it?”
Tony considered, then said, “Here. Back door. My butler’s reliable, and the staff have been with me for years.”
Dalziel nodded. They stepped into the hall.
Tony saw Dalziel out and locked the front door, then returned to the library.
He went straight to one of the bookcases and crouched, scanning the spines, then he pulled out a large tome. Rising, he crossed to where the lamp on the desk threw a circle of stronger light. Opening the book—a collection of maps of England’s counties—he flicked through until he came to the pages showing Oxfordshire. He located Chipping Norton, and Banbury in the far north of the county.
It took a few minutes of flicking back and forth, comparing maps of Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire, and Warwickshire, before he had the geography straight. The only bit of Warwickshire “not far from Banbury” was also not far from Chipping Norton, and therefore, in turn, not far from Bledington.
Alicia Carrington’s home lay within ten miles of Ruskin’s.
Shutting the book, Tony stared across the room.
How likely was it, given the social round of county England that, living in such proximity, Alicia Carrington née Pevensey and Ruskin had never met?
The question suggested the answer. Ruskin hadn’t spent much time in Bledington recently, and despite telling him she and her sister hailed from the area, Alicia Carrington could well have meant their home was there now. The home she’d made with her husband; most likely she was referring to his house, not necessarily the area in which she and her family, the Pevenseys, had lived most of their lives. Of course.
He returned the book to the shelf, then headed for the door.
Of course, he’d check.
That, however, would have to come later. The first thing he needed to do, and that as soon as humanly possible, before any whisper of an internal investigation into Ruskin’s affairs could find its way to anyone, was search Ruskin’s office.
The Customs and Revenue Office in Whitehall was well guarded and externally secure, but for someone who knew how to approach it from within, down the long, intersecting corridors, it was much less impenetrable. Even better, Ruskin’s office was on the first floor at the back, and its small window faced a blank wall.
At four o’clock in the morning, the building was cold and silent. The porter was snoring in his office downstairs; lighting a lamp was safe enough.
Tony searched the desk, then the whole office methodically. He collected everything pertinent in the middle of the desk; when there was no more to discover, he transferred all he’d found to the deep pockets of his greatcoat.
Then he turned out the lamp, slipped out of the building, and went home, leaving not a trace of his presence, or anything to alert anyone that Ruskin’s office had been searched.
Despite his late night, he was out again at noon, heading for Bury Street. It was a fashionable area for single gentlemen, close to clubs, Mayfair, and the seat of government; Number 23 was a well-kept, narrow, three-story house. He knocked on the door and explained to the landlady that he worked alongside Mr. Ruskin and had been sent to check his rooms to make sure no Customs Office papers had been left there.
She led him up to a set of rooms on the first floor. He thanked her as she unlocked the door. “I’ll return the key when I leave.”
With a measuring glance that read the quality of his coat and boots in much the same way as a military pass, she nodded. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
He waited until she was heading downstairs, then entered Ruskin’s parlor and shut the door.
Again, his search was thorough, but in contrast to Ruskin’s office, this time he found evidence someone had been before him. He found a pile of old IOUs lying in a concealed drawer in the escritoire atop more recent correspondence.
Dalziel and Whitley would never have permitted any other from either the official or unofficial sides of
Tony considered, then said, “Here. Back door. My butler’s reliable, and the staff have been with me for years.”
Dalziel nodded. They stepped into the hall.
Tony saw Dalziel out and locked the front door, then returned to the library.
He went straight to one of the bookcases and crouched, scanning the spines, then he pulled out a large tome. Rising, he crossed to where the lamp on the desk threw a circle of stronger light. Opening the book—a collection of maps of England’s counties—he flicked through until he came to the pages showing Oxfordshire. He located Chipping Norton, and Banbury in the far north of the county.
It took a few minutes of flicking back and forth, comparing maps of Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire, and Warwickshire, before he had the geography straight. The only bit of Warwickshire “not far from Banbury” was also not far from Chipping Norton, and therefore, in turn, not far from Bledington.
Alicia Carrington’s home lay within ten miles of Ruskin’s.
Shutting the book, Tony stared across the room.
How likely was it, given the social round of county England that, living in such proximity, Alicia Carrington née Pevensey and Ruskin had never met?
The question suggested the answer. Ruskin hadn’t spent much time in Bledington recently, and despite telling him she and her sister hailed from the area, Alicia Carrington could well have meant their home was there now. The home she’d made with her husband; most likely she was referring to his house, not necessarily the area in which she and her family, the Pevenseys, had lived most of their lives. Of course.
He returned the book to the shelf, then headed for the door.
Of course, he’d check.
That, however, would have to come later. The first thing he needed to do, and that as soon as humanly possible, before any whisper of an internal investigation into Ruskin’s affairs could find its way to anyone, was search Ruskin’s office.
The Customs and Revenue Office in Whitehall was well guarded and externally secure, but for someone who knew how to approach it from within, down the long, intersecting corridors, it was much less impenetrable. Even better, Ruskin’s office was on the first floor at the back, and its small window faced a blank wall.
At four o’clock in the morning, the building was cold and silent. The porter was snoring in his office downstairs; lighting a lamp was safe enough.
Tony searched the desk, then the whole office methodically. He collected everything pertinent in the middle of the desk; when there was no more to discover, he transferred all he’d found to the deep pockets of his greatcoat.
Then he turned out the lamp, slipped out of the building, and went home, leaving not a trace of his presence, or anything to alert anyone that Ruskin’s office had been searched.
Despite his late night, he was out again at noon, heading for Bury Street. It was a fashionable area for single gentlemen, close to clubs, Mayfair, and the seat of government; Number 23 was a well-kept, narrow, three-story house. He knocked on the door and explained to the landlady that he worked alongside Mr. Ruskin and had been sent to check his rooms to make sure no Customs Office papers had been left there.
She led him up to a set of rooms on the first floor. He thanked her as she unlocked the door. “I’ll return the key when I leave.”
With a measuring glance that read the quality of his coat and boots in much the same way as a military pass, she nodded. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
He waited until she was heading downstairs, then entered Ruskin’s parlor and shut the door.
Again, his search was thorough, but in contrast to Ruskin’s office, this time he found evidence someone had been before him. He found a pile of old IOUs lying in a concealed drawer in the escritoire atop more recent correspondence.
Dalziel and Whitley would never have permitted any other from either the official or unofficial sides of
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