Grey’s heart was still beating fast, but he had himself in better hand, now that it was begun. Trevelyan had recognized the scrap of velvet; there was no doubt of that.
This came as a considerable relief, on the one hand; there would be no need to address the matter of Trevelyan’s disease. It was grounds for great wariness, though; he needed to extract as much information from the Cornishman as he could. How? No way of knowing what would be effective; he must just trust to the inspiration of the moment—and if the man proved obdurate, perhaps a mention of the Scanlons would be beneficial.
It was no more than a few minutes, but seemed an age before Trevelyan returned, carrying with him a jug and a pair of wooden cups.
“Have a drink, John,” he said, setting them on the desk. “Let us speak as friends.”
Grey had it in mind to refuse, but on second thought, it might be helpful. If Trevelyan felt relaxed, he might divulge more than otherwise—and wine had certainly worked to induce a spirit of cooperation in Nessie.
He gave a small nod of acquiescence, and accepted the cup, though he did not drink from it until Trevelyan was likewise equipped. The Cornishman sat back, looking quite unruffled, and lifted his cup a little.
“What shall we drink to, John?”
The gall of the man was staggering—and rather admirable, he had to admit. He lifted his own cup, unsmiling.
“To the truth, sir.”
“Oh? Oh, by all means—to the truth!” Still smiling, though with a slight expression of wariness, Trevelyan drained his cup.
It was a tawny sherry, and a good one, though it hadn’t settled adequately.
“Just off a ship from Jerez,” Trevelyan said, waving at the jug with an air of apology. “The best I had to hand, I’m afraid.”
“It is very good. Thank you,” Grey said repressively. “Now—”
“Have another?” Not pausing for reply, Trevelyan refilled both cups. He lowered the jug, and at last took notice of the square of discolored velvet, sitting on his desk like a toad. He prodded it gingerly with a forefinger.
“I . . . ah . . . confess that I am at something of a loss, John. Does this object have some significance of which I should be aware?”
Grey cursed himself silently for letting the man leave the room; damn it, he’d had time to think, and had obviously decided that a ploy of determined ignorance was best.
“That bit of cloth was taken from the garment on a corpse,” he said, keeping his voice level. “A murdered woman.”
Sure enough, Trevelyan’s left eye twitched, just slightly, and a small, fierce surge of satisfaction burned in Grey’s heart. He didknow!
“God rest her soul, poor creature.” Trevelyan folded the cloth over once, quite gently, so the worst of the blood was hidden. “Who was she? What happened to her?”
“The magistrate is choosing to keep that information private for the moment,” Grey said pleasantly, and was rewarded by the jumping of a muscle in Trevelyan’s jaw at the word “magistrate.” “However, I understand that certain evidence was discovered, suggesting a connexion between this woman and yourself. Given the sordid circumstances, I am afraid that I cannot allow your attachment to my cousin to continue.”
“What evidence?” Trevelyan had got control of himself again, and was exhibiting precisely the right degree of outrage. “There cannot possibly be anything linking . . . whoever this creature is, to me!”
“I regret that I am unable to acquaint you with the particulars,” Grey said, grimly pleased. Two could play the game of ignorance. “But Sir John Fielding is a close friend of the family; he has a natural concern for my cousin’s happiness and reputation.” He shrugged delicately, implying that the magistrate had tipped him the wink, while withholding any number of sordidly incriminating details. “I thought it better to sever the betrothal, before anything of a scandalous nature should emerge. I am sure you—”
“That is—” Trevelyan wore no powder in the warehouse; his face was becoming blotched with emotion. “That is unspeakable! I have nothing to do with any murdered woman!”
That was true—but only because it hadn’t been a woman. To the truth, indeed!
“As I say, I am unable to deal in particulars,” Grey said. “However, I did hear a name, in connexion with the matter. Are you acquainted with a Mr. Scanlon, perhaps? An apothecary?” He took up his cup and sipped, feigning indifference, but watching carefully beneath his lashes.
Trevelyan was master of his face, but not his blood. He kept the expression of outraged bafflement firmly fixed—but his face had gone dead-white.
“I am not, sir,” he said firmly.
“Or an establishment called Lavender House?”
“I am not.” The bones stood out in Trevelyan’s narrow face, and his eyes gleamed dark. Grey thought that if they had been alone in some alley, the man would likely have attacked him.
They sat in silence for a moment. Trevelyan drummed his fingers on the desk, narrow mouth set tight as he thought. The blood began to come back into his face, and he picked up the jug and refilled Grey’s cup, without asking.
“See here, John,” he said, leaning forward a little. “I do not know to whom you have been speaking, but I can assure you that there is no truth whatever to any rumor you may have heard.”
“You would naturally say as much,” Grey remarked.
“So would any innocent man,” Trevelyan replied evenly.
“Or a guilty one.”
“Are you accusing me, John, of having done someone to death? For I will swear to you—on the Book, on your cousin’s life, your mother’s head, on whatever you like—that I have done no such thing.” A slightly different note had entered Trevelyan’s voice; he leaned forward and spoke with passion, eyes blazing. For a moment, Grey felt a slight qualm—either the man was a splendid actor, or he was telling the truth. Or part of it.
“I do not accuse you of murder,” he said, cautiously seeking another way past Trevelyan’s defenses. “However, for your name to be entangled in the matter is clearly a serious concern.”
Trevelyan gave a small grunt, settling back a little.
“Any fool can bandy a man’s name—many do, God knows. I should not have thought you so credulous, John.”
Grey took a sip of sherry, resisting the urge to respond to the insult. “I should have thought, sir, that you would at once be aroused to make inquiry—should you be quite innocent of the matter.”
Trevelyan uttered a short laugh.
“Oh, I am aroused, I assure you of that. Why, I should be calling for my carriage at this moment, to go round and speak to Sir John face-to-face—were I not aware that he is presently in Bath, and has been for the last week.”
Grey bit the inside of his cheek and tasted blood. God damn him for a fool! How could he have forgotten—Joseph Trevelyan knew everyone.
He was still holding the cup of sherry. He drank it off at a gulp, feeling the liquor sear the bitten place, and set it down with a thump.
“Very well, then,” he said, a little hoarsely. “You leave me no choice. I had sought to spare your sensibilities—”
“Spare me? Spareme? Why, you—”
“—but I see I cannot. I forbid you to marry Olivia—”
“You think you can forbid me? You? When your brother—”
“—because you are poxed.”
Trevelyan stopped speaking so abruptly that it seemed he had been turned into a pillar of salt. He sat utterly immobile, dark eyes fixed on Grey with a stare so penetrating that Grey felt he meant to see through flesh and bone, plucking out truth from Grey’s heart and brain by means of sheer will.
The silver handle of his stick was slick with sweat, and he saw that Trevelyan had gripped the bronze statue so tightly that his knuckles were white. He shifted one hand on his stick for leverage; one move by Trevelyan to brain him, and he’d lay the man out.