Streaking by Brian Stableford Page B

bad enough when you come over all Jeeves-y, without taking it to silly extremes. Anyway, how is the old fart, apart from his neurotic anxieties about the succession?”
    Bentley dropped his act immediately. “He’s not good, sir,” he said. “The relapse took us all by surprise. He knew that the chemotherapy hadn’t worked, apparently, but he gave firm instructions to Dr. Hale and the consultant at St. James’s to say nothing, even to me. He decided that the power of positive thinking was his only hope. He was probably pushing himself a little too hard, pretending even to himself that if he only put on a good enough act he night actually get well again. When the illusion was punctured he went from one extreme to the other, although he has rallied a little in anticipation of your return. I’m sorry we had to call you back from your holiday.”
    â€œIt used to be a lifestyle,” Canny complained. “Now a trip to the Riviera only qualifies as a holiday? ”
    â€œThings have changed, sir,” Bentley said, meaning that Canny’s lifestyle would have to change, whether Canny liked it or not. “Your mother really is going to need your support—the staff can only do so much.”
    â€œI know,” Canny said. “I’m her son. It’s my job, not yours. And even if it weren’t my job, I’m her son . He fooled me, too. I thought he really was getting better, at least sufficiently for me to risk one last fling. We Kilcannons get into the habit of taking our legendary luck a little too much for granted.” He could talk relatively freely to Bentley about the Kilcannon luck, even though Bentley didn’t know the whole truth, or even the half of it. Bentley was the kind of family retainer who never worried about how much of the truth he knew and didn’t know, and would never say a word out of place, even—perhaps especially—if he knew more than he ought to.
    The Bentley swept majestically through Towton, but the natives didn’t bat an eyelid. If asked what they thought, they’d probably have opined that Bentleys weren’t really Bentleys any more, now that they had to be manufactured by Rolls Royce. They’d probably have felt the same even if Rolls Royce hadn’t been taken over in its turn by Germans. Canny couldn’t help wondering whether the Bentley driving the Bentley was any more authentic than the car, in a world where servants were an anachronistic affectation rather than a necessity of civilized existence, but it would have been churlish to voice the thought.
    â€œDid you have good luck in Monte Carlo, sir?” the butler enquired, innocently, as the car went over the Cock Beck Bridge and began to climb towards the ridge of the dale that hid the Crede.
    â€œSwings and roundabouts,” Canny said tersely. “Look—I might be getting a phone call or two from a guy named Henri Meurdon about a matter of considerable delicacy. I’d rather Mummy and Daddy didn’t get to hear about it. There was an incident—a robbery. It was nothing serious, and I don’t want anyone worrying about it. The Union Corse will take care of it, if there’s anything that can be done.”
    â€œThe Union Corse, sir?” Bentley echoed, the question mark at the end of the sentence was hardly perceptible.
    â€œIt’s a kind of insurance company,” Canny told him, although he had no doubt that Bentley could easily come by a more accurate account, if he cared to take the trouble. The butler’s computer had a broadband connection, just like the one in the library. “It’s also possible,” Canny added, “that a story might get reported in the gossip columns involving Stevie Larkin, Lissa Lo and a little flutter on a roulette wheel. It might be better if Daddy didn’t get to hear about that either. I’ll warn Mummy not to say anything if she comes across it in one of her