For a moment he stood silent and still, then he shook off the mood and opened the door.
Dalziel was in an armchair facing the door, an almost empty brandy balloon in one long-fingered hand. His brows rose faintly; his lips curved, cynical and amused, in welcome.
Tony eyed the entire vision with a misgiving he made no attempt to hide; Dalziel’s smile only deepened.
“Well?” Crossing to the tantalus, Tony poured a small measure of brandy, more to have something to do than anything else. He raised the decanter to Dalziel, who shook his head. Replacing the decanter, picking up the glass, he crossed to the other armchair. “To what do I owe this…unexpected visit?”
They both knew it wouldn’t have anything to do with pleasure.
“We’ve worked together for a long time.”
Tony sat. “Thirteen years. But I work for the government no longer, so what has that to say to anything?”
Dalziel’s dark eyes held his. “Simply that there are matters I cannot use less experienced men for, and in this case your peculiar background makes you too ideal a candidate to overlook.”
“Bonaparte’s on St. Helena. The French are finished.”
Dalziel smiled. “Not that peculiar background. I have other half-French agents. I meant that you have experience of Whitley’s side of things, and you have a better-than-average grasp of the possibilities involved.”
“Involved in what?”
“Ruskin’s death.” Dalziel studied the amber lights in the glass he turned between his fingers. “Some disturbing items came to light when they started clearing the man’s desk. Jottings of shipping information derived from both Revenue and Admiralty documents. They appear to be scribbled notes for more formal communications.”
“Nothing in any way associated with his work?”
“No. He organized Customs clearances for merchantmen, hence his access to the internal Revenue and Admiralty notices. His job involved the dates of expected entry to our ports. The information jotted down relates to movement of ships in the Channel, especially its outermost reaches. There is no possible reason his job required such details.”
Dalziel paused, then added, “The most disturbing aspect is that these jottings span the years from 1812 to1815.”
“Ah.” As Dalziel had prophesied, Tony grasped the implication.
“Indeed. You now perceive why I’m here. Both I and Whitley are now extremely interested in learning who killed Ruskin, and most importantly why.”
Tony pondered, then looked at Dalziel, directly met his eyes. “Why me?” He could guess, but he wanted it confirmed.
“Because there is, as you’ve realized, the possibility that someone in Customs and Revenue, or the Home Office, or any of a multitude of government agencies is involved, in one capacity or another. It’s unlikely Ruskin could use the information himself, but someone knew he had access to it, and either made use of him themselves, or put someone else on to him. In either case, this nebulous someone might be in a position to know Whitley’s operatives. He won’t, however, know you.”
Dalziel paused, considering Tony. “The only connection you’ve had with Whitley’s crew was that operation you ran with Jonathon Hendon and George Smeaton. Both are now retired; both are sound. Despite Hendon’s background in shipping, he’s had no contact with Ruskin—and yes, I’ve checked. For the past several years, both Hendon and Smeaton have remained buried in Norfolk, and their only links in town are either purely social or purely commercial. Neither is a threat to you— and as I recall, no one else of Whitley’s crew ever knew who Antoine Balzac really was.”
Tony nodded. Antoine Balzac had been a large part of his past.
“On top of that, you found the body.” Dalziel met his gaze. “You are the epitome of an obvious choice.”
Tony grimaced and looked down, into his glass. It seemed as if the past was reaching out, trying to draw him back; he didn’t want to go. Yet all Dalziel said was true; he
She wasn’t part of his past.
“All right.” He looked up. “I’ll nose around and see what connections I can turn up.”
Dalziel nodded and set his glass aside. “Ruskin worked at the main office of Customs and Revenue in Whitehall.” He gave details of the building, floor, and room. “I suggested that his papers, indeed, all his office be left as was. I gather that’s been done. Naturally, I’ve asked for no clearances. Let me know if you require any.”
Tony’s lips curved; he inclined his head. Both he and Dalziel knew he wouldn’t ask for clearances. He’d been an “unofficial agent” for too long.
“Ruskin lived in lodgings in Bury Street—Number 23. His home, Crawton Hall, is near Bledington in Gloucestershire, just over the border of north Oxfordshire, southwest of Chipping Norton, the nearest market town.”
Tony frowned, but his knowledge of England was nowhere near as detailed as his knowledge of France.
“Ruskin has a mother living, and an older spinster sister. They reside at Crawton Hall, and haven’t left it in decades. Ruskin spent but little time there in recent years. That’s what we know of him to date.”
“Odd habits?”
“None known—we’ll leave that to you. Obviously, we can’t afford any overt activity.”
“What about manner of death—any word from the surgeon?”
“I called Pringle in. According to him, Ruskin was knifed with the stiletto you found. Very professionally slipped between the ribs. Angle and point of entry suggest a right-handed assailant standing beside and a little behind his left side.”
They both could see how it was done.
“So.” Tony sipped. “A friend.”
“Certainly someone he in no way suspected of murderous intent.”
Such as a lady in a pale green silk gown.
Tony looked up. “Did Pringle give any guesses as to the murderer—size, strength, that sort of thing?”
Dalziel’s eyes, scanning his face, narrowed. “He did. A man almost certainly as tall as Ruskin and, of course, of reasonable strength.”
“How tall was Ruskin?”
“A trifle shorter than me. Half a head shorter than you.”
Tony hid his relief behind a grimace. “Not much help there. Any other clues?”
“No.” Dalziel stood, fluidly graceful.
Tony did the same, with even more innate flair.
Dalziel hid a grin and led the way to the door. “Let me know what you find. If I hear anything useful, I’ll send word.”
He paused as they reached the door and met Tony’s gaze. “If I do have anything to send, where should I send it?”
Tony considered, then said, “Here. Back door. My butler’s reliable, and the staff have been with me for years.”
Dalziel nodded. They stepped into the hall.
Tony saw Dalziel out and locked the front door, then returned to the library.
He went straight to one of the bookcases and crouched, scanning the spines, then he pulled out a large tome. Rising, he crossed to where the lamp on the desk threw a circle of stronger light. Opening the book—a collection of maps of England’s counties—he flicked through until he came to the pages showing Oxfordshire. He located Chipping Norton, and Banbury in the far north of the county.
It took a few minutes of flicking back and forth, comparing maps of Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire, and Warwickshire, before he had the geography straight. The only bit of Warwickshire “not far from Banbury” was also not far from Chipping Norton, and therefore, in turn, not far from Bledington.
Alicia Carrington’s home lay within ten miles of Ruskin’s.
Shutting the book, Tony stared across the room.
How likely was it, given the social round of county England that, living in such proximity, Alicia Carrington nee Pevensey and Ruskin had never met?
