Lord John And The Hand Of Devils

Grey smelt a rat; a large one.



If he hadn’t acted alone, Grey wanted the name of his confederate. And he had no faith at all that that name would ever come to light, once Hubert Bowles got his hands on it. Particularly not if that name had anything to do with His Majesty’s navy.



The sound of the cabin door opening presaged the appearance on deck of Captain Hanson, who jerked his chin to summon Grey aside. He looked bemused.



“Right,” he said. “I have thirty seconds, and this is between you and me. He is who you think he is, and he’s done what you think he’s done—and he’s going to France in the Ronson. I’m sorry.”



Grey took a long, deep breath, and wiped a flying strand of hair out of his face.



“I see,” he said, calmly under the circumstances. “He sold the copper to the navy.”



Hanson had the grace to look embarrassed.



“It is wartime,” he said. “The lives of our men—”



“Is the life of a sailor worth more than that of a soldier?”



Hanson’s lips set in a grimace, but he didn’t reply.



Grey realized that his nails were cutting into the palms of his hands, and consciously unclenched his fists, breathing. Hanson was stirring, preparing to go.



“One thing,” Grey said, holding Hanson’s eye.



The captain made a brief motion of the head, not quite agreement, but willingness to listen.



“One minute alone with that portmanteau. The price of the gunners’ lives.”



Hanson’s jaw worked for a moment.



“Not alone,” he said finally. “With me.”



“Done,” said Grey.



It was nearly sunset when he emerged from Captain Hanson’s cabin. Jones was sitting on a gun case by the rail. He had passed the point of apoplexy long since, and merely regarded Grey with a suspicious, bloodshot eye.



“Got it, did you?” he said.



Grey nodded.



“And you aren’t going to tell me, are you?” Jones sounded bitter, but resigned.



Grey reached into his pocket, brought out the small lump of the leopard’s head, cold and hard, and dropped it into Jones’s open palm.



“You have the proof you sought. You and Gormley were right; the cannons failed because of lack of copper, and it was Stoughton who stole it. You will make your report to that effect—and before you give it to your colonel in the Royal Artillery Regiment and to Bowles, you will send a copy to the Royal Commission of Inquiry into the explosion of the cannon Tom Pilchard.”



Seeing Jones’s brow knit, he hardened his voice.



“That, Captain, is an order from a superior officer. Assuming you would prefer that your colonel continues in ignorance of your association with Mr. Bowles, I suggest you follow it.”



Jones made a small rumbling noise in his throat, but nodded reluctantly.



“Yes, all right. But that the bugger should escape altogether … and now you’re going to let the other bugger escape, too, aren’t you? The man who brokered this infernal transaction? I tell you, Major, it drives me mad!”



“I don’t blame you.” Grey sat down beside him, suddenly exhausted. “War may be a brutal occupation, but politics is far more so.”



They sat in silence for a moment, watching the sailors. Appledore was bellowing for the gig to be brought alongside. Hearing this, Jones sat bolt upright once more.



“But poor little Herbert Gormley—what of him? Tell me at least that you made Stoughton tell you what he did with Gormley! Is he dead?”



Fatigue of a not unpleasant sort blanketed Grey’s limbs. He was tired, but not drained. And what was another hour or two, between him and the delightful prospect of supper and bed? The London end of the business could wait until tomorrow.



“No, he’s in the hulks,” Grey said, nodding upriver at the distant prison ships. “We’re going to go and get him now.”



“The navy was in it up to their necks!” Quarry said. “Goddamned bloody sods!”



Grey had seldom seen Quarry so angry. The scar on his cheek stood out white and the eye on that side was pulled nearly shut.



“Not all of them.” He rubbed a hand across his face, still surprised to find it smooth. He felt seedy and grimy—but Tom Byrd had insisted upon shaving him before letting him go to the Beefsteak.



“Hanson didn’t know; if he had, he would never have agreed to board the Ronson. And he was very angry at discovering that his bosun’s mate—that was Appledore, the apelike fellow I told you of—was involved in such adventures without his knowledge. Had it not been for his indignation at being so practiced upon—his authority usurped without his knowledge or consent—I doubt he would have told me anything. As it was …”



As it was, the matter had become clear to Grey sometime before Hanson himself had realized the degree of the navy’s involvement. For Appledore to have abducted Gormley—taking all the men he could find who matched Gormley’s description—obviously at Stoughton’s instigation, but without the knowledge of his own captain …



“That argued the existence of someone in the navy, involved in the matter, whose authority superseded Hanson’s. And when I saw the letter from the … gentleman of whom we spoke—” They were alone in the Beefsteak’s smoking room, but there were people in the hallway, and discretion forbade his speaking the vice-admiral’s name aloud in any case.



“ ‘Gentleman.’ Pfaugh!” Quarry made as though to spit on the floor, but caught the eye of the steward coming in with brandy, and refrained. “Scuttling sewer rat,” he muttered, instead.



“A bilge rat, surely, Harry?” Grey took the brandy glass from Mr. Bodley’s tray with a nod of thanks, and waited until the steward had departed before continuing.



“Rat or no, such a highly placed gentleman wouldn’t risk any direct association with Stoughton. The only such indication is that letter of immunity—and that was worded in such a way as to give no proof of anything. In fact, had Stoughton not reached the Ronson—damn Stapleton, for not contriving some means of stopping him in time!—the letter would have been valueless. It offered him nothing but safe passage, and if the matter became public, that could be dismissed as a simple courtesy to the Arsenal, allowing him to travel easily as his official business might demand.”



Quarry huffed into his drink, but gave a grudging nod.



“Aye, I see. And so you concluded rightly that there was a third rotten apple in that barrel—someone who stood between Stoughton and our elevated bilge rat.”



Grey nodded in turn, closing his eyes involuntarily at the pleasing burn of the liquor on his palate.



“Yes, and that consideration in turn focused my attention on the members of the commission. For it must be someone who had regular business with the Arsenal—and thus could consult with Stoughton without arousing suspicion. And likewise, it must be someone for whom consorting with a vice-admiral also would cause no remark.



“Beyond that,” he said, licking a sticky drop from his lower lip, “the assumption that one of those three was involved in this matter would have explained their notably uncharitable behavior toward me in the course of the inquiry. Pinning responsibility for the death of Tom Pilchard to my coat would deflect any inquiry into other possible causes, and prevent the explosion being linked with the destruction of the other cannon, as well as having the salutary effect of discrediting one or both of my brothers. And any one of those three men could easily have influenced the other two, so as to guide the questioning as he desired.”



“Hmph.” Quarry frowned at the amber liquid in his glass, drank it off as though it were water, and set the glass aside. “Well, if discrediting Melton were the principal motive of our wicked bugger, it would be Twelvetrees. Bad blood, there. I shouldn’t be surprised if it comes to pistols at dawn between him and Melton, one of these days.”



“True,” Grey agreed. “And Hal would shoot him like a dog, with pleasure. But it wasn’t the principal motive. Twelvetrees is a sod, but an honorable sod. He’s not merely a soldier, nor yet a colonel—he’s a colonel of the Royal Artillery.”



Quarry nodded, purse-lipped, taking the point. “Aye. Rob the army and take money from the naval bilge rat, to kill his own men? Never.”



“Exactly. Because bloody Stoughton was right—it wasn’t treason, merely criminal. Ergo, the simplest motive is the most likely: money.”



“And Marchmont wipes his arse with cloth of gold; he doesn’t need money. Whereas Oswald …”



“Is a politician of no particular means,” Grey finished. “Thus by definition in constant need of money.”



“Thus by definition without conscience or honor? Quite. Oh, sorry, your half brother’s one, too, isn’t he? Steward!”



Mr. Bodley, well-acquainted with Quarry’s habits, was already bringing in more brandy and a small wooden box of Spanish cigars. Quarry selected two with care, clipped the end of one, and handed it to Grey, who held it for Mr. Bodley’s taper.



He seldom smoked, and the rush of tobacco through his blood made his heart pound. He felt a slight twinge in his chest, but ignored it.



Quarry blew a long, pleasurable stream of smoke through pursed lips.



“Can you prove it?” he asked, offhanded. “I believe you implicitly, of course. But beyond that …”



Grey squinted, trying to blow a smoke ring, but failed dismally.



“I don’t suppose it would stand up in court,” he said. “But I found this, in Stoughton’s portmanteau. As I said, had Stoughton failed to reach the ship, he could expect no protection from the navy. If I were a villain, I’d want a bit of leverage upon my fellow villain, just in case.”



He reached into his pocket and removed a small medal, attached to a silk ribbon.



“I saw Oswald wearing this, at the inquiry. I don’t know whether he gave it to Stoughton as acknowledgment of their connexion, or whether Stoughton simply stole it. Oswald would claim the latter, I suppose.”



Quarry frowned at the bit of metal, pretending that he did not require spectacles to make out the engraving, which he did.



“It’s an army decoration, surely; Oswald’s never been a soldier,” he said, handing it back. “Could simply claim it isn’t his, couldn’t he?”



“Hardly. His father’s name is engraved on the back. And Mortimer Montmorency Oswald—the Third, if you please—is not quite so common as ‘John Smith,’ I daresay.”



Quarry laughed immoderately, taking back the medal and turning it over in his hand.



“Montmorency, by God? So his father was in the army, was he? Decorated for valor?”



“Well, no,” Grey said. “It’s a medal for good conduct. As to what I propose to do,” he added, stubbing out his cigar and rising to his feet, “I am going home to change my clothes. I have an engagement this evening—a masqued ball at Vauxhall.”



Quarry blinked up at him through a cloud of smoke.



“A masqued ball? What on earth do you propose to go as?”



“Why, as the Hero of Crefeld,” Grey said, taking back the medal and pocketing it. “What else?”



In fact, he went as himself. Not in uniform, but attired in an inconspicuous suit of dark blue, worn with a scarlet domino. Those whom he sought would know him by sight.



They would have to, he thought, seeing the hordes of people streaming through the gates of the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. If those with whom he sought interview were disguised in any effective way—and one of them at least would certainly be masked—he would have little hope of distinguishing them among the throng.



“Oh,” breathed Tom, completely entranced at sight of the trees, largely leafless but strung with hundreds of glimmering lights. “It’s fairyland!”



“Something like,” Grey agreed, smiling despite the beating of his heart. “Try not to be too enraptured by the local fairies, though; a good many of them would pick your pocket as soon as look at you, and the rest would give you fair value under a bush, with a dose of the clap thrown in for free.”



He paid admission for himself and Tom, and they walked into the maze of pathways that spread along the bank of the Thames, leading from grottoes where musicians played, muffled to the eyes against the autumn chill, to arbors where tables of luscious viands were spread, supper boxes piled high behind laboring servants dressed in livery. The great Rotunda, where dancing was held, rose like a bubble in the center of the Gardens, and laughter ran through the night like currents in a river, catching up the merrymakers and carrying them along from adventure to adventure.



“Enjoy yourself, Tom,” said Grey, handing Byrd some money. “Don’t stay too close; Oswald’s a wary bird.”



“He won’t see me, me lord,” Tom assured him, straightening the black domino he wore. “But I’ll not be far off, don’t you worry!”



Grey nodded, and parting company with his servant, chose a path at random and strolled in the direction of the strains of Handel.



Sheltered by thick hedges and brick walls and thronged with bodies, it was scarcely cold in the gardens, despite the lateness of the season. The chill was pleasant, caressing face and hands—and any other bits of exposed flesh—enhancing the heat of the rest of the body by contrast.



There was a great deal of flesh exposed, to be sure. It gleamed among the light and shadow, set off by the rich colors of the costumes—the scarlets, crimsons, and purples, greens and blues, the flaunting yellow of tropical birds. Here and there a woman—perhaps—who chose to dress in stark black and white by way of contrast. These came dramatic out of the shadows, seeming to emerge from the night itself. One gave him a languishing look as she passed, reached out a hand to him, and as he raised his own, involuntarily, took hold of it, drew one of his fingers into her mouth, and sucked hard.