He was alone, and his house was empty. Like it, he was waiting. Waiting for the next phase of life to rush in and fill him, engage him.
Warm him.
For a moment he stood silent and still, then he shook off the mood and opened the door.
Dalziel was in an armchair facing the door, an almost empty brandy balloon in one long-fingered hand. His brows rose faintly; his lips curved, cynical and amused, in welcome.
Tony eyed the entire vision with a misgiving he made no attempt to hide; Dalziel’s smile only deepened.
“Well?” Crossing to the tantalus, Tony poured a small measure of brandy, more to have something to do than anything else. He raised the decanter to Dalziel, who shook his head. Replacing the decanter, picking up the glass, he crossed to the other armchair. “To what do I owe this…unexpected visit?”
They both knew it wouldn’t have anything to do with pleasure.
“We’ve worked together for a long time.”
Tony sat. “Thirteen years. But I work for the government no longer, so what has that to say to anything?”
Dalziel’s dark eyes held his. “Simply that there are matters I cannot use less experienced men for, and in this case your peculiar background makes you too ideal a candidate to overlook.”
“Bonaparte’s on St. Helena. The French are finished.”
Dalziel smiled. “Not that peculiar background. I have other half-French agents. I meant that you have experience of Whitley’s side of things, and you have a better-than-average grasp of the possibilities involved.”
“Involved in what?”
“Ruskin’s death.” Dalziel studied the amber lights in the glass he turned between his fingers. “Some disturbing items came to light when they started clearing
the man’s desk. Jottings of shipping information derived from both Revenue and Admiralty documents. They appear to be scribbled notes for more formal communications.”
“Nothing in any way associated with his work?”
“No. He organized Customs clearances for merchantmen, hence his access to the internal Revenue and Admiralty notices. His job involved the dates of expected entry to our ports. The information jotted down relates to movement of ships in the Channel, especially its outermost reaches. There is no possible reason his job required such details.”
Dalziel paused, then added, “The most disturbing aspect is that these jottings span the years from 1812 to1815.”
“Ah.” As Dalziel had prophesied, Tony grasped the implication.
“Indeed. You now perceive why I’m here. Both I and Whitley are now extremely interested in learning who killed Ruskin, and most importantly why.”
Tony pondered, then looked at Dalziel, directly met his eyes. “Why me?” He could guess, but he wanted it confirmed.
“Because there is, as you’ve realized, the possibility that someone in Customs and Revenue, or the Home Office, or any of a multitude of government agencies is involved, in one capacity or another. It’s unlikely Ruskin could use the information himself, but someone knew he had access to it, and either made use of him themselves, or put someone else on to him. In either case, this nebulous someone might be in a position to know Whitley’s operatives. He won’t, however, know you.”
Dalziel paused, considering Tony. “The only connection you’ve had with Whitley’s crew was that operation you ran with Jonathon Hendon and George Smeaton. Both are now retired; both are sound. Despite Hendon’s background in shipping, he’s had no contact with Ruskin—and yes, I’ve checked. For the past several years, both Hendon and Smeaton have remained buried in Norfolk, and their only links in town are either purely social or purely commercial. Neither is a threat to you— and as I recall, no one else of Whitley’s crew ever knew who Antoine Balzac really was.”
Tony nodded. Antoine Balzac had been a large part of his past.
“On top of that, you found the body.” Dalziel met his gaze. “You are the epitome of an obvious choice.”
Tony grimaced and looked down, into his glass. It seemed as if the past was reaching out, trying to draw him back; he didn’t want to go. Yet all Dalziel said was true; he was the obvious choice…and Alicia Carrington was, at least peripherally, involved.
She wasn’t part of his past.
“All right.” He looked up. “I’ll nose around and see what connections I can turn up.”
Dalziel nodded and set his glass aside. “Ruskin worked at the main office of Customs and Revenue in Whitehall.” He gave details of the building, floor, and room. “I suggested that his papers, indeed, all his office be left as was. I gather that’s been done. Naturally, I’ve asked for no clearances. Let me know if you require any.”
Tony’s lips curved; he inclined his head. Both he and Dalziel knew he wouldn’t ask for clearances. He’d been an “unofficial agent” for too long.