Lord John and the Private Matter (Lord John Grey #1) 7

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 when the 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 had happened 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 be a 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.

He’d thought of his sword, merely because that was an accustomed tool, and the weight of it at his side a comfort. This wasn’t an occasion for uniform, though.

Not that he wasn’t an oddity among the crush of seamen, porters, barrowmen, and oysterwomen near the docks, but there were at least a few gentlemen here as well. A pair of prosperous-looking merchants strolled together toward him, one holding a chart, which he seemed to be explaining to the other. A man whom he recognized as a banker picked his way through the mud and slime underfoot, careful of his coat as he brushed past a barrow full of slick black mussels, dripping weed and water.

He was aware of people looking at him in curiosity as he passed, but that was all right; it wasn’t the sort of curiosity that would cause talk.

He had gone first to Trevelyan’s house, only to be informed that the master had gone down to his warehouse and was not expected before the evening. Would he leave his card?

He had declined, and taken a carriage to the docks, unable to bear the thought of waiting all day to do what must be done.

And what was he going to do? He felt hollow at the thought of the coming interview, but clung firmly to the one thing he did know. The engagement must be broken, officially. Beyond that, he would get what information he could from Trevelyan, but to protect Olivia was the most important thing—and the only thing that he, personally, could insure.

He wasn’t looking forward to going home afterward and telling Olivia and his mother what he had done—let alone why. He’d learned in the army not to anticipate more than one unpleasant contingency at a time, though, and resolutely ignored the thought of anything that lay beyond the next half hour. Do what must be done, and then deal with the consequences.

It was one of the larger warehouses in the district, and despite the shabby look of such buildings in general, well-maintained. Inside, it was a vast cavern of riches; despite his errand, Grey took time to be impressed. There were stacked chests and wooden boxes, stenciled with cryptic symbols of ownership and destination; bundles wrapped in canvas and oilcloth; sheets of rolled copper; and stacks of boards, barrels, and hogsheads tiered five and six high against the walls.

Beyond the sheer abundance, he was as much impressed by the sense of orderliness amid confusion. Men came and went, burdened like ants, fetching and taking away in a constant stream. The floor was inches deep in the fragrant straw used for packing, and the air filled with golden motes of it, kicked up by the treading feet.

Grey brushed bits of straw from his coat, taking deep breaths with pleasure; the air was perfumed with the intoxicating scents of tea, wine, and spice, gently larded with the more oleaginous tones of whale oil and candle wax, with a solid bottom note of honest tar. On a different occasion, Grey would have liked to poke about in the fascinating clutter, but not today, alas. With a last regretful lungful, he turned aside in pursuit of his duty.

He made his way through the bustle to a small enclosure of clerks, all seated on high stools and madly scribbling. Boys roamed among them like dairymaids through a herd of cows, milking them of their output and carrying off stacks of papers toward a door in the wall, where the foot of a staircase hinted at the presence of offices above.

His heart gave an unpleasant thump as he spotted Trevelyan himself, deep in conversation with an ink-stained functionary. Taking a deep breath of the scented air, he threaded his way through the maze of stools, and tapped Trevelyan on the shoulder. Trevelyan swung round at once, clearly accustomed to interruption, but halted, surprised, at sight of Grey.

“Why, John!” he said, and smiled. “Whatever brings you here?”

Slightly taken aback by the use of his Christian name, Grey bowed formally.

“A private matter, sir. Might we—?” He raised his brows at the ranks of laboring clerks, and nodded toward the stair.

“Of course.” Looking mildly puzzled, Trevelyan waved away a hovering assistant, and led the way up the stair and into his own office.

It was a surprisingly plain room; large, but simply furnished, the only ornaments an ivory-and-crystal inkwell and a small bronze statue of some many-armed Indian deity. Grey had expected something much more ornate, in keeping with Trevelyan’s wealth. On the other hand, he supposed that perhaps that was one reason why Trevelyan was wealthy.

Trevelyan waved him toward a chair, going to take his own seat behind the large, battered desk. Grey stood stiffly, though, the blood thumping softly in his ears.

“No, sir, I thank you. The matter will not take long.”

Trevelyan glanced at him in surprise. The Cornishman’s eyes narrowed, seeming for the first time to take in Grey’s stiffness.

“Is something the matter, Lord John?”

“I have come to inform you that your engagement to my cousin is at an end,” Grey said bluntly.

Trevelyan blinked, expressionless.

What would he do? Grey wondered. Say “Oh,” and leave it at that? Demand an explanation? Become furious and call him out? Summon servants to remove him from the premises?

“Do sit down, John,” Trevelyan said at last, sounding quite as cordial as he had before. He took his own chair and leaned back a little, gesturing in invitation.

Seeing no alternative, Grey sat, resting the walking stick across his knees.

Trevelyan was stroking his long, narrow chin, looking at Grey as though he were a particularly interesting shipment of Chinese pottery.

“I am of course somewhat surprised,” he said politely. “Have you spoken to Hal about this?”

“In my brother’s absence, I am the head of the family,” Grey said firmly. “And I have decided that under the circumstances, your betrothal to my cousin ought not to be continued.”

“Really?” Trevelyan went on looking polite, though he raised one eyebrow dubiously. “I do wonder what your brother is likely to say, upon his return. Tell me, is he not expected back fairly soon?”

Grey set the tip of his walking stick on the floor and leaned upon it, gripping hard. The devil with a sword, he thought, keeping a similar grip upon his temper. I should have brought a knout.

“Mr. Trevelyan,” he said, steel in his voice, “I have told you my decision. It is final. You will cease at once to pay addresses to Miss Pearsall. The wedding will not take place. Do I make myself clear?”

“No, I can’t say that you do, really.” Trevelyan steepled his fingers and placed them precisely below the tip of his nose, so that he looked at Grey over them. He was wearing a cabochon seal ring with the incised figure of a Cornish chough, and the green stone glowed as he leaned back. “Has something occurred that causes you to take this—I hope you will excuse my characterizing it as rather rash—step?”

Grey stared at him for a moment, considering. At last, he reached into his pocket and removed the oilcloth parcel. He laid it on the desk in front of Trevelyan, and flipped it open, releasing a crude stink of corruption that overwhelmed any hint of spice or straw.

Trevelyan stared down at the scrap of green velvet, still expressionless. His nostrils twitched slightly, and he took a deep breath, seeming to inhale something.

“Excuse me a moment, will you, John?” he said, rising. “I’ll just see that we are not disturbed.” He vanished onto the landing, allowing the door to close behind him.

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.