From this angle of view, he could see the pillory that stood near Charles’s statue. Grey barely tasted the foul wine, half-choked as he was by the beating of the pulse in his own throat. What in God’s name was going on? He didn’t think this meeting was to do with him; surely Harry would have warned him. But perhaps Stapleton had—no, or he would scarcely have been so terrorized at Grey’s appearance. But then, what—

A scraping of chairs fortunately interrupted his speculations before they became any more incoherent.

“Lord John?” Quarry had stood up, addressing him formally. “May I present Mr. Hubert Bowles? Major Grey.”

Mr. Bowles had stood up, too, though he scarcely appeared to have done so, he being so short that there was little change in height from his seated aspect. Grey bowed courteously, murmuring, “Your servant, sir.”

He took the indicated stool, and found himself facing a pair of soft blue eyes, the vague slaty color of a newborn child’s, set in a face bearing as much distinction of feature as a suet pudding. There was an odd scent in the air—something like very old sweat, but with a hint of putrid decay. He couldn’t tell whether it came from the furnishings or from the man in front of him.

“My lord,” Bowles said, in a lisping voice little more than a whisper. “It is kind of you to attend us.”

As though I were here of choice, Grey thought cynically, but merely bowed and murmured a courtesy in reply, trying meanwhile to breathe exclusively through his mouth.

“Colonel Quarry has been recounting your efforts and discoveries,” Bowles said, turning over a sheet of paper with short-fingered delicacy. “You have been most assiduous.”

“You flatter me too much, sir,” Grey said. “I have found out nothing certain—I take it we are discussing the death of Timothy O’Connell?”

“Among other things.” Bowles smiled pleasantly, but the vague expression in his eyes did not alter.

Grey cleared his throat, belatedly tasting the nastiness of the wine he had swallowed. “I imagine that Colonel Quarry has informed you that I have discovered no proof of O’Connell’s involvement in—the matter at hand?”

“He has.” Bowles’s gaze had drifted away from Grey, and rested idly on the yellow tulips. They had orange throats, Grey saw, and glowed like molten gold in the last of the light. If they had a scent, it wasn’t strong enough to perceive, unfortunately. “Colonel Quarry thinks that your efforts might be aided were we to inform you of the results of our other . . . inquiries.”

“I see,” Grey said, though he saw nothing at all, so far. “Our other inquiries.” And who were “we,” exactly? Harry sat hunched on his own stool, an untasted glass of wine in his hand, face carefully expressionless.