Страница 61 из 65
“‘Gentleman.’ Pfaugh!” Quarry made as though to spit on the floor, but caught the eye of the steward coming in with brandy, and refrained. “Scuttling sewer rat,” he muttered, instead.
“A bilge rat, surely, Harry?” Grey took the brandy glass from Mr. Bodley’s tray with a nod of thanks, and waited until the steward had departed before continuing.
“Rat or no, such a highly placed gentleman wouldn’t risk any direct association with Stoughton. The only such indication is that letter of immunity—and that was worded in such a way as to give no proof of anything. In fact, had Stoughton not reached the Ronson—damn Stapleton, for not contriving some means of stopping him in time!—the letter would have been valueless. It offered him nothing but safe passage, and if the matter became public, that could be dismissed as a simple courtesy to the Arsenal, allowing him to travel easily as his official business might demand.”
Quarry huffed into his drink, but gave a grudging nod.
“Aye, I see. And so you concluded rightly that there was a third rotten apple in that barrel—someone who stood between Stoughton and our elevated bilge rat.”
Grey nodded in turn, closing his eyes involuntarily at the pleasing burn of the liquor on his palate.
“Yes, and that consideration in turn focused my attention on the members of the commission. For it must be someone who had regular business with the Arsenal—and thus could consult with Stoughton without arousing suspicion. And likewise, it must be someone for whom consorting with a vice-admiral also would cause no remark.
“Beyond that,” he said, licking a sticky drop from his lower lip, “the assumption that one of those three was involved in this matter would have explained their notably uncharitable behavior toward me in the course of the inquiry. Pi
“Hmph.” Quarry frowned at the amber liquid in his glass, drank it off as though it were water, and set the glass aside. “Well, if discrediting Melton were the principal motive of our wicked bugger, it would be Twelvetrees. Bad blood, there. I shouldn’t be surprised if it comes to pistols at dawn between him and Melton, one of these days.”
“True,” Grey agreed. “And Hal would shoot him like a dog, with pleasure. But it wasn’tthe principal motive. Twelvetrees is a sod, but an honorable sod. He’s not merely a soldier, nor yet a colonel—he’s a colonel of the Royal Artillery.”
Quarry nodded, purse-lipped, taking the point. “Aye. Rob the army and take money from the naval bilge rat, to kill his own men? Never.”
“Exactly. Because bloody Stoughton was right—it wasn’ttreason, merely criminal. Ergo, the simplest motive is the most likely: money.”
“And Marchmont wipes his arse with cloth of gold; he doesn’t need money. Whereas Oswald…”
“Is a politician of no particular means,” Grey finished. “Thus by definition in constant need of money.”
“Thus by definition without conscience or honor? Quite. Oh, sorry, your half brother’s one, too, isn’t he? Steward!”
Mr. Bodley, well-acquainted with Quarry’s habits, was already bringing in more brandy and a small wooden box of Spanish cigars. Quarry selected two with care, clipped the end of one, and handed it to Grey, who held it for Mr. Bodley’s taper.
He seldom smoked, and the rush of tobacco through his blood made his heart pound. He felt a slight twinge in his chest, but ignored it.
Quarry blew a long, pleasurable stream of smoke through pursed lips.
“Can you prove it?” he asked, offhanded. “ Ibelieve you implicitly, of course. But beyond that…”
Grey squinted, trying to blow a smoke ring, but failed dismally.
“I don’t suppose it would stand up in court,” he said. “But I found this, in Stoughton’s portmanteau. As I said, had Stoughton failed to reach the ship, he could expect no protection from the navy. If I were a villain, I’d want a bit of leverage upon my fellow villain, just in case.”
He reached into his pocket and removed a small medal, attached to a silk ribbon.
“I saw Oswald wearing this, at the inquiry. I don’t know whether he gave it to Stoughton as acknowledgment of their co
Quarry frowned at the bit of metal, pretending that he did not require spectacles to make out the engraving, which he did.
“It’s an army decoration, surely; Oswald’s never been a soldier,” he said, handing it back. “Could simply claim it isn’t his, couldn’t he?”
“Hardly. His father’s name is engraved on the back. And Mortimer Montmorency Oswald—the Third, if you please—is not quiteso common as ‘John Smith,’ I daresay.”
Quarry laughed immoderately, taking back the medal and turning it over in his hand.
“Montmorency, by God? So his father was in the army, was he? Decorated for valor?”
“Well, no,” Grey said. “It’s a medal for good conduct. As to what I propose to do,” he added, stubbing out his cigar and rising to his feet, “I am going home to change my clothes. I have an engagement this evening—a masqued ball at Vauxhall.”
Quarry blinked up at him through a cloud of smoke.
“A masqued ball? What on earth do you propose to go as?”
“Why, as the Hero of Crefeld,” Grey said, taking back the medal and pocketing it. “What else?”
In fact, he went as himself. Not in uniform, but attired in an inconspicuous suit of dark blue, worn with a scarlet domino. Those whom he sought would know him by sight.
They would have to, he thought, seeing the hordes of people streaming through the gates of the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. If those with whom he sought interview were disguised in any effective way—and one of them at least would certainly be masked—he would have little hope of distinguishing them among the throng.
“Oh,” breathed Tom, completely entranced at sight of the trees, largely leafless but strung with hundreds of glimmering lights. “It’s fairyland!”
“Something like,” Grey agreed, smiling despite the beating of his heart. “Try not to be too enraptured by the local fairies, though; a good many of them would pick your pocket as soon as look at you, and the rest would give you fair value under a bush, with a dose of the clap thrown in for free.”
He paid admission for himself and Tom, and they walked into the maze of pathways that spread along the bank of the Thames, leading from grottoes where musicians played, muffled to the eyes against the autumn chill, to arbors where tables of luscious viands were spread, supper boxes piled high behind laboring servants dressed in livery. The great Rotunda, where dancing was held, rose like a bubble in the center of the Gardens, and laughter ran through the night like currents in a river, catching up the merrymakers and carrying them along from adventure to adventure.
“Enjoy yourself, Tom,” said Grey, handing Byrd some money. “Don’t stay too close; Oswald’s a wary bird.”
“He won’t see me, me lord,” Tom assured him, straightening the black domino he wore. “But I’ll not be far off, don’t you worry!”
Grey nodded, and parting company with his servant, chose a path at random and strolled in the direction of the strains of Handel.
Sheltered by thick hedges and brick walls and thronged with bodies, it was scarcely cold in the gardens, despite the lateness of the season. The chill was pleasant, caressing face and hands—and any other bits of exposed flesh—enhancing the heat of the rest of the body by contrast.