Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [53]
Alistair was downstairs already. Marsh and Iris came in together, their colour high from the onslaught of fresh air, their good cheer somewhat modulated from the earlier high spirits, but with an element now of unity of purpose.
And still Alistair was not troubled.
When we were served and drinking our soup, Marsh said to his cousin, “Iris agrees that we need to know more about Lionel’s wife and the boy.”
“Of course she does.”
“Perhaps you ought to come down with us on Wednesday, and tail the woman back to her house in Lyons? It would be nice to know where she and the boy live, if they live alone, or . . . you know.”
“Marsh,” I interrupted, but he took no notice.
“It’s a vulnerable age,” he continued, “nine, and if she’s living as she shouldn’t, it could give us a clear—”
“Marsh,” I said again, sharply. He turned his eyes to mine.
“Let me follow her. Alistair would stick out, and there’s a hundred places he couldn’t go.” And it would make me feel as if I were doing something, I did not say aloud.
“My cousin will manage. He is very good at it.”
“He’s very good in . . . other places, but in London, following a woman and a child? Marsh, I am trained to this. There are few better.” No time for false modesty.
He looked surprised, Iris puzzled, Alistair relieved. The two men consulted without words—the first time I’d seen them do that, here—then Marsh nodded. “Very well; you and Alistair. You can act the happy pair, and follow her into crowds or the cloak-room.”
Not what I had in mind, but the compromise was acceptable, and we finished the meal in peace.
Afterwards, Marsh announced that he and Iris were going for another walk (I refrained from glancing at the streaming window) and Alistair said that he was due to meet his nephew for a discussion of the Badger farms. This left me either to interview children and servants, or to take to the Greene Library.
It was no difficult decision.
Before retreating up the stairs to the sanctuary of the library, I made a quick dash through the rain to a rosemary bush I had noticed growing outside of the billiards room. Feeling more than a little silly, I dutifully laid the wet sprig onto the mantel below the portrait of Obediah Greene, and although I cannot know if it pleased his shade, it certainly made the air sweet.
I went to my room to fetch my pen and a block of writing-paper. When I got back to the library I found Alistair standing in the middle of the library, gazing up at Mr Greene. When he turned, I saw the large, lumpy file envelope he carried. Wordlessly, he held it out, and watched me carry it to the table I had mentally chosen for my own. I loosed the tie and poured the contents onto the pad of clean blotting-paper.
Three fat journals filled with boyish handwriting, five letters, a pair of identity discs (one the standard fibre tag on a neck-cord, the other a brass disc on a chain bracelet), a silver pocket-watch, a much-used pen-knife, several field post-cards, and a leather-bound Testament with the salty tide-marks of sweat staining its cover.
“When you have finished, Marsh asks that you give them back to him.”
“I will. Thank you.”
He turned to leave, but paused in the doorway. “There is a magnifying glass in the desk below the window. Should you need one.” Then he was gone, leaving me to paw through the personal effects of Sub-Lieutenant Gabriel Hughenfort, Earl of Calminster, ducal heir, enigma of the moment.
The identity discs might have been of value for a psychic reading, but all the necklace told me was that it had ridden on a man for longer than some I had seen, and not as long as