Of course, he was obliged to admit to himself, he hadn’t dealt with many murderers before—unless . . . The recollection flashed through his mind, as it did now and then, of what Harry Quarry had told him about Jamie Fraser and the death of a Sergeant Murchison at Ardsmuir. If it was true—and even Quarry had not been sure—then Fraser also had remained cool and unpanicked, and had gotten away with the crime in consequence. What if Scanlon had a similar temperament, an equal capacity?

He shook his head impatiently, dismissing the thought. Fraser was not a murderer, whatever else he might be. And Scanlon? For the life of him, Grey could not decide.

“Which is why we have courts of law, I suppose,” he said aloud, and drained the rest of the cup.

“Me lord?” Tom Byrd, who had just succeeded in lighting the fire, scrambled to his feet and picked up the tray.

“I was merely observing that our legal system rests on evidence, rather than emotion,” Grey said, setting the empty cup back on the tray. “Which means, I think, that I must go and find some.” Brave words, considering that he had no good ideas as to where to look for it.

“Oh, aye, sir? Will you be wanting your good uniform, then?”

“No, I think not yet.” Grey scratched thoughtfully at his jaw. The only hope of a clue that he had at present was the German wine. Thanks to the helpful Mr. Congreve, he knew what it was, and who had bought it. If he could not find the Scanlons, perhaps he could discover something about the mysterious man in green.

“I’ll wear it when we call upon Captain von Namtzen. But first—”

But first it was high time to discharge an unpleasant duty.

“I’ll wear the ice-blue now, if it’s decent,” he decided. “But first, I need a shave.”

“Very good, me lord,” said Byrd, in his best valet’s voice, and bowed, upsetting the teacup.

Tom Byrd had mostly succeeded in removing the odor from the ice-blue suit. Mostly.

Grey sniffed discreetly at the shoulder of his coat. No, that was all right; perhaps it was just a miasma from the object in his pocket. He had cut a square from the green velvet dress, crusty with dried blood, and brought it with him, wrapped in a bit of oilcloth.

He had, after some hesitation, also brought a walking stick, a slender affair of ebony, with a chased silver handle in the shape of a brooding heron. He did not intend to strike Trevelyan with it, no matter how the interview progressed. He was, however, aware that having some object with which to occupy one’s hands was useful in times of social difficulty—and this occasion promised to be rather more difficult than the usual.