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Persons. That, Grey realized, almost certainly meant Dickie Caswell. For Bowles to know about O’Co
“You said that Mr. O’Co
“No.” Bowles’s lips thi
“Meyer?” Quarry leaned forward, interjecting himself into the conversation. “German? A Jew? I’ve heard of a fellow of that name—traveling coin-dealer. Think he works in France. Very good disguise for a secret agent, that—going about to big houses, carrying a pack, what?”
“There you have me, sir.” Bowles seemed mildly a
“Oh, rather,” Quarry said, with a tinge of sarcasm. “So, then. What d’you suggest we do?”
Bowles gave Quarry a cold look.
“It is of the utmost importance that we discover the man to whom O’Co
Quarry gave a grunt of agreement, and sat back, arms folded across his chest.
“Aye, so?”
“Having recognized the value of the information, though, and removed the documents, the thief—call him O’Co
Bowles pulled several sheets of rough foolscap from the stack before him, and spread them out. They were covered with a round scrawl, done in pencil, and sufficiently illegible that Grey could make out only the occasional word, read upside down.
“These are the reports that Jack Byrd supplied to us through Mr. Trevelyan,” Bowles said, dealing the sheets upon the table one by one. “He describes O’Co
“O’Co
Bowles inclined his round little head an inch in Grey’s direction.
“That was my assumption as well, Major,” he said politely. “‘Small fish.’ A very picturesque and appropriate image, if I may say so. And this Meyer may well be the shark in our sea of intrigue.”
Grey caught a brief glimpse from the corner of his eye of Harry making faces, and coughed, turning a bit to lead Bowles’s gaze in his own direction.
“Your . . . um . . . source, then—could he not discover any such person, if the suspect had an association with Lavender House?”
“I should certainly expect so,” Bowles said, complacency returning. “My source disclaims all knowledge of such a person, though—which leads me to believe either that O’Co
“That place” was spoken with such an intonation—something between condemnation and . . . fascination? gloating?—that Grey felt a brief crawling sensation, and rubbed instinctively at the back of his hand, as though brushing away some noxious insect.
Bowles was reaching into yet another folder, but the paper he withdrew this time was of somewhat higher quality; good parchment, and sealed with the Royal Seal.
“This, my lord, is a letter empowering you to make inquiries in the matter of Timothy O’Co
“Thank you,” Grey said, accepting the document with profound misgivings. He wasn’t sure yet why, but his instincts warned him that the red seal indicated danger.
“Well, then, d’ye want Lord John to go back there and rummage the place?” Quarry asked, impatient. “We’ve a tame constable; shall we ask him to collect the Jews in his district and put their feet to the fire until they cough up this Meyer? What shall we do, for God’s sake?”
Mr. Bowles disliked being hurried, Grey could see. His lips thi
“Sir—if I might? I have something—it may be nothing, of course—but there seems to be an odd co
“So I am wondering, sir, whether it might be possible to trace buyers of this wine, and thus perhaps to fall upon the scent of the mysterious Mr. Meyer?”
The small bulge of flesh that served Mr. Bowles for a brow underwent convulsions like a snail thinking fierce thoughts—but then relaxed.
“Yes, I think that might be a profitable cha
“Up to and including thumbscrews?” Harry inquired, standing up. “Or shall I stop at knouting?”
“I shall leave that to your impeccable professional judgment, Colonel,” Bowles said politely. “I shall handle further investigations at Lavender House. And Major Grey—I think it best that you pursue the matter of Mr. Trevelyan’s potential involvement in the matter; you seem best placed to handle it discreetly.”
Meaning,Grey thought, that I now have “scapegoat” written on my forehead in illuminated capitals. If it all blows up, the blame can be safely pi
“Thank you,” Grey said, handling the compliment as though it were a dead rat. Harry snorted, and they took their leave.
Before they had quite reached the door, though, Mr. Bowles spoke again.
“Lord John. If you will accept a bit of well-meant advice, sir?” Grey turned. The vague blue eyes seemed focused at a spot over his left shoulder, and he had to steel himself not to turn and look to see whether there was in fact someone behind him.
“Of course, Mr. Bowles.”
“I think I should hesitate to allow Mr. Joseph Trevelyan to become a relation by marriage. Speaking only for myself, you understand.”
“I thank you for your kind interest, sir,” Grey said, and bowed, most correctly.
He followed Harry down the rickety stair and out of the noisome yard to the street, where they both stood for a moment, breathing deeply.
“Knouting?” Grey said.
“Russian flogging,” Quarry explained, tugging at his wilted stock. “With a whip made of hippopotamus hide. Saw it once; flayed the poor bugger to the bone in three strokes.”
“I see the appeal,” Grey agreed, feeling an unexpected kinship with his half-brother Edgar. “You haven’t got a spare knout you might lend me, before I go speak to Trevelyan?”