‘Mr Thornbury, I’ve a Dr Sandys for you.’
Thornbury, a prematurely bald man of about Jacob’s age, looked up from the paper bed on which his egg-like head nestled. His eyes held a friendly expression of expectation which told Jacob that Knighton had prepared the way for him.
Jacob bowed. ‘Mr Thornbury, I’m very grateful you can make time for me.’
Thornbury got up and stretched, a bounce in his movement. ‘Make time? My dear sir, you can consider your presence here more as a rescue. I’m positively drowning in paperwork!’ He came out from behind his desk and offered his hand. ‘Ever been in government?’
Jacob shook his head. ‘Though I’ve had dealings with the military authorities running a field hospital. I have some idea of the mountains of paperwork involved.’
‘I’ve reports coming in from all over the world and I’m supposed to make sense of them– a hopeless task, as whatever action we might’ve taken is likely out of date now. You have to hope the man on the spot is up to snuff and can take the initiative.’ Thornbury reached for his hat on the hatstand. ‘Chop?’
It took Jacob a second to realise this was an invitation to go to a chophouse for a bite to eat. Some days when investigating he could find himself skipping meals; today appeared to be making up for that.
‘An excellent idea.’
‘Let’s go to the Silver Cross.’
They marched quickly up Whitehall, past Melbourne House where a few months ago Jacob had met Lord Byron at one of Lady Caroline Lamb’s fashionable daytime dancing parties. He was struck now by how close the two worlds were– the serious business of running the British Empire next to the frivolous one of flirtation and balls. Thornbury didn’t even spare the housea glance, paying as little attention to the glittering sons and daughters of high society as they paid to him.
The Foreign Office man pushed into the fug of beer and smoke, fighting his way through to a spare table near the back of the tavern. A waiter, a sly fellow with eyes that were everywhere but on the customer he was serving, approached.
‘Two chops and two pints of my usual,’ said Thornbury.
‘Right away, sir.’ The waiter sloped away to fill the order. Places like these liked to serve quickly to maximise the number of customers they could seat in the dinner hour.
Thornbury slid into the bench seat, the high back cutting down the buzz of noise. ‘Hope you don’t mind me ordering for you? I don’t have long.’
‘Not at all.’ Jacob gave the room a swift survey. The majority of customers were government servants like Thornbury. Nobody spared them a second glance, heads down over their plates, newspapers folded on the table in front of them as they scanned the houses for sale, auctions to be held, books published and coroners’ reports. ‘Did Knighton explain why I wished to speak to you?’
Thornbury nodded. ‘The D’Antraigues murders. Terrible business. Why do you want to dig all that up? The servant did himself in before we got to him– saved the hangman a noose, I suppose.’
Jacob agreed with Thornbury but he had a client to satisfy. ‘The person who asked me to investigate is worried that wild tales about the latecomtewill begin to circulate once the ton return for the season, that speculation could harm the living.’
The waiter slapped two tankards down with little ceremony, froth spilling over the side to ring the pewter mugs. ‘Be right back with your chops, sir,’ he said as if he hadn’t just created a wash of ale on the table.
Thornbury grinned, amused rather than annoyed by the casual service. ‘They’re busy.’
‘So I see.’ Jacob moved his mug out of the puddle.
‘As for wild speculation, D’Antraigues was one of those characters who lived a life stranger than anything you could read about in a gothic novel. If rumours are spreading, then I suggest they might be true.’
That wasn’t helpful, but before Jacob could remark on this, the waiter was back. This time the gravy went flying when he banged the plates down. Prepared, Jacob grabbed his elbow before he could retreat.
‘Cloth?’
The waiter looked at him as if he were speaking Greek.
‘For the table?’
With a harrumph of annoyance, the waiter tugged a rag from his belt and ineffectually wiped the surface, leaving a good smear of beery gravy behind.
Thornbury’s eyes were laughing even if he was too polite to snigger. ‘My advice is don’t rest your elbows on the table. Let’s set to. They’ll want the table in a quarter of an hour.’
Warned, Jacob began carving up his chop. At least this was cooked well, not overdone so that the meat resembled boot leather; rather, it melted in the mouth after a few chews.
‘Good?’ asked Thornbury.
‘Surprisingly, yes.’
