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He had been right about Simon. He had been right in seeing the resemblance to Timber: the well-bred creature with the beautiful manners who was also a rogue. Simon had told the truth, back there in the bar. He had been glad to tell him the truth. They said all killers wanted to boast about their killings: Simon must have longed often to tell someone how clever he had been. But he could never tell until now; when he had a “safe” listener.
He, Brat Farrar, was the “safe” listener.
He, Brat Farrar, owned Latchetts, and Simon took it for granted that he would keep what he had taken. That he would keep it as Simon’s accessory.
But that, of course, was not possible. The unholy alliance with Loding was one thing, but the alliance Simon took so mockingly for granted was not possible. It was monstrous. Unthinkable.
And that being that, what was he going to do about it?
Go to the police and say: Look, I am not Patrick Ashby at all. Patrick Ashby was killed by his brother eight years ago. I know, because he told me so when he was a little drunk.
And then they would point out that in the course of their investigation into the death of Patrick Ashby it was proved that Simon Ashby had spent the relevant hours in the company of the smith at Clare.
He could tell them the truth about himself, but nothing would be changed except his own life. Patrick Ashby would remain a suicide.
How had Simon done it?
‘One has to accept the means at hand,’ he had said, about his slackening of the girth.
What ‘means at hand’ had there been that day eight years ago?
The slackening of the girth had been a combination of planning and improvisation. The “signing the book” suggestion had been a long shot. If it worked successfully to get him out of the way, then Simon was free to complete the rest of his plan. If it did not work, then no harm was done. The set-up was innocent to the observer’s eye.
That was the way Simon’s mind had worked about the girth, and that was undoubtedly the way it had worked eight years ago. The set-up that was innocent and unquestionable. The using of the means at hand.
How, eight years ago, had Simon used an innocent set of circumstances to provide him with the chance he wanted?
As the thought occurred to Brat, he realized he was unconsciously shifting in trying to avoid the frigid wind. Should he catch a chill, Brat suspected that Simon would like that even better. There would be no questions if the prodigal son, weakened by his time in America, died of fever after a chill.
Simon was likely still getting drunk in the bar, or, more likely, had fallen asleep. Brat not coming back would probably be viewed as an inherent surrender: Timber would consider it that way.
Perhaps he didn’t need to figure out how Simon had done it. If Simon persisted in riding Timber, that gorgeous rogue who had already killed a rider once, Timber might well succeed again. It would take only a moment of inattention, and though Simon had proven himself to be a superb horseman when he chose to be, Brat’s presence was already shaking his equilibrium.
But then Timber would have to be put down. Brat’s entire soul cried out at that realization. A clever and deliberate rogue, yes, but that silk-smooth gait, the perfection of his musculature, his beautifully-shaped head! It didn’t bear thinking. But if he killed Simon Ashby of Latchetts as he had killed Felix Hunstanton, it would be dog meat for him.
No. It would solve the problem of Simon Ashby, beautiful and well-mannered Simon the rogue, as it would solve the problem of Timber who could not be trusted, but Brat would no more be able to live with himself over Timber being put down than he could be Simon’s -- how had he put it? Posthumous accomplice.
Thinking of that decided Brat. No, he could not stay out the whole night. Simon would take it as a victory, and Brat was determined he should have no more. Retribution, he had said he was, and he meant to be so. Brat had thought of Patrick as a partisan, and now, knowing that Patrick had loved these green hills and these horses and Bee as Brat himself now felt attached, had not chosen to fling it forth from himself and die, he felt that he had somehow been plucked out to prevent Simon’s profiting from his murder.
How to do it, though, that he would not decide tonight.
He reached the lodgings and went up to Number 17, hoping that Simon would not be there. But of course he was: Brat entered the room and Simon turned abruptly, his extraordinary eyes seeming somehow less unusual with his pupils blown by drink.
For a moment they stared at each other. Brat, still with his mind on Timber, found himself struck anew by Simon’s fine-boned beauty. He had never looked at himself and seen anything particularly lovely, but on Simon, the delightfulness of the shared face was undeniable. Somehow, although Brat knew how alike they appeared, it looked different on him.
“Hello again,” Simon said, sounding insouciant and not quite as drunk as Brat could see that he was. “Should I be calling you Nemesis rather than Patrick, or Brat?”
“If you like.”
“Brat’s a foolish name. I’m sure you made it up.”
“As it happens, I didn’t,” watching the way his mouth went tight at Brat’s calm tone. “Brat Farrar isn’t a lie, Simon. Your firm wouldn’t have found so much corroboration if I weren’t being honest.”
“About that, anyway.” Simon’s mouth curved into a sort of smile Brat had never seen from him before. With a nauseating shock, he realized that it was a conspiratorial smile, and the gleam of Simon’s eyes in naked malice meant Simon had seen the response.
“Why did you hate him?” Better by far to distract him from that, and perhaps piece something together out of anything else Simon might drop. He was far drunker now.
“Patrick, you mean? Dear stupid little boy Patrick?” Simon shrugged, elegant and graceful, with the fluidity of the drunk who could hold his alcohol. “Why shouldn’t I hate him? He was always off with his hills and his birds and thinking of everyone else first, everyone else but me. He didn’t even know me. Why shouldn’t I hate him?”
It was a pettish response. Brat, still thinking of Timber and of the realization he had had that Simon must have been longing and longing to brag, said what came first to mind: “I know you.”
He realized what he had said when Simon went very still. Now what Brat was reminded of was not Timber, but the coral snakes he had seen while ranching. He had reached out to touch one once, entranced by its slim delicacy, and Lefty had had to yank him back before he could startle the snake into striking. He had watched them anyway, observed the easy swaying grace and the stillness just before a lunge. Simon was watching him now in the same way a snake, or a cat, looked at the prey before the strike.
Brat met his gaze anyway. There was nothing else for it. And anyway he did know him, knew him better than pretty Peggy Gates or his aunt Bee or his sisters, knew him better than dead gentle Patrick. Brat knew him better than anyone alive purely because he knew what Simon would do.
And from the startlement dawning in his face, Simon was realizing it too.
Simon strode closer, the distance between them narrowing down to nothing. Brat stood quite still and held his ground, even as Simon came within range, and then was close enough that Brat could smell the champagne on him and feel the warmth of his body. The warmth of his breath on Brat’s face, as Simon took that last step closer and they were breathing the same air. “Upstart,” he said, very softly. His voice was some strange shading between cold and wistful.
“Look at me,” Brat returned, his own tone as even as he could make it. “And say again I am not an Ashby. Whatever else I am,” as Simon’s mouth twisted into a sneer, “*look at me*, Simon Ashby, and tell me I am not your kin. And if you do say it, I shall call you a liar.”
Simon did look at him. Simon lifted his hand and ran his callused fingertips over Brat’s forehead, his pale eyebrows, the fine clean lines of his face that Brat knew was functionally identical to Simon’s own: his thumb brushed Brat’s lower lip as his wide-spread hand drifted over his cheekbone. Brat shivered and shied at the unexpectedness of the touch.
Simon was still looking at him. Simon was now smiling at the twitch he had yielded. Brat narrowed his eyes and held firm rather than giving in to the urge to step back. It would do him no good to, anyway, there was the closed door at his back.
Simon kissed him.
Brat found his mouth opening on what he thought was just shock. It wasn’t the first time a man had kissed him, or a drunken man, but it was the first time that a man quite like Simon had done it: a relation, a killer, frightening and mystifying and lovely in one. His mouth was warm and damp and tasted of champagne when he licked his way in as though it were he who owned Latchetts (and owned Brat himself) rather than the other way round.
Brat bit him. Now it was Simon who jerked back; Brat surged forward and followed him, tangling a hand in Simon’s fair hair to keep him there. He could not want Eleanor, Eleanor who thought he was her brother and believed him, trusted him; Simon, who was a cold liar and who knew Brat was lying, he could not like except when Simon was on a horse, but he had just discovered he could want him.
Simon growled and bit him back, more sharply than Brat had, but he was shuddering himself now, his hand on Brat’s face moving to cup his jaw as they kissed.
Panting, they broke apart. Simon’s eyes were nearly black now, the dark ring around the pale iris almost meeting the dilated pupil, and his red wet mouth was much more appealing than the wet red mouth of the Parslow girl who wanted Simon Ashby and didn’t know him at all. Brat had to acknowledge that he knew what he was doing and Sheila Parslow would not have been disappointed in her hoped-for affaire.
“I can’t say,” Brat managed, his voice calm enough to visibly irritate Simon, “That I’m accustomed to being kissed by someone who has twice tried to kill me and is going to attempt it again.”
“I’ve kissed someone I killed later.” There was a laugh, musical, running under his voice. “So you’ll be nothing different for me.”
“You kissed Patrick? Your brother?”
“I wanted something out of him, the useless lump. Some reason -- ” Simon shut his mouth very abruptly.
Brat tried not to wonder what the rest of the sentence had been. Thirteen was more than old enough to be curious, but still. But Brat had no brothers, and perhaps testing out kissing with someone safe was exactly what everyone did who did have brothers. Or perhaps it was just something done by Simon, who had no scruples, who was nothing like safe, and who was looking at him now with that predator’s gaze again.
“You’re drunk.”
“You’re not, so I don’t see what concern it is of yours.”
“I do have scruples.”
The laugh that had been underneath came out now, quiet despite the drink. Simon swayed closer and Brat wanted to lick the curve of his careless, wicked smile. “Well, I still have none. As you said.” He looked suddenly pleased and wondering, watching Brat with his color still high and his eyes still glittering. “I shall kiss you again,” he murmured, rubbing his thumb against Brat’s lip deliberately now. “Will I have you tonight, I wonder?”
“No. You’re drunk, we’ve the drive back to Latchetts in the morning, and,” Brat could not resist adding, “I’m not yours to have, Simon.”
“Of course you are, Patrick,” his smile growing sharper as he used the dead boy’s name, throwing it between them like a gauntlet. “You were then and you are now.”
Brat leaned in. He flicked the tip of his tongue against the cupid’s-bow of Simon’s mouth. He breathed against his lips, “No,” and jerked back with the same unthinking quickness that had saved his leg from Timber’s tricks and saved his mouth now from Simon’s teeth.
“I’m to bed. And if you decide you’d like to try something tonight, remember again which of us hasn’t had a bottle of champagne all to himself.”
Simon let Brat push past him and begin getting ready for bed. Brat could feel Simon’s gaze on him, the hairs along his spine and the back of his neck prickling, but he ignored it and slipped between the chilly sheets. Simon, after a long humming moment, tugged off his clothes and left them spilled in a single pile before dealing with the light and climbing into his own bed. The old floor creaked under him as he moved.
Brat heard the shift of his breathing as he fell asleep. He was most of the way asleep himself when he realized that Simon hadn’t, after all, tried to say again that he, Brat Farrar, was no Ashby.
It had solved nothing. It was not justice for Patrick. But it was a blow back at Simon, and for today, that would going to have to be enough.