“So we gave him a bit of what he’d given poor Francie,” the apothecary said, face hard. “And we took our time about it.”

And the people in the houses to either side had sworn blank-faced that they’d never heard a sound that night, Grey reflected cynically. Tim O’Connell had not been a popular man.

Once dead, O’Connell plainly could not be discovered on Scanlon’s premises. The body therefore had lain behind the counter for several hours, until the streets had quieted in the small dark hours of the morning. Wrapping the body in a sheet of canvas, the men had borne it silently away into the cold black of hidden alleys, and heaved it off Puddle Dock—“like the rubbish he was, sir”—having first removed the uniform, which O’Connell had no right to, and him a traitor. It was worth good money, after all.

Jack Byrd had come back the next day, bringing with him his employer, Mr. Trevelyan.

“And the Honorable Mr. Trevelyan had with him a letter from Lord Melton, the Colonel of your regiment, sir—I think he said as that would be your brother?—asking him for his help in finding out what O’Connell was up to. He explained as how Lord Melton himself was abroad, but plainly Mr. Trevelyan knew all about the matter, and so it was only sense to hand over the papers to him, so as to be passed on to the proper person.”

“Fell for that, did you?” Grey inquired. “Well, no matter. He’s fooled better men than you, Scanlon.”

“Including yourself, would it be, sir?” Scanlon lifted both black brows, and smiled with a flash of good teeth.

“I was thinking of my brother,” Grey said with a grimace, and lifted his cup in acknowledgment. “But certainly me as well.”

“But he’s given you back the papers, sir?” Scanlon frowned. “He did say as he meant to.”

“He has, yes.” Grey touched the pocket of his coat, where the papers reposed. “But since the papers are presently en route to India with me, there is no way of informing the ‘proper authorities.’ The effect therefore is as though the papers had never been found.”

“Better not to be found, than to be in the hands of the Frenchies, surely?” Doubt was beginning to flicker in Scanlon’s eyes.

“Not really.” Grey explained the matter briefly, Scanlon frowning and drawing patterns on the table with a dollop of spilled beer all the while.

“Ah, I see, then,” he said, and fell silent. “Perhaps,” the apothecary said after a few moments, “I should speak to him.”

“Is it your impression that he will attend, if you do?” Grey’s question held as much incredulous derision as curiosity, but Finbar Scanlon only smiled, and stretched himself again, the muscles of his forearms curving hard against the skin.

“Oh, I do, yes, sir. Mr. Trevelyan has been kind enough to say as he considers himself within my debt—and so he is, I suppose.”