Now it is Charlie’s turn to hesitate, uncertain how to broach the topic. He finds refuge in a question.

“You said there were other rumours. Before, when you first saw me. A Gypsy attack, you said, only there were other rumours, too. What did you mean?”

Renfrew gets up, puts a kettle on the fireplace. Charlie is conscious of his thinking it over, calculating how much to reveal: just the same as Charlie. Another game of chess. Thomas would play it aggressively, threaten with his queen. But Charlie knows the value of positional play. And of patience.

By the time Renfrew has resettled himself in his chair, he has evidently made up his mind to be frank with Charlie.

“The rumours concern the bullets recovered from the horse carcasses,” he begins, his voice clear and firm, unadulterated by emotion. “An enterprising magistrate insisted on having them cut out. It’s quite unusual, as procedures go, and raised some eyebrows, amongst the Conservatives, you understand. An English magistrate, commanding the scalpel! It smelled of Continental methods.” Renfrew allows himself a smile. “Now, the bullets that were recovered are quite unusual. They are not of domestic manufacture and were shot by a rifle that must not exist on these shores, by the rules of the embargo. A very powerful rifle. Of course all this is hard to discuss out in the open. Officially, after all, we are not to know such weapons even exist. The report was circulated privately, which is to say it entered the world of whispers. I daresay half of England’s lords are kept awake at night, longing to own such a rifle.”

“You are saying it’s not the sort of gun a poor person would carry.”

“Precisely. Gypsies carry blunderbusses or something similarly crude. And you really did not see any trace of your attackers?”

Charlie shakes his head, thinking. Then he takes a risk.

“I have heard things,” he says. “About Smoke. I came here tonight to find out if they are true.”

“Ah,” says Master Renfrew. “I rather thought it might be something of that kind.”

Behind him, the kettle starts whistling and summons them to tea.

ф

It’s Charlie’s move. He cradles the teacup between both hands, lets the warmth spread through his fingers. He says, “There was a time before Smoke.”

Renfrew smiles, counters. “I see you spoke to Baron Naylor. How is he? He no longer answers my letters, not for many a year. It is most vexing. Suspicious, even.

“‘There was a time before Smoke.’ Yes, I remember his whispering those very words to me, and how shaken I was. Like a lightning bolt hitting me out of the clear blue sky. For three whole years I could think of nothing else.