The Lord John Series 4-Book Bundle

by Diana Gabaldon

  “Indeed.” Grey was undergoing a swift process of enlightenment, realizing belatedly that Oswald had clearly been Edgar’s opponent in the recent election. Which explained very neatly the insinuations of sabotage directed at the DeVane consortium. A better way of removing any future political threat could scarcely be imagined.

  Oswald’s cleverness in the matter had been in leading Marchmont and Twelvetrees to make the accusations, virtuously avoiding any appearance of involvement himself. Yes, “snake” seemed reasonably accurate as a description.

  “Who bribes him?” he asked.

  There, though, Maude was at a loss, able only to repeat that everyone knew—but not precisely what everyone knew. Meaning that if Oswald did take bribes, he was reasonably circumspect about it. A word with Harry Quarry might shed a bit more light on the matter, though.

  Invigorated by this thought, and the more eager to return to London, he smiled warmly upon Maude.

  “Thank you, Maude, my dear,” he said. “You are a blessing and a boon.” Standing a-tiptoe, he kissed her startled cheek, then strode with great determination for the stables.

  Part III

  The Hero’s Return

  “Would you say that I appear haggard, Tom?” he inquired. There was a looking glass upon his dresser, but he found himself reluctant to employ it.

  “Yes, me lord.”

  “Oh. Well, Colonel Quarry won’t mind, I suppose. You know what to do?”

  “Yes, me lord.” Tom Byrd hesitated, looking at him narrowly. “You’re sure as you’ll be all right alone, me lord?”

  “Certainly,” he said, with what heartiness he could muster. He waved a hand in dismissal. “I’ll be fine.”

  Byrd eyed him in patent disbelief.

  “I’ll summon you a coach, me lord,” he said.

  He resisted the suggestion for form’s sake, in order not to alarm Tom, but once safely inside the coach, he sank gratefully into the dusty squabs, closing his eyes, and concentrated on breathing for the journey to the Beefsteak.

  How many pawnshops might there be in Southwark? he wondered, as the coach rattled through the streets. Tom had made several careful copies of the list of Anne Thackeray’s jewelry; he and his brothers would see whether any of the bits and bobs had been pawned.

  He had a most uneasy feeling about Anne Thackeray, but hoped for her sister’s sake that some trace of her could be found. He had gone himself to her last known address directly upon his return to London, but the landlady, a hard-faced bitch of a woman, had known nothing—or at least, nothing she would tell, even for a price.

  He felt mildly feverish; after he’d seen Harry, perhaps he’d take a room at the Beefsteak for the night and go to bed. But he wanted to tell Quarry what he’d learned in Sussex, and set him on the trail of Mortimer Oswald. Granted, Maude DeVane was not an unbiased witness on the subject of the MP, but the way she had said, Everyone knows, so positive … If Oswald did take bribes, it was more than possible that Harry could find out. Harry’s own half brother was Sir Richard Joffrey, an influential and canny politician who had survived a good many shifts in government over the course of the last fifteen years. No one did that without knowing where a few bodies were buried.

  He paid the coach and turned to find the doorman holding open the Beefsteak’s door, bowing with unusual respect.

  “My lord!” the man said fervently.

  “Are you quite all right, Mr. Dobbs?” he asked.

  “Never better, sir,” the man assured him, bowing him inside. “Colonel Quarry’s a-waiting on you in the library, my lord.”

  His sense of unease grew as he passed through the hall. Mr. Bodley, the steward, stopped dead upon seeing him, eyes round, then vanished hurriedly into the dining room, presumably to fetch his tray.

  He paused warily at the door to the library, but all seemed reassuringly as usual. Quarry’s broad back was visible, bent over a table by the window. As Grey drew near, he saw that the table was covered with newspapers, one of which Harry Quarry was perusing, a look of absorption upon his face. At Grey’s step, he looked up, his craggy face breaking into an ears-wide grin.

  “Ho!” he said in greeting. “It’s the man himself! A bumper of your best brandy, Mr. Bodley, if you please, for the Hero of Crefeld!”

  “Oh, shit!” said Grey.

  In the end, he did spend the night at the Beefsteak, having been—despite his repeated protests, which went completely ignored by everyone—obliged to join in so many extravagant toasts in his honor that merely walking became problematic, let alone finding his way back to his quarters in the barracks.

  An attempt at escape in the morning was frustrated by the baying hounds of Fleet Street, several of whom had got wind of his presence at the club and hovered outside, kept at bay by the indomitable Mr. Dobbs, who had survived being tomahawked by red Indians in America and thus was not intimidated by mere scribblers.

  One of the most intransigent balladeers took up a station under the windows of the library and bellowed out a never-ending performance of a dramatic—and execrably rhymed—lay entitled “The Death of Tom Pilchard,” to the general disedification of Mr. Wilbraham and the other inhabitants of the Hermit’s Corner, all of whom glared at Grey, holding him responsible for the disturbance.

  He escaped at last under cover of darkness, disguised in Mr. Dobbs’s shabby greatcoat and laced hat, and made his way on foot through the streets, arriving hungry and exhausted—though finally sober—to find Tom Byrd and his elder brother Jack awaiting him impatiently at the barracks.

  “I found it at a place called Markham’s,” Jack told him, displaying his find. “Pawned a month ago, by a lady. Young, the pawnbroker said, and summat of a pop-eyed look about her, though he didn’t remember nothing else.”

  “It’s hers, isn’t it, me lord?” Tom chipped in anxiously.

  Grey picked up the trinket—a cheap silver locket, inscribed with the letter “A.” He compared it for form’s sake to the sheet Barbara had given him, but there could be little doubt.

  “Excellent!” he said. “You asked, of course, whether she had left an address.”

  Jack nodded.

  “No joy there, my lord. The only thing …” He glanced at his younger brother, who was, after all, Grey’s valet, and thus had rights.

  “The feller didn’t want to sell it to us, me lord. He said he’d had other things from this lady, and there was a gent what would come by, asking particular for her things, and pay a very pretty price for ’em.”

  “Aye, sir,” Jack said, nodding agreement. “I thought it wasn’t but a ruse to get more, and wouldn’t have paid, but Tom said as how we must. I hope that was all right?”

  “Yes, of course.” Grey waved that aside. “The man—did the pawnbroker remember him?”

  “Oh, yes, me lord,” Tom said. His hair was nearly standing on end with excitement at what he had to impart. “He remembered him well enough. Said it was a man what always wore a mask—a black silk mask.”

  Grey felt a surge of excitement equal to the Byrds’.

  “Christ!” he said. “Fanshawe!”

  Tom nodded.

  “I thought it must be, me lord. Is he looking for Miss Thackeray, too, d’ye suppose?”

  “I can’t think what else he might intend—though surely he is not pursuing her with any great determination, if he has not yet discovered her lodgings.”

  “Perhaps he has,” Jack Byrd suggested, “but he’s not got up his nerve to see her, what with the face an’ all—Tom told me what happened to him.” Jack shuddered reflexively at the thought.

  Grey glanced at the window, black night showing through the half-drawn curtains.

  “Well, we can do little about it tonight. I will write a note, though—if you will take it in the morning, Jack?”

  “What, to Sussex?” Jack looked slightly nonplussed. “Well, of course, my lord, if you like, but—”

  “No, I think we needn’t go that far,” Grey assured him. “Plainly, Captain
Fanshawe visits London regularly. He is a member at White’s; leave the note there, to be delivered upon his arrival.”

  The two Byrds bowed, for an instant looking absurdly alike, though they did not really resemble each other closely.

  “Very good, me lord,” Tom said. “Will you have a bit of supper, then?”

  Grey nodded and sat down to compose his note. He had just trimmed his quill when he became aware that neither Byrd had departed; both were standing on the opposite side of the room, viewing him with approval.

  “What?” he said.

  “Nothing, me lord,” Tom said, smiling beneficently. “I was just telling Jack, you aren’t looking quite so hag-rid as you was.”

  “You mean haggard?”

  “That, neither.”

  Grey had finally fallen into an uneasy sleep, in which he hurried endlessly through stubbled fields with crows cawing overhead, sure that he must reach a distant red-brick building in order to prevent some unspeakable disaster, but never drawing closer.

  One crow dived low, shrieking, and he ducked, covering his head, then sat up abruptly, realizing that the crow had said, “Wake up, me lord.”

  “What?” he said blankly. He could not focus eyes or mind, but the terrible sense of urgency from his dream had not left him. “Who … what?”

  “There’s a soldier come, me lord. I’d not have waked you, but he says it’s a man’s life.”

  His eyes finally consenting to operate, he saw Tom Byrd, round face worried but alight with interest, shaking out his banyan before a hastily poked-up fire.

  “Yes. Of course. He … did he …” He groped simultaneously for words and bedclothes. “Name?”

  “Yes, me lord. Captain Jones, he says.”

  Scrambling out of bed, Grey thrust his arms into the sleeves of his banyan, but did not wait for Tom to find his slippers, padding quick and barefoot through the cold to the darkened sitting room.

  Jones was stirring up the fire, a black and burly demon whose silhouette was limned by sparks. He turned at Grey’s entrance, dropping the poker with a crash upon the hearth.

  “Where is he?” He reached as though to seize Grey’s arm, but Grey stepped aside.

  “Where is who?”

  “Herbert Gormley, of course! What have you done with him?”

  “Gormless?” Grey was so startled that the name popped out of him. “What’s happened to him?”

  Jones’s clenched-fist expression, just visible by the glow of the fire, relaxed a trifle at that.

  “Gormless? You call him that, too, do you?”

  “Not to his face, certainly. Thank you, Tom.” Byrd, hurrying in, had placed his slippers on the floor, eyeing Jones with marked wariness.

  “What has happened?” Grey repeated, thrusting his cold feet into the slippers and noting absently that they were warm; Tom had taken time to hold them over the bedroom fire.

  “He’s disappeared, Major—and so has Tom Pilchard. And I want to know what you have to do with the matter.”

  He stared at Jones, unable for a moment to take this in. Still half in the grip of nightmare, his brain produced a vision of Herbert Gormley absconding by night, the remains of a massive cannon tucked tidily under one arm. He shook his head to clear it of this nonsense, and gestured Jones to the sofa.

  “Sit. I assure you, sir, I have nothing ‘to do’ with the matter—but I certainly wish to know who does. Tell me what you know.”

  Jones’s face worked briefly—Grey had the notion that he was grinding his teeth—but he nodded shortly and sat down, though he remained poised upon the edge of the sofa, hands on his knees, ready to leap up at a moment’s notice.

  “He’s gone—Herbert. When I found the cannon gone, I went to find him, ask what—but he was nowhere to be found. I’ve been searching for him since the day before yesterday. Do you know where he is?”

  Tom had been building up the fire; the flame was high enough now to show Jones’s heavy face, hollowed by worry and pouched with fatigue.

  “No. You know where he lives?” Grey sat down himself, and scrubbed a hand over his face in an effort to rouse himself completely.

  Jones nodded, massive fists clenching and unclenching unconsciously upon his thighs.

  “He’s not been home in two days. The last anyone saw of him was Wednesday evening, when he left the laboratory. You’re quite sure he’s not been here?” Dark eyes flicked suspiciously at Grey.

  “You are entirely welcome to search the place.” Grey waved a hand toward the room and the door through which Tom Byrd had disappeared, presumably toward the barracks kitchen in search of refreshment. “Why the devil would he come here?”

  “For that bit of shrapnel.”

  For a moment, Grey looked blank; then memory returned. His hand rose involuntarily toward his chest, but he altered the motion, pretending instead to stifle a yawn.

  “The bit of iron from Tom Pilchard? The leopard’s head? What on earth would he—or you—want it for?”

  Jones measured him for a long moment before replying, but answered at last, reluctant.

  “With the cannon gone, that may be the only evidence.”

  “Evidence of what, for God’s sake? And what do you mean, the cannon’s gone?” he added, belatedly realizing that he had overlooked the other bit of Jones’s statement. “Who in Christ’s name would steal a burst cannon?”

  “It wasn’t stolen,” Jones answered shortly. “The foundrymen took it—and the others. It’s been melted down.”

  This seemed an entirely reasonable thing to do, and Grey said as much, causing Jones’s face to work again. He was grinding his teeth; Grey could hear it.

  Jones abruptly shut his eyes, upper lip folded under his lower teeth in a way that reminded Grey of his cousin Olivia’s bulldog, Alfred. It was an amiable animal, but remarkably stubborn.

  The chiming clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour: two o’clock. The captain was likely telling the truth about searching everywhere else before coming to Grey’s door.

  Jones at length opened his eyes—they were bloodshot, enhancing the resemblance to Alfred—though the teeth remained fixed in his lip. At last he shook his head in resignation and sighed.

  “I’ll have to trust you, I suppose,” he said.

  “I am distinctly honored,” Grey said, with an edge. “Thank you, Tom.”

  Byrd had reappeared with a tray hastily furnished with two cups of tea. The tea was stewed and black, undoubtedly from the urn kept for the night watch, but served in Grey’s decent vine-patterned china. He took a cup gratefully, adding a substantial dollop of brandy from the decanter.

  Jones stared at the cup of tea in his own hand, as though wondering where it had come from, but essayed a cautious sip, then coughed and rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “The cannon. Herbert said he thought you knew nothing about the process of gun-founding; is that true?”

  “Nothing more than he told me himself.” The hot tea and brandy were both comfort and stimulant; Grey began to feel more alert. “Why?”

  Jones blew out his breath, making a small cloud of steam; the air in the sitting room was still chilly.

  “Without describing the entire process to you—you do know that the bronze of a cannon is an alloy, produced by—”

  “Yes, I do know that.” Grey was sufficiently awake by now as to be annoyed. “What does that—”

  “I am sure that the burst cannon—all of them—had been cast from an inferior alloy, one lacking the proper proportion of copper.” He stared meaningfully at Grey, obviously expecting him to drop his tea, clutch his head, or otherwise exhibit signs of horrified comprehension.

  “Oh?” Grey said, and reached for the brandy again.

  Jones heaved a sigh that went all the way to his feet, and put out a hand for the decanter in turn.

  “Not to put too fine a point upon the matter, Major,” he said, eyes on the amber stream splashing into his tea, “I am a spy.”

  Grey narrowl
y prevented himself saying, “Oh?” again, and instead said, “For the French? Or the Austrians?” Tom Byrd, who had been loitering respectfully in the background, stiffened, then bent casually to pick up the poker from the hearth.

  “Neither, for God’s sake,” Jones said crossly. “I am in the employ of His Majesty’s government.”

  “Well, who the bloody hell are you spying on, then?” Grey said, losing patience.

  “The Arsenal,” Jones replied, looking surprised, as though this should be obvious. “Or rather, the foundry.”

  There ensued a tedious ten minutes of extraction which brought Grey to the point of wishing to gnash his own teeth. At the end of it, though, he had managed to get Jones to admit—with extreme reluctance—that he was not in fact employed by the Arsenal, as Grey had assumed. He was a genuine captain in the Royal Artillery Regiment, though, and as such had been sent to nose unofficially about the Arsenal and see what he could discover regarding the matter of the exploding cannons—the Royal Artillery having an interest, as Grey might suppose.

  “Couldn’t be official, d’ye see,” Jones said, becoming more confidential. “The Royal Commission had already been appointed, and it’s their show, so to speak.”

  Grey nodded, curious. Twelvetrees, who was a member of the Commission of Inquiry, belonged to the Royal Artillery; why ought the regiment be sending Jones to do surreptitiously what Twelvetrees was doing so overtly? Unless … unless someone suspected Twelvetrees of something?

  “To whom do you report your findings?” Grey asked. Jones began again to look shifty, and a small premonitory prickle ran suddenly down Grey’s spine.

  Jones’s lips worked in and out in indecision, but at last he bit the bullet and blurted, “A man named Bowles.”

  As though cued by an invisible prompter, the teacup began to rattle gently in its saucer. Grey felt a monstrous sense of irritation; was he never going to be allowed to drink a full cup of tea in peace, for God’s sake? Very carefully, he set down the cup and saucer, and wiped his hands upon the skirts of his dressing gown.