Read Online Most Secret by John Dickson Carr - Free Book Online
Authors: John Dickson Carr
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left hand fell. His right hand, also gloved and its fingers open, he swung round savagely to whack Kinsmere across the side of the face.
That blow never landed, being parried by an upflung left arm.
Kinsmere’s left hand darted behind the captain’s back. His right hand shot out, fingers closing round the underside of his companion’s bony jaw. His hand cradled that jaw as a man nowadays might cradle a cricket ball. Bracing himself, settling a little with weight on his right foot, he opened both shoulders in a mighty throw.
The captain, for all his muscular surefootedness, flew backwards across the passage as though caught beneath his jaw by the heaviest of all mallets they used at the game of pêle-mêle. The heels of his gambado boots made squashing noises on muddy cobblestones. His hat fell off. His back struck the wall of the Great Hall. His sword scabbard rattled as he sat down hard in mud.
And Kinsmere, feeling a lightness in the legs as well as a great hollow inside his chest, swerved sideways with left hand dropped to sword hilt.
“Shall we try,” says he, “how devilish little I know of swordplay? Lug out, Cock of the Sneerers, and we’ll despatch our business now.”
Yet he scored very little of triumph.
The other man rose up instantly, hat on again, all poise and menace, no whit of assurance lost. From the direction of the Thames, into which all the town’s refuse was emptied, a foul smell arose and blew through to poison the good steam of cooking.
But it was the captain who held attention in that dim passage. Towering, formidable, his every movement betraying the expert swordsman without pity or bowels, he circled catlike against what light entered from the river end.
“Lug out, you say?” His utter and low-voiced contempt was like a blow in itself. “Lug out, eh? Is that what you’d do?”
“I said it, yes! Why not?”
“With three royal edicts to forbid duelling, with the king as fixed against it as a man may be in this world, you’d provoke a brawl in the very premises of Whitehall Palace? Dog! Spawn of the dung heap! Draw but half an inch of iron from that scabbard there, and I will not even stir myself to spit at you. I will summon guards, as I would have done for the other scum, and have you clapped into a gatehouse gaol where you belong. And yet you need not think to escape me, oaf. You have jeered me, which is not done with impunity; you have dared to lay hand on me, which is not done at all …”
“Now, damme,” says Kinsmere, “but what mighty grandee have I so offended? Who are you, bold fellow at employing your mouth? How do you call yourself?”
“My name, oaf, concerns you not. My deeds shall concern you much. Are you acquainted with Leicester Fields?”
“I saw Leicester Fields today.”
The captain moved forward, facing Kinsmere with one shoulder lifted high and the gnats round his wig.
“Leicester Fields, the north side towards the Dead Wall,” he said, “and the clump of trees within the gate? Eh, lout? There will be a moon this night. Shall we meet there, eleven of the clock as men of breeding do, to settle the differences between us?”
“Yes!”
“You’d dare venture this, poor fellow?”
“I would not miss it.”
“There need be no seconds to fight beside us.” Here the captain all but spat in his face. “Shall I call my friends to meet the cattle you would bring, and demean myself before all? But ’twill not take long, I warrant. A pass or two, and I run you through the guts. Or, in meantime, should heart and courage fail together …”
“A truce to boasting, Corporal Ninnyhammer,” snapped my grandfather. “Go on much more in this strain and, royal edict or no, there shall be a whack across your chops to make you lug out HERE.”
“And if I shout for the Yeoman Ushers?”
“Then shout, God damn you!”
The captain opened his mouth; had he uttered a sound, Kinsmere would have sprung for his throat. Again hatred flared between these
That blow never landed, being parried by an upflung left arm.
Kinsmere’s left hand darted behind the captain’s back. His right hand shot out, fingers closing round the underside of his companion’s bony jaw. His hand cradled that jaw as a man nowadays might cradle a cricket ball. Bracing himself, settling a little with weight on his right foot, he opened both shoulders in a mighty throw.
The captain, for all his muscular surefootedness, flew backwards across the passage as though caught beneath his jaw by the heaviest of all mallets they used at the game of pêle-mêle. The heels of his gambado boots made squashing noises on muddy cobblestones. His hat fell off. His back struck the wall of the Great Hall. His sword scabbard rattled as he sat down hard in mud.
And Kinsmere, feeling a lightness in the legs as well as a great hollow inside his chest, swerved sideways with left hand dropped to sword hilt.
“Shall we try,” says he, “how devilish little I know of swordplay? Lug out, Cock of the Sneerers, and we’ll despatch our business now.”
Yet he scored very little of triumph.
The other man rose up instantly, hat on again, all poise and menace, no whit of assurance lost. From the direction of the Thames, into which all the town’s refuse was emptied, a foul smell arose and blew through to poison the good steam of cooking.
But it was the captain who held attention in that dim passage. Towering, formidable, his every movement betraying the expert swordsman without pity or bowels, he circled catlike against what light entered from the river end.
“Lug out, you say?” His utter and low-voiced contempt was like a blow in itself. “Lug out, eh? Is that what you’d do?”
“I said it, yes! Why not?”
“With three royal edicts to forbid duelling, with the king as fixed against it as a man may be in this world, you’d provoke a brawl in the very premises of Whitehall Palace? Dog! Spawn of the dung heap! Draw but half an inch of iron from that scabbard there, and I will not even stir myself to spit at you. I will summon guards, as I would have done for the other scum, and have you clapped into a gatehouse gaol where you belong. And yet you need not think to escape me, oaf. You have jeered me, which is not done with impunity; you have dared to lay hand on me, which is not done at all …”
“Now, damme,” says Kinsmere, “but what mighty grandee have I so offended? Who are you, bold fellow at employing your mouth? How do you call yourself?”
“My name, oaf, concerns you not. My deeds shall concern you much. Are you acquainted with Leicester Fields?”
“I saw Leicester Fields today.”
The captain moved forward, facing Kinsmere with one shoulder lifted high and the gnats round his wig.
“Leicester Fields, the north side towards the Dead Wall,” he said, “and the clump of trees within the gate? Eh, lout? There will be a moon this night. Shall we meet there, eleven of the clock as men of breeding do, to settle the differences between us?”
“Yes!”
“You’d dare venture this, poor fellow?”
“I would not miss it.”
“There need be no seconds to fight beside us.” Here the captain all but spat in his face. “Shall I call my friends to meet the cattle you would bring, and demean myself before all? But ’twill not take long, I warrant. A pass or two, and I run you through the guts. Or, in meantime, should heart and courage fail together …”
“A truce to boasting, Corporal Ninnyhammer,” snapped my grandfather. “Go on much more in this strain and, royal edict or no, there shall be a whack across your chops to make you lug out HERE.”
“And if I shout for the Yeoman Ushers?”
“Then shout, God damn you!”
The captain opened his mouth; had he uttered a sound, Kinsmere would have sprung for his throat. Again hatred flared between these
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