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I raised the hand attached to the arm Mayfield wasn't gripping and twisted around slowly, giving plenty of time for Mayfield to turn with me. She clutched my arm as if her existence depended upon it. Maybe it did. A dark-garbed figure had appeared behind us, holding a large black automatic in a fashion that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing. His concealment had been mundane: he had evidently emerged from the low door of a cupboard which probably contained mops and buckets for the cleaners. "Cairnie!" Mayfield gasped. "Sister," he acknowledged with a curt nod, a snarl at the edge of his mouth. It was indeed Cairnie Westwood, Mayfield's younger brother. Even at a glance, it was obvious that something of the same genes were present in the two siblings. Both were moderately tall and slender, both had bodies and faces well-proportioned, both had the same sharply-intelligent eyes. But, whereas in Mayfield the effect was one of elegance and poise and astuteness, the effect in her brother was snooty and pretentious and devious. Not that I could make out a great deal of his physical form. Mostly he was hidden in baggy and nondescript black clothing wrapped in a long black cloak and deep hood - the kind of thing that had gone out of fashion hundreds of years ago, even down here. I wondered what backward cave or hidden pit Cairnie had been hiding in all these years. "What are you doing here?" Mayfield demanded nervously, still clinging to my arm, "Why are you doing this?" "Getting what I need," he replied nastily, "Getting what I deserve." Mayfield's face broke into a pretty frown. But it was easy for me to guess what his game was. The unfavoured runaway younger son, contending for a very substantial bequest in competition with the favoured daughter. No contest, unless he set up the rules to suit himself. First, the wealthy widow out of the way, then trapping his competitor - his own sister - with either death or disinheritance. Tibbermore, well, I didn't know, but maybe he had caught wind of the scheme, or discovered some essential detail which had to be covered up. Fatally. The automatic in his hand was tracking Mayfield, not me, although his eyes were flicking from her to me and back again. I let my hand drop a fraction; Cairnie waved the gun in my direction almost insolently until I re-elevated it back to its former position. I guess I wasn't important in his grand scheme of things. His resolve stiffened, as did his grip on the handle of the automatic. "Goodbye, Sis," he muttered, squeezing the trigger. The report from the gun was deafeningly loud in the enclosed space of the stairwell. The shot struck Mayfield squarely in the chest, whereupon she looked shocked for a moment, let go of my arm reflexively, then vanished entirely with a soft pop. She hadn't really been there at all, of course. "What the...?" Cairnie's anger was palpable, although I wasn't paying very much attention to his demeanour. I was already diving for the cover that the turn in the stairwell would provide while reaching for the handgun in the holster I keep concealed beneath my coat. He fired again, taking a chunk out of the marble tiles which lined the stair and spraying me with splinters. I rolled and pressed myself to the relative safety of the wall. I stuck the brim of my hat around the edge of the stairs at head height - well detached from my head, of course. There was no reaction. The hat was followed by a cautious eyeball at shoelace level. No sign of Cairnie. I emerged cautiously, my own gun at the ready, and investigated the broom cupboard where he had hidden. Empty. He had gone, disappeared down the stairs. There was a sudden palpable change, the re-establishment of sound as the glamour he had deployed ran out of steam. I could just make out running footsteps on the stone flags on the ground floor. I followed, taking the stairs four at a time. I didn't want to lose him now.
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Part 50