Page 63 of A Murder in Bloomsbury

The boy did not weep. Nor, so far as I could tell, did his expression alter at all. Yet his shoulders—held so tightly these past three days I had begun to suspect they were built that way—lowered by half an inch.

Ajax sat heavily against his leg and regarded me with the satisfied expression of a creature convinced he had accomplished precisely what was required of him.

“He is yours for the afternoon,” I said, “if you will have him. He is not obedient to anyone but myself, and even then only in matters he considers worthy of his attention.”

“He’s a fine dog.”

“He is.”

“Why’d you call him Ajax?”

I considered offering a comfortable evasion. Instead I gave him the truth, because he had given me one of his. “He was a Greek soldier in the old stories. He did not receive what he was owed. The men who told the tale were not especially kind to him. I thought he deserved better company.”

Will absorbed this quietly. He looked down at Ajax, who looked back up at him. “He’s not like the dog I had at home.”

“No. Nor do I propose him as a replacement. But I believe he is prepared to be a friend, and you will require one of those.”

“Aye,” Will said softly. “I might.”

He settled back onto the floor more slowly this time. Ajax adjusted himself until his head rested within easy reach of the boy’s hand. Will scratched behind his ears with the economy of someone who had spent years in the company of dogs.

“About the clothes,” I said.

“Aye.”

“We may return to Mr. Felling tomorrow morning. Or you may instead accompany me to my own tailor, Mr. Wells, on Pall Mall. He has measured me since I was twelve. He is not a conversational man, and he will not touch you without warning. I shall remain present throughout. And you may keep your present coat until you possess one you prefer.”

He did not answer immediately. He was considering the full architecture of the offer. No coercion. Company instead of abandonment. And the assurance that the coat—his final surviving piece of Yorkshire—would not be taken before he was prepared to relinquish it.

“Mr. Wells,” he said at last.

“Mr. Wells.”

“Will Ajax come?”

“He may, provided he is not asked to be measured himself. He is firm upon that point.”

Will smiled then. Briefly. Crookedly. The first true smile I had seen upon his face. It vanished almost at once, but I had seen it. “Aye,” he said. “Mr. Wells, then.” He looked up again. “And the dog?”

“You shall have a dog of your own. Not merely the temporary loan of mine. We shall see to it. But you shall choose him yourself.”

He received this information slowly. I suspected he had spent most of his life believing choice to be a privilege reserved for other people. “All right,” he said.

“Now then. About school.”

His shoulders climbed at once toward his ears.

“I have asked a tutor to call upon me today. He was recommended by a friend of mine. If I approve of him, I shall ask you to meet him. Then I shall leave the two of you alone together so you may each hear what the other has to say. If, and only if, you agree to his instruction, he will become your tutor. If you dislike him, we shall continue the search elsewhere.”

“Thank ’ee.”

“But upon this point I remain adamant. A gentleman requires an education. That is what you are. So tell me—what say you to the arrangement?”

“Will the cove talk like a book same as you?”

I fought not to smile. “If he does, you may politely request more casual language. Does that meet with your approval?”

He worked his mouth thoughtfully from side to side. “I’ll let you know after I talk with the cove.”