Mark said, feeling a touch defensive for some reason he couldn’t put his finger on. “It never came up with blokes, that’s all.”
“As the actress said to the bishop,” Pen spluttered, and Mark had to stick his hand in his mouth to muffle his laughter.
“Shut up,” he hissed, once he’d got a grip on himself. “Anyway, I’m just saying, if you want to.”
“I would love to, one day. You really like women doing that?”
“Why not?”
“No reason in the entire world.” Pen’s eyes were glowing, brimming with light. “I would love to fuck you, and I want you to fuck me, and—oh God.” He squirmed under Mark, pushing his thighs together.
Mark thrust between his legs. They didn’t have any lubrication but it didn’t matter, the press of firm warm flesh did very well. “I was thinking,” he panted in Pen’s ear. “If you painted, dressed your hair. Wore something nice. If you wanted to do it to me then—”
“Oh Jesus.” Pen sounded agonised and his cock was rigid and damp against Mark’s belly. “Would you like that?”
“Beautiful hair and a hard-on,” Mark whispered. “Two of my favourite things. Put ’em together and I might die of it, you utter fucking gorgeous—Pen—”
Pen was rocking and shuddering. “God, just fuck me now, I love you, oh God.” He was bucking under Mark, strong as a young horse. Mark drove between his legs, abandoning himself to frantic friction, his lips clamped against the noise he couldn’t make, and he felt Pen spend a few seconds before his own release rushed through his nerves in an overwhelming tide of pleasure and adoration and joy.
He collapsed over Pen, sticky and panting. “God. Couldn’t wait.”
“Nor me.”
“Was that—”
“Perfect.” Pen took hold of both Mark’s upper arms, strong pressure against both equally, smiling into his eyes. “You’re perfect.”
They had to get up eventually. A maid had left hot water outside the locked door; Pen got that and they both washed off the stickiness of lovemaking. Mark dressed quickly, shivering in the cold, and rolled around on the truckle bed to make it look slept in.
Pen came into the little anteroom while he was shaving. “Oh. Sorry.”
Mark grunted in response, since he had his jaw angled. Pen watched him scraping the bristle. “I didn’t realise you could shave one-handed. Anyone, I mean, not you.”
“Course you can. And I’d have to pay a lot of money to barbers otherwise, or grow a beard. That’s why Clem has a beard, so as not to shave.”
“Why? I mean, it suits him, but he’s got two hands.”
“Made up of ten left thumbs,” Mark said with more accuracy than charity. “Clumsiest bloke I ever met. He’d cut himself to ribbons.”
Pen went to get his own razor and messed about with it for a bit. “Oh, come on. I can’t even open this one-handed.”
“You need one with a barber’s notch.” Mark demonstrated his own blade with its notched end to get a fingertip in. “You work around stuff.”
“Yes,” Pen said. “Yes, you do, don’t you?” He put weight on the you—not pointed, just wry, and Mark put the razor down.
“I have to work around it, mate. I’m not an incapable.” He hated that word as much as he hated cripple. “I can shave, I can dress myself and cook a meal and manage as well as most people with two hands and better than some. I’m as capable as I need to be, and if people look at me and see an incapable, they’re not seeing me right. Any more than if they look at you and see a bloke.”
“No. They aren’t.”
“Well then. I need to do things the same as other people; you need to do things differently. And most people won’t see either of us right anyway, even doing all that, but—”
“Most people are arseholes?”
“Exactly.” Mark retrieved his razor and returned to the job.
Pen took his turn after, then considered himself in the mirror. “I’m going to tie my hair back,” he said. “And I’m not going to wear the earrings, because Desmond and Phineas will seize on any excuse to be awful, and I don’t want them insulting your gift. But this is me dressing up. I’m going to act the earl, and then when I’m finished acting, I’m going to wear my earrings and let my hair down. All right?”
Mark wasn’t sure if he was the intended audience or if Pen was speaking to himself. He nodded anyway.
Breakfast was magnificent and uncomfortable. Greta and Tim ate with them, four people in a large room with an enormous fireplace and a great polished wood table, and a row of seven chafing dishes set out along the sideboard with enough food for twelve. There were sausages, bacon, and kippers, none of which Mark was even thinking about here. The table knives looked rounded and blunt, and the plates had no decent edges to wedge food against, and he was pretty sure you couldn’t stick a fork into a sausage and eat it off in an earl’s dining room, practical though that might be. Instead he served himself kedgeree, which he didn’t much like in general but was at least manageable, and was pleasantly surprised by its flavour.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” Tim said, observing him. “Crowmarsh is famed for it. Mammee—Clem’s mother, you know—was from Calcutta. She taught the cooks here how to make it and they’ve followed her recipe ever since.”
While taking the credit for it. Sounded about right. “Very good,” Mark agreed, pushing his cleared plate back. “Right. Plan. I’d like a look round the house and a word with everyone here, including the staff, and especially people who were here on New Year’s Day. I want Pen sticking with me all day, or with Greta if I need to do something else. Not on your own, Pen.”
“Noted,” Pen said. “I’m sure I can tolerate that.”
Tim looked slightly affronted at his exclusion from that, and Greta’s eyes flicked between him and Mark, but neither commented, which suited Mark. He had no desire to pick fights, and the bloke seemed pleasant enough, but Tim Taillefer was a member of a family he didn’t trust, and making friends came a long way second to Pen’s safety.
“Do you want help looking around?” Tim asked.
“Tim knows the house as well as anyone,” Greta put in.
“I’d like to work my way through the whole thing. Is there a floor plan?”
“I’m sure I can find one. Er,” Tim said. “You’ll probably need to talk to Phineas and Desmond first. There’s something of a pope and antipope situation.”
“A what?”
“Nominally Pen’s a guest here, though we all know he’s the earl, but Phineas and Desmond are pretending or telling themselves it’s still Desmond. So your right to roam around and ask questions is, shall we say, arguable.”
“He means you’re likely to be on the receiving end of a lot of shouting and bullying, and they’ll tell you to leave or not talk to anyone or something equally unpleasant,” Greta said.
“Shame,” Mark said. “I don’t like seeing people tire themselves out for no purpose. Shall we get that out of the way, then?”
Greta’s lips curved. “That sounds like a good idea. Pen and Tim, would you pin them down in the Large Drawing Room? We’ll be with you in a moment.”
The two went out. Greta followed them to the door and closed it behind them, then turned to Mark. “Do I understand you two have kissed and made up?”
Mark had been trying hard not to spend the meal watching Pen—not that Tim would have noticed with his eyes continually on Greta—but of course she’d noticed something. “Looks that way.”
“Good,” Greta said. “Pen’s had a much worse time here than you think, whatever you’re thinking. He hasn’t had to put up with this wear the right clothes, cut your hair rubbish since we were children and he’s not used to it, and if you hurt him again I will slice off your balls with a rusty razor. That’s not a threat, it’s a promise.”
“Glad we’ve cleared that up,” Mark said. “Anything else?”
Greta grinned at him, a sudden flash of humour that brought out the resemblance to her twin painfully strongly. “You don’t get intimidated easily, do you?”
“Most people are more talk than trousers. I’m here for Pen, and I’ll be here for Pen as long as he wants me around. All right?”
“All right,” Greta said. “As long as he’s happy.”
“Talking of which, I see you’re getting on with cousin Tim,” Mark observed.
Greta pulled a threatening face, but the light in her eyes was familiar. “And?”
Mark shrugged. “Playing Happy Families?”
“It’s better than Old Maid,” Greta tossed back. “Or Beggar My Neighbour, and talking of that, we should go and have that conversation with Desmond and Phineas.”
She led the way through a sequence of rooms, but to be honest, Mark could probably have found Phineas and Desmond Taillefer by the shouting. They were in a large drawing room which, he realised, must be the Large Drawing Room, Desmond seated, Phineas, Pen, and Tim standing. The atmosphere was smoke-wreathed, and the state of the ashtrays suggested that Phineas was on his fourth cigar of the day. It wasn’t yet ten. Mark wasn’t a smoker, but he was fairly sure you weren’t meant to go through fine hand-rolled Cubans as though they were gaspers.
Phineas didn’t look well. He had the kind of pouches under his eyes that suggested sleeplessness, maybe a bad conscience, and Mark thought there was a tinny note to his bluster, even if he was still at full throat.
“It is an insult to my father’s house and my father’s hospitality!” he was saying. “To make these accusations against a noble family, against our staff—to demand some interfering toy policeman may poke and sniff around private chambers—”
“Nice to meet you too,” Mark said. “Mark Braglewicz, private enquiry agent. I’ll be looking around on Mr. Starling’s behalf, or should I say Lord Moreton.”
Desmond’s stick thumped the floorboards. “I am Lord Moreton! I!”
“Not with Pen alive,” Greta said coldly.
“Which is the point,” Mark said. “Before you set out to prevent investigation of these very serious allegations, Mr. Desmond, I suggest you consider how this conversation might look in court. Mind if I take notes?” He flipped his notebook out and moved to a side table to write.
“I don’t understand the problem, Phineas,” Tim said. “If you don’t believe anyone attacked Pen, then there will be nothing to find and no harm done in looking. If someone did, then it is necessary to discover who.”
“The harm done in looking is the insult to our family name,” Phineas said. “I don’t expect you to understand that.”
“I am every bit as much a member of this family as you, and I can’t imagine a greater insult to our family name than letting a guest be attacked in our home,” Tim said. “Let alone if it’s his home. Mark is welcome to look through my possessions. I’ve got nothing to conceal.”
“I don’t need to search possessions for now,” Mark put in as Phineas swelled with rage. “And I’d be glad for anyone to watch me work. I’m not here to trouble your privacy, gentlemen.”
“And lady,” Desmond said. “I suppose you’ll be prying into her chamber, will you?”
“He’s welcome to,” Greta said swiftly. “Since I don’t have anything to hide either.”
“It is not about concealment. It is about the respect due to our name!”
“ ‘Respect—due—to—Taillefer—name,’ ” Mark said, scribbling. “ ‘Not—concealing—anything.’ Got that.”
“Stop writing down what I say!” Phineas shouted.
“ ‘Asked—conversation—not—be—recorded.’ If you prefer, Mr. Phineas; I’ve a good memory. Where will we start?”
Desmond slammed his stick on the floor. “Proceed, then. Look around, degrading this family with every step you take.” He turned on Pen, dismissing Mark. “We invited you here, Repentance, in order that you should learn something of this family’s history and the honour and respect due to our name. It seems you have learned nothing.”
“Well said, sir,” Phineas agreed. “Take your workman around. Insult this family, our ancestors and the loyal staff of this house with your womanish fancies. And when you are forced to admit this was nothing but hysteria”—his eyes were glittering hard on Pen—“we shall expect your apology.”
“Marvellous.” Pen looked pale but his jaw was set. “Let’s go.”
It was a pretty exhausting day. Mark didn’t in truth have a huge amount of faith he’d find anything. No question that any man could have got in on New Year’s Day; he’d asked Henry the footman, and got a full account of the country custom. The door stood wide, and something like a hundred men might come in over the course of a couple of hours, all needing to be served drinks and many having gone through this process at a dozen houses previously. It had been raucous and busy, and with no acknowledged lady of the house there had been no formal greeting or introduction, let alone counting in and out.
The would-be killer could have walked in on New Year’s Day, no trouble. Walking out again, once Pen had raised the alarm, sounded like more of a challenge, and Mark found himself wondering if the man had swum out. Crowmarsh’s windows didn’t need to be locked or bolted, what with the moat, and the slope of the walls would surely let an agile man brace himself to pull a window shut behind him before jumping in.
“It would be horribly cold,” Pen remarked dubiously, looking out next to him as Mark pulled a casement back and forth to test it. “Freezing in the moat and then once you got out, you’d be soaked through. I wouldn’t much want to do it.”
“You don’t go around throttling people either.”
Mark went on to have a general look about the house. He mostly wanted to make a fuss, get the place bustling and gossiping, keeping an eye on Pen, wondering what was going on. There was little chance that any intruder was still here, but he looked for evidence of his presence, even if it was more to reassure Pen he was believed than because he thought he’d find anything.
His main interest was unused, unlocked rooms that could have been illicitly inhabited, so Greta swept up a housemaid and brought her along. “This is Pomona,” she said as introduction.
Pomona bobbed. “Jane to the gentry, missus. Mr. Ponsonby insists.”
“He can insist all he likes,” Pen said. “Which do you prefer? Pomona’s a lovely name, and it suits you, but if you’d rather be Jane…”
She bobbed again. “Pomona, if you please, sir.”
“See?” Greta said. “Jane indeed. Right, Pomona, you’re our scout. Lead the way.”
Pomona stifled a giggle. The butler might be a prick, but Pen and Greta evidently had the rest of the staff charmed. “Well, miss, if you’re looking for empty rooms, there’s a fair few. A whole row on the top floor north.”
“I don’t think I’ve been there,” Pen said.
“Nobody goes except me, and only on Wednesdays for sweeping. I don’t know as we’ve ever used ’em in my time here, sir.”
“You sweep on Wednesdays. New Year’s Day was a Thursday, so nobody would have been up here since then?” Mark asked.
“No, sir, that’s right.”
She brought them to the top floor of the north side of the building. Mark wasn’t surprised these rooms weren’t used; they had a chilly, dark aspect. Each was equipped with a bed and some basic furnishings, clean but cold. He checked the wardrobes as they went, to Pomona’s astonishment, but found nothing except piles of neatly folded blankets.
“Someone could have concealed himself in one of these rooms,” he commented. “There’s nothing else on this corridor and two sets of stairs going different directions at each end. As a place to avoid notice, it couldn’t be better.”
“As a place to stay it wouldn’t be awfully comfortable,” Pen said. “Nobody’s used the fireplaces.”
“You could do without a fire,” Mark said. “Where’s the nearest water closet?”
Pomona looked discomfited. Gentry probably weren’t meant to shit, or nobody was meant to admit they did. “There’s none on this corridor, sir, it’s all chamber pots still. The rooms in the first floor east—”
“Too far.” Mark delved under the bed and lifted the tight-fitted lid of the china commode. The interior was bone dry and clean.
“You’re thorough, I’ll give you that,” Greta said.
“Might as well check while we’re here.” He headed to the next room, the others trailing behind. Tim had the blank expression of a polite man not pointing out an absurdity. Mark didn’t care if he was making himself ridiculous; if all this achieved was to get the staff talking and prove to Pen how seriously Mark took his story, it would do.
The second chamber pot was as spotless as the first. In the third room along he hoicked the next one out, lifted the lid, frowned, and sniffed.
“That’s not clean,” he said.
Pomona pushed forward, evidently feeling this was her department. “No, it’s not. It’s been wiped but not washed. Who’s been using that? I’m the only one comes up here.”
“Do you check the pots weekly?” Mark asked.
“No, sir, along of nobody uses the rooms. If someone was caught short, they ought to leave the pot outside the door after. What did he do, dump it out the window or something? Dirty thing.”
“At night, probably,” Mark said. “I think you could stay up here with a pot and a supply of food and drink, and not be noticed. It would take nerve but it could be done.”
“So,” Greta said. “We know someone could have got in on New Year’s Day. We know someone was in this unused room, and made secret use of the chamber pot. We know Pen almost had his head smashed in. We’ve only got his word for it that someone tried to kill him, but given the rest of it, surely to God we can ask the police to look for a would-be murderer now?”
Pomona’s eyes widened. Pen gave her a weak smile. “It’s all right. Um—”
“It’s not all right,” Greta said. “Pom, can you ask around, see if any of the staff have seen anyone who shouldn’t be here? Even if it’s meant to be a secret?”
“Not if it’s going to put her in danger to ask,” Pen said swiftly.
“I don’t see it should,” Mark said. “If this bloke’s got any sense he’s long gone, plus we’ve all seen the pot, for what it’s worth.”
“Course I’ll ask,” Pomona said. “But honestly, I think someone would have said something if there was anyone wandering about. Mr. and Miss Starling are the first new people we’ve seen in forever. If I may say so, I hope we’ll be having proper housefuls soon.” She bobbed Pen a curtsey with a beaming smile. “We’re all looking forward. Is there anything else?”
“Not for now,” Tim said, and waited until she’d gone to add, “I see word’s got round the servants, then.”
“Hardly surprising if you lot have been yelling about it for a week,” Mark said. “That, and these two are like as two peas to the rest of the family.”
“Oi,” Greta said.
“Only prettier. All right, let’s think a second. How far is it to the nearest railway station?”
“About seven miles to Didcot,” Tim said. “Country miles, of course.”
“And the fields are too muddy to walk over but if you went along the roads soaking wet you’d be bound to be seen, not to mention catching your death.”
“Soaking wet?” Greta asked.
“Mark thinks the attacker might have swum out,” Pen said.
“Gosh,” Tim said. “No, surely not, he’d have frozen stiff in the night in wet clothes.”
“Unless he’d planned to do it,” Mark said. “We know he thinks ahead. If he’d managed to kill Pen and not wake the house, he wouldn’t have wanted to stick around, would he? You do the job in the middle of the night, slip out of one of the windows and pull it shut behind you, swim over—how hard would that be?” He had no idea about swimming.
“Easy if you can swim at all,” Tim said. “Just a few strokes.”
“And then he’d need dry clothes, and boots too,” Mark said. “Is there anywhere he could have left a set?”
“There are plenty of outbuildings behind the house. Sheds. A couple of follies in the gardens. But wouldn’t he then have to carry his wet clothes and whatnot?”
“I’d lob them in the moat, myself, or a ditch anyway,” Mark said. “Get rid of them, have a new set of clothes waiting and maybe even some means of getting away. A boneshaker? I want a word with someone who works in the grounds.”