“And don’t you forget it.” I rose and brushed off the seat of my pants. “So what kind of firepower did you bring?”
He stared me down. “Are you asking if I brought guns?”
“Well, yes. It wouldn’t have been smart for us to travel with them internationally. Too many questions. I assumed you had a nice little arsenal you were going to share.”
“Of course I don’t have an arsenal. I’m a responsible grandfather and this is England. There are no guns in my house.”
“Jesus, Taverner. Then why are you here?”
He rolled his eyes. “In case you’ve forgot, I’m skilled at more than pulling a trigger.” He wasn’t talking about sex—at least I don’t think he was. He went on. “But I may have something that will work in the boot of my car.”
He took me to where he’d parked his car—a vintage Jaguar that looked like it had almost as many miles as we did. He popped the trunk. I looked in and laughed. “Seriously?” I picked up the packet of firecrackers. Small poppers that would deliver a bit of a bang and not much else.
“I told you. I’m a grandfather. Actually, I’m the cool grandfather,” he informed me.
“You let three-year-olds play with firecrackers?”
“Of course not. I let them watch from a safe distance.” He propped one hip against the car. “No special resources for this job. You’ll have to work with what you’ve got.”
I hefted the pack of firecrackers in my hand, thinking of the last time I’d seen a fireworks stand on the side of the road. A tired-looking woman at the wheel of a station wagon full of snot-nosed little boys had looked the other way as they loaded up on the crackers, stuffing them into apples and tossing them out the back window at passing cars.
I looked at Taverner and shrugged. “Story of my life. Why should it be any different now?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Helen and Taverner made a run to the grocery store for supplies—potatoes, a huge beef roast, individual Yorkshire puddings, apple tart, nondairy creamer—because for the last night at Benscombe we decided on a special dinner. Taverner did the cooking, a bath towel wrapped around his waist in place of an apron. Nobody had much of an appetite, but we always remembered Constance Halliday’s golden rule: eat, sleep, and use the facilities at every opportunity. The Duke of Wellington, she’d explained, had told his troops to make water whenever they could, and it was pretty good advice. You couldn’t always count on a toilet or a cruller when you needed one.
So we forced ourselves to eat, and when the dishes were done, the others wandered off, leaving Nat, Helen, Mary Alice, and me. Natalie emerged from the cellar with a cobwebby bottle. “Guess what I found?” She wiped the bottle clean and Helen rousted out the good glasses, giving them a quick wash. I proposed the toast.
“Tomorrow has been a long time in the making,” I began. “Forty years.” I paused, thinking of the Shepherdess and everything she had taught us. I cleared my throat and started again. “Forty years ago, Constance Halliday set us on this road and created her squad of Sphinxes. It hasn’t been exactly what any of us expected. But we have done our best, and we will make her proud. She challenged us to make justice our priority, and tomorrow, justice will be done.”
“Justice,” said the others. We clinked glasses and drank. Then we took out our phones and opened our Menopaws! app. It was time to sync our cycles.
The next day I woke and stretched, a good two hours of yoga to get me limbered up. Then I took a long shower and dressed in jeans, a white silk shirt, and a suede jacket the color of burnt caramel. I put on a pair of flat boots and brushed out my hair. There were a few extra grey ones in the mix, but I figured I’d earned them. I clipped half of it back with a simple silver barrette Natalie brought me; the rest hung down, brushing my shoulders. I didn’t bother with jewelry or perfume.
The others were scattered around the property. Taverner was busy in the kitchen, sharpening a boning knife, while Mary Alice and Helen were tinkering with a decrepit old tractor, unscrewing a heavy panel of steel from the side that was painted with the word “Bettinson.” Natalie was keeping busy with some knitting needles and a skein of yarn she’d found in the attic.
I looked at the knotty shape she was making.
“Scabbard?” I guessed.
“Penis warmer,” she told me.
I laughed and went to the garden shed for a long time, having one last cigarette and clicking through my phone as I ran through the plan. I was gambling, not just with my life, but with everyone’s. I couldn’t afford to get this wrong.