The Whisperers by John Connolly Page B

wasn’t sure how to respond, so he simply opened the door a little wider to admit the stranger, his right hand moving almost casually to his waist and resting there within a hand’s reach of his gun. As Herod stepped into the house he nodded politely and glanced at Webber’s waist, and Webber felt sure that he knew of the gun, and that it didn’t bother him in the slightest. Herod looked toward the open kitchen, and Webber indicated that he should enter. He saw that Herod walked slowly, but it was not a function of his illness. Herod was just a man who moved with deliberation. Once in the kitchen, he laid his hat on the table and looked around, smiling in benign approval of all that he saw. Only the music seemed to disturb him, his forehead creasing slightly as he stared at the music system.
    ‘It sounds like . . . no, it is: it’s Fauré’s “Pavane,”’ he said. ‘I can’t say that I approve of what is being done to it, though.’
    Webber gave an almost imperceptible shrug. ‘It’s Bill Evans,’ he said. Who didn’t like Bill Evans?
    Herod contrived a little moue of disgust. ‘I’ve never cared for such experimentation,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid that I am a purist in most matters.’
    ‘To each his own, I guess,’ said Webber.
    ‘Indeed, indeed. It would be a dull world if we all shared the same tastes. Still, it is hard not to feel that some are better resisted than indulged. Do you mind if I sit down?’
    ‘Be my guest,’ said Webber, with only a hint of unhappiness.
    Herod sat, noting the wine and broken glass on the floor as he did so. ‘I hope I wasn’t the cause of that,’ he remarked.
    ‘My own carelessness. I’ll clean it up later.’ Webber didn’t want his hands full with a brush and pan while this man was in his kitchen.
    ‘I appear to have disturbed you in the act of preparing your meal. Please, by all means continue. I have no desire to keep you from it.’
    ‘It’s okay.’ Equally, Webber decided that he would rather not turn his back on Herod. ‘I’ll continue after you’ve gone.’
    Herod considered this for a moment, as though resisting an impulse to comment upon it, then let it pass, like a cat that decides not to chase down and crush a butterfly. Instead, he examined the bottle of white Burgundy on the table, turning it gently with one finger so that he could read the label.
    ‘Oh, very good,’ he said. He turned to Webber. ‘Would you mind pouring a glass for me, please?’
    He waited patiently as Webber, unused to guests making such demands of him, retrieved two glasses from the kitchen cabinet and poured a measure for Herod that, under the circumstances, was more than generous, then one for himself. Herod raised the glass and sniffed it. He removed a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, folded it neatly, then placed it against his chin as he took a sip from the glass with the corner of his mouth, avoiding the wound on his lip. A little of the wine trickled down and soaked into the handkerchief.
    ‘Wonderful, thank you,’ he said. He waved the hand kerchief apologetically. ‘One gets used to the necessity of sacrificing a little of one’s dignity in order to continue living as one might wish.’ He smiled again. ‘As you may have surmised, I am not a well man.’
    ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Webber. He struggled to put any emotion into the words.
    ‘I appreciate the sentiment,’ said Herod dryly. He raised a finger and pointed at his upper lip. ‘My body is riddled with cancers, but this is recent: a necrotizing illness that failed to respond to penicillin and vancomycin. The subsequent debridement did not remove all of the necrotic tissue, and now it seems that further explorations may be required. Curiously, it is said that my namesake, the slayer of infants, suffered from necrotizing fasciitis of the groin and genitalia. A punishment from God, one might say.’
    Are you referring to the king, or yourself, Webber wondered, and it was as if