“Are you come on business?” asked William. The anger of a moment ago had become something else, more guarded.

“I’m looking for someone,” said the man. “Someone you know.”

What was that accent? London? Something of the north country too. A crossing sweeper’s voice.

“Lacroix,” said the man. “John Lacroix.”

“And who are you?”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Henderson.”

“Henderson?”

“That’s right,” said Calley. “I’m Henderson.”

“I do not think I have heard of you.”

“You don’t need to have heard of me. What’s it matter if you’ve heard of me? You just need to have heard of Lacroix. Which you have. Because you’re married to his sister.”

A pause.

“Are you a friend of his?”

“We were in the army together. We still are.”

“You’re a soldier?”

“That’s right.”

“You served with him?”

“That’s right.”

“In Spain?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“It’s simply that I have not heard of you.”

“You have now.”

“And you have . . . a message for him? For John Lacroix?”

“I do.”

“Well, then. If you care to give it to me I will see he receives it.”

“Obliging of you. But I need to give him the message myself.”

“Why?”

“It’s that kind of message.”

“It is personal?”

Calley nodded. He was looking round the room. He seemed to have lost interest in the conversation.

“That is no obstacle,” said William. “If you write the message I have wax here you may seal it with. Or if you . . . prefer not to write it . . . ”

“You’re getting in a muddle,” said Calley.

“There is no muddle.”

“I have to see him.”

“Yes, but why? I don’t understand.”

“No,” said Calley. “I don’t think you do.” He was fingering the Moor’s head on the desk, a paperweight in brass, a slave’s head in truth, the kind of trinket Bristol was full of.