Текст книги "Lord John and the Private Matter "

Автор книги: Diana Gabaldon

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As though the small movement had broken some evil spell, Trevelyan blinked, his hand letting go the little bronze goddess. He continued to look at Grey, but now with an expression of concern.

“My dear John,” he said quietly. “My dear fellow.” He sat back, rubbing a hand across his brow, as though overcome.

He said nothing more, though, leaving Grey to sit there, the sound of his denunciation ringing in his ears.

“Have you nothing to say, Mr. Trevelyan?” he demanded at last.

“Say?” Trevelyan dropped his hand, and looked at him, mouth a little open. He closed it, shook his head slightly, and poured fresh sherry, pushing Grey’s cup across to him.

“What have I to say?” he repeated, staring into the depths of his own cup. “Well, I could deny it, of course—and I do. In your present state of mind, though, I am afraid that no statement would be adequate. Would it?” He glanced up, inquiringly.

Grey shook his head.

“Well, then,” Trevelyan said, almost kindly. “I do not know where you have acquired these remarkable notions, John. Of course, if you truly believe them, then you have no choice but to act as you are—I see that.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” Trevelyan hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Did you . . . seek counsel of anyone, before coming here?”

What the devil did the fellow mean by that?

“If you are inquiring whether anyone is cognizant of my whereabouts,” Grey said coldly, “they are.” In fact, they were not; no one knew he was at the warehouse. On the other hand, a dozen clerks and countless laborers had seen him downstairs; it would take a madman to try to do away with him here—and he didn’t think Trevelyan was mad. Dangerous, but not mad.

Trevelyan’s eyes widened.

“What? You thought I meant—good gracious.” He glanced away, rubbing a knuckle over his lips. He cleared his throat, twice, then looked up. “I merely meant to ask whether you had shared these incredible . . . delusions of yours with anyone. I think you have not. For if you had, surely anyone would have tried to persuade you not to pursue such a disastrous course.”

Trevelyan shook his head, an expression of worried dismay pursing his lips.

“Have you a carriage? No, of course not. Never mind; I shall summon mine. The coachman will see you safely to your mother’s house. Might I recommend Doctor Masonby, of Smedley Street? He has an excellent history with nervous disorders.”

Grey was so stricken with amazement that he scarcely felt outraged.

“Are you attempting to suggest that I am insane?”

“No, no! Of course not, certainly not.”

Still Trevelyan went on looking at him in that worried, pitying sort of way, and he felt the amazement melting away. He should perhaps be furious, but felt instead an urge to laugh incredulously.

“I am pleased to hear it,” Grey said dryly, and rose to his feet. “I shall bear your kind advice in mind. In the meantime, however—your betrothal is at an end.”

He had nearly reached the door when Trevelyan called out behind him.

“Lord John! Wait a moment!”

He paused and looked back, though without turning.

“Yes?”

The Cornishman had his lower lip caught in his teeth, and was watching Grey with the air of one judging a wild animal. Would it attack, or run? He beckoned, gesturing to the chair Grey had vacated.

“Come back a moment. Please.”

He stood, undecided, hearing the thrum of business below, longing to escape this room and this man and lose himself in comings and goings, once more a peaceful part of the clockwork, and not a grain of sand in the cogs. But duty dictated otherwise, and he walked back, stick held tight.

“Sit. Please.” Trevelyan waited for him to do so, then sat down slowly himself.

“Lord John. You say that your concern is for your cousin’s reputation. So is mine.” He leaned across the desk, eyes intent. “Such a sudden breach cannot but give rise to scandal—you know this, surely?”

Grey did, but forbore to nod, merely watching impassively. Trevelyan ignored his lack of response, and carried on, speaking more hurriedly.

“Well, then. If you are convinced of the wisdom of your intention, then plainly I cannot dissuade you. Will you give me a short time, though, to devise some reasonable grounds for the dissolution of the betrothal? Something that will discredit neither party?”

Grey drew breath, feeling the beginnings of something like relief. This was the resolution he had hoped for from the moment he had discovered the sore on Trevelyan’s prick. He realized that the situation now bore far more aspects than he had ever thought, and such a resolution would not touch most of them. Still, Olivia would be safe.

Trevelyan sensed his softening, and pushed the advantage.

“You know that merely to announce a severance will give rise to talk,” he said persuasively. “Some public reason, something plausible, must be offered to prevent it.”

Doubtless the man had an ulterior motive; perhaps he meant to flee the country? But then Grey felt again the vibrations beneath his feet, the boomings of rolling wine casks and thud of heaved crates, the muffled shouts of men in the warehouse below. Would a man of such substance readily abandon his interests, merely to avoid accusation?

Probably not; more likely he had it in mind to use the grace period to cover his tracks completely, or dispose of dangerous complications such as the Scanlons. If he hadn’t already done so, Grey thought suddenly.

But there was no good reason to refuse such a request. And he could alert Magruder and Quarry at once—have the man followed.

“Very well. You have three days.”

Trevelyan drew breath, as if to protest, but then nodded, accepting it.

“As you say. I thank you.” He took the jug and poured more sherry, slopping it a little. “Here—let us drink on the bargain.”

Grey had no wish to linger in the man’s company, and took no more than a token sip before pushing his cup away and rising. He took his leave, but turned back briefly at the door, to see Trevelyan looking after him, with eyes that would have burned a hole in the door to hell.

Chapter 15

One Man’s Poison

If Captain von Namtzen was surprised to see Grey and his valet, there was no evidence of it in his manner.

“Major Grey! How great a pleasure to see you again! Please, you will have some wine—a biscuit?” The tall Hanoverian clasped him by hand and forearm, beaming, and had Tom dispatched to the kitchen and Grey himself seated in the drawing room with refreshments before he could gracefully decline, let alone explain his objective in calling. Once he managed to do so, though, the Captain was helpfulness itself.

“But certainly, certainly! Let me see this list.”

He took the paper from Grey and carried it to the window for scrutiny. It was well past teatime, but so near to Midsummer Day, late-afternoon light still flooded in, haloing von Namtzen like a saint in a medieval painting.

He looked like one of those German saints, too, Grey thought a little abstractedly, admiring the cleanly ascetic lines of the German’s face, with its broad brow and wide, calm eyes. The mouth was not particularly sensitive, but it did show humor in the creases beside it.

“I know these names, yes. You wish me to tell you . . . what?”

“Anything that you can.” Tiredness dragged at him, but Grey rose and came to stand beside the Captain, looking at the list. “All I know of these people is that they have purchased a particular wine. I cannot say precisely what the connexion may be, but this wine seems to have something to do with . . . a confidential matter. I’m afraid I can say no more.” He shrugged apologetically.

Von Namtzen glanced sharply at him, but then nodded, and returned his attention to the paper before him.

“Wine, you say? Well, that is strange.”

“What is strange?”

The Captain tapped a long, immaculate finger on the paper.

“This name—Hungerbach. It is the family name of an old noble house; zu Egkh und Hungerbach. Not German at all, you understand; they are Austrian.”

“Austrian?” Grey felt his heart lurch, and leaned forward, as though to make certain of the name on the paper. “You are sure?”

Von Namtzen looked amused.

“Of course. The estate near Graz is very famous for its wines; that is why I say it is strange you bring me this name and say it is about wine. The best of the St. Georgen wines—that is the name of the castle there, St. Georgen—is very famous. A very good red wine they make—the color of fresh blood.”

Grey felt an odd rushing in his ears, as though his own blood were draining suddenly from his head, and put a hand on the table to steady himself.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, feeling a slight numbness about his lips. “The wine is called Schilcher?”

“Why, yes. However did you know that?”

Grey made a small motion with one hand, indicating that it was of no importance. There seemed to be a number of gnats in the room, though he had not noticed them before; they swarmed in the light from the window, dancing motes of black.

“These—the Hungerbach family—some are here, then, in London?”

“Yes. Baron Joseph zu Egkh und Hungerbach is the head of the family, but his heir is a distant cousin, named Reinhardt Mayrhofer—he keeps a quite large house in Mecklenberg Square. I have been there sometimes—though of course with the situation as it now is . . .” He lifted one shoulder in acknowledgment of the delicate diplomatic issues involved.

“And this . . . Reinhardt. He—is he a small man? Dark, with long . . . curling . . . h-hair.” The gnats had become suddenly more numerous, and illuminated, a nearly solid mass of flickering lights before his eyes.

“However did you—Major! Are you quite well?” Dropping the paper, he grabbed Grey by the arm and guided him hurriedly to the sofa. “Sit, please. Water I will have brought, and brandy. Wilhelm, mach schnell!” A servant appeared briefly in the doorway, then disappeared at once at von Namtzen’s urgent gesture.

“I am quite—quite all right,” Grey protested. “Really, there is . . . not . . . the slightest . . . n-need—” But the Hanoverian put a large, firm hand in the center of Grey’s chest and pushed him flat on the sofa. Stooping swiftly, he seized Grey’s boots and hoisted his feet up as well, all the while bellowing in German for assorted incomprehensible things.

“I—really, sir, you must—” And yet he felt a gray mist rising before his eyes, and a whirling in his head that made it difficult to order his thoughts. He could taste blood in his mouth, how odd. . . . It mingled with the smell of pig’s blood, and he felt his gorge rising.

“Me lord, me lord!” Tom Byrd’s voice rang through the mist, shrill with panic. “What you done to him, you bloody Huns?”

A confusion of deeper voices surrounded him, speaking words that slipped away before he could grasp their meaning, and a spasm seized him, twisting his guts with such brutal force that his knees rose toward his chest, trying vainly to contain it.

“Oh, dear,” said von Namtzen’s voice, quite near, in tones of mild dismay. “Well, it was not such a nice sofa, was it? You, boy—there is a doctor who is living two doors down, you run and fetch him right quick, ja?”

Events thereafter assumed a nightmarish quality, with a great deal of noise. Monstrous faces peered at him through a nacreous fog, with words such as “emesis” and “egg whites” shooting past his ears like darting fish. There was a terrible burning feeling in his mouth and throat, superseded periodically by bouts of griping lower down, so intense that he now and then lost consciousness for a few moments, only to be roused again by a flood of sulfurous bile that rose with so much violence that his throat alone provided insufficient egress, and it burst from his nostrils in a searing spew.

These bouts were succeeded by copious outpourings of saliva, welcome at first for their dilution of the brimstone heavings, but then a source of horror as they threatened drowning. He had a dim sense of himself at one point, lying with his head hanging over the edge of the sofa, drooling like a maddened dog, before someone pulled him upright and tried once more to pour something down his throat. It was cool and glutinous, and at the touch of it on his palate, his inward parts again revolted. At last the dense perfume of poppies spread itself like a bandage across the raw membranes of his nose; he sucked feebly at the spoon in his mouth and fell with relief into a darkness shot with fire.

He woke some unimaginable time later from the disorientation of opium visions, to find one of the monstrous faces of his dreams still present, bending over him—a pallid countenance with bulging yellow eyes and lips the color of raw liver. A clammy hand clutched him by the privates.

“Do you suffer from a chronic venereal complaint, my lord?” the countenance inquired. A thumb prodded him familiarly in the scrotum.

“I do not,” Grey said, sitting bolt upright and pressing the tail of his shirt protectively between his legs. The blood rushed from his head and he swayed alarmingly. He seized the edge of a small table by the bed to keep upright, only then noting that in addition to the clammy hands, the dreadful countenance was possessed of an outsize wig and a wizened body clad in rusty black and reeking of medicaments.

“I have been poisoned. What sort of infamous quack are you, that you cannot tell the difference between a derangement of the internal organs and the pox, for God’s sake?” he demanded.

“Poisoned?” The doctor looked mildly bemused. “Do you mean that you did not take an excess of the substance deliberately?”

“What substance?”

“Why, sulphide of mercury, to be sure. It is used to treat syphilis. The results of the gastric lavage– What are you about, sir? You must not exert yourself, sir, really, you must not!”

Grey had thrust his legs out of bed and attempted to rise, only to be overcome by another wave of dizziness. The doctor seized him by the arm, as much to keep him from toppling over as to prevent his escape.

“Now, then, sir, just lie back . . . yes, yes, that is the way, to be sure. You have had a very narrow escape, sir; you must not imperil your health by hasty—”

“Von Namtzen!” Grey resisted the hands pushing him back into bed, and shouted for assistance. His throat felt as though a large wood-rasp had been thrust down it. “Von Namtzen, for God’s sake, where are you?”

“I am here, Major.” A large hand planted itself firmly on his shoulder from the other side, and he turned to see the Hanoverian’s handsome face looking down at him, creased in a frown.

“You were poisoned, you say? Who is it that would do this thing?”

“A man called Trevelyan. I must go. Will you find me my clothes?”

“But, my lord—”

“But, Major, you have been—”

Grey gripped von Namtzen’s wrist, hard. His hand trembled, but he summoned what strength he could.

“I must go, and go at once,” he said hoarsely. “It is a matter of duty.”

The Hanoverian’s face changed at once, and he nodded, standing up.

“Quite so. I will go with you, then.”

His statement of intent had quite exhausted Grey’s meager reserve of strength, but fortunately von Namtzen took charge, dismissing the doctor, sending for his own coach, and summoning Tom Byrd, who went off at once to fetch Grey’s uniform—which had luckily been cleaned—and help him into it.

“I’m very glad as you’re alive, me lord, but I will say as you’re a man what is hard on his clothes,” Byrd said reproachfully. “And this your best uniform, too! Or was,” he added, critically examining a faint stain on the front of the waistcoat before holding it up for Grey to insert his arms therein.

Grey, having no energy to spare, said nothing until they were rattling down the road in von Namtzen’s coach. The Hanoverian was also wearing his full dress uniform, and had brought the plumed helmet, set upon the seat beside him in the coach. He had also brought a large china bowl of eggs, which he set neatly upon his knees.

“What—?” Grey nodded at the eggs, feeling too weak for more precise inquiry.

“The doctor says that you must have egg whites, frequently and in great quantity,” von Namtzen explained, matter-of-factly. “It is the antidote for the mercuric sulphide. And you must not drink water nor wine for two days, only milk. Here.” With admirable dexterity, considering the shaking of the coach, he removed an egg from the bowl, cracked it against the rim, and slopped the white into a small pewter cup. He handed this to Grey, thriftily gulped the leftover yolk, and tossed the fragments of eggshell out the window.

The pewter felt cool in his hand, but Grey viewed the egg white within with a marked lack of enthusiasm. Tom Byrd glared at him from the opposite seat.

“You swallow that,” he said, in tones of menace. “Me lord.”

Grey glared back, but grudgingly obeyed. It felt mildly unpleasant, but he was relieved to discover that the nausea had evidently left him for good.

“How long—?” he asked, glancing out the window. It had been late afternoon of the Thursday; now it was mid-morning—but of which morning?

“It is Friday,” von Namtzen said.

Grey relaxed a little, hearing this. He had lost all sense of time, and was relieved to discover that his experience had not in fact lasted the eon it had seemed. Trevelyan would have had time to flee, but perhaps not to escape altogether.

Von Namtzen coughed, tactfully.

“It is perhaps not proper for me to inquire—you must forgive me, if so—but if we are to meet Herr Trevelyan shortly, I think perhaps it would be good to understand whyhe has been seeking to kill you?”

“I don’t know whether he did mean to kill me,” Grey said, accepting another cup of egg white with no more than a faint grimace of distaste. “He may only have meant to incapacitate me for a time, in order to give himself time to escape.”

Von Namtzen nodded, though a slight frown formed itself between his heavy brows.

“We shall hope so,” he said. “Though if so, his judgment is regrettably imprecise. If you think he wishes to escape, will he be still in his house?”

“Perhaps not.” Grey closed his eyes, trying to think. It was difficult; the nausea had passed, but the dizziness showed a tendency to return periodically. He felt as though his brain were an egg, fragile and runny after being dropped from a height. “One can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs,”he murmured.

“Oh?” Von Namtzen said politely. “Just so, Major.”

If Trevelyan hadmeant to kill him, then the man might well be still at his house; for if Grey were dead, Trevelyan would have sufficient leisure to follow his original plans—whatever they were. If not, though, or if he were not sure that the mercuric sulphide would have a fatal effect, he might have fled at once. In which case—

Grey opened his eyes and sat up.

“Tell the coachman to go to Mecklenberg Square,” he said urgently. “If you please.”

Von Namtzen didn’t question this change of plan, but thrust his head out of the window and shouted to the coachman in German. The heavy coach swayed as it slowed, making the turn.

Six eggs later, it drew to a stop before the house of Reinhardt Mayrhofer.

Von Namtzen sprang lithely from the coach, put on his helmet, and strode like bold Achilles toward the door of the house, plumes waving. Grey assumed his own hat, paltry and insignificant as this object seemed by comparison, and followed, holding tightly to Tom Byrd’s arm lest his knees give way.

By the time Grey reached the doorstep, the door was open, and von Namtzen was haranguing the butler in a flood of German menace. Grey’s own German extended to no more than a smattering of parlor conversation, but he was able to follow von Namtzen’s demands that the butler summon Reinhardt Mayrhofer, and do it forthwith, if not sooner.

The butler, a square person of middle age with a stubborn cast to his brow, was stoutly withstanding this preliminary barrage by insisting that his master was not at home, but clearly the man had no notion of the true nature of the forces ranged against him.

“I am Stephan, Landgrave von Erdberg,” von Namtzen announced haughtily, drawing himself up to his full height—which Grey estimated as roughly seven feet, including feathers. “I will come in.”

He promptly did so, bending his neck only sufficiently to prevent the obliteration of his helmet. The butler fell back, sputtering and waving his hands in agitated protest. Grey nodded coolly to the man as he passed, and managed to uphold the dignity of His Majesty’s army by navigating the length of the entry hall without support. Reaching the morning room, he made for the first seat in evidence, and managed to sit down upon it before his legs gave way.

Von Namtzen was lobbing mortar shells into the butler’s position, which appeared to be rapidly crumbling but was still being defended. No, the butler said, now visibly wringing his hands, no, the master was most certainly not at home, and no, nor was the mistress, alas. . . .

Tom Byrd had followed Grey and was looking round the room in some awe, taking in the set of malachite-topped tables with gold feet, the white damask draperies, and the gigantic paintings in gilded frames that covered every wall.

Grey was sweating heavily from the effort of walking, and the dizziness set his head spinning afresh. He took an iron grip upon his will, though, and stayed upright.

“Tom,” he said, low-voiced, so as not to draw the attention of the embattled butler. “Go and search the house. Come and tell me what—or who—you find.”

Byrd gave him a suspicious look, obviously thinking this a device to get rid of him so that Grey could die surreptitiously—but Grey stayed rigidly upright, jaw set tight, and after a moment, the boy nodded and slipped quietly out, unnoticed by the fulminating butler.

Grey let out a deep breath, and closed his eyes, holding tight to his knees until the spinning sensation eased. It seemed to last a shorter time now; only a few moments, and he could open his eyes again.

Von Namtzen in the meantime appeared to have vanquished the butler, and was now demanding in stentorian tones the immediate assembly of the entire household. He cast a glance over his shoulder at Grey, and interrupted his tirade for an instant.

“Oh—and you will bring me the whites of three eggs, please, in a cup.”

“Bitte?”said the butler, faintly.

“Eggs. You are deaf?” von Namtzen inquired, in biting tones. “Only the whites. Schnell!”

Stung at this public solicitude for his weakened condition, Grey forced himself to his feet, coming to stand beside the Hanoverian, who—with the butler in full rout—had now removed his helmet and was looking quite pleased with himself.

“You are better now, Major?” he inquired, dabbing sweat delicately from his hairline with a linen handkerchief.

“Much, I thank you. I take it that both Reinhardt Mayrhofer and his wife are out?” Reinhardt, he reflected, was almost certainly out. But the wife—

“So the butler says. If he is not out, he is a coward,” von Namtzen said with satisfaction, putting away his handkerchief. “I will root him out of his hiding place like a turnip, though, and then—what will you do, then?” he inquired.

“Probably nothing,” Grey said. “I believe him to be dead. Is that the gentleman in question, by chance?” He nodded at a small framed portrait on a table by the window, its frame set with pearls.

“Yes, that is Mayrhofer and his wife, Maria. They are cousins,” he added, unnecessarily, in view of the close resemblance of the two faces in the portrait.

While both had a delicacy of feature, with long necks and rounded chins, Reinhardt was possessed of an imposing nose and an aristocratic scowl. Maria was a lovely woman, though, Grey thought; she was wigged in the portrait, of course, but had the same warm skin tones and brown eyes as her husband, and so was also likely dark-haired.

“Reinhardt is dead?” von Namtzen asked with interest, looking at the portrait. “How did he die?”

“Shot,” Grey replied briefly. “Quite possibly by the gentleman who poisoned me.”

“What a very industrious sort of fellow.” Von Namtzen’s attention was distracted at this point by the entrance of a parlor maid, white-faced with nerves and clutching a small dish containing the requested egg whites. She glanced from one man to the other, then held out the dish timidly toward von Namtzen.

“Danke,”he said. He handed the dish to Grey, then proceeded at once to catechize the maid, bending toward her in a way that made her press herself against the nearest wall, terrorized into speechlessness and capable only of shaking her head yes and no.

Unable to follow the nuances of this one-sided conversation, Grey turned away, viewing the contents of his dish with distaste. The sound of footsteps in the corridor and agitated voices indicated that the butler was indeed assembling the household, as ordered. Depositing the dish behind an alabaster vase on the desk, he stepped out into the corridor, to find a small crowd of household servants milling about, all chattering in excited German.

At sight of him, they stopped abruptly and stared, with a mixture of curiosity, suspicion, and what looked like simple fright on some faces. Why? he wondered. Was it the uniform?

“Guten Tag,”he said, smiling pleasantly. “Are any of you English?”

There were shifty glances to and fro, the focus of which seemed to be a pair of young chambermaids. He smiled reassuringly at them, beckoning them to one side. They looked at him wide-eyed, like a pair of young deer confronted by a hunter, but a glance at von Namtzen, emerging from the morning room behind him, hastily decided them that Lord John was the lesser of the evils on offer, and they followed close on his heels back into the room, leaving von Namtzen to deal with the crowd in the entry hall.

Their names, the girls admitted, with much stammering and blushing, were Annie and Tab. They were both from Cheapside, bosom friends, and had been in the employ of Herr Mayrhofer for the last three months.

“I gather that Herr Mayrhofer is not, in fact, at home today,” Grey said, still smiling. “When did he go out?”

The girls glanced at each other in confusion.

“Yesterday?” Grey suggested. “This morning?”

“Oh, no, sir,” Annie said. She seemed a trifle the braver of the two, though she could not bring herself to meet his eyes for more than a fraction of a second. “The master’s been g-gone since Tuesday.”

And Magruder’s men had discovered the corpse on Wednesday morning.

“Ah, I see. Do you know where he went?”

Naturally, they did not. They did, however, say—after much shuffling and contradicting of each other—that Herr Mayrhofer was often given to short journeys, leaving home for several days at a time, two or three times a month.

“Indeed,” Grey said. “And what is Herr Mayrhofer’s business, pray?”

Baffled looks, followed by shrugs. Herr Mayrhofer had money, plainly; where it came from was no concern of theirs. Grey felt a growing metallic taste at the back of his tongue, and swallowed, trying to force it down.

“Well, then. When he left the house this time, did he go out in the morning? Or later in the day?”

The girls frowned and conferred with each other in murmurs, before deciding that, well, in fact, they had neither of them actually seen Herr Reinhardt leave the house, and no, they had not heard the carriage draw up, but—

“He must have done, though, Annie,” Tab said, sufficiently engrossed in the argument as to lose some of her timidity. “’Coz he wasn’t in his bedroom in the afternoon, was he? Herr Reinhardt likes to have a bit of a sleep in the afternoon,” she explained, turning to Grey. “I turns down the bed right after lunch, and I did it that day—but it wasn’t mussed when I went up after teatime. So he must have gone in the morning, then, mustn’t he?”

The questioning proceeded in this tedious fashion for some time, but Grey succeeded in eliciting only a few helpful pieces of information, most of these negative in nature.

No, they did not think their mistress owned a green velvet gown, though of course she might have ordered one made; her personal maid would know. No, the mistress really wasn’t at home today, or at least they didn’t think so. No, they did not know for sure when she had left the house—but yes, she was here yesterday, and last night, yes. Had she been in the house on Tuesday last? They thought so, but could not really remember.

“Has a gentleman by the name of Joseph Trevelyan ever visited the house?” he asked. The girls exchanged shrugs and looked at him, baffled. How would they know? Their work was all abovestairs; they would seldom see any visitors to the house, save those who stayed overnight.

“Your mistress—you say that she was at home last night. When is the last time you saw her?”

The girls frowned, as one. Annie glanced at Tab; Tab made a small moue of puzzlement at Annie. Both shrugged.

“Well . . . I don’t rightly know, my lord,” Annie said. “She’s been poorly, the mistress. She’s been a-staying in her room all day, with trays brought up. I go in to change the linens regular, to be sure, but she’d be in her boudoir, or the privy closet. I suppose I haven’t seen her proper since—well, maybe since . . . Monday?” She raised her brows at Tab, who shrugged.

“Poorly,” Grey repeated. “She was ill?”

“Yes, sir,” Tab said, taking heart from having an actual piece of information to impart. “The doctor came, and all.”

He inquired further, but to no avail. Neither, it seemed, had actually seen the doctor, nor heard anything regarding their mistress’s ailment; they had only heard of it from Cook . . . or was it from Ilse, the mistress’s lady’s maid?

Abandoning this line of questioning, Grey was inspired by the mention of gossip to inquire further about their master.

“You would not know this from personal experience, of course,” he said, altering his smile to one of courteous apology, “but perhaps Herr Mayrhofer’s valet might have let something drop. . . . I am wondering whether your master has any particular marks or oddities? Upon his body, I mean.”

Both girls’ faces went completely blank, and then suffused with blood, so rapidly that they were transformed within seconds into a pair of tomatoes, ripe to bursting point. They exchanged brief glances, and Annie let out a high-pitched squeak that might have been a strangled giggle.