Read Online Too Bad to Die by Francine Mathews - Free Book Online Page B

anymore—“but I think I’ll just wear these.”
    There was a silence. Ian could not look at his brother. Hudders would be caned again if he wore a rubbishy pair of pants to class. It wasn’t allowed.
    â€œIf I get new trousers, it’s as though they’ve won,” Hudders explained.
    â€œOf course they’ve won,” Peter retorted. “This is
Pop
we’re talking of. Pop runs the school.”
    Peter would be admitted to the Eton Society when he reached the Sixth Form. He was that sort of boy.
    â€œIt’s okay.” Hudders shrugged. “My tails and gown will hide most of it.”
    He twitched his suit jacket over the horizontal lashings in his seat bottom. He was right, Ian thought—with the black gown thrown over the top, the state of his trousers was invisible. But it was risky, all the same. There were places the gown wasn’t worn. Or the suit jacket. Hudders was bound to be seen and punished.
    Michael’s face was rather pale and he made a point of not sitting down as he lingered in Peter’s doorway. He hadn’t come to Slater’s for trousers, Ian thought, so what was it he’d wanted? Comfort? Salve for his bleeding buttocks?
    No. He’d just wanted someone to tell
.
    Slowly, Ian undid his fly and slipped out of his pants. He reached for a pair of scissors on Peter’s desk and before either of the boys could stop him, he drove the points through the seat. The bespoke wool fabric ripped cleanly. He did it again. And again. Then he put the trousers back on.
    â€œYou twit,” Peter said. “Mummy will be
furious.
”
    â€œThey shan’t win.” Ian’s voice was overloud; he was terrified by the enormity of what he’d done. “Not while we stand together, Hudders.”
    It was a hallowed British hope. One Mokie would have recognized, from his wretched Belgian trenches. Ian had no black gown to hide his sins.
    He was birched the next day. Peter put an unguent on his weals without comment. He ordered new trousers the next time he visited the High.
    Years later, when it was time for their form to be chosen for Pop, it was Michael who made it. Not Ian.
    â€”
    â€œI DON’T BELIEVE IT ,” Hudson said now, as he sat in Ian’s room at Mena House. “Turing’s off his nut. The Fencer cannot possibly be one of us.”
    They’d managed to break away from the Thanksgiving party without appearing as though they had somewhere better to go, staggering their farewells with a ten-minute interval. Ian had left first. He had the Laphroaig waiting when Hudders arrived.
    â€œThe Prof was absolutely clear. Somebody’s reporting to Berlin in real time.”
    Hudson snorted. “Probably got his intelligence from the Society column in
The Egyptian Gazette.
”
    â€œHave they printed the fact that Gil Winant is sleeping with Churchill’s daughter?” Ian took a sip of whiskey. “Or that you’re doing your damnedest to get Pam Churchill to sleep with you?”
    â€œI doubt even the
Gazette
would be so fatuous,” Hudson retorted coldly. “Why do you despise her so much, Ian?”
    â€œBecause she wastes people’s time.”
    â€œI notice she hasn’t wasted much of yours.”
    Ian laughed harshly. “You think I’m jealous? Michael, I’ve known Pamela Digby since her first Come Out, when she was a pudgy wallflower with bad clothes and a spotty face. The years have gilded but not improved her.”
    â€œShe’s an angel.”
    â€œ
Fallen
angel.”
    Hudson’s mouth twisted, and for an instant Ian thought he might toss his Scotch in his face. His fingers compressed whitely on the glass. He set it down carefully and turned toward the door. “You’re drunk. We’ll talk in the morning.”
    â€œHudders.”
    He stopped.
    â€œLook—I apologize. I’m a vicious brute. But this is serious. The Fencer is deadly