blank and swollen countenance, though, that seemed to invite such a gesture, and surely the constable did not care. In the end, he gave a slight nod to the corpse, a shilling to the constable for his trouble, and left.
Constable Magruder was a small, foxy-looking man, with narrow eyes that darted constantly from doorway to desk and back again, lest anything escape his notice. Grey took some encouragement from this, hoping that few things
did
escape the constable of the day and the Bow Street Runners under his purview.
The constable knew Grey’s errand; he saw the wariness lurking at the back of the narrow eyes—and the quick flick of a glance toward the magistrate’s offices next door. It was apparent that he feared Grey might go to the magistrate, Sir John Fielding, with all the consequent trouble this might involve.
Grey did not know Sir John himself, but was reasonably sure that his mother did. Still, at this point, there was no need to invoke him. Realizing what was in Magruder’s mind, Grey did his best to show an attitude of relaxed affability and humble gratitude for the constable’s continued assistance.
“I thank you, sir, for your gracious accommodation. I hesitate to intrude further on your generosity—but if I might ask just one or two questions?”
“Oh, aye, sir.” Magruder went on looking wary, but relaxed a little, relieved that he was not about to be asked to conduct a time-consuming and probably futile investigation.
“I understand that Sergeant O’Connell was likely killed on Saturday night. Are you aware of any disturbances taking place in the neighborhood on that night?”
Magruder’s face twitched.
“Disturbances, Major? The whole place is a disturbance come nightfall, sir. Robbery from the person, purse-cutting, fights and street riots, disagreements betwixt whores and their customers, burglary of premises, theft, tavern brawls, malicious mischief, fire-setting, horse-stealing, housebreaking, random assaults . . .”
“Yes, I see. Still, we are reasonably sure that no one set Sergeant O’Connell on fire, nor yet mistook him for a lady of the evening.” Grey smiled to abjure any suspicions of sarcasm. “I am only seeking to narrow the possibilities, you see, sir.” He spread his hands, deprecatingly. “My duty, you understand.”
“Oh, aye.” Magruder was not without humor; a small gleam of it lit the narrow eyes and softened the harsh outlines of his face. He glanced from the papers on his desk to the hallway, down which echoed shouts and bangings from the prisoners in the rear, then back to Grey.
“I’ll have to speak to the constable of the night, go through the reports. If I see anything that might be helpful to your inquiry, Major, I’ll send round a note, shall I?”
“I should appreciate it very much, sir.” Grey rose promptly, and the two men parted with mutual expressions of esteem.
Tom Byrd was sitting on the pavement outside, still pale, but improved. He sprang to his feet at Grey’s gesture, and fell into step behind him.
Would Magruder produce anything helpful? Grey wondered. There were so many possibilities. Robbery from the person, Magruder had suggested. Perhaps . . . but knowing what he did of O’Connell’s ferocious temperament, Grey was not inclined to think that a gang of robbers would have chosen him at random—there were easier sheep to fleece, by far.
But what if O’Connell had succeeded in meeting the spymaster—if there was one, Grey reminded himself—and had turned over his documents and received a sum of money?
He considered the possibility that the spymaster had then murdered O’Connell to retrieve his money or silence a risk—but in that case, why not simply kill O’Connell and take the documents in the first place? Well . . . if O’Connell had been wise enough not to carry the documents on his person, and the spymaster knew it, he would presumably have taken care to obtain the goods before taking any
Constable Magruder was a small, foxy-looking man, with narrow eyes that darted constantly from doorway to desk and back again, lest anything escape his notice. Grey took some encouragement from this, hoping that few things
did
escape the constable of the day and the Bow Street Runners under his purview.
The constable knew Grey’s errand; he saw the wariness lurking at the back of the narrow eyes—and the quick flick of a glance toward the magistrate’s offices next door. It was apparent that he feared Grey might go to the magistrate, Sir John Fielding, with all the consequent trouble this might involve.
Grey did not know Sir John himself, but was reasonably sure that his mother did. Still, at this point, there was no need to invoke him. Realizing what was in Magruder’s mind, Grey did his best to show an attitude of relaxed affability and humble gratitude for the constable’s continued assistance.
“I thank you, sir, for your gracious accommodation. I hesitate to intrude further on your generosity—but if I might ask just one or two questions?”
“Oh, aye, sir.” Magruder went on looking wary, but relaxed a little, relieved that he was not about to be asked to conduct a time-consuming and probably futile investigation.
“I understand that Sergeant O’Connell was likely killed on Saturday night. Are you aware of any disturbances taking place in the neighborhood on that night?”
Magruder’s face twitched.
“Disturbances, Major? The whole place is a disturbance come nightfall, sir. Robbery from the person, purse-cutting, fights and street riots, disagreements betwixt whores and their customers, burglary of premises, theft, tavern brawls, malicious mischief, fire-setting, horse-stealing, housebreaking, random assaults . . .”
“Yes, I see. Still, we are reasonably sure that no one set Sergeant O’Connell on fire, nor yet mistook him for a lady of the evening.” Grey smiled to abjure any suspicions of sarcasm. “I am only seeking to narrow the possibilities, you see, sir.” He spread his hands, deprecatingly. “My duty, you understand.”
“Oh, aye.” Magruder was not without humor; a small gleam of it lit the narrow eyes and softened the harsh outlines of his face. He glanced from the papers on his desk to the hallway, down which echoed shouts and bangings from the prisoners in the rear, then back to Grey.
“I’ll have to speak to the constable of the night, go through the reports. If I see anything that might be helpful to your inquiry, Major, I’ll send round a note, shall I?”
“I should appreciate it very much, sir.” Grey rose promptly, and the two men parted with mutual expressions of esteem.
Tom Byrd was sitting on the pavement outside, still pale, but improved. He sprang to his feet at Grey’s gesture, and fell into step behind him.
Would Magruder produce anything helpful? Grey wondered. There were so many possibilities. Robbery from the person, Magruder had suggested. Perhaps . . . but knowing what he did of O’Connell’s ferocious temperament, Grey was not inclined to think that a gang of robbers would have chosen him at random—there were easier sheep to fleece, by far.
But what if O’Connell had succeeded in meeting the spymaster—if there was one, Grey reminded himself—and had turned over his documents and received a sum of money?
He considered the possibility that the spymaster had then murdered O’Connell to retrieve his money or silence a risk—but in that case, why not simply kill O’Connell and take the documents in the first place? Well . . . if O’Connell had been wise enough not to carry the documents on his person, and the spymaster knew it, he would presumably have taken care to obtain the goods before taking any
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