Read Tomorrow, the Killing for Free Online Page A

well, your intermediate knows many different sorts of folk, sir, and would never grudge a fellow his pleasure. Not a decent, well-born sort such as yourself, sir. And continuing on with our imaginings, let’s say your better half was to sniff out your paramour or grow suspicious as to where exactly her dowry is disappearing to, decides to make a nuisance of herself – then, as was said, sir, the factor knows all sorts of folk, all sorts of folk indeed, and he suspects he could help you out of that little difficulty as well.
    It’s a dirty sort of business, and even by common standards, Iomhair Gilchrist was a particularly unpleasant incarnation. Servile and treacherous, his sole constant an infatuation with short money that blinded him to the long. Too clever by half, and quick to forget he was a coward until things went to push. Odds suggested he’d end up dead in an alley, and I was always a little surprised to discover that coin unclaimed. Not that we’d ever had much contact – aside from his propensity for betrayal, I found him to be, on a personal level, as foul as a whore’s privates.
    But life’s not all rosewater and sunshine, and so after I left the Earl I headed toward Gilchrist’s office, keeping to the shade as best as I was able. He had lodgings on Apple Street, a fading structure sandwiched between two tenements. A newly painted sign above the door read, ‘Iomhair Gilchrist, Factor. Private and confidential.’ Beneath it, still visible despite the fresh coat, someone had scrawled ‘cunt’ in broad letters. I thought about knocking, but only briefly.
    The room was an ugly shell of a space, though one could predict that from the exterior. What one could not have predicted was the sheer volume of clutter, as if a river of trash had overflowed its banks. Scattered across the desk in the center of the room, the chair across from it, the bench against a side wall and the floor itself were the end-products of a dozen full reams of paper – notes, text, receipts and letters, some settled high enough to serve as a perch, others more reasonably stacked no further than my shins.
    Gilchrist sat on a stool behind the bureau, the one spot sufficiently empty of junk as to allow human occupation. Some part of Iomhair’s success, to the degree that he could be said to have had any, stemmed from the fact that his body was not an accurate reflection of the vacuousness of his soul. Instead of a malformed figure, one found a plump, pleasant-looking Tarasaighn, ruddy-cheeked with a serious countenance. If there was nothing particularly distinguished about him, neither was one immediately overwhelmed by the inclination to beat him with the nearest blunt object. He had a bushy caterpillar of a mustache, which he rubbed at when he wanted to give the impression that he was deep in contemplation. It was an affectation of which he was perhaps too fond, and he tended to paw at it over-frequently, as if it was a stain to be removed through vigorous scouring.
    He looked up as I came in, and though the heat had already set him to sweating through the homely tweed he wore, he seemed to leak another fluid ounce at my presence. ‘Warden! How nice of you to come by and thank me for the recent avenue of employment I provided.’ On the desk was a box of cheap cigars, and he opened it, picking one out for himself and gesturing for me to do the same.
    I scooped the stack of paper off the chair opposite him and dropped it without preamble. Gilchrist winced as it hit the floor. ‘Is that why I’m here?’ I asked, taking the seat and ignoring the offered smoke.
    ‘What other reason? And though your civility does you credit, it is of course quite unnecessary. I’ve always got my eyes out for any kindnesses I might do for such a dear friend, any minor services I might render one who has done so much for me.’ Iomhair preferred to play both parts of a dialogue. ‘I take the greatest pleasure in knowing I was able to have done a