“I understand,” Rackland said.
“This matter is so delicate that TK himself cannot be associated with it. I am here as his intermediary. My business is far from Oban, so I have no competing interests.”
“I understand.”
“You will be familiar with the case of Lawrence Aldingford?”
“Of course,” Rackland said. “It was the talk of the town. With his little piece, they were on the make on the most impudent scale.”
“I’m told private gardens attract this kind of scheme,” Nightminster said. “Especially if they contain exotica.”
“Yes, I have heard that too.”
“It seems that Aldingford is well connected. His family is asking awkward questions. It’s only a matter of time before they send agents to poke about up here and stick their noses where they do not belong.”
“They can poke all they like, there is nothing to find. Aldingford was guilty as Judas.”
“The most awkward aspect is that Lawrence’s brother is TK’s land counsel—quite a star of the Land Court, I’m told. You can, I hope, perceive the delicate position this places TK in.”
Rackland settled back in his seat, staring through the window behind Nightminster while he absorbed this.
“What you are saying, if I understand you, is this brother could have the force to persuade His Decency that Aldingford was innocent and it is actually others who were guilty.”
“No. TK is committed to the status quo in the town. What concerns him is credibility. All parties must be consistent. The least contradiction will incite further enquiries. You know how opportunists love these situations—stirring confusion to grab what they can.”
“I certainly appreciate that.”
“TK requires you attend a conference this afternoon. Discretion is vital. Tell no one—not even your wife. He will interview various interested parties and there will then be a learning session, followed by dinner. You must be at Dunstaffnage Harbour at noon sharp to board a motor yacht called Lydia.”
Rackland thought about this for a few moments.
“This letter of introduction seems convincing.” He picked it up. The sky-blue ribbon dangled from the seal of Krossington. “Such a document could be forged.”
“I completely understand your concerns. After we are gone, contact Oban Castle. You will receive in-person confirmation from the captain of the Krossington marines.”
This completely satisfied Rackland. Nightminster finished the interview with courtesy, although he left Rackland the honour of returning the armchair to its accustomed place.
Back out on the street, Donald restrained his curiosity. In the next hour, they visited two other merchants with the same story and the same result. Then Nightminster led at his whistling march up the promenade into a fine drizzle.
“There is no greater satisfaction than wielding the sword of justice,” he said.
“I’m cold and wet.”
Nightminster laughed and glanced sideways. “Would you prefer to be twirling about in a frock and wig?”
Donald just pulled a wan grin.
“We all have to sing for our supper. I really work for my two daughters—without them I could walk away from my life and not look back. Do you have children?”
A shutter closed over Nightminster’s face. “No. Children never happened for me.”
Donald naturally thought of that picture of gorgeous Victorina Krossington with only hours left to live. Perhaps her ghost still walked with Nightminster in the form of Sarah-Kelly. It would be understandable.
“I find you a hard man to pin down, Nightminster. Most people reveal their background in their accent, in which respect, you’re a closed door,” Donald said.
“For your information, I attended public school in the Central Enclave—to which I won a scholarship from humble beginnings in Bermondsey asylum—and I further won an exhibition to study physics at Oxford University. In contrast, your accent is your history.”
Donald smiled. “I didn’t win a scholarship to public school, I will admit—my father was a judge and didn’t need it. I did win an exhibition to Oxford, though.”
“To study Law?”
“Yes.”
Nightminster uttered one of his snorts and shook his head, then he tipped back his head and laughed so lustily that people walking nearby turned to look.
“You studied Law—in this world? Why not study ethics in hell?”
Donald allowed him a weary smile.
“Did you meet TK at Oxford?”
“Yes.”
“I’m intrigued. How did you get from studying physics at Oxford to pig-farming—this Value System of yours?”
Nightminster gave him a look of incredulity. His mouth twitched to start laughing again. This smarmy knowingness was beginning to get on Donald’s nerves. They were never going to be friends.
“Here we are at our destination,” Nightminster said, still chuckling away to himself.
It was a large sandstone house with bay windows staring out to sea. It extended back into its grounds a long way with ugly, black fire escapes—obviously of Public Era vintage—curling out both sides like ears.
“That is the Oban HQ of General Wardian glory trust.”
He marched straight up the path and in through the broad doorway. There were no sentries. They could walk into the reception area without challenge.
“I can’t believe how lax security is,” Donald said.
“Life is easy here. No slums, no gangsters, no National Party. The population is actually larger than it was in the Public Era.”
He passed across another vellum envelope and told the desk sergeant he wished to see Account-Captain Turner. Within a couple of minutes, they were escorted up to the top floor. Turner’s office had French windows onto a rooftop terrace, on this dreary day covered in puddles.
“Oban is not at its best in November,” Turner said. He was an athletic man of about forty, of similar height to Donald at just over six feet. His eyes were tired and bored, the eyes of a disappointed man. His voice was monotonous, except in bursts when he tried to sound enthusiastic but then gave up. Donald found himself the focus of those bored eyes, to a degree he found offensive. He looked straight back until they shifted to Nightminster.
“How can I help you gentlemen?” Turner asked.
Nightminster gave his opening spiel that they were here on a matter of extreme delicacy. As soon as he mentioned the name Lawrence Aldingford, Turner nodded at Donald.
“You’re his elder
