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.
“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 o
n 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 did know!
“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? Spare me? 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.
As though the small movement had broken some evil spell, Trevelyan blinked, his hand letting go the little bronze goddess. He continued to look at Grey, but now with an expression of concern.
“My dear John,” he said quietly. “My dear fellow.” He sat back, rubbing a hand across his brow, as though overcome.
He said nothing more, though, leaving Grey to sit there, the sound of his denunciation ringing in his ears.
“Have you nothing to say, Mr. Trevelyan?” he demanded at last.
“Say?” Trevelyan dropped his hand, and looked at him, mouth a little open. He closed it, shook his head slightly, and poured fresh sherry, pushing Grey’s cup across to him.
“What have I to say?” he repeated, staring into the depths of his own cup. “Well, I could deny it, of course—and I do. In your present state of mind, though, I am afraid that no statement would be adequate. Would it?” He glanced up, inquiringly.
Grey shook his head.
“Well, then,” Trevelyan said, almost kindly. “I do not know where you have acquired these remarkable notions, John. Of course, if you truly believe them, then you have no choice but to act as you are—I see that.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” Trevelyan hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Did you … seek counsel of anyone, before coming here?”
What the devil did the fellow mean by that?
“If you are inquiring whether anyone is cognizant of my whereabouts,” Grey said coldly, “they are.” In fact, they were not; no one knew he was at the warehouse. On the other hand, a dozen clerks and countless laborers had seen him downstairs; it would take a madman to try to do away with him here—and he didn’t think Trevelyan was mad. Dangerous, but not mad.
Trevelyan’s eyes widened.
“What? You thought I meant—good gracious.” He glanced away, rubbing a knuckle over his lips. He cleared his throat, twice, then looked up. “I merely meant to ask whether you had shared these incredible … delusions of yours with anyone. I think you have not. For if you had, surely anyone would have tried to persuade you not to pursue such a disastrous course.”
Trevelyan shook his head, an expression of worried dismay pursing his lips.
“Have you a carriage? No, of course not. Never mind; I shall summon mine. The coachman will see you safely to your mother’s house. Might I recommend Doctor Masonby, of Smedley Street? He has an excellent history with nervous disorders.”
Grey was so stricken with amazement that he scarcely felt outraged.
“Are you att
empting to suggest that I am insane?”
“No, no! Of course not, certainly not.”
Still Trevelyan went on looking at him in that worried, pitying sort of way, and he felt the amazement melting away. He should perhaps be furious, but felt instead an urge to laugh incredulously.
“I am pleased to hear it,” Grey said dryly, and rose to his feet. “I shall bear your kind advice in mind. In the meantime, however—your betrothal is at an end.”
He had nearly reached the door when Trevelyan called out behind him.
“Lord John! Wait a moment!”
He paused and looked back, though without turning.
“Yes?”
The Cornishman had his lower lip caught in his teeth, and was watching Grey with the air of one judging a wild animal. Would it attack, or run? He beckoned, gesturing to the chair Grey had vacated.
“Come back a moment. Please.”
He stood, undecided, hearing the thrum of business below, longing to escape this room and this man and lose himself in comings and goings, once more a peaceful part of the clockwork, and not a grain of sand in the cogs. But duty dictated otherwise, and he walked back, stick held tight.
“Sit. Please.” Trevelyan waited for him to do so, then sat down slowly himself.
“Lord John. You say that your concern is for your cousin’s reputation. So is mine.” He leaned across the desk, eyes intent. “Such a sudden breach cannot but give rise to scandal—you know this, surely?”
Grey did, but forbore to nod, merely watching impassively. Trevelyan ignored his lack of response, and carried on, speaking more hurriedly.
“Well, then. If you are convinced of the wisdom of your intention, then plainly I cannot dissuade you. Will you give me a short time, though, to devise some reasonable grounds for the dissolution of the betrothal? Something that will discredit neither party?”
Grey drew breath, feeling the beginnings of something like relief. This was the resolution he had hoped for from the moment he had discovered the sore on Trevelyan’s prick. He realized that the situation now bore far more aspects than he had ever thought, and such a resolution would not touch most of them. Still, Olivia would be safe.
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