lieutenant. A ponderous speech by Stirling. Looking back, it seemed more a homage to the previous captain than one of welcome.
And the long journey from Portsmouth to the Admiralty, Jago sitting with him in the coach, more ill at ease than he could ever recall.
Now here. And now this.
Troubridge had moved and was facing him.
'If I may help in any way, sir?' The admiral had already been dismissed from his thoughts. This, the present moment, was suddenly important, although he could not determine why.
Adam said, 'The artist he mentioned. Do you know his name?'
'Yes, sir. He once did a portrait of my father. It was Montagu… Sir Gregory. It was very sudden, I believe, sir.'
The Admiralty servant coughed politely and Troubridge said, 'We must go, sir. The First Lord dislikes being delayed.'
Their feet made the only sound in the long corridor. Occasionally they passed a window, where carriages in the distance and, once, a troop of dragoons gave a touch of normality.
She was in that house. Like Andromeda. Helpless and alone.
The tall doors were just a few paces away: the room where the great news had broken. Trafalgar. Waterloo. And Algiers.
Troubridge said suddenly, 'You can trust me, sir.'
Afterwards he knew he would never be able to forget Captain Bolitho's expression. His eyes. Nor want to.
The great doors had opened as though to some signal, but Adam turned abruptly and gripped the flag lieutenant's arm as if nothing else mattered.
'I am not sure I can trust myself! '
The journey seemed endless, and Adam had lost count of the streets and squares, the gleam of water whenever the coach drove close to the river. It was late, and pitch dark, and yet there seemed to be people everywhere, and when he lowered a window he could hear the clatter of wheels and horses, smell woodsmoke and the occasional aroma of cooking whenever they passed yet another tavern. Did nobody ever sleep in the capital?
The coachman showed no uncertainty, and Adam guessed he was used to these journeys with little notice or none at all; Troubridge had said as much. He was often employed by senior officers not wishing to draw attention to themselves. Troubridge had learned fast since his appointment as Bethune's aide.
Adam wished he knew what Jago was thinking, up there beside the coachman, probably wondering what had made him insist on joining them.
Troubridge was thinking aloud.
'Getting close.' He was peering through the opposite window. 'That looks like the church.' He hesitated. 'I was here once before.'
Adam saw some glowing braziers beside the road, dark figures crowded around them for warmth and companionship. Coachmen, grooms, servants, it was hard to tell. Waiting for their masters to become tired or bored with whatever pastime or indulgence had brought them here.
The houses were higher now, several storeys, some with windows lighted, chandeliers giving a hint of the district's original luxury. Much as the solemn Bowles had described. Other houses were in total darkness, shutters closed, walls neglected and flaking in the carriage lanterns.
Troubridge murmured, 'Number Eighteen, sir. We're passing it now.'
Adam felt even more uneasy. Cheated. It was no different from all the others.
Troubridge said doubtfully, 'Looks deserted.' He leaned out of the window. 'Some lights up there, sir.'
The coachman said nothing, and had climbed down to attend to his horses.
'What kind of people, I wonder
, Troubridge shrugged, and Adam thought he heard the clink of steel.
'Gaming rooms.' Again the hesitation. 'Brothels. I did hear that artists come here to earn their keep.'
Jago was by the door, although he had made no sound. He said, 'Some one comin' now, sir.'
A group of men, perhaps six in all, one calling back to a coachman, telling him to wait without fail. A loud, slurred voice. One used to being obeyed.
They were going toward the house, Number Eighteen. One of them was laughing; another called, 'Put it away, John, you can have all you want to drink inside! '
They heard the crash of the knocker, enough to wake the street.
The door was partly open, more voices, angry this time, one harsher than all the others.
'So I'm a trifle late, man! What is that to you? Just do as you're damn well told by your betters and be sharp about it! '
The door opened wider, and there was more laughter. Then silence again, and the street was empty.
Adam said, 'I am going inside.' Suppose I am wrong? 'Stay here.'
He was on the road, the horses turning their heads to watch him.
Without looking, he knew that Troubridge was following him,
while Jago had moved away to their left, almost as if he had changed his mind.
Troubridge said, 'I think you should consider…'
Adam had already seized the knocker. 'I must find out, ' and the crash froze Troubridge into silence.
The door opened a few inches; Adam heard voices, muffled, deep inside the building.
'What do you want The shadowy figure seemed to glide backwards, the door opening completely, the voice suddenly changed, all hostility gone.
Instead he said brokenly, 'Thank God. You got the message! '
The door had closed behind them; the high-ceilinged entrance was lit by only two candles and Adam could see the stains on the floor, the lighter patches on the walls where pictures had once hung, like a travesty of Bethune's room at the Admiralty.
He swung round and stared with disbelief. His first visit to the Old Glebe House; being met by the dour-faced figure, who had looked more like a priest than a servant. This same man.
Adam seized his arm; it felt like a bone through his coat.
'Tell me what is happening. Take your time.' He tried to keep the urgency out of his voice, willing the other man to stay calm.
The house was suddenly silent, and very still. He could hear Troubridge's breathing, fast, unsteady. Or was it his own?
The other man said slowly, 'Sir Gregory died, sir. He lost the will to live. His injury, after the fire… but for her I'm not sure what…'
Somewhere above them a door banged open and there were more shouts and laughter, one of them a woman's voice, hysterical. The door slammed and there was silence again. The late arrivals had reached their destination.
Adam's eyes were becoming accustomed to the feeble lighting. When he leaned forward he could just discern a spiral staircase rising overhead, a gilt banister, lit here and there by candle sconces, or perhaps an open door. An even larger house than it had seemed. He thought of Troubridge's comment. Gaming rooms. Brothels.
He seized the servant's arm again. 'She is still up there?'
'First landing, sir. She was just about to leave when…'
The scream broke the stillness, locking mind and movement, making thought impossible.
He was running up the stairs, heedless of uneven and torn carpet snaring his shoes, guided only by the scream although it had ended as abruptly. There was a sudden crash, like some one falling, and the sound of breaking glass. On the landing above, more doors had opened
and voices made an insane chorus, like the climax to a nightmare.
Adam saw the gleam of light under a door and flung his shoulder against it. After the dark stairway the glare almost blinded him, but he took it in at a glance. Like the moment of close action. The first fall of shot. The carnage, and the wild disbelief that you had lived through it.
A studio, the same soiled and paint-daubed sheets, mock pillars and classical busts, one crowned with real laurels. And a long couch like the one he had seen at the Old Glebe House, where Lowenna had sat for Montagu's
