A man in rumpled civilian clothes hurried into the room next, nodded to Rex and said, “Follow me,” without giving his name. Ah, Rex thought as he went up corridors and down stairs, he had finally reached the inner level of the spymasters, where the real work was accomplished.
As they neared the very hallway where Rex had begun his journey, he began to wonder if he was being shown the door. He’d never find the office he wanted on his own, and doubted if shouts or orders, threats or bribes, would bring him any closer to a man who existed only as a myth to most of the army.
Instead of leading him to an exit, however, his guide took Rex through a dining hall, through a kitchen, and then down what appeared to be service stairs. They went past a wine cellar, munitions rooms, and a series of barred cells. Then the man used a key to open a door that led to more downward stairs, with twists and turns and dark corridors, which was not at all the way Rex had come the first time. He thought they must be in the catacombs beneath London’s streets by now, judging from the dank and damp air. They trudged so far he felt they might be in another country soon.
Just when he thought his leg would stiffen entirely from the cold or collapse beneath him from exhaustion, his guide used another key at another door. This one led up several sets of stairs that finally, thankfully, ended at a door opening into a dimly lit but ordinary-appearing book room. Draperies were drawn across the windows, and only one shaded oil lamp burned on a wide wooden desktop covered with papers. The lamp did not give off enough light to read any of the titles on the floor-to-ceiling book-cases, or to see into the darker corners—all on purpose, of course, to obscure the room’s sole occupant.
The gentleman behind the desk rose and held out his hand before Rex could salute. “Ah, Rexford, I have been expecting you.”
Major Harrison, which was surely not the man’s name, but was the only one Rex knew other than the Aide, had a firm grip for a man who appeared to be in his dotage, with an old-fashioned gray wig and thick, tinted glasses and a silver-streaked beard and mustache. Of course, they could all be fake.
Rex shook the hand, bowed, and took the seat he was offered in a comfortable leather armchair, too far away across the desk to make out his host’s features or expression by the meager light. “I do not see how you could be expecting me, sir, when I did not know I was coming.”
Harrison tapped one opened letter in front of him. “From your father, who asked me to lend what assistance I might.” He tapped another. “From a justice of the court, demanding satisfaction.” Another: “From the Lord Mayor’s office, in reference to a public disturbance. And this one?” He stroked it gently, as one might a lover’s cheek. “Well, let me simply say that I have indeed been expecting you.” He poured wine into two glasses waiting on the side of the desk. “How is the leg?” He politely ignored the nose and the scar, unless he truly had such weak eyesight he could not see them. That might explain the darkness, Rex considered, if light exacerbated the problem. On the other hand, not a single drop of wine went awry.
“It is healing, sir, thank you.” It would never be the same, and they both knew it. “But I have not come for new orders.”
“No, I had not supposed you had. I do not know that I could have given them at any rate. No one was happy to hear that the heir to an earldom—the only heir, I must add—was shot. You were supposed to be safely behind the lines. So no, I dare not send you back where you can do the most good. His Majesty causes enough trouble for my department as is.”
“I have been thinking of retiring from the army.”
“Good, good. Then I do not have to make any unpopular decisions. What shall you do?”
Not make small talk with the devil in disguise, Rex swore to himself. The Aide’s accents were educated, but not quite those of a gentleman. His clothing, not a uniform, was neat and well tailored. And he held England’s safety in his manicured hands, as well as Rex’s secrets.
“I am not certain.” He nodded toward the topmost letter, the one from Lord Royce. “I cannot think of my own future until I resolve the situation I assume my father must have discussed with you.”
“Ah, yes, Miss Amanda Carville. I trust the lady is well?”
“As well as can be expected after her ill treatment.” Rex did not bother to keep the anger from his voice.
“There are those of us working for reforms of the prison system, but Parliament acts slowly. When it is your time to take your place there, I hope you will be more diligent about attending than your father.”
Rex would not hear disrespect of his sire. “My father is ailing.”
“More so than in recent years?” the Aide quickly asked. “I had not heard.”
“No, he is not much worse, except for a troublesome cough that has lingered far too long.”
“Let us hope the warmer weather will help. Meanwhile, I have a notion of a course that might appeal to you until that sad time in the far distant, I hope and pray, when you become earl.”
“I am not seeking a career. I thought I might devote myself to the estate, study the latest agriculture advances and implement scientific discoveries.”
“That would be an unforgivable waste.”
And that was none of this man’s affair. Lord Rexford brushed at a speck of dust on his boots.
The Aide changed course: “In the matter of Miss Carville, I have already smoothed feathers at the Magistrate’s office. What further assistance may I be?”
“I need access to the evidence and to Sir Frederick’s accounts.”
“If you are planning a defense, you must think the woman is innocent.”
“I know she is innocent.”
The Aide did not question Rex’s knowledge or assurance. He steepled his fingers on the desk and said, “Ah, that does make the case more interesting.”
“Not for Miss Carville. She could hang.”
“Quite. But for the department. I have wondered about Sir Frederick Hawley’s loyalty for some time now. A few overheard conversations among smugglers aroused my suspicions.”
“I thought your field of operations was the war.”
“They are all interconnected.”
Indeed they were. Rex was familiar with the practice of free-trading, having lived most of his life along the coast. He did not approve of paying for French goods in good English gold to be used to buy guns, to kill good English soldiers. He knew whole villages would not survive without the illegal income, however.
The Aide was going on: “We have listeners tucked among the various gangs. Some of our men work for the money while others are true, loyal Englishmen, despite their chosen careers. A bit of contraband may be overlooked by my department, and any information the smugglers bring back is always welcome. But transporting spies into England? Sending weapons and stolen military documents back to France? No, we cannot have that. I had an excellent man placed quite near your home, in fact, but he is involved in other duties now, to my regret.”
Rex doubted any arm of the government could stop the flow of traffic between the two countries, not while there was money to be made. Nor did he care about staffing woes in the ranks of spies. “I cannot see why you would believe anything an informant says. They are traitors to their partners, if not their country. Why do you think they give correct information?”
“We are not all as fortunate as you in determining truthfulness, but who says we believe everything that we hear? We investigate as much as seems plausible when we can, in case it is accurate. The course of the war might depend on hearing a bit of gossip about a heavier-than-normal shipment, a passenger wearing clothes fit for court, men killed for knowing too much, that kind of thing.”
Rex supposed the man had a point. Not every English-man supported the war or the mad king or his profligate son. Still, of all the crimes Sir Frederick might have committed, Rex had not suspected smuggling or treason. “He did have a French valet.”
“I have a French valet, also. Many loyalists fled France to save their lives. That does not make them smugglers or spies. Many, in fact, are vastly eager to aid in overthrowing Bonaparte so they can return to their homes and claim their own properties.”
“Sir Frederick and his man never left London, from what I hear. His estate is in Hampshire, not far from the coast, but he never goes there.”
“But London is where smuggled goods eventually come to be sold for the highest profit. A man in the city is necessary to expedite deliveries, arrange for storage, pay the carriers. I have no proof that Sir Frederick Hawley was connected in any way to what we suspect is a well-organized band, but if his murder was not a domestic matter, all in the family, I should like to know who actually shot him, and why.”
“So would I. I also am curious as to why Sir Nigel Turlowe bestirred himself in the case. He seldom notices the workings of his own offices.”
The Aide shuffled some papers. “Unlike myself.” He straightened the documents into a neat pile, then pulled one out to study, scattering the others back across his desk. “Well, it is an excellent thing that you are looking into the matter. Both for Miss Carville and for the country. And if you hear of anything untoward, you will let me know?” He peered at the page, indicating he’d rather get back to his own work than entertain Rex any longer.
“Of course. How may I contact you?”
“You can leave a message for Major Harrison at Whitehall. Or simply Mr. Harris here, at McCann’s Club. I’ll be sure to get it.”
They were at McCann’s? That was a few streets away from Whitehall. Rex could have reached it in ten minutes, not the half of an afternoon he had wasted playing at espionage. “I can call on you here?”
“Without an appointment? You’d be lucky to be turned away without a knife in your back. My guards are very careful, you see. In addition, I seldom spend time in any one place. There are too many people who want to see me dead.”
Rex was almost counting himself in that number. “Is your name Harrison at all?”
Without saying yes or no, which Rex could have judged, the Aide said, “It is as good a name as any.”
Rex nodded. Let the man have all the secrets he wished behind his green-glass spectacles, and cast his webs as far as he could throw them. Rex merely needed his influence. He stood, obviously dismissed as Harrison read the message in front of him. “May I count on you to clear my path with the courts?”
The older man looked up. “Well, that is not as easy as you make it sound. You might need to lend a bit of assistance in return.”
Rex raised his eyebrow, but the man either did not see or pretended not to. “Oh?” Rex asked in frigid tones.
“It is that job of work I mentioned.”
“And I mentioned I was no longer interested in the army. I am on sick leave, and shall resign as soon as I am done with this ugliness.”
“You are in uniform. And capable of fighting.” Harrison tapped one of the letters again. “I could ask the general to put you under my command, of course.”
Rex sat back down, glaring.
This time Harrison must have noticed. “I am not speaking of the army, Captain, but Bow Street, which is where you need to go anyway. I believe they are holding the murder weapon, and they have the depositions from the witnesses.”
“Why am I not surprised that you have something to do with the new police force also?”
“I have something to do with a great many fields of the kingdom’s well being. But I have a friend, an old friend—”
Now Rex pounded on the desk, not caring that this was, more or less, his superior officer, and the most powerful man who did not exist in all of Britain. “You told him about me? How dare you! My father said you could be trusted with the truth that could see the house of Royce destroyed.”
“No.”
Through his anger Rex could see the blue of the truth. “No?”
“No, I did not tell my friend about your gift, only that you had extraordinary instincts and had conducted scientific experiments while with the army, experiments concerning the timbre of a suspect’s voice, the tempo of his speech, the amount of times he blinks his eye. I made up as many possibilities as I could, so no one would suspect the truth. I doubt anyone would believe it without proof anyway, so your secret is safe.”
“Then what do you want with me?”
“Think, Lord Rexford, instead of going off half cocked. Imagine if an investigator could ask a few questions to know if he had arrested the right suspect? Or if a witness is lying? How many more could be put behind bars? How many innocent men freed? How much time gained by the few detectives we employ? Your skill could revolutionize thief taking and make London a far safer place.”
“I am one man. What could I do?”
“You could get on about your business of begetting sons, that’s one thing, so there are more of you. And you can give Inspector Josiah Dimm a few hours of your time. You are asking me to bend the law in your favor, and asking him to share evidence in a capital crime. You can repay the favor, while still doing service to your country.”
“I have served!”
“Yes, but now you are quitting. I cannot permit that. You, sir, are a national treasure.” He held up a hand, which had none of Nanny’s swollen knuckles. “No, not like a masterpiece to be displayed at the Royal Gallery, or the Crown Jewels, on view at the Tower of London. You are rarer, actually. I shall not, will not, see you squander the gifts you have been given by wallowing in self-pity.”
“Recovering from my wounds and tending my father’s holdings is not wallowing.”
“Rat rot! Next you will be milking the cows! Anyone can be trained to manage your estates. No amount of training will yield England another truth-seer. Your country needs you.”
Rex had no choice, as far as he could see. He needed the weapon and the search warrants.
Harrison—or whoever—held the sheet of paper closer to his face, as if anyone could read it by the one small lamp, especially a man in tinted spectacles.