“Major Grey! How great a pleasure to see you again! Please, you will have some wine—a biscuit?” The tall Hanoverian clasped him by hand and forearm, beaming, and had Tom dispatched to the kitchen and Grey himself seated in the drawing room with refreshments before he could gracefully decline, let alone explain his objective in calling. Once he managed to do so, though, the Captain was helpfulness itself.

“But certainly, certainly! Let me see this list.”

He took the paper from Grey and carried it to the window for scrutiny. It was well past teatime, but so near to Midsummer Day, late-afternoon light still flooded in, haloing von Namtzen like a saint in a medieval painting.

He looked like one of those German saints, too, Grey thought a little abstractedly, admiring the cleanly ascetic lines of the German’s face, with its broad brow and wide, calm eyes. The mouth was not particularly sensitive, but it did show humor in the creases beside it.

“I know these names, yes. You wish me to tell you . . . what?”

“Anything that you can.” Tiredness dragged at him, but Grey rose and came to stand beside the Captain, looking at the list. “All I know of these people is that they have purchased a particular wine. I cannot say precisely what the connexion may be, but this wine seems to have something to do with . . . a confidential matter. I’m afraid I can say no more.” He shrugged apologetically.

Von Namtzen glanced sharply at him, but then nodded, and returned his attention to the paper before him.

“Wine, you say? Well, that is strange.”

“What is strange?”

The Captain tapped a long, immaculate finger on the paper.

“This name—Hungerbach. It is the family name of an old noble house; zu Egkh und Hungerbach. Not German at all, you understand; they are Austrian.”

“Austrian?” Grey felt his heart lurch, and leaned forward, as though to make certain of the name on the paper. “You are sure?”

Von Namtzen looked amused.

“Of course. The estate near Graz is very famous for its wines; that is why I say it is strange you bring me this name and say it is about wine. The best of the St. Georgen wines—that is the name of the castle there, St. Georgen—is very famous. A very good red wine they make—the color of fresh blood.”

Grey felt an odd rushing in his ears, as though his own blood were draining suddenly from his head, and put a hand on the table to steady himself.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, feeling a slight numbness about his lips. “The wine is called Schilcher?”

“Why, yes. However did you know that?”

Grey made a small motion with one hand, indicating that it was of no importance. There seemed to be a number of gnats in the room, though he had not noticed them before; they swarmed in the light from the window, dancing motes of black.