‘If he is secretly pro-French,’ James said slowly, ‘then why is he constantly suggesting that the Count is a French spy?’
‘True.’ I had to agree. ‘I think he’s a spiteful trouble-maker who likes to prod at people whenever he can see what he thinks is a weakness.’
I took a mouthful of port, something I had never liked and was now developing a taste for. Luc cracked nuts and James sat carving something out of Cheddar cheese. Garrick stared at the boards in silence.
‘I’m beginning to think that perhaps the Count isn’t so bad after all,’ I said eventually.
‘Why?’ Luc asked.
‘My enemy’s enemy, I suppose. And he makes a good showing against Reece, which is no reason to acquit him of anything except cowardice, of course. Oh, and he has a sense of humour.’
‘Do you want to add that to the board?’ Luc asked. ‘Possible murderous French agent but has good sense of humour.’
‘Ha ha.’
‘Was it worth copying all the names from Talbot’s ledgers?’ Garrick asked.
I shook my head. ‘I can’t see anything. No pattern, nothing to suggest that he had any sort of problem with a particular patient or her menfolk. No odd little codes that might have meant trouble.’ And yet… Something was niggling at me, some sense that I had missed something to do with those lists. I’d have another look at them, and at the coded ledgers as well. I almost mentioned it, then decided it was too nebulous.
‘Are we chasing a phantom connection here?’ Luc asked, topping up his glass. He lifted it, swirled it against the light and studied the blood-red contents. I remembered Talbot’s head, his own wound, and suppressed a shudder. ‘Coates commits suicide for some reason we still haven’t established, but which very likely has to do with the Home Office and possibly involved Elliott Reece. In a completely unconnected incident Talbot is murdered by someone we can’t even guess at for a motive we are absolutely in the dark about. What if it is coincidence? The only link between them is the fact that they were lovers.’
‘And friends of James,’ I added, thinking aloud, chasing some thread of an idea that whisked ahead of me, constantly out of reach. Coincidence… tangled threads.
‘What have I got to do with it?’ James demanded, sitting up so fast he cut the top off his cheese sculpture. A tiny head rolled across the carpet to my feet.
‘Nothing, you just have the same social circle, but I suppose Society is a pretty small pool in this time. What on earth’s this?’ I held up the little head.
‘Prinny in the nude.’ James held up the body and even Garrick collapsed with laughter when I handed back the head and he stuck the pieces together. ‘There are social circles within circles. You only have to look at the number of clubs – political factions, sporting interests, travellers, antiquarians, scientists, gamblers. And then there is social class and rank – more intersecting lines.’
‘And then the more secretive circles of those who have something to hide. Men who are attracted to men, those who enjoy slumming and are accepted into the edge of the criminal underworld,’ Garrick said.
‘That’s the men,’ I said and they all looked blank. ‘Or do you see the women merely as appendages of their husbands or fathers?’
Yes, was probably the answer to that, judging by their sheepish expressions. ‘You are wrong if you do.’ I was thinking of Chloe, but I would have bet a week’s earnings that the majority of the ladies I’d encountered had their own circles of friends and allies. Often they’d be in parallel with their menfolk’s interests but not always, I guessed. They would have their own intellectual circles, exchanging books their husbands would be shocked to know they read, attending lectures, veiled and at the back, but listening and learning all the same.
And they would plot and plan their way out of the difficulties the men landed them in as well – the lovers who refused to acknowledge a baby, the husbands who infected them with diseases or blamed them when they didn’t conceive. They would know who to ask the oblique question of, the friends or acquaintances who would mention, so casually in passing, that Doctor Talbot was so understanding and helpful. So discreet.
‘Timing and money. Talbot was killed after Coates died,’ I said slowly. ‘Could that be because once he was dead it was safe to attack Talbot? Or did his death trigger something that made it imperative that Talbot died? And where is the money in all this?’
‘What money?’ James asked. He had given the naked cheese Prince of Wales a half-walnut as a hat.
‘The money that enabled Coates to move downstairs to the better room. We’ve lost sight of that. He hadn’t had a promotion so where did it come from? Gaming? Betting?’
James shook his head. ‘He played, but only socially and he certainly didn’t gamble more than a small amount. When we all went to the races he’d lay on a guinea or two, but again, I’ve never seen him behave as though it was more than a pleasant form of entertainment.’
‘One question we have not asked,’ Garrick said, looking directly at Luc. ‘Was the person who killed Talbot the same as the one who attacked you?’
‘Good point.’ Luc scooped up a handful of broken walnut shell. ‘On the one hand they were both blows to the back of the head.’ He put a piece of shell to one side. ‘But the weapons were different.’ A piece began a second pile. ‘The attack on Talbot seems to been in anger, with a poker that came fortuitously to hand, but the attack on me was planned and used a professional’s weapon.’ Another piece of shell on the second pile.
‘The attackers do not seem to have been very different in height,’ Garrick contributed and Luc tossed another piece of shell onto the first pile.
‘A healthy woman could have delivered either blow,’ I said.
‘But the porters report no woman entering Albany,’ Garrick said.
‘Disguise is possible. And what about domestic staff? The porters simply wouldn’t notice them, would they?’
Lucian started a third pile. ‘Two for possibly the same, two for possibly not the same and one for no idea.’ He swept the shells aside with an impatient backhanded swipe. The clock struck eleven. ‘Are you stopping the night, James?’