Page 62 of A Murder in Bloomsbury

“Which clothes in particular?”

“All of ’em. Stiff things. Collars that choke a man. Coats with too many buttons. Trousers that pinch.”

“You have not yet worn any of them. How do you know they will pinch?”

“I’ve seen ’em. Boys round the village with their fathers. They walked like they was in armor. I’ll not walk like that.”

At twelve, I had walked through a great many drawing rooms feeling very much encased in armor myself. I had not enjoyed it. Unfortunately, I had also not been offered a choice.

“Some clothing is necessary, Will. The weather will grow colder both here and in Yorkshire. The coat you have will not see you through November.”

“Then I’ll have a coat. I’ll not have the rest.”

“What precisely constitutes ‘the rest’?”

He began counting upon his fingers. The list was suspiciously specific. I suspected he had spent the better part of his return from the tailor composing it.

“No starched collars. No waistcoat with watch chains. No boots what need polishing every morning. No shirts with frills at the wrists. No hat what wants taking off and putting on every five minutes.”

“Reasonable, on the whole. I shall not insist upon the frills.”

“And no school.”

“That is not clothes,” I said. “Though clearly it has occupied your mind.”

“Aye.”

“We shall address school in due course. For the moment, we are discussing clothing.”

He nodded once with the air of a negotiator satisfied to have secured a postponement without overplaying his position.

“What,” I asked, “would persuade you to return to Mr. Felling—or any other establishment of his sort—and permit yourself to be measured?”

“Why would I?”

“Because it is necessary, and because I am asking. Neither of those things is insignificant, though I grant they may not suffice. So I ask again. What would suffice?”

He weighed me carefully. And the question as well. “A dog,” he said.

“You want a dog?” I had not expected that answer.

“Aye.”

For the first time since the conversation began, he looked away from me altogether. “I had a dog once,” he said quietly. “Back at Beckwith. She were old. Died a fortnight before Mam.” He swallowed. “I’d like a dog.”

I said nothing immediately. Nothing I might have said would have honored the trust implicit in the admission. He had named both what he had lost and what he desired. And he had done so before a man he had little reason to trust.

A soft scrape of claw sounded beyond the door.

I had not summoned Ajax. He came when he pleased. He chose now with the unerring instinct of a creature who always knew where sorrow had settled.

“That will be Ajax,” I said. “Would you open the door?”

Will rose, crossed the room, and turned the handle.

Ajax entered at his unhurried pace, glanced at me, glanced at Will, and reached his decision.

He went directly to the boy and pressed the broad warm weight of his head against Will’s hip exactly as he had once pressed it against my hand the night I first brought him home. Will stood perfectly still. Slowly, uncertainly, his hand descended to rest upon Ajax’s neck.