Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [57]
“Well, at least you seem to know what it’s all about,” said the reader, refolding the papers. “The extract is, of course, copied from a dispatch from Lord Grey to the Protector, and I am sure you are about to take the wind from my sails by telling me that the Queen Dowager knows all about it.”
If alarmed by this perspicacity, Sir George gave no sign. “She does, of course.”
“Quite. But even if I believed that—which I don’t—I still think you might be interested in seeing that postscript. It does exist, you know. So does the copy. I’m King of the Fidlers and swear ’tis a truth. You can have them all for a nominal price.”
“And the nominal price?”
“You have an English prisoner called Jonathan Crouch,” remarked the blackmailer, affably, and was interrupted by Sir George himself, showing the first signs of animation.
“Dear me!” he said. “You seem to be a remarkably subterranean young man. I took such a prisoner, yes; although it is not generally known.”
“Let me see him and you may have the report.”
There was a short pause. The offer was nicely put. No one, however reinforced by his sovereign’s complicity, could be expected to resist the lure of a postscript devoted to his own affairs in an English dispatch. That the postscript existed he felt sure: the fellow was too damnably pat with the rest. Ergo, by falling in with the suggestion, he was admitting to no more than natural curiosity: a subtle and far from fortuitous point.
There was a further consideration. He did not particularly care that this dispatch should reach the Queen. And there might be others which he would care about even less. At this point in his meditations Sir George cleared his throat. “You appear to take monumental measures for a very simple end. A man of your resource would prefer, I should have thought, to use his powers of … interception for a more rewarding cause.” He slipped the cabuchon ruby off his thumb and tossed it on the table between them.
“Fools make news, and wise men carry it. You could become a rich man.”
“I am a rich man,” said his visitor. He fixed a cool eye on the Douglas, disregarding the ring. “As you, I am sure, are a busy one. If therefore our bargain is concluded, perhaps Mr. Crouch might be brought here.”
There was nothing else for it. Sir George said regretfully, “I am afraid I cannot keep my side of the bargain. A matter of some disappointment to me. The gentleman you mention was sold to a friend of mine some time ago.” He added kindly, “If it will serve, I can direct you to him and even enable you to enter the house, if you wish.”
A pause developed, and prolonged itself to uncomfortable lengths. Then, unexpectedly, the other laughed. “Oh Douglas, oh Douglas, Tender and true … I am moved to respect. Very well. The bargain stands. Tell me the name of your friend, and you shall have your documents.”
Sir George rose, crossed to his desk, and tossed a paper from it into the other’s hands. On the one side was a signed note from Sir Andrew Hunter, promising payment of one hundred crowns for the person of Mr. Jonathan Crouch; on the other was a scrawled note in Hunter’s handwriting. It said, For our friendship, send me word if there is an attempt to trace Crouch. I would not lose him to enemies before I can exchange him for my cousin.
His visitor read both sides and smiled. “You weigh your scales generously. Thank you.”
Sir George said, retrieving the paper, “Of course, I cannot as a gentleman ignore the note. I propose to send one of my secretaries to Ballaggan, with a fairly large escort, to warn Sir Andrew that a stranger has indeed inquired about Crouch. Hunter keeps a well-guarded house, but it is not always possible to make sure that, in the confusion of entering, a party such as mine might not become larger than it should be … a common risk, I fear, in these times.”
“Yes. Oh, indeed, I am quite aware of the risk,” said the other, and a long, slow smile pleated