Forty-sixCyrus’s normally smooth salt-and-pepper hair was in tangled disarray. His fleshy face drooped, as if he’d had a palsy attack. The slope of his shoulders underlined the final aberration. Cyrus, usually a very modest drinker, was banged up to the eyes.
Hector de Vile removed his hat, deposited his cane in the umbrella holder in the hallway and fixed his shuffling old friend with a sharp eye.
“Been on the batter, have you, Cyrus? Is something wrong? It’s very rarely we see you in your cups.”
He glanced around. The house was cold and empty, different from its usual warm hospitality.
“And where’s Misty? It’s awfully quiet in here.”
Cyrus regarded him with baleful eyes, shrugged and set off for the drawing room without a word.
De Vile followed.
“If you want some whiskey there’s a
