Humphries did not appreciate being pressured. His narrow chin tightened; he clasped his hands, before him on the desk, more firmly. “My evidence for the actual secrets passed comes from the only reliable source there could be. The person Altwood handed the secrets to.”
“And this person is?”
Humphries’ lips set in a thin line. “I’m not prepared to divulge this person’s identity prior to the hearing. However, as Whitehall is demanding, the information passed included the disposition and strengths of our forces prior to the seige of Badajoz, the same prior to the rout at Corunna, and more recently, the details of the deployment to Belgium some weeks prior to Waterloo.”
Jack kept his face expressionless, briefly flicked his eyes to Clarice to warn her to keep silent. Although two of the subsequent battles had been won, the three engagements cited had each resulted in heavy losses. As a student of military matters, Humphries would know that better than most.
“The three recent meetings you’ve cited, what was passed at them?” They’d supposedly occurred over the early months of 1815.
Humphries hesitated, then replied, “At those meetings, Altwood passed information on, respectively, the details of the demobilization, the strengths of our troops left standing, and our ability to remobilize and the order of same. Such information would have been vital in planning Napoleon’s return.”
Jack inclined his head. “Have you seen any evidence yourself—lists in Altwood’s hand, maps—that he passed on to this courier?”
Humphries pouted. “I haven’t seen them myself, but I’ve been assured they exist. The courier has copies.”
“Copies.” Jack stilled. “Not the originals?”
“He had to hand the originals to his masters.”
Clarice couldn’t restrain herself. “How fortunate.”
Humphries frowned but refused to meet her eye.
Jack pressed again for the courier’s name, but Humphries held firm; Jack called a halt before Clarice could use her tongue to flay him. The meeting broke up; Humphries departed. After confirming to Olsen that what he’d said about contradictory evidence was true, and asking him to stress to Humphries that that was indeed the case, Jack, with Clarice beside him, walked back to the front hall and out of the palace.
As they strolled down the drive, Jack glanced back at the towering edifice. “He honestly believes he’s doing the right thing, that he’s been called on to carry Justice’s sword.”
Clarice humphed. “He needs to remember she carries scales, too, and why.” After a moment, she added, “And she’s a woman.”
Jack smiled, but the gesture faded as he paced beside Clarice. “Whoever set this up—Dalziel’s last traitor—has tied Humphries up tight. Prodded by his jealousy of James, and with what must have initially appeared perfectly plausible evidence, he’s gone out on a limb. Now, even though we’re demolishing that evidence, he’s not going to back down, at least not before the hearing in the bishop’s court.”
Clarice glanced at him. “Are we going to have enough evidence gathered by then?” Olsen had told them the bishop, anxious to get the sensitive matter laid to rest with all speed, had scheduled the hearing for five days hence.
Jack grimaced. “It won’t be easy, but it’s possible.” They reached the gate, and he halted. “Apropos of that, I must get back to the club and the others. We need to consider the order of our attack.”
Clarice hid a smile at his phrasing and the distant expression in his eyes. Then he refocused on her; she felt her heart flutter, but then it settled into its normal, reliable rhythm. She grimaced lightly up at him. “I have to attend a slew of afternoon teas. Your aunts made me promise. It’ll be perfectly ghastly, but”—she shrugged—“it probably is necessary. We have to make it clear I’m back, to everyone, including Moira. She’s expected at two of the teas.”
Jack grinned, took her hand, and raised it to his lips. Kissed. “I’d back you over Moira in any battle.”
She laughed. A hackney rolled toward them; Jack hailed it, handed her up, then told the driver to return her to Benedict’s. Sitting back on the cushions, Clarice watched the posts of Lambeth Bridge slide past; imagining the afternoon ahead of her, full of the social whirl, she wished instead she could remain with Jack.
She’d rather be with him than anyone else in the ton.
Over the next three days, Jack, Deverell, Christian, and Tristan worked solidly to undermine Humphries’ allegations.
They first took statements, sworn in the presence of Jack and one of the others, from three witnesses from each of the three taverns named—the barman, and two regulars acknowledged as near-permanent fixtures in each case. Each swore they had never known any clergyman to set foot in their establishment; given the dates and times of the supposed meetings, they would have been present and would have seen James, if he’d been there.
That done, the four club members turned their persuasive talents on the less-reputable crew who had agreed in exchange for coins to swear that James Altwood had been present at the same three meetings. Faced with the sworn statements of the others, especially those of the barmen, and assured they would be excused from appearance before any court should they now elect to tell the truth, all recanted. And signed statements to that effect.
Jack and his three comrades were celeb
rating their success in the club’s library when Alton arrived. Shown up by Gasthorpe, he looked around, intrigued, then reported that he and his brothers had identified at least one social event James had attended on the evening of each of the meetings, and had found ladies with diaries who could vouch that he’d been present at all three events.
“Given the times”—Alton held out his list to Jack—“it’s difficult to see how James could have been dining with these people yet simultaneously in some tavern in Southwark.”
Alton was invited to join the celebration.
Ten minutes later, Gasthorpe summoned Jack; a messenger from Whitehall had arrived. Jack went down, accepted the package, briefly checked the sheets of paper it contained, then, grinning, returned to the library.