Read Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. for Free Online

grin, resumed custody of his “torch.” He let the beam linger on my boots.
    “Those boots are brilliant, Miss Randall.” He extended his other hand. “Splendid to see you again.” He shook my hand with tea-party politeness.
    “That man. With the eye patch. He had a knife.”
    Peter laughed. “And I had no weapon of any kind. Which I believe gave me the moral advantage.” He looked absurdly sexy in the tuxedo: Keith Richards doing a Cary Grant impression. He peeked out a window and took a mobile phone from his pocket. “There’s a bloke lying on the pavement on Threadneedle Street,” he said. “Near the Merry Miller. Probably just pissed, but you might want to send an ambulance. Cheers.”
    After this surprising show of compassion. He disappeared through the double doors, and a moment later, the fluorescent lights above hummed to life and the television blared. He laughed as I blinked in befuddlement. “I phoned Liam earlier and told him to throw the switch as soon as the match was over,” he said. “I didn’t want to electrocute myself when I kicked through a ceiling with who knows how many live wires running through.” He glanced up at the rusty trap door and precariously hanging ladder. “Luckily, the electrical system seems to be intact. I’ve been wanting to replace that filthy ceiling anyway. Somebody tiled right over that nice trap door. Victorian, from the look of it.” He kicked away a piece of disintegrating ceiling tile that had fallen to the floor.
    On the television, a commercial showed a cartoon of cheery, bouncing bunnies. I felt as if I’d fallen down a rabbit hole and landed in some demented cartoon-bunny land myself. I’d come for Robin Hood and found the White Rabbit.
    “I do apologize for the dramatics,” Peter said. “They weren’t entirely for your benefit, although I think it was rather a good entrance, don’t you?” He picked up a piece of broken glass bottle and tossed it in the vicinity of the trash bins. “I would have got rid of Barnacle Bill earlier, but he’s easier to handle with a whole bottle of whiskey in him than half. Usually passes out by then. Besides, I didn’t want to ask Liam to throw the switch until the game was over. The lads would have clobbered me instead of old Bill.” He gave me a sudden hug—quick and brotherly, but I couldn’t help reacting to his touch. He smelled of peppermints. “Are you all right, lass? How was your flight?”
    “The flight was fine.” I wanted to tell him nothing had been close to fine since I’d landed on terra firma, but that seemed too obvious to state without being rude.
    Peter brushed dust off his tuxedo. “It’s right nasty, up there in the attic. We haven’t had time to clean it. Although I did some brainstorming up there. It would make a brilliant flat. It has skylights and gobs of floor space.” He straightened his purple tie. “I wore this for your arrival. Ordered in some pizza and American whiskey, too, to make you feel at home, but I’m afraid Barnacle Bill availed himself of the treats.” He examined the mess around the trash container. “Sorry. Are you ravenous? Let’s get you some food. “I could do with a meat pie meself. Nothing like climbing about on rooftops and lying in rat turds to work up an appetite.”
    I’d been a little hungry, but that evaporated with talk of rat turds. Mostly I longed for bed.
    “I’d prefer to settle in now, if you don’t mind. It’s tomorrow morning for me.”
    “But you’re in Blighty now, my dear.” He looked at his watch. “And here it’s only half nine. You’ll hate yourself if you go to bed now and wake at five AM. Come down the pub, lass. Brenda can fix you breakfast, dinner, supper—whatever you fancy. And you can meet Mr. Trask. Don’t you want to meet your fellow American scrivener?”
    “Gordon Trask will be there?” Talking with a fellow American might make this seem less surreal.
    “I assume so, since he’s terrified to walk about