The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [141]
He wasn’t surprised at that; if Quinn was in London—and knowing what he knew about Quinn’s plans, he was almost sure of it—he would be keeping himself quiet. Still, he might be using the Druid cup as inspiration to those followers whose dedication was not quite sure—and if he had the cup and had been showing the dreadful thing about, there might well be rumors of it.
He walked through the narrow streets, feeling the alien strangeness of the city. Once, he had had men he knew—both those he commanded and those who sought him out—and networks of information. Once, he could have put out word and found a man like Quinn within hours.
Once.
He put the thought firmly away from him; that part of his life was over. He had made up his mind to it and did not mean to turn back; why did such thoughts still come to him?
“Because ye’ve still to finish it, clot-heid,” he muttered to himself. He had to find Quinn. Whether it was to put a stop to the Irish Brigades’ plot before it became action, dooming those involved in it, or for the sake of Quinn himself, he wasn’t sure—but he must find the man. And Thomas Lally was still a man such as he had been himself. Lally was also a prisoner, true, but one still with followers, informants, one who listened and planned. A man who would leave the stage of war only when carried off it feetfirst. A man who hasn’t given up, he thought, with a tinge of bitterness.
He’d come unannounced. It wasn’t courteous, but he wasn’t interested in courtesy. He needed information and had a better chance of getting it if Lally hadn’t time to decide whether it was wise to give it to him.
The sun was high by the time he arrived; Pardloe had invited him to make use of the Greys’ coach, but he didn’t want anyone knowing his destination and so had walked halfway across London. They weren’t bothering to follow him anymore; they were much too busy looking for the members of the Wild Hunt. How long might he have before one of those names led them to someone who would talk? He knocked at the door.
“Captain Fraser.” It was Lally himself who answered the door, to Jamie’s surprise. Lally was surprised, too, but cordial—he stepped back, gesturing Jamie inside.
“I am alone,” Jamie said, seeing Lally peer down the street before closing the door.
“So am I,” said Lally, casting a bleak look round the tiny front room. It was disordered, with smeared crockery and crumbs on the table, a cold, unswept hearth, and a general feel of neglect. “My servant has left, I’m afraid. Can I offer you …” He swung round, eyeing a shelf that held two or three bottles, picked one up and shook it, looking relieved when it sloshed. “A glass of ale?”
“Aye, thank ye.” He knew better than to refuse hospitality, particularly under such circumstances, and they sat down at the table—there was no place else to sit—pushing aside the dirty dishes, green cheese rinds, and a dead cockroach. Jamie wondered if the thing had died of starvation or poisoning.
“So,” said Lally, after a minimal exchange of commonplaces, “did you find your Wild Hunt?”
“The English think they have,” Jamie said. “Though it may be naught but a mare’s nest.”
Lally’s eyes widened in interest, but he was still reserved.
“I heard that you went to Ireland with Lord John Grey,” he remarked, and sighed a little. “I haven’t seen it in many years. Is it still green, then, and beautiful?”
“Wet as a bath sponge and mud to the knees, but, aye, it was green enough.”
That made Lally laugh; Jamie thought he didn’t laugh often. It didn’t come easily to him.
“It’s true that I was obliged to go wi’ his lordship,” Jamie said, “but I had another companion, as well—one less official. D’ye recall Tobias Quinn, by chance?”
Indeed he did; Jamie saw the knowledge flicker deep in Lally’s eyes, though his face stayed calm, slightly quizzical.
“From the Rising. One of the Irish who came with O’Sullivan, was he not?”
“Aye, that