by J. A. Rock
“Hardly. But it would help to talk things over with someone, and you are my only prospect.”
Such a polite fellow. “Well, my home is at our disposal if that would suit.”
Gale seemed to consider this. “I suppose it will do. I have rooms in Russell Street, but they are extremely small.”
“Very well. Would you object to my calling a hack?”
Gale shook his head.
They eventually found a cab, and once they were both inside, Chant took in Gale’s pensive scowl. He risked speaking. “Gale. Visser was… well, he was lying about nearly everything, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” Gale said, though he did not look at Chant. He was still, clearly, lost in his own mind. “I believe that if we hadn’t seen the Condor with our own eyes, he would have told us it was a bright purple sailboat with wings on its sides. Everyone is lying to me today, Chant—save perhaps you. And I’m quite tired of it.”
Chapter 7
Upon second study, Chant’s home was not so barren as Gale had initially thought. True, the decoration was sparse, but there was something comforting in the clean lines of the place. The furniture in the sitting room was all dark wood, bearing none of the carved curlicues and fleur-de-lis that adorned everything in the Gale family home. There were cosy touches throughout: a bookcase tucked in a corner, its leather-bound tomes leaning untidily against one another. Stubby candles on nearly every surface, the wax puddles at their bases looking rather like icebergs floating on a mahogany sea.
The settee was old and out of fashion, but Gale sat on it at Chant’s invitation and found it incredibly comfortable. He had not realised how weary he was until he sank onto the plush cushions. He loosened his cravat slightly, aware his breathing was rough.
“Tea?” Chant asked. “Or do you require something stronger?”
“A stiff belt of whisky would not go amiss. But I shall limit myself to tea. Thank you.” He continued his study of Chant’s home in the light of day. There was warmth in it—most likely because Chant was there, and Chant was a warm person. But it did not escape Gale that this was a house of sadness. That, although its rooms were small, they did in certain moments seem cavernous and empty. This was what grief could do to a place, Gale supposed, thinking of what Anne-Marie had said about Chant’s dead sister, and the old mad earl, and the former beau who was now in France.
There were elements of the decor that were not purely Chant. Not that Gale knew the man well. But the gold mantle clock with its base of swirls and splashes, like molten lava hurled up from the earth—Gale could not see Chant choosing that for himself. Though its colour matched Chant’s hair quite nicely. Not that this was in any way relevant.
Two hideously gaudy vases painted in the Oriental style—no doubt by some piss-poor English artist who thought the fashion exotic but had never been farther east than Dartford—sat in opposite corners of the room. The vases were not Chant either. The bookcase was Chant’s doing, as were the melted candles, and the simple writing desk with its chair of faded red upholstery.
Chant sat, not on that faded chair, as Gale would have thought appropriate, but at the other end of the settee. Gale stiffened, not sure what to make of their sudden proximity.
Surely there was nothing to make of it. He had sat this close to Hartwell numerous times. Closer than this to other fellows at salons and gaming hells, at Bucknall’s. Why did it feel so… improper to be this close to Chant?
Chant did not appear to share Gale’s awkwardness, though he was rather quiet for Chant. He offered a small, tired smile, one elbow braced on the back of the sofa, his chin resting in his hand.
“So what are your thoughts on the case?” he asked at the same time Gale blurted, “Your companion who wished to sail. Does he often call here?”
Chant’s lips parted.
“I’m sorry. I should not have asked.” Gale paused. “I do mean that sincerely. I’m told I have a tone of voice that makes me sound sardonic even when I do not intend to be.”
“It is all right that you asked,” Chant said too slowly for him to mean the words entirely.
“No. You are not a suspect for me to interrogate.” Gale shifted on the settee. “I have grown used to these little escapades I find myself involved in. I have also grown used to treating everyone as a source of information rather than a… a companion.”
“I am a companion now?” The amusement was back in Chant’s eyes. “I rather thought I was a nuisance who had impeded your investigation.”
“You are far from a nuisance.” Gale uttered the words as unexpectedly as he had blurted the question about Chant’s former consort. Consort was not the right term. The fellow had been more than that or else Chant’s eyes would not have filled with such shock and remembered sadness when Gale had asked. The consort, Gale guessed, was the Mr. Reid whom Clarissa had mentioned on the way home from the Harringdon ball.
Now Chant’s eyes filled with a softer surprise. “You do not have to lie to me, Lord Christmas. I know you did not wish me there today. But it is in my nature to worry about people. And I did genuinely worry for your safety.”
“I would not be here now if I wanted to be rid of you,” Gale answered truthfully.
Chant smiled, and Gale’s face heated in response.
Fortunately, a servant brought in the tea tray then, and Gale occupied himself with spooning sugar into a cup of strong Ceylon.
He did not miss how Chant had neatly avoided answering his question, and Gale thought it best to let the matter drop.
But Chant took a long sip of tea, then stared into his cup. He looked up again, his gaze finding Gale’s with a disarming frankness. “He does not call here at all anymore. He is no longer a part of my life.”
“Ah. I would not have asked, but the clock did not look like something you would choose.”
Chant barked a laugh and looked towards the mantle. “That was my sister’s doing, actually, not Reid’s. Reid was responsible for the vases, which I saw you looking at with unrestrained contempt earlier.” His eyes returned to Gale, and they sparkled with amusement. “But no, the clock was a find of Jenny’s. She does so love shiny things. Did,” he said in surprise, shaking his head as if he could not quite believe himself. “It has been so long since I’ve done that.”
“I had heard that your sister was deceased. I am so very sorry to have touched upon a painful subject.”
“It is quite all right. She is deceased. To refuse to speak of it does not change the fact. She loved God, and she is with Him now.”
There was something in Chant’s tone that prompted Gale to ask his next question, despite logic dictating that he should change the subject entirely. “Does it comfort you, to think of her with God?”
Chant hesitated a long while. “I am undecided on the matter of God. I am sorry if that shocks or disturbs you. It comforts me that her last thoughts were perhaps joyful ones—excitement over the prospect of her journey to a place she believed in with all her heart. While there may well be a higher power who takes an inordinate interest in our little lives, I rather think it is wise to make the most of our time on earth. Just in case there is not so much beyond that as we think.”
“That does not shock me,” Gale said quietly. “Rather, it quite aligns with my own beliefs. Except that I seem incapable of making the most of my time on earth.”
A tilt of Chant’s head. “Why do you say that?”
“I presume that by ‘make the most’ of our time here, you mean finding love. Spending time in the company of fine friends. Starting families. Doing good deeds. Smelling the roses, watching the birds. Cooing at infants. All right, I do not know what you meant. But I do none of those things. I bristle when another soul comes near me. I manage very few acts of kindness. I think flowers are given far too much credit, and that birds are annoying. Do not even get me started on infants.”
Chant laughed—the sound was, as always, clear, loud, and genuine, and seemed to melt something bitter and sharp in Gale, softening th
e scowl he felt on his face into what was very nearly a smile. Chant took a last sip of tea, then set his cup aside. “You have helped a good many people find answers to questions that plagued them. Your skills have brought them peace. This is kindness.”
“I solve mysteries that I do not even mean to solve. And I do it to entertain myself, not to please anyone else.”
“I have my doubts on that front.” Chant placed his hands on his knees. “But I’ll allow you to believe it if you must.”
“You think well of everyone. I assure you, you are under no obligation to think well of me.”
“I am under no obligation. And yet I do.”
“I wish you would not.”
“I rather think that what you tell me of Lord Christmas Gale is comprised mostly of stories you have told yourself, not the truth of you.”
“A romantic notion.”
“I also think you are a bit disingenuous. Surely a man as perceptive as yourself has noticed that when I look upon you, what is in my eyes is not merely platonic affection. I am also certain you have gleaned by now that my Reid was not merely a companion. I wonder that you would ask if he is still a presence in my life when I have invited you here. What do you take me for, my lord?”
It took Gale a moment to realise Chant was teasing him. And another moment to comprehend what Chant had just confessed. He cleared his throat, glowering. “I took you for a proper gentleman, who was inviting me here out of the goodness of his heart because I needed a place to rest—not because he was thinking indecorous thoughts.”
Gale’s teasing did not show itself for what it was as easily as Chant’s did. He had trouble calling forth a light tone of voice. And so he was quite relieved when Chant tipped back his head and laughed again. “I did invite you here out of the goodness of my heart. But my heart has a few dark corners as well.”
“I somehow doubt that.”
“Then you do not understand the full extent of the indecorousness that plagues my thoughts when I am in your presence.”
“You are forward, sir.”
“If it makes you uncomfortable, I hope that you will tell me so. For I do not wish to offend.”
“I am not offended. I merely wonder what madness you suffer if you feel such desire for me.”
Chant’s expression was so patently dismayed that at first Gale thought it part of the joke. But the play of sentiments across the fellow’s face was genuine. Gale could not fathom why this comment, of all the reckless, insensitive comments he had made thus far, had upset Chant so.
Gale quickly apologised. “To each his own taste. I am rather flattered that you think of me in such a way. You are not exactly ugly yourself.”
Chant smiled tightly, and Gale knew it was time to redirect the conversation to something that would take Chant’s mind off his pain. “Howe’s corpse had a grotesque chest wound that looked to be made with the same triangular blade that injured Visser.”
Oddly, this did not seem to lift Chant’s spirits.
“So you see, this supports our suspicion. Well, my suspicion—I don’t know if you share it—that de Cock killed Howe and wounded Visser.”
“That’s good, I suppose.” Chant did not seem as focused as Gale would like. “Well, not good. But good that we are getting some answers.”
“Based on the wounds, I would say the blade used is a ballock dagger. So named for its distinct handle, which has twin globes at the hilt”—he sketched out the shape in the air—“that resemble a pair of kidneys, or perhaps a set of…” He trailed off.
“Balls?” Chant supplied.
“Yes.”
“So de Cock’s sword…”
“Well, dagger.”
“Has a set of—”
“Balls, yes.”
They sat there for a moment in contemplation.
“He really embraces it, doesn’t he?” Chant remarked.
“You almost have to admire him.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“No, of course not.
Another moment of silence.
Gale cleared his throat. “But I cannot figure out why Visser would feed us that ludicrous story about fixing the sail. Is he protecting de Cock? Afraid of de Cock? Probably the latter.”
“The marks on his wrist…”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know,” Chant said. “What do you make of them?”
Gale stared absently at the ugly vases. “It looks as though Visser was bound. Somewhat recently.”
“By de Cock?”
“I don’t know yet. Suppose there was trouble between Visser and de Cock. De Cock imprisoned him. Stabbed him, at some point. Perhaps realised that keeping Visser captive indefinitely was not feasible and threw him overboard?”
“But why throw him overboard at a busy port?”
“The Condor is docked far enough out that I imagine unsavoury tasks could be carried out without anyone noticing. But you’re right, throwing him overboard doesn’t make sense—the body would naturally wash up somewhere along the yard.”
“I would kill Visser first and weigh the body down before throwing it over.”
“Well, listen to you, Mr. Chant. Dark corners in your heart indeed.”
That won Gale a smile. “I don’t know anything about crime, really. I just… Well, suppose Visser escaped and jumped overboard?”
Gale nodded, feeling oddly proud of Chant. “That was my thought.”
“Are you only saying that because you don’t want to admit I had the thought first?”
“Don't flatter yourself, sir. It is a possibility I’ve been turning over in my mind for some time. But I’m pleased to see you arrived at that hypothesis as well.”
“How does Elise’s father fit into all this?”
Gale sighed. “That, I have not yet figured out. I asked Elise this morning if anyone had a reason to want her father dead. She said no, but there was something in her eyes…”
“You asked a child of seven years if anyone wanted her father dead?”
“She is old enough to understand the question. And more than old enough to know the answer. And certainly old enough to lie about it.”
“Why would she lie?”
“I suppose for the same reason Visser lied. She’s afraid of someone. Of something.”
“Is this all to do with the dog, somehow?”
Gale slumped forward, suddenly exhausted. Placed his face in his palms and then dragged both hands down his cheeks to steeple beneath his chin. “It must be, but I can’t for the life of me see how it fits together. I saw the beast this morning. He hardly looks to be some valuable breed. Maybe he’s canine Dutch royalty. Maybe he shits golden turds. I don’t know, Chant. But if de Cock is looking for the dog, and he knew Howe had the dog, and then Howe was killed…”
“The dog is the key.”
Gale raised his head again, hands covering his mouth to contain his frustration. “Part of me wants nothing to do with any of this. But then I think of Elise without her father. She is an urchin, yes, but she could be one of my sisters. Not actually one of my sisters—I just mean that she is a child, same as they are. Or as some of them are. Some of them might be upwards of forty, for all I know. But if one of them were left alone in the world… I cannot bear to think of it.”
“I know precisely what you mean.”
Gale cast him a mild glare. “So are you satisfied now? You were right about me. I am by no means a good man, but I am not completely heartless.”
“I knew that when you roused me at midnight to go find the girl in question and take her to safety. I knew that when I found you this morning searching for her dog in Jacob’s Island. And I rather think I knew it as soon as I met you.”
“Yes, well, any decent man could reasonably be assumed to care about a child’s wellbeing.”
“Precisely.”
“You think you have tricked me into calling myself decent when in fact I meant you only assumed that decency because you would assume it in any
one. Not because you could see at once that I was soft-hearted as a lamb.”
Chant said nothing. Merely placed a hand on Gale’s back as he had the previous night when they’d stood on the Harringdons’ terrace. Gale resisted the urge to pull away. It did not feel entirely terrible, the way Chant rubbed between his shoulders. In fact, if he allowed himself to relax, it was quite pleasurable—a realisation that immediately made him tense again. To mitigate the awkwardness he felt, he leaned back against the settee, tilting his chin toward the ceiling. He expected Chant to pull his hand out from where it was now wedged between Gale and the upholstery. But he simply moved it to Gale’s shoulder. His thumb passed along the seam of Gale’s coat, and despite himself, Gale breathed out some of his tension. He turned his head toward Chant.
“I have never been involved in something so serious. This is murder, Chant.”
“Perhaps we have reached a point where it is best to let the magistrate’s office take over.”
Gale shook his head. “They are useless.”
Chant’s brows drew together. “Do you really think so?”
“Darling said Howe was just a drunk.”
“Didn’t you also tell me Howe was just a drunk?”
“I said he was a drunk. I didn’t say he was just a drunk. The Runners don’t care what happens to a man from Jacob’s Island. What do I do? Go to Darling and say I believe a dog is the key to the murder of a drunk? Never mind trying to explain Visser. The only reason Visser was talking to me at all is that on some level he believed me when I said I was not a constable. Drag Darling in to question him, and I guarantee Visser won’t say another word.”
“You really want to solve this—I won’t say case. This puzzle. Don’t you?”
“I feel I owe something to Elise. She… thinks highly of me. Or she did before I… said what I said.”
“You have already done her service. It is enough that you have taken her in during her time of need. Concentrate on finding her dog. I do not presume to speak for Howe, but that would be the outcome I would want, were she my daughter. Far more than justice for myself. Let the Runners handle de Cock.”