Fielding snorted. “Say the word, Renforth, and he will quote his wife as though she comes from the Scriptures.”
“She could be of the Scriptures,” Stuart said without shame, “in that she keeps me from sin.”
This laughter settled the tension somewhat, but Edmund remained still, unable to summon amusement.
Renforth set down his glass. “This is not a trivial matter. It would seem that an item has gone missing from the War Office.”
“What, besides their common sense?” Baines asked facetiously.
“A ledger,” Renforth said, “but not an ordinary one. It is ciphered and very secure—or so it was thought.”
Code was Edmund’s particular skill, or had been during the war.
Stuart’s brows lifted. “Whose cipher?”
Deliberately, Renforth looked around the circle. “’Tis that of a Captain Larkin, a naval officer.”
“If this is a Navy matter, why us?” Stuart asked.
“The War Office wants impartiality.”
The words struck Edmund like a physical blow. He felt his spine stiffen and his lungs falter.
Captain Larkin had been a school friend of his brother’s.
“But Larkin is dead,” he said. “He drowned at sea with half his crew. And the cipher they used?—”
“Would have been decommissioned,” Manners said, his voice low, “after the war. No one should be using it.”
Renforth’s gaze settled on him. “Precisely.”
Fielding sat up straighter. “The ledger contains what, exactly?”
“Everything not meant to see daylight,” Renforth said. “Intelligence assets. Shipments. Bribes paid and bribes taken. The names of families who aided our men. The names of familieswho betrayed them. Illegal seizures, unauthorized raids… every sin the Admiralty would have burned if it dared.”
“Good Lord,” Manners breathed. “When was it stolen?”
“We do not yet know, but fragments of the cipher have been appearing in messages intercepted along the coast. Someone is apparently reactivating Larkin’s old network… and someone appears to be reconstructing the cipher.”
“Could it be one of ours?” Stuart asked quietly.
Renforth held his silence for a long moment.
Baines gave a low whistle. “Well, that answers that.”
The crackling of the fire suddenly seemed too loud.
Manners frowned. “Is there a suspect?”
Renforth exhaled, then picked up a paper from the table. “We traced the earliest fragments to Plymouth—unremarkable except for the naval docks and one thing.” He tapped the paper. “Captain Larkin’s widow lives there, in a place known as Belair House.”
“Belair House?” Fielding repeated. “Is that the one that belongs to an Elphinstone? I have heard the name.”
Renforth nodded. “Captain Thomas Elphinstone, Royal Navy. A kinsman of Admiral Lord Keith. During the summer of ’15, when Bonaparte lay aboard theBellerophonin the Sound, awaiting his fate, Lord Keith used the house for a Council of War.”
Manners gave a low whistle. “The house has thus seen more than young ladies’ French verbs.”
“Indeed,” Renforth said. “Larkin’s widow is a relative and acquired it from Elphinstone’s estate after the war. He was the owner when the fate of Europe was being sealed. It is hardly an ordinary house, nor was Larkin an ordinary man.”
