Page 155 of The King's Man
‘Morton.’ The Londoner spat the name out. ‘Are my horses all right?’
‘They’ve been brought in. I’ve fed them but they need to be rubbed down.’
This time, the expletive came from the gutters of London.
‘Listen, Mister, is there naught you can do with the lock?’ The local man spoke.
He looked at the lock again. He could try shooting it out, but he didn’t want to risk the shot being heard. They would just have to wait.
‘Not at the moment. You’ll just have to sit on your hands for a while longer. I’ll be back.’
‘Don’t be too long.’
‘I’ll be as long as it takes,’ Kit replied.
He wasted a couple of minutes removing the harnesses from the two coach horses and gave all three horses a quick rubdown, while he considered his next move. Morton and Lucy were in the house, and he had no doubt Thamsine and her family were in the gravest peril. The thought of being on the wrong end of Morton’s sword with only the use of his left hand made him break out in a cold sweat. Kit had never thought of himself as a coward but he had to admit he was terrified.
Gathering his courage, he left the stables and slipped around the house in the direction of the kitchens. A light shone from a window and he could see a woman moving around. A pretty girl with dark hair. Her clothes indicated she was not a servant. She carried a jug, which she set down on the table. As he watched she wandered aimlessly around as if looking for something. He saw no sign of any of the house servants.
Kit looked at the kitchen door. While he had the benefit of surprise, he didn’t know the layout of the house and he didn’t want to ruin it by blundering through. He decided it would be better to scout around the outside of the house and try and determine which room they were in.
Every nerve strained to breaking point, he pulled the pistol from his belt and balanced it in his left hand, hoping that he wouldn’t have to use it. The powder was damp and he had lessconfidence in his ability to fire a pistol left-handed than he did in his left-handed swordsmanship.
He crossed the kitchen garden and passed through a gate in the wall, onto a well-groomed bowling green. The contrast with the ravaged gardens of his own home jarred. Even in the dark and the rain, he could see the front of the house faced down a pretty valley; the gardens well laid out and tended. Between the house and the garden was a wide paved terrace stopped only by a low wall that afforded him some cover from prying eyes.
Only one window burned with light. A ground-floor room with a bay window. The gravelled terrace would ordinarily have made it difficult to get close but the rain muffled his footsteps. Kit followed the low wall to the darkened end of the house and swiftly crossed the terrace. With his back to the house, he crept along the wall until he reached the window. The bay afforded him a reasonable chance to look in without being seen.
His blood turned cold. Thamsine sat at the virginals, her hands still, her body poised and watchful. Roger Knott stood beside the fireplace, his face twisted in anguish. The centre of everyone’s attention appeared to be a young girl who stood before Ambrose Morton.
Morton sprawled in a chair, a pistol balanced in his hand and aimed at the child. Even though the girl had her back to him, Kit could see the child’s shoulders shaking with fear or tears or both.
He did not need to see anymore and he knew he could not afford to wait for Jem. As he turned away to find an entry to the house, he heard a crash of falling crockery.
He spun on his heel in time to see the dark-haired woman from the kitchen throw herself at Ambrose. He flinched at the sound of the pistol shot but did not wait to see more. He turned and ran back towards the kitchen door, flinging it open. A child’s hysterical screams provided all the directions he needed.
Outside the door to the parlour, he paused, peering through the crack formed by the open door long enough to take stock of what was happening within the room.
He could see the girl who had been standing before Morton. She held a younger girl cradled her in her arms, hiding her face from the sight before them.
Morton had dropped to his knees beside the dark-haired woman, his face ashen. With surprising gentleness he turned her over, resting her head in his lap.
‘Annie, oh God, Annie! I didn’t mean … ’ His voice broke and he looked up at Thamsine who stood behind him. ‘She’s still alive. Help her!’
Kit swallowed as he recognised the name. The woman Morton had shot had been his own sister.
Thamsine knelt on the other side of Annie Morton, her hands fluttering helplessly over the growing crimson stain on the girl’s bodice. Kit could see blood-stained bubbles flecking Annie’s lips.
‘You fool! Now you add murder to the crimes already to your account?’
Kit started and took a step back into the gloom of the corridor as he recognised Lucy’s voice. She must have been out of his line of sight.
Ambrose said, ‘Not murder. Not Annie. I never … ’
Kit took a deep breath and drew his sword. Throwing back the door he stepped into the room.
Morton looked up and his eyes widened, the colour draining from his face. Lucy followed his gaze and screamed.
Morton laid his sister down on the floor and rose to his feet, taking a step backward.
