Dead Men's s Boots

I glanced across at the fat man once, out of the corner of my eye: he was still on his knees and he was stilttyd he wal looking at me, although when I caught him at it he dropped his gaze to the ground with a slight grimace and went back to the job in hand.

‘Any luck, Leonard?’ the receptionist asked."

"The man shook his head glumly. ‘There’s no jam,’ he said, in a higher voice than I would have expected – a voice that had a slight fluting quality to it, as though the big man had swallowed that weird little device that gives Mister Punch his voice.

‘I think it’s one of the rollers, come off its bracket.’ He leaned forward and reached into the machine – with both arms, this time. It shifted on its base and creaked ominously.

‘Mister Castor.’ I looked up. Todd was just coming down the stairs, hand outstretched. He had a different suit on – mid-blue instead of grey, and with a subtle dog-tooth. Maybe he had one for every day of the week. I stood, and we shook.

Shaking hands is always a little jump into the unknown for me.

The same morbid sensitivity that makes me good at sensing the presence of the dead sometimes allows me to pick up superficial psychic impressions through skin-to-skin contact. Nothing this time, though, or at least nothing revealing: Maynard Todd exuded only a cool aura of self-possession as immaculate as his tailoring.

‘Thanks for coming,’ he said. Then he looked past me, and his expression shifted into a slightly perplexed frown. ‘Uh – Leonard, are you sure you know what you’re doing there?’

‘Yes,’ Leonard grunted tersely.

I could see Todd thinking about taking the discussion a stage further, and I could see him giving up on the idea. He turned to the receptionist instead. ‘Carol,’ he said, ‘call the service number.’

‘Yes, Mister Todd.’

‘I can fix it,’ said Leonard, not looking round.

‘Come on upstairs,’ Todd said to me, ignoring Leonard’s answer. ‘You want some tea or coffee?’

‘I’m fine,’ I said, and followed him back up the wide staircase.

When we turned around the elbow of the stairs Leonard was still on his knees, intent on his veterinary duties.

‘John Gittings,’ Todd said, glancing back down at me as we walked. ‘That’s what you called about, right?’

‘Right,’ I agreed.

‘And I saw you at the funeral.’

‘Right again.’

He nodded. ‘Yeah, I thought so. You were the one who stepped in when the natives were getting restless. Thanks for that.’

I didn’t answer.