‘Very well. Then try this for size. The yard-arm was cut and Freddy saw the man who did it.’
The blue gaze sharpened. ‘Did he catch him?’
‘Oh yes. He caught him, all right. He killed him.’
‘Freddy killed him? I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him. In fact, I wish he hadn’t.’
‘So do I – but he had no way of knowing.’
Alex leaned against the window embrasure.
‘Clearly. But if Danny was killed, it must have been for a reason and it would help if we knew what it was.’
‘We do know. It was because of something he learned from Sir William Clerke.’
Alex frowned. ‘Clerke? The Secretary at War?’
Giles nodded. ‘His knee was shattered and they had to amputate. He didn’t survive it but Danny was with him for a while before he died and he told Freddy that Clerke thought there was more than inefficiency to the consistently poor intelligence we’d received.’
‘And that’s all?’
‘No. That’s all Freddy knows.’ He paused. ‘I told you that Danny’s mind was wandering and perhaps it was. But he said two things that made perfect sense.’
The muscles of Mr Deveril’s jaw tightened. ‘Well?’
‘He said,’ replied Giles, his voice level and empty, ‘that Freddy would tell me what he knew so that I could deal with it. And then he made me promise not to tell the two most obvious people.’
Their eyes met and locked.
‘Arlington and York,’ breathed Alex, taking his thought. ‘But of course it’s not either of them … and we’ve got to make a new list.’
‘We have,’ agreed Giles, ‘but, if I’m right, it may be a shorter one than you think.’ He moved away to the fireplace and leaned one elbow on the mantelpiece. ‘I’ve done a bit of checking. The man Freddy killed was one Miles Warner and, like so many of us, he’d been taken on as a super-numerary. He’d also – so Danny told Freddy – been with Sir William at Harwich.’ He paused. ‘My guess is that Warner was a cut above the usual tools used by our anonymous friend. It’s only supposition, you understand, but it seems likely that some hitch occurred which gave Clerke the suspicions he spoke of to Danny. He may even have known more than he was able to tell.’
‘In which case, Warner was despatched to remove him?’ suggested Alex. ‘Yes. That would fit. Only, of course, he didn’t need to because a combination of the Dutch and the Naval surgeons kindly did the job for him.’
‘I think so. But he was probably watching Clerke, which is why he saw the need to … ‘ He stopped, not wanting to say it.
‘To get rid of Daniel,’ supplied Alex inimically. ‘Don’t be diffident. Very well. If he was intelligent enough to work that one out and to act on his own initiative then, as you said, he may well have been a senior operative. And if he was sent by the principal to dispose of Clerke, I think we can assume he knew the principal’s identity.’ His smile did not reach his eyes. ‘What a pity Freddy killed him. We might have cut out the paperwork.’
Giles was familiar with the technique Mr Deveril used to cover moments of weakness but on this occasion it made his stomach churn.
‘If you’re about to become facile,’ he said coldly, ‘I’m leaving.’
There was a pause and the pale, impervious gaze altered a little.
‘In that case, I’ll restrain myself,’ said Alex by way of apology. Then, ‘I take it you’ve checked on Warner?’
Mr Beckwith nodded. ‘Superficially, yes.’
‘And?’
‘And he was employed by no one – openly. But he was known to be friendly with a number of gentlemen in the Duke of York’s set. So that’s where we start.’
Alex rested his chin on his clasped hands and stared abstractedly at Giles, a faint frown creasing his brow.
‘This man … he’s clever. We both know how difficult it is to set up this type of operation and yet remain anonymous.’ He hesitated and then went on, ‘It sounds damned silly, I know – but the sheer perfection of the cover we’re trying to break reminds me of something.’
‘Go on,’ said Mr Beckwith. ‘Try me. I promise you I never felt less like laughing.’
Alex picked up his glass and turned it between his fingers, meditatively watching as the amber-coloured liquid caught and reflected the light.
‘When we were working for the Knot, I had a certain amount of warning that exposure was imminent. I used that time to pass on the knowledge to as many of our people as I could reach. I also attempted to locate the sources of their information – one of whom was Wyllis, with his crassly indiscreet letters to Thurloe. The other was a cautious gentleman whose name I never discovered because I believe only Cromwell knew it. But he was good; he had all the attributes of the professional – careful attention to detail, an eye for what to report and a superbly-preserved incognito. Just,’ finished Alex pensively, ‘like the man we’re looking for now.’
There was a long silence, then Giles said, ‘Are you suggesting they’re one and the same?’
‘No. I’m suggesting it’s a possibility worth considering. We’re after someone who is as good as we are ourselves – probably better. With all due modesty, I’d like to point out that there can’t be many candidates. And if it is the same man, we’re going to need more luck than judgement if we’re to catch him.’
Mr Beckwith sighed and dropped into a chair.
‘On which cheering note, I suppose we’d better get to work.’
‘In a minute,’ said Mr Deveril, getting up. ‘You spoke of two things Danny said that made perfect sense. What was the other?’
Giles looked up at him, fine-drawn with exhaustion. ‘It wasn’t important.’
‘Nevertheless. I’d like to know.’
Suddenly too tired to care, Giles shrugged and said, ‘He asked if it would soon be dawn – said he didn’t want to go in the dark. He asked me to explain to Chloë and give her – and you – his love. Then he said, “Tell Alex he’s lucky and it’s time he knew it. He’s too clever to see what’s under his nose.”’
Very slowly, the ice-blue gaze widened and filled with too-innocent enquiry.
‘Dear me,’ said Mr Deveril mildly. ‘Dear me … I wonder what he meant?’
Giles came swiftly to his feet.
‘Do you?’ he asked with bitter hostility. ‘Then I think you must be suffering from necrosis of the brain.’ And striding to the door, he wrenched it open and left.
Standing quite still, his back to Persephone and her dryads, Alex watched him go, a crooked and rather desperate little smile touching his mouth.
‘Exit pursued by a bear,’ he announced to the empty room. And laying his fingers carefully on the rim of the table, he stared down at them with an air of disciplined control.
*
Dry-eyed and face down on her bed, Chloë stayed all day alone in her room, her soul awash with numb desolation. The simple daily duties of her household were forgotten. Outside the bitter rawness of Danny’s loss, her only remaining thought was that somewhere in the house, Alex suffered too but would have to hide it in public as she did not; that to him would fall the task of telling Matthew. She knew it but shrugged it uncharacteristically aside. She had no comfort to give.
The hours wore by; afternoon passed and then evening. The moon rose, sending pale bars of light through her window to lie in silvery pools on the floor. For a long time Chloë lay staring at them. Then, levering herself stiffly into a sitting position, she swung her feet to the floor. Her hair was clinging to her face and lying in tangled coils about her neck. She pushed it absently aside, all her attention tuned to listening. There were no sounds; the house was apparently asleep. Chloë got up.
Wraith-like, she moved down the stairs to the hall. There she hesitated for a moment, her head turned towards the open parlour door and then, obedient to an inner prompting she did not try to analyse, she moved towards it.
The room was dark but she knew without looking that it was not empty. She a
lways knew when Alex was close by. She stepped inside, then stopped. He was at the window, one arm resting upraised against the frame and his profile silhouetted against the faint grey light as he stared pointlessly into the garden. Chloë stood for a moment, watching and then turned away, quietly so as not to intrude.
Restless now but lacking a purpose, she went to the kitchen, lit a candle and placed the heavy kettle on top of the dying embers of the fire. Then she sat down to watch it. Almost immediately there was a small sound behind her and she turned slowly. It was Mr Deveril, the planes and tangents of his face oddly changed by the poor, shadowy light.
‘Hello,’ he said quietly. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’
The stark brown gaze rested on him dumbly then, shaking her head, she turned back to the fire. For a second, Alex stood still, then he picked up the solitary candle and began lighting others.
‘I hope we’re not economising,’ he said. ‘I realise that the price of candles is quite scandalous but I’m abysmally clumsy in the dark. Especially on unfamiliar territory. And I don’t think I’ve been in here since the day you accidentally swept the chimney.’
Apathetically, Chloë turned again and discovered that the alteration in Mr Deveril’s features had nothing to do with the light. He had discarded his coat and above the whiteness of the cambric shirt, his skin was the colour of parchment and stretched tight over bones which seemed suddenly too sharp for it.
‘You look tired,’ she said with what seemed a very great effort. Then, taking a deep breath, ‘And I don’t suppose you’ve eaten. You should have something.’
He smiled bleakly. ‘Possibly. But I don’t think I could.’
Chloë let her head fall forward. ‘No. Neither could I.’
Alex looked thoughtfully at the veiling curtain of rose-gold hair. Then, ‘The kettle’s boiling. Shall I lift it off?’
‘I’ll do it.’ She moved the kettle on to the hob and then stood looking at it as if she couldn’t remember what she had wanted it for.
‘I don’t suppose,’ said Mr Deveril gently, ‘that we have any tea? Or that you know how to make it?’
‘Tea?’ repeated Chloë vaguely. ‘Yes. The Queen gave me a box. Do you want some?’
He nodded and sat at the wooden table. ‘It might do us both good.’
She eyed him blankly and said abruptly, ‘I think I’d rather get drunk.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. It doesn’t help – take my word for it.’ He smiled again. ‘Make the tea.’
So she did and, when it was poured, sat facing him from the other side of the table. She stared at the steaming brew and turned her cup round without speaking for a long time. Finally, she said, ‘Have you told Matt?’
‘Yes. Don’t worry about it.’
She picked up the cup, spilled it badly and put it down again, withdrawing her hands to the safety of her lap. Then she stood up again and reached for a cloth.
‘Leave it,’ said Alex. ‘It doesn’t matter. Sit down.’
She looked at him a little wildly.
‘I can’t believe it. It’s silly … but I can’t believe he’s dead. Not Danny. He is – was – so full of life. And so young. It doesn’t seem possible.’
‘I know. Sit down, Chloë.’ He waited till she had done so. ‘You have to believe it because it is so. We both know what he was – and that it’s unjust and cruel. And we know how much we’ll miss him. But life isn’t always fair … nor does it stop when the unspeakable happens. Today has been about shock and grief. Tomorrow you have to try to go on with all the things you’re thinking don’t matter. And the next day and the next until it becomes easier. We all do.’ He paused. ‘You should cry. It might help.’
‘I can’t.’
His gaze on his untouched tea, he said expressionlessly, ‘You loved him. I’m sorry.’
Chloë made a small helpless gesture. ‘Of course I loved him. Who wouldn’t?’
This time the silence stretched on and on.
‘He spoke of you. Did Giles tell you?’
Her mouth tightened. ‘Yes.’
‘He sent you his love and Giles was to tell me I’m lucky. I imagine you know what he meant by that.’
‘No.’ She clenched her fingers.
‘I think you do. He meant I was lucky to have you … so it’s clear that – ‘
‘Stop it!’ She stood up, poised for flight. ‘I don’t want to talk about it!’
‘That he loved you too,’ finished Alex simply. And then, ‘You could have told me.’
Chloë drew a ragged breath and her hands crept to her mouth. Mr Deveril had misunderstood and she probably ought to put that right. But the only thing that counted was that Danny had obviously known where her heart lay … had probably known for a long time … and said nothing. Until he lay dying.
‘Please.’ Her breathing was hopelessly disordered. ‘I can’t do this now.’
‘No. But one last thing – which may comfort you later. You should know that Danny didn’t die in pain, or alone, or in the dark. He died in Giles’ arms as the sun came up.’ Alex paused, his mouth twisting wryly, ‘If go one must, there are worse ways.’
Outside, the bells of St Mary Overie were chiming midnight but Chlöe did not hear them. Her ears were filled with Danny’s voice, bright and eager, on a cold February day at Queenhithe. Something about the East and the sun. And then the barriers broke at last. For Danny, for an unfulfilled life and dreams that had never been hers, Chloë dropped back on to the settle, buried her head in her arms on the table-top and burst into a storm of deep, painful sobbing.
For perhaps a minute Alex watched, before he rose and went to sit beside her. He did not speak but, reaching out, drew her firmly towards him and held her in steady, passionless arms. It lasted a long time. When it was over, he passed her his handkerchief and continued to hold her in silence. Chloë blew her nose, leaning exhaustedly against the damp warmth of his shoulder and only then becoming aware of his arms around her and the light pressure of his cheek on her hair. Yesterday such proximity would have sent all her muscles into spasm; today it didn’t seem to matter.
‘You did that on purpose,’ she said huskily. ‘Thank you.’
‘My methods are often debatable,’ he replied tranquilly. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t find another way.’ He was silent for a moment and then said, ‘It will soon be light. Will you come walking with me?’
She shifted a little, turning her head to look into his face and felt his arms fall gently away.
‘Yes. I – I’d like that.’
He studied the flushed, tear-stained face gravely. ‘Come, then.’
Outside the air was cool and fresh but it was not cold. The streets were deserted and the cobbles gleamed with dewy dampness. Side by side without speaking or touching, Alex and Chloë skirted the west front of St Mary Overie and walked slowly towards the sharp tangy smells of the river. Reaching it, they stood for a moment looking at the bridge with its narrow arches and tall houses and shops; then, leaving it behind them, they turned left along the riverside.
It was quite different from the noisy, bustling place it became by day when the banks and stairs swarmed with watermen and porters, seamen and stevedores; now the water’s edge was crowded with the anchored sleeping shapes of its usually busy traffic and further out the larger vessels lay, quietly lit and dreaming, under the moon. The taverns were shuttered, their music stilled and their customers gone, and the only sounds that broke the night were the rhythmic slapping of water on wood or the occasional snore of a boatman asleep on his barge. Alex took Chloë’s hand and held it in a light, friendly clasp.
They walked along Bankside, past the emptiness of the Bear Garden and on till they came to the Upper Ground. There, as if drawn by some invisible thread, Mr Deveril turned again to the river and, drawing Chloë with him, descended the Falcon Stairs.
The steps were smooth and hollowed, worn away by the passage of feet and by the water which licked them with such deceptive gentleness. Chloë an
d Alex stood one rise above the river and gazed across at the shadowy warehouses of Puddle and Baynard’s Wharves, behind which rose the high, gothic splendour of Paul’s Cathedral, towering above the City like some vast guardian.
They did not know how long they stood but gradually the light began to change and, turning eastwards, they watched the pink glow of dawn rise slowly behind the irregular rooftops of the bridge and the grey, crenelated walls of the distant Tower.
Her mind far away, Chloë said, ‘Danny dreamed of seeing the East. Do you think sunrise is more beautiful there?’
‘I don’t know. Different, perhaps.’
She let the river flow on at their feet for a minute and then, without looking at him, she forced out the words that needed to be said.
‘You were mistaken before. It’s true that I loved Danny and that perhaps he loved me. But as friends – nothing more. He … he was the brother I wished I’d had. So our friendship was precious to me.’
Something indefinable changed in Alex’s expression; and simultaneously the mood between them shifted.
He looked down at her and watched as the breeze coiled a strand of hair around her throat to catch in the marigold chain she seemed always to wear. Her face, still turned away from him, looked as Rupert had drawn it; serene and pure but with an earthly reality of flesh and blood that woke a response that surprised him. Something platonic, born of the night’s companionship; and something triggered by the drift of her hair and the line of her neck that wasn’t platonic at all.
Her words had released him from the constraint of believing she and Danny had been in love with each other. Had he still thought that, he could never have acknowledged what he felt now. He wanted her; and that, of course, was foolish. What he wanted was no more than a little basic comfort and the price of finding it with the girl at his side was too high for either of them. Their hoped-for annulment was not something to be cast aside on the whim of the moment – especially when he knew that his desire was not, could not be, for Chloë herself. Or could it? Doubt stirred, clouding the surface of his mind.
Marigold Chain Page 18
