someone in Customs and Revenue, or the Home Office, or any of a multitude of government agencies is involved, in one capacity or another. It’s unlikely Ruskin could use the information himself, but someone knew he had access to it, and either made use of him themselves, or put someone else on to him. In either case, this nebulous someone might be in a position to know Whitley’s operatives. He won’t, however, know you.”
Dalziel paused, considering Tony. “The only connection you’ve had with Whitley’s crew was that operation you ran with Jonathon Hendon and George Smeaton. Both are now retired; both are sound. Despite Hendon’s background in shipping, he’s had no contact with Ruskin—and yes, I’ve checked. For the past several years, both Hendon and Smeaton have remained buried in Norfolk, and their only links in town are either purely social or purely commercial. Neither is a threat to you— and as I recall, no one else of Whitley’s crew ever knew who Antoine Balzac really was.”
Tony nodded. Antoine Balzac had been a large part of his past.
“On top of that, you found the body.” Dalziel met his gaze. “You are the epitome of an obvious choice.”
Tony grimaced and looked down, into his glass. It seemed as if the past was reaching out, trying to draw him back; he didn’t want to go. Yet all Dalziel said was true; he was the obvious choice…and Alicia Carrington was, at least peripherally, involved.
She wasn’t part of his past.
“All right.” He looked up. “I’ll nose around and see what connections I can turn up.”
Dalziel nodded and set his glass aside. “Ruskin worked at the main office of Customs and Revenue in Whitehall.” He gave details of the building, floor, and room. “I suggested that his papers, indeed, all his office be left as was. I gather that’s been done. Naturally, I’ve asked for no clearances. Let me know if you require any.”
Tony’s lips curved; he inclined his head. Both he and Dalziel knew he wouldn’t ask for clearances. He’d been an “unofficial agent” for too long.
“Ruskin lived in lodgings in Bury Street—Number 23. His home, Crawton Hall, is near Bledington in Gloucestershire, just over the border of north Oxfordshire, southwest of Chipping Norton, the nearest market town.”
Tony frowned, but his knowledge of England was nowhere near as detailed as his knowledge of France.
“Ruskin has a mother living, and an older spinster sister. They reside at Crawton Hall, and haven’t left it in decades. Ruskin spent but little time there in recent years. That’s what we know of him to date.”
“Odd habits?”
“None known—we’ll leave that to you. Obviously, we can’t afford any overt activity.”
“What about manner of death—any word from the surgeon?”
“I called Pringle in. According to him, Ruskin was knifed with the stiletto you found. Very professionally slipped between the ribs. Angle and point of entry suggest a right-handed assailant standing beside and a little behind his left side.”
They both could see how it was done.
“So.” Tony sipped. “A friend.”
“Certainly someone he in no way suspected of murderous intent.”
Such as a lady in a pale green silk gown.
Tony looked up. “Did Pringle give any guesses as to the murderer—size, strength, that sort of thing?”
Dalziel’s eyes, scanning his face, narrowed. “He did. A man almost certainly as tall as Ruskin and, of course, of reasonable strength.”
“How tall was Ruskin?”
“A trifle shorter than me. Half a head shorter than you.”
Tony hid his relief behind a grimace. “Not much help there. Any other clues?”
“No.” Dalziel stood, fluidly graceful.
Tony did the same, with even more innate flair.
Dalziel hid a grin and led the way to the door. “Let me know what you find. If I hear anything useful, I’ll send word.”
He paused as they reached the door and met Tony’s gaze. “If I do have anything to send, where should I send
Dalziel paused, considering Tony. “The only connection you’ve had with Whitley’s crew was that operation you ran with Jonathon Hendon and George Smeaton. Both are now retired; both are sound. Despite Hendon’s background in shipping, he’s had no contact with Ruskin—and yes, I’ve checked. For the past several years, both Hendon and Smeaton have remained buried in Norfolk, and their only links in town are either purely social or purely commercial. Neither is a threat to you— and as I recall, no one else of Whitley’s crew ever knew who Antoine Balzac really was.”
Tony nodded. Antoine Balzac had been a large part of his past.
“On top of that, you found the body.” Dalziel met his gaze. “You are the epitome of an obvious choice.”
Tony grimaced and looked down, into his glass. It seemed as if the past was reaching out, trying to draw him back; he didn’t want to go. Yet all Dalziel said was true; he was the obvious choice…and Alicia Carrington was, at least peripherally, involved.
She wasn’t part of his past.
“All right.” He looked up. “I’ll nose around and see what connections I can turn up.”
Dalziel nodded and set his glass aside. “Ruskin worked at the main office of Customs and Revenue in Whitehall.” He gave details of the building, floor, and room. “I suggested that his papers, indeed, all his office be left as was. I gather that’s been done. Naturally, I’ve asked for no clearances. Let me know if you require any.”
Tony’s lips curved; he inclined his head. Both he and Dalziel knew he wouldn’t ask for clearances. He’d been an “unofficial agent” for too long.
“Ruskin lived in lodgings in Bury Street—Number 23. His home, Crawton Hall, is near Bledington in Gloucestershire, just over the border of north Oxfordshire, southwest of Chipping Norton, the nearest market town.”
Tony frowned, but his knowledge of England was nowhere near as detailed as his knowledge of France.
“Ruskin has a mother living, and an older spinster sister. They reside at Crawton Hall, and haven’t left it in decades. Ruskin spent but little time there in recent years. That’s what we know of him to date.”
“Odd habits?”
“None known—we’ll leave that to you. Obviously, we can’t afford any overt activity.”
“What about manner of death—any word from the surgeon?”
“I called Pringle in. According to him, Ruskin was knifed with the stiletto you found. Very professionally slipped between the ribs. Angle and point of entry suggest a right-handed assailant standing beside and a little behind his left side.”
They both could see how it was done.
“So.” Tony sipped. “A friend.”
“Certainly someone he in no way suspected of murderous intent.”
Such as a lady in a pale green silk gown.
Tony looked up. “Did Pringle give any guesses as to the murderer—size, strength, that sort of thing?”
Dalziel’s eyes, scanning his face, narrowed. “He did. A man almost certainly as tall as Ruskin and, of course, of reasonable strength.”
“How tall was Ruskin?”
“A trifle shorter than me. Half a head shorter than you.”
Tony hid his relief behind a grimace. “Not much help there. Any other clues?”
“No.” Dalziel stood, fluidly graceful.
Tony did the same, with even more innate flair.
Dalziel hid a grin and led the way to the door. “Let me know what you find. If I hear anything useful, I’ll send word.”
He paused as they reached the door and met Tony’s gaze. “If I do have anything to send, where should I send
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