“Well, then, d’ye want Lord John to go back there and rummage the place?” Quarry asked, impatient. “We’ve a tame constable; shall we ask him to collect the Jews in his district and put their feet to the fire until they cough up this Meyer? What shall we do, for God’s sake?”

Mr. Bowles disliked being hurried, Grey could see. His lips thinned again, but before he could reply, Grey made his own interjection.

“Sir—if I might? I have something—it may be nothing, of course—but there seems to be an odd connexion . . .” He explained, as well as he could, the appearance of an unusual German wine at Lavender House and its apparent connexion with Trevelyan’s mysterious companion. And Jack Byrd, of course, was connected to Trevelyan.

“So I am wondering, sir, whether it might be possible to trace buyers of this wine, and thus perhaps to fall upon the scent of the mysterious Mr. Meyer?”

The small bulge of flesh that served Mr. Bowles for a brow underwent convulsions like a snail thinking fierce thoughts—but then relaxed.

“Yes, I think that might be a profitable channel of inquiry,” he conceded. “In the meantime, Colonel”—he turned to Quarry with an air of command—“I recommend that you apprehend Mr. Scanlon and his wife, and make such representations to them as may be appropriate.”

“Up to and including thumbscrews?” Harry inquired, standing up. “Or shall I stop at knouting?”

“I shall leave that to your impeccable professional judgment, Colonel,” Bowles said politely. “I shall handle further investigations at Lavender House. And Major Grey—I think it best that you pursue the matter of Mr. Trevelyan’s potential involvement in the matter; you seem best placed to handle it discreetly.”

Meaning, Grey thought, that I now have “scapegoat” written on my forehead in illuminated capitals. If it all blows up, the blame can be safely pinned to my coat, and I can be shipped off to Scotland or Canada permanently, with no loss to society.

“Thank you,” Grey said, handling the compliment as though it were a dead rat. Harry snorted, and they took their leave.

Before they had quite reached the door, though, Mr. Bowles spoke again.

“Lord John. If you will accept a bit of well-meant advice, sir?” Grey turned. The vague blue eyes seemed focused at a spot over his left shoulder, and he had to steel himself not to turn and look to see whether there was in fact someone behind him.

“Of course, Mr. Bowles.”

“I think I should hesitate to allow Mr. Joseph Trevelyan to become a relation by marriage. Speaking only for myself, you understand.”

“I thank you for your kind interest, sir,” Grey said, and bowed, most correctly.

He followed Harry down the rickety stair and out of the noisome yard to the street, where they both stood for a moment, breathing deeply.

“Knouting?” Grey said.

“Russian flogging,” Quarry explained, tugging at his wilted stock. “With a whip made of hippopotamus hide. Saw it once; flayed the poor bugger to the bone in three strokes.”