Le Grice stood up and pulled back the curtains, allowing weak pearly light into the frowsty room. The night after our dinner at Mivart’s had passed away in talk, and by the time that the new day had broken forth, I had placed the true history of Edward Glyver before my dear old friend, sparing him only the despatching of Lucas Trendle, and my resolve to do the same to Phoebus Daunt. My task now was to discover the identity of the blackmailer, and then, when I have dealt with him, turn my full attention to Phoebus Rainsford Daunt.
My old friend looked at me with an expression of such concentrated seriousness that I began to regret that I had unburdened myself to him in this way.
‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I thought you were in trouble, and I was right. God knows, though, G, why you kept all this to yourself. I mean to say, old boy, you might have given a chap a chance to help you. But that’s all past now.’ He shook his head, as if some great thought had presented itself for his consideration. ‘Old Lord T, now. That was hard, G. Damned hard. Don’t know how I’d have taken that. Your own father.’ Another shake of his head; and then, with a brighter and more determined air, ‘Daunt, though – an entirely different matter. Things to be done there.’
He paused once more, apparently reflecting on a new possibility.
‘What I don’t understand is, why Daunt sent me that book to give to you. Wouldn’t Miss Carteret have told him where he could find you?’
‘I can only guess that he is playing some sort of game with me,’
I replied. ‘As a warning, perhaps, against trying to get back at him – to let me know that I am within his reach.’
Le Grice looked doubtful. And then he suddenly spun round, an excited glint in his eyes: ‘I say! The copies! You still have the copies, of the Deposition and what not, that you sent to old Tredgold.’
‘Gone,’ I said.
‘Gone?’
‘When I got back from Evenwood, after seeing Miss Carteret, there was a letter from Mr Tredgold. There’d been a burglary – his sister and brother had taken him to the Cathedral and the house was empty. It was Pluckrose, I suppose. Nothing of value taken, only papers and documents. They were no use anyway. All in my own hand, you see. I made another copy of Mr Carteret’s Deposition, but it won’t help now. I have nothing.’
Crestfallen, Le Grice threw himself back into his chair. But after a minute or two of silence, he slapped the arm.
‘Breakfast, I think. That’s the thing we need.’
So off we went to the London Tavern to take our fill of eggs, bacon, and oyster-toast, supplemented by liberal doses of coffee.
‘There’s no point beating around the bush, old boy,’ said Le Grice as we walked out into the street afterwards. ‘You’re sunk. And that’s all about it.’
‘It would seem so,’ I agreed gloomily.
‘And there’s still our friend on the river. The jolly boatman. What I think is, he might be an associate of Daunt’s, perhaps, keeping an eye on you. Now what’s to be done about him, I wonder?’
It is strange how a single word or phrase from another’s lips can sometimes throw light on a truth that we have been struggling unsuccessfully to uncover. Was there no end to my stupidity? An associate of Daunt’s? There was only one associate of his that I knew of, and that was Josiah Pluckrose. The line of reasoning that succeeded this thought was swift and, to my mind, conclusive. If Pluckrose was the man in the boat, then Pluckrose might also be the man who had tapped me on the shoulder on leaving Abney Cemetery after the funeral of Lucas Trendle, and outside the Diorama following my walk with Bella in the Regent’s Park. Miss Carteret, after all, had let slip that Pluckrose had followed me to Stamford. How long had I been marked? And then the leap.
‘What ails thee, knight-at-arms?’ I heard Le Grice say as he clapped me heartily on the back. ‘You look distinctly seedy, but then I’m not surprised. Mr Dark Horse indeed! But fret not. The pride of the Le Grices is by your side, come what may. No need to soldier on alone any more. There’s still some time before I join my regiment, and it’s yours, old boy, all yours. And then, perhaps you might go travelling till I return. What do you say?’
I took his hand and thanked him, from the bottom of my heart, though my mind was already far away, reflecting on the consequences of my belated realization.
‘What now?’ he asked, cheroot clamped between his teeth.
‘I’m to my bed,’ I said.
‘I’ll walk with you.’
I had unmasked my blackmailer, though it was not blackmail my enemy intended: of that I was now certain. I had nothing left to give him, and he could go to the authorities and denounce me in a moment for the murder of Lucas Trendle if he so wished. Was he merely demonstrating his power over me? I considered this question for some time, concluding at last that it would be in character for him to do so, like the spiteful little tug that he was; but I now began to perceive another, darker, danger looming behind this pleasant little prank, a danger Mr Tredgold had seen, but which I had formerly made light of. Daunt had set Pluckrose to watch me, and now he knew about Lucas Trendle. The note to Bella, and the invitation to my victim’s funeral, were simply diversions. But from what?
Then all became clear. He had taken everything from me, but he was not satisfied. Whilst I lived, I must of course be a constant threat to him; for he could not be certain that some other piece of evidence, conclusive to my claim to be Lord Tansor’s lawful heir, might not come to light, and so sink his prospects for ever. If I put myself in his place, then only one course of action presented itself. He must take my life, to make his triumph certain.
I had let matters drag on too long. Action was now needed, firm and decisive. I must now, at long last, strike the first – and final – blow against my enemy.
A letter arrived late the next afternoon from Mr Tredgold, imploring me to come to Canterbury as soon as I was able. But what could Mr Tredgold do for me? Without the evidence that had been taken from me, my claim to be
