“As the Colonel told you, I believe, there were several suspects in the original theft.” Bowles’s small, soft paw spread itself on the papers. “Inquiries were instituted at once, through a variety of channels, regarding all of these men.”

“I supposed that to be the case.”

It was very warm in the chamber, despite the open window, and Grey could feel his shirt sticking to his back, sweat tickling his temples. He wanted to wipe his face on his sleeve, but somehow the presence of this odd little man constrained him to do no more than nod, sitting rigidly at attention.

“Without divulging details”—a tiny smile flitted across Bowles’s face at that, as though the thought of withholding details was something secretly delicious—“I can inform you, Major, that it is now all but certain that Sergeant O’Connell was the guilty party.”

“I see,” Grey said again, guardedly.

“We lost track of him, of course, when the man who was following him—Jack Byrd, was that the name?—disappeared on Saturday.” Grey was quite sure that Bowles knew the name; knew a lot more than that, in all likelihood.

“However,” Bowles continued, extending a stubby finger to touch one of the shimmering petals, “we have recently received a report from another source, placing O’Connell at a particular location on the Friday. The day before his death.”

A drop of sweat was hanging from Grey’s chin; he could feel it trembling there like the grains of pollen trembling on the soft black anthers of the tulips.

“A rather unusual location,” Bowles went on, stroking the petal with dreamy gentleness. “A place called Lavender House, near Lincoln’s Inn. Have you heard of it?”

Oh. Christ. He heard the words distinctly, and hoped he hadn’t spoken them aloud. This was it, then.

He sat up straighter still and wiped the drop of sweat from his chin with the back of his hand, setting himself for the worst.

“I have, yes. I visited Lavender House myself last week—in the course of my inquiries.”

Bowles did not—of course!—look astonished by this. Grey was conscious of Quarry by his side, looking curious but not alarmed. He was reasonably sure that Harry had no idea of the nature of Lavender House. He was quite sure that Bowles did.

Bowles nodded amiably.

“Quite. What I am wondering, Major, is what you discovered regarding O’Connell that led you to that destination?”

“It—was not O’Connell about whom I was inquiring.” Quarry shifted a little at that, and emitted a small “Hmph!”

No help for it. Commending his soul to God, Grey took a deep breath and recounted the entire story of his explorations into the life and behavior of Joseph Trevelyan.

“A green velvet dress,” Bowles said, sounding only mildly curious. “God bless my soul.” His hand had dropped from the tulips, and was now curled possessively around the fat little belly of the silver vase.