A light rain was falling, and mist rose from the pavements round their feet. The lightermen had come already; the streetlamps flickered and glowed under the glass of their canopies and shone upon the wet stones, helping to dispel the lurking horror of that conference in the hay shed.
“Do you get used to it, me lord?” Tom glanced at him, round face troubled in the transient glow.
“To what? Death, do you mean, and bodies?”
“Well . . . that sort of death, I suppose.” The boy made a diffident gesture toward the bundle. “I’d think this was maybe different than what you see in battle—but maybe I’m wrong?”
“Maybe.” Grey slowed his pace to let a group of gay blades pass, laughing as they crossed the street, dodging an oncoming detachment of mounted Horse Guards, harness glittering in the wet.
“I suppose it is no different in the essentials,” he said, stepping out as the sound of hooves clattered off down Piccadilly. “I have seen more dreadful things on a battlefield, often. And yes, you do get used to that—you must.”
“But it isdifferent?” Tom persisted. “This?”
Grey took a deep breath, and a firmer hold on his burden.
“Yes,” he said. “And I should not like to meet the man to whom this is routine.”
Chapter 14
A Troth Is Blighted
Grey was rudely roused from his bed just after dawn, to find Corporal Jowett arrived on the doorstep with bad news.
“Ruddy birds had flown, sir,” Jowett said, handing over a note from Malcolm Stubbs to the same effect. “Lieutenant Stubbs and I went round with a couple of soldiers, along with that Magruder fellow and two constables, thinking to take the Scanlons unawares whilst it was still dark.” Jowett looked like an emaciated bulldog at the best of times; his face now was positively savage. “Found the door locked and broke it in—only to find the place empty as a ruddy tomb on Easter morning.”
Not only had the Scanlons themselves decamped; the entire stock of the apothecary’s shop was missing, leaving behind only empty bottles and bits of scattered rubbish.
“They had warning, eh?” Jowett said. “Somebody tipped ’em—but who?”
“I don’t know,” Grey said grimly, tying the sash of his banyan. “You spoke to the neighbors?”
Jowett snorted.
“For what good it did. Irishmen, all of ’em, and liars born. Magruder arrested a couple of them, but it won’t do any good—you could see that.”
“Did they say at least whenthe Scanlons had decamped?”
“Most of them said they hadn’t the faintest—but we found one old granny down the end of the street as said she’d seen folk carrying boxes out of the house on the Tuesday.”
“Right. I’ll speak to Magruder later.” Grey glanced out the window; it was raining, and the street outside was a dismal gray, but he could see the houses on the other side—the sun was up. “Will you have some breakfast, Jowett? A cup of tea, at least.”
Jowett’s bloodshot eyes brightened slightly.
“I wouldn’t say no, Major,” he allowed. “It’s been a busy night.”
Grey sent the Corporal off to the kitchen in the charge of a yawning servant, and stood staring out the window at the downpour outside, wondering what the devil to make of this.
On the positive side, this hasty disappearance clearly incriminated the Scanlons—but in what? They had a motive for O’Connell’s death, and yet they had simply denied any involvement, Scanlon looking cool as a plateful of sliced cucumbers. Nothing had happened since that might alarm them in that regard; why should they flee now?
What hadhappened was the discovery of the dead man in the green velvet dress—but what could the Scanlons have had to do with that?
Still, it seemed very likely that the man had been killed sometime on Tuesday—and Tuesday appeared to be when the Scanlons had fled. Grey rubbed a hand through his hair, trying to stimulate his mental processes. All right. That was simply too great a coincidence to bea coincidence, he thought. Which meant . . . what?
That the Scanlons—or Finbar Scanlon, at least—were involved in some way with the death of the man in green velvet. And who the hell was he? A gentleman—or someone with similar pretensions, he thought. The corpse was no workingman, that was sure.
“Me lord?” Tom Byrd had come in with a tray. He hadn’t yet washed his face, and his hair stuck up on end, but he seemed wide-awake. “I heard you get up. D’ye want some tea?”
“Christ, yes.” He seized the steaming cup and inhaled its fragrant steam, the heat of the china wonderful in his chilled hands.
The rain poured in sheets from the eaves. When had they left? he wondered. Were Scanlon and his wife out in this, or were they safe in some place of refuge? Chances were, they had decamped immediately following the death of the man in green velvet—and yet, they had taken the time to pack, to remove the valuable stock from the shop. . . . These were not the panicked actions of murderers, surely?
Of course, he was obliged to admit to himself, he hadn’t dealt with many murderers before—unless . . . The recollection flashed through his mind, as it did now and then, of what Harry Quarry had told him about Jamie Fraser and the death of a Sergeant Murchison at Ardsmuir. If it was true—and even Quarry had not been sure—then Fraser also had remained cool and unpanicked, and had gotten away with the crime in consequence. What if Scanlon had a similar temperament, an equal capacity?
He shook his head impatiently, dismissing the thought. Fraser was not a murderer, whatever else he might be. And Scanlon? For the life of him, Grey could not decide.
“Which is why we have courts of law, I suppose,” he said aloud, and drained the rest of the cup.
“Me lord?” Tom Byrd, who had just succeeded in lighting the fire, scrambled to his feet and picked up the tray.
“I was merely observing that our legal system rests on evidence, rather than emotion,” Grey said, setting the empty cup back on the tray. “Which means, I think, that I must go and find some.” Brave words, considering that he had no good ideas as to where to look for it.
“Oh, aye, sir? Will you be wanting your good uniform, then?”
“No, I think not yet.” Grey scratched thoughtfully at his jaw. The only hope of a clue that he had at present was the German wine. Thanks to the helpful Mr. Congreve, he knew what it was, and who had bought it. If he could not find the Scanlons, perhaps he could discover something about the mysterious man in green.
“I’ll wear it when we call upon Captain von Namtzen. But first—”
But first it was high time to discharge an unpleasant duty.
“I’ll wear the ice-blue now, if it’s decent,” he decided. “But first, I need a shave.”
“Very good, me lord,” said Byrd, in his best valet’s voice, and bowed, upsetting the teacup.
Tom Byrd had mostly succeeded in removing the odor from the ice-blue suit. Mostly.
Grey sniffed discreetly at the shoulder of his coat. No, that was all right; perhaps it was just a miasma from the object in his pocket. He had cut a square from the green velvet dress, crusty with dried blood, and brought it with him, wrapped in a bit of oilcloth.
He had, after some hesitation, also brought a walking stick, a slender affair of ebony, with a chased silver handle in the shape of a brooding heron. He did not intend to strike Trevelyan with it, no matter how the interview progressed. He was, however, aware that having some object with which to occupy one’s hands was useful in times of social difficulty—and this occasion promised to be rather more difficult than the usual.