“Mr Felix Knoll,” the stranger continued. “I’m given to understand his guardian resides at this address.”
“May I ask what business you have with Mr Knoll or his guardian?”
The stranger drew out his pocket-watch, huffed on its crystal face, and polished it with a silk handkerchief monogrammed in garish purple. Without looking up from his watch, he replied, “Mr Knoll has an account with my employer.”
Wren knew full well where this conversation must lead—and indeed had expected to encounter its like for some time now—but waited in silence for the stranger to make his point more plain. After all, the attention to the watch suggested the stranger had other such appointments to attend today, whereas Wren need not move from where he stood until eight o’ clock that night.
The stranger coughed into the monogrammed handkerchief before tucking it back into his waistcoat pocket, where at least half of it hung out in an audacious display. “I come today to remind Mr Knoll of the account.”
“I regret to inform you Mr Knoll is not at this address.” Wren felt safe enough admitting that much. “Perhaps you had better try his uncle—”
“Mr Tolhurst?” the stranger drawled. “Already been. Not there, so he says. And before you suggest, he’s not up at Oxford, neither. Must be somewhere. My employer would very much like to know where. We fear Mr Knoll has forgotten us.”
Wren put on his most placid face and said nothing.
The stranger tapped his cane against the threshold. “You tell him I’ve been by when you see him next, eh? Say Mr Woodbridge sends his regards.”
“Happily,” Wren replied.
The stranger gave him a grin as broad as it was insincere and turned to go out at last.
“Your pardon, sir!”
The stranger turned back with brows raised.
Wren withheld a sigh and stepped aside so Mr Grigsby need not shout over him again.
“You say, sir,” Mr Grigsby went on now that he had the man’s full attention, “that Mr Knoll is not in Oxford nor Rochester?”
“I do say so, sir,” the stranger replied. “Leastwise I’ve not found him there.”
“And you’ve spoken with his uncle?” Mr Grigsby pressed. “And his uncle has no notion where he may have gone?”
“No notion he’s tellin’ me,” the stranger replied, evidently annoyed at having to repeat himself.
Mr Grigsby had not finished. “And your name, sir?”
The stranger balked. Wren suppressed a smirk. Names did not have power over fae alone, it seemed.
“Your name,” Mr Grigsby insisted. “Sir.”
The stranger pursed his lips and chewed the inside of his cheek for a long moment before he spat out at last, “Smith.”
“Then, Mr Smith,” Mr Grigsby continued, nothing daunted, “when you do find Mr Knoll, tell him Mr Grigsby would very much like to speak with him.”
Smith blinked. “I’ll do that.”
And with a touch of two fingers to the brim of his hat, he turned his back on the pair of them and descended the stair.
Wren shut the door.
“Well!” said Mr Grigsby.
Wren waited.
Mr Grigsby pressed his lips into a thin white line and gave a solemn shake of his head. His brows knit together in a mixture of worry and shame. He ran both hands over his face, then wrung them. At last, he turned to Wren.
“Lofthouse,” Mr Grigsby began.
