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I had appeared in the inner courtyard of Lady Strowan's resident entirely unexpectedly, deposited there quite literally by magic. The other, more mundane and much more visible entrances were being guarded by a couple of uniformed coppers, despite the fact that the strong wooden doors were bolted and barred against even quite a determined attempt at a forced entry. And, given the wealth of the household, probably reinforced with the odd protective glamour, too. Across the stone-flagged expanse, I could see the old maid known as Molly being either comforted or questioned by a phlegmatic-looking old Sergeant in uniform, accompanied by a second female officer. Other cops were searching the storerooms and outbuildings, while signs of frenetic activity came from within the main house. One of the two young constables guarding the gates turned and spotted me. Not that I was trying to hide my presence, of course. "Hey, you!" he shouted, "Stay where you are. What are you doing here?" I stopped dead and held my hands slightly away from my body, making no attempt to reach into my pockets for my buzzer. Always a wise precaution with nervous and inexperienced cops, ones showing signs of being jumpy and trigger-happy. "Name's Gask, Findo Gask. I'm a shamus," I said levelly, "I'm here to visit my client." "Great," the other youngster muttered to his colleague, "Now we've got a Private Dick on our hands. Just what we need." "Your client?" the first copper asked, loosening his revolver in its holster and approaching me cautiously. The other one held back, circling around to make it harder for me to do a runner. Standard police procedure. I was taught it myself once upon a time. "Tibbermore," I replied calmly, "He's the butler here." The look in his eyes told me everything I needed to know, even if I didn't want to. The stiff-backed aged retainer, faithful to his mistress until death - and beyond - was now himself no longer in the land of the living. He was one of the good guys, for all his reserved manner and old-fashioned politeness. The world will not see his kind again. "Look, kid," I said with a hint of exasperation in my voice, "I'm on the side of the angels here. I need to talk to my client." "Uh-huh," the first cop said, drawing his revolver but not quite pointing it at me, "Let's see more of those hands, shall we?" I raised my arms to shoulder level while the second officer patted me down. Both of them seemed disappointed when they found I wasn't packing a gun. Now, I don't always go around tooled up; the kind of thinking you do with a gun in your hand is likely to get yourself killed. So, on this occasion I had left my regular automatic in its holster, secreted in the secure hiding-place in my apartment. I had other weapons, of course, quite an arsenal in fact, hidden in many places, not all of which were in the Lower Realms. "Okay," the second cop said, drawing back and unholstering his own weapon, "Let's go inside." "Sure," I said pleasantly, treating his gunpoint instruction as a polite request to be graciously granted, "I dare say Sergeant Tewel will be wanting to see me." We had not made more than five steps when the Detective Sergeant himself emerged from the kitchen door, trailed by a couple of hard-looking constables. "Gask!" he growled, pointing an angry finger at me, "I want a word with you. Right now!"
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Part 39