A look of horror at the thought filled Stapleton’s eyes, and he shook his head, very slightly.

Grey reached out and wrapped his hand around the glass, covering the tips of Neil’s fingers as he did so. He squeezed them briefly, then took the glass, lowering his gaze.

“I thank you, sir,” he said politely.

“Your servant, sir,” Stapleton said, with equal politeness, and bowed before turning to lift the tray. Grey caught the faint scent of Stapleton’s sweat, rank with fear, but the decanter and remaining glasses stayed steady as he carried them away.

From this angle of view, he could see the pillory that stood near Charles’s statue. Grey barely tasted the foul wine, half-choked as he was by the beating of the pulse in his own throat. What in God’s name was going on? He didn’t think this meeting was to do with him; surely Harry would have warned him. But perhaps Stapleton had—no, or he would scarcely have been so terrorized at Grey’s appearance. But then, what—

A scraping of chairs fortunately interrupted his speculations before they became any more incoherent.

“Lord John?” Quarry had stood up, addressing him formally. “May I present Mr. Hubert Bowles? Major Grey.”

Mr. Bowles had stood up, too, though he scarcely appeared to have done so, he being so short that there was little change in height from his seated aspect. Grey bowed courteously, murmuring, “Your servant, sir.”

He took the indicated stool, and found himself facing a pair of soft blue eyes, the vague slaty color of a newborn child’s, set in a face bearing as much distinction of feature as a suet pudding. There was an odd scent in the air—something like very old sweat, but with a hint of putrid decay. He couldn’t tell whether it came from the furnishings or from the man in front of him.

“My lord,” Bowles said, in a lisping voice little more than a whisper. “It is kind of you to attend us.”

As though I were here of choice, Grey thought cynically, but merely bowed and murmured a courtesy in reply, trying meanwhile to breathe exclusively through his mouth.

“Colonel Quarry has been recounting your efforts and discoveries,” Bowles said, turning over a sheet of paper with short-fingered delicacy. “You have been most assiduous.”

“You flatter me too much, sir,” Grey said. “I have found out nothing certain—I take it we are discussing the death of Timothy O’Connell?”

“Among other things.” Bowles smiled pleasantly, but the vague expression in his eyes did not alter.

Grey cleared his throat, belatedly tasting the nastiness of the wine he had swallowed. “I imagine that Colonel Quarry has informed you that I have discovered no proof of O’Connell’s involvement in—the matter at hand?”

“He has.” Bowles’s gaze had drifted away from Grey, and rested idly on the yellow tulips. They had orange throats, Grey saw, and glowed like molten gold in the last of the light. If they had a scent, it wasn’t strong enough to perceive, unfortunately. “Colonel Quarry thinks that your efforts might be aided were we to inform you of the results of our other . . . inquiries.”

“I see,” Grey said, though he saw nothing at all, so far. “Our other inquiries.” And who were “we,” exactly? Harry sat hunched on his own stool, an untasted glass of wine in his hand, face carefully expressionless.

“As the Colonel told you, I believe, there were several suspects in the original theft.” Bowles’s small, soft paw spread itself on the papers. “Inquiries were instituted at once, through a variety of channels, regarding all of these men.”

“I supposed that to be the case.”

It was very warm in the chamber, despite the open window, and Grey could feel his shirt sticking to his back, sweat tickling his temples. He wanted to wipe his face on his sleeve, but somehow the presence of this odd little man constrained him to do no more than nod, sitting rigidly at attention.

“Without divulging details”—a tiny smile flitted across Bowles’s face at that, as though the thought of withholding details was something secretly delicious—“I can inform you, Major, that it is now all but certain that Sergeant O’Connell was the guilty party.”

“I see,” Grey said again, guardedly.

“We lost track of him, of course, when the man who was following him—Jack Byrd, was that the name?—disappeared on Saturday.” Grey was quite sure that Bowles knew the name; knew a lot more than that, in all likelihood.

“However,” Bowles continued, extending a stubby finger to touch one of the shimmering petals, “we have recently received a report from another source, placing O’Connell at a particular location on the Friday. The day before his death.”

A drop of sweat was hanging from Grey’s chin; he could feel it trembling there like the grains of pollen trembling on the soft black anthers of the tulips.

“A rather unusual location,” Bowles went on, stroking the petal with dreamy gentleness. “A place called Lavender House, near Lincoln’s Inn. Have you heard of it?”

Oh. Christ.He heard the words distinctly, and hoped he hadn’t spoken them aloud. This was it, then.

He sat up straighter still and wiped the drop of sweat from his chin with the back of his hand, setting himself for the worst.

“I have, yes. I visited Lavender House myself last week—in the course of my inquiries.”

Bowles did not—of course!—look astonished by this. Grey was conscious of Quarry by his side, looking curious but not alarmed. He was reasonably sure that Harry had no idea of the nature of Lavender House. He was quite sure that Bowles did.

Bowles nodded amiably.

“Quite. What I am wondering, Major, is what you discovered regarding O’Connell that led you to that destination?”

“It—was not O’Connell about whom I was inquiring.” Quarry shifted a little at that, and emitted a small “Hmph!”

No help for it. Commending his soul to God, Grey took a deep breath and recounted the entire story of his explorations into the life and behavior of Joseph Trevelyan.

“A green velvet dress,” Bowles said, sounding only mildly curious. “God bless my soul.” His hand had dropped from the tulips, and was now curled possessively around the fat little belly of the silver vase.

Grey’s shirt was soaked through by now, but he was no longer anxious. He felt an odd sort of calm, in fact, as though matters had been taken quite out of his own control. What happened next lay in the hands of Fate, or God—or Hubert Bowles, whoever in God’s name he was.

Stapleton was plainly in the employ of Mr. Bowles’s office—whatever nameless office that might be—and Grey’s second thought, after the shock of seeing him, had been that Stapleton had gone to Lavender House as an agent of Bowles.

But Stapleton had been terrified by Grey’s sudden appearance; that meant that Stapleton thought Bowles to be in ignorance of his own nature. Why else that silent plea?

That being so, Stapleton would never have mentioned Grey’s presence at Lavender House; he could not do so without incriminating himself. And that in turn meant that his presence there had been purely personal. Given room to think for a moment, Grey realized—with the stomach-dropping relief of one stepping back from the trap of a scaffold—that Mr. Bowles was not in fact inquiring into his own behavior, save as it pertained to the O’Connell affair. And with an obvious reason for his presence at Lavender House given . . .

“I b-beg your pardon, sir?” he stammered, realizing belatedly that Bowles had said something to him.

“I asked whether you were convinced that these Irish were conspicuously involved, Major? The Scanlons?”

“I think that they are,” he replied cautiously. “But that is an impression only, sir. I have said to Colonel Quarry that it might be useful to question them more officially, though—and not only the Scanlons, but Miss Iphigenia Stokes and her family.”

“Ah, Miss Stokes.” The pendulous cheeks quivered faintly. “No, we are familiar with the Stokes family. Petty smugglers, to a man, but nothing whatever in the political line. Nor have they any connexion to the . . . persons at Lavender House.”