Though I suspect no amount of sympathy will erase the image of the old geezer found dead in his final moments of . . . entertainment.
The servants called me first, not emergency services. A decision for which I’m simultaneously grateful and eternally haunted. The image of him, and that damned television program still playing . . .
“Not a problem,” she mutters grimly. “Just . . . tragic how he’s gone.”
“Indeed.”
I retrieve an envelope from the desk drawer, sliding it across the polished surface. The contents should ensure both her discretion and perhaps a much-needed holiday somewhere far from here. “A token of appreciation for your handling of this uniquely delicate situation.”
She peeks inside, her eyebrows rising in quiet appreciation. “Most generous, sir. You’ve always been good to us. This can’t have been easy for you either.”
“Think nothing of it.”
She folds the envelope away. “Don’t worry. This won’t leave this room.”
Ah, if only I could say the same.
Because while she may eventually forget, I’m cursed to carry the knowledge that Bernard, the legendary pioneer of laparoscopic surgery, met his end jerking off to Daisy Wilson.
The television was still tuned to her channel when Mrs. Hayes found him, though thankfully no one else has made that particular connection.
The irony is excruciating.
I nod my gratitude.
“Will that be all, sir?”
She’s already edging toward the door, desperate to put this day behind her.
“Yes, thank you,” I say, exhaling slowly. “And again . . . my sincere apologies for the circumstances.”
She pauses, one hand on the doorknob. “At my age, sir, you learn that death rarely comes with dignity.”
No, but there are certainly degrees of indignity, and I think even she would agree that being found cock-in-hand ranks exceptionally low on the scale.
The moment she leaves, I reach for the decanter on the desk, pouring myself agenerousmeasure of the whiskey we’d been saving for a “special occasion.”
Well, this certainly qualifies.
I take a long sip, the burn sharp and welcome, and sink into my father’s old leather chair.
Great Uncle Bernard. Innovator of keyhole surgery. Medical legend. Found dead with his cock out by a housekeeper.
Funeral arrangements are challenging enough without adding scandal management to the equation.
A knock interrupts my musings. Liam and Patrick enter with their usual presumptive familiarity, and I’ve never been moregrateful for the McLaren brothers’ timing. Particularly Liam, my oldest friend from school, but Patrick and I have become quite close as well.
“There you are,” Liam says, dropping into the nearest chair.
I loosen my tie and lean back like a man defeated by life. “It’s been a hell of a few days.”
“Sorry, mate,” Patrick offers.
“Bit rough you had to find him yourself.” Liam frowns. “Why didn’t they just call an ambulance?”
I let out a long breath. “He was found in a somewhat . . . compromising position.”
Their expressions morph from sympathy to something else entirely. I watch it happen in slow motion—the dawn of realization, followed by the inevitable twitching of lips.
