Hearing Mayrhofer’s name from another source, and realizing that the man he spoke to was acting under an assumed identity, O’Connell had rather logically deduced that Trevelyan was Mayrhofer, negotiating incognito in hopes of keeping down the price. He therefore followed Trevelyan from the place of their last meeting—and tracked him with patience and skill to Lavender House.
Discerning the nature of the place from questions in the neighborhood, O’Connell had thought himself possessed of a marked advantage over the man he assumed to be Mayrhofer. He could confront the man at the scene of his presumed crimes, and then demand what he liked, without necessarily giving up anything in return.
He had, of course, been thwarted in this scheme when he found no one at Lavender House who had heard the name Mayrhofer. Baffled but persistent, O’Connell had hung about long enough to see Trevelyan depart, and had followed him back to the brothel in Meacham Street.
“I should never have gone directly to Lavender House,” Trevelyan admitted with a shrug. “But the business with O’Connell had taken longer than I thought—and I was in a hurry.” The Cornishman could not keep his eyes from the woman. Even from where he sat, Grey could see the flush of fever rising in her pallid cheeks.
“Normally, you would have gone to the brothel first, thence to Lavender House, and back again, in your disguise?” Grey asked.
“Yes. That was our usual arrangement. No one questions a gentleman’s going to a bordello—or a whore coming out of one, being taken to meet a customer.” Trevelyan said. “But Maria naturally could not meet me there. At the same time, no one would suspect a woman of entering Lavender House—no one who knew what sort of place it is.”
“An ingenious solution,” Grey said, with thinly veiled sarcasm. “One thing—why did you always employ a green velvet dress? Or dresses, as the case may be? Did you and Mrs. Mayrhofer both employ that disguise?”
Trevelyan looked uncomprehending for a moment, but then smiled.
“Yes, we did,” he said. “As for why green—” He shrugged. “I like green. It’s my favorite color.”
At the brothel, O’Connell had inquired doggedly for a gentleman in a green dress, possibly named Mayrhofer—only to have it strongly implied by Magda and her staff that he was insane. The result was naturally to leave O’Connell in some agitation of mind.
“He was not a practiced spy, as you note,” Trevelyan said, shaking his head with a sigh. “Already suspicious, he became convinced that some perfidy was afoot—”
“Which it was,” Grey put in, earning himself a brief glance of annoyance from Trevelyan, who nonetheless continued.
“And so I surmise that he decided he required some safer place of concealment for the papers he held—and thus returned to his wife’s lodgings in Brewster’s Alley.”
Where he had discovered his abandoned wife in an advanced state of pregnancy by another man, and with the irrationality of jealousy, proceeded to batter her senseless.
Grey massaged his forehead, closing his eyes briefly in order to counteract a tendency for his head to spin.
“All right,” he said. “The affair is reasonably clear to me so far. But,” he added, opening his eyes, “we have still two dead men to account for. Obviously, Magda told you that O’Connell had rumbled you. And yet you say you did not kill him? Nor yet Mayrhofer?”
A sudden rustling from the bed interrupted him, and he turned, startled.
“It was I who killed my husband, good sir.”
The voice from the bed was soft and husky, with no more than a hint of foreign accent, but all three men jerked, startled as though it had been a trumpet blast. Maria Mayrhofer lay upon her side, hair tangled over her pillow. Her eyes were huge, glazed with encroaching fever, but still luminous with intelligence.
Trevelyan went at once to kneel beside her, feeling her cheek and forehead.
“Scanlon,” he said, a tone of command mingled with one of appeal.
The apothecary went at once to join him, touching her gently beneath the jaw, peering into her eyes—but she turned her head away from him, closing her eyes.
“I am well enough for the moment,” she said. “This man—” She waved in Grey’s direction. “Who is he?”
Grey stood, keeping his feet awkwardly as the deck rose under him, and bowed to her.
“I am Major John Grey, madam. I am appointed by the Crown to investigate a matter”—he hesitated, uncertain how—or whether—to explain—“a matter that has impinged upon your own affairs. Did I understand you to say that you had killed Herr Mayrhofer?”
“Yes, I did.”
Scanlon had withdrawn to check his hell-brew, and she rolled her head to meet Grey’s gaze again. She was too weak to lift her head from the pillow, and yet her eyes held something prideful—almost insolent, despite her state—and he had a sudden glimmer of what it was that had so attracted the Cornishman.
“Maria …” Trevelyan set a hand on her arm in warning, but she disregarded it, keeping her gaze imperiously on Grey.
“What does it matter?” she asked, her voice still soft, but clear as crystal. “We are on the water now. I feel the waves that bear us on; we have escaped. This is your realm, is it not, Joseph? The sea is your kingdom, and we are safe.” A tiny smile played over her lips as she watched Grey, making him feel very odd indeed.
“I have left word,” Grey felt obliged to point out. “My whereabouts are known.”
The smile grew.
“So someone knows you are en route to India,” she said mockingly. “Will they follow you there, do you think?”
India. Grey had not received leave from the lady to sit in her presence, but did so anyway. The weakness of his knees owed something both to the swaying of the ship and to the aftereffects of mercury poisoning—but somewhat more to the news of their destination.
Still fighting giddiness, the first thought in his head was relief that he had managed that scribbled note to Quarry. At least I won’t be shot for desertion, when—or if—I finally manage to get back. He shook his head briefly to clear it, and sat up straight, setting his jaw.
There was no help for it, and nothing to be done now, save carry out his duty to the best of his ability. Anything further must be left to Providence.
“Be that as it may, madam,” he said firmly. “It is my duty to learn the truth of the death of Timothy O’Connell—and any matters that may be associated with it. If your state permits, I would hear whatever you can tell me.”
“O’Connell?” she murmured, and turned her head restlessly on the pillow, eyes half-closing. “I do not know this name, this man. Joseph?”
“No, dear one, it’s nothing to do with you, with us.” Trevelyan spoke soothingly, a hand on her hair, but his eyes searched her face uneasily. Glancing from him to her, Grey could see it, too; her face was growing markedly pale, as though some force pressed the blood from her skin.
All at once, there were gray shadows in the hollows of her bone; the lush curve of her mouth paled and pinched, lips nearly disappearing. The eyes, too, seemed to retreat, going dull and shrinking away into her skull. Trevelyan was talking to her; Grey sensed the worry in his tone, but paid no attention to the words, his whole attention fixed upon the woman.
Scanlon had come to look, was saying something. Quinine, something about quinine.
A sudden shudder closed her eyes and blanched her features. The flesh itself seemed to draw in upon her bones as she huddled deeper into the bedclothes, shaking. Grey had seen malarial chills before, but even so, was shocked at the suddenness and strength of the attack.
“Madam,” he began, stretching out a hand to her, helpless. He had no notion what to do, but felt that he must do something, must offer comfort of some kind—she was so fragile, so defenseless in the grip of the disease.
“She cannot speak with you,” Trevelyan said sharply, and gripped his arm. “Scanlon!”
The apothecary had a small brazier going; he had already seized a pair of tongs and plucked a large stone that he had heating in the coals. He dropped this into a folded linen towel and, holding it gingerly, hurried to the bedside, where he burrowed under the sheets, placing the hot stone at her feet.
“Come away,” Trevelyan ordered, pulling at Grey’s arm. “Mr. Scanlon must care for her. She cannot talk.”
This was plainly true—and yet she lifted her head and forced her eyes to open, teeth gritted hard against the chills that racked her.
“J-J-J-Jos-seph!”
“What, darling? What can I do?” Trevelyan abandoned Grey upon the instant, falling to his knees beside her.
She seized his hand and held it hard, fighting the chill that shook her bones.
“T-T-Tell him. If we b-both are d-dead … I would be j-j-justified!”
Both? Grey wondered. He had no time to speculate upon the meaning of that; Scanlon had hurried back with his steaming beaker, had lifted her from the pillow. He was holding the vessel to her lips, murmuring encouragement, willing her to sip at it, even as the hot liquid slopped and spilled from her chattering teeth. Her long hands rose and wrapped themselves about the cup, clinging tightly to the fugitive warmth. The last thing he saw before Trevelyan forced him from the cabin was the emerald ring, hanging loose from a bony finger.
He followed Trevelyan upward through the shadows to the open deck. The bedlam of setting sail had subsided now, and half the crew had vanished below. Grey had barely noticed his surroundings earlier; now he saw the clouds of snowy canvas billowing above, and the polished wood and brightwork of the ship. The Nampara was under full sail and flying like a live thing; he could feel the ship—feel her; they called ships “she”—humming beneath his feet, and felt a sudden unexpected exhilaration.
The waves had changed from the gray of the harbor to the lapis blue of deep sea, and a brisk wind blew through his hair, carrying away the smells of illness and confinement. The last remnants of his own illness seemed also to blow away on that wind—perhaps only because his debilities seemed inconsequent, by contrast with the desperate straits of the woman below.
There was still bustle on deck, and shouting to and fro between the deck and the mysterious realm of canvas above, but it was more orderly, less obtrusive now. Trevelyan made his way toward the stern, finding a place at the rail where they would not obstruct the sailors’ work, and there they leaned for a time, wind cleansing them, watching together as the final sight of England disappeared in distant mist.
“Will she die, do you think?” Grey asked eventually. It was the thought uppermost in his own mind; it must be so for Trevelyan as well.
“No,” the Cornishman snapped. “She will not.” He leaned on the rail, staring moodily into the racing water.
Grey didn’t speak, merely closed his eyes and let the glitter of the sun off the waves make dancing patterns of red and black inside his lids. He needn’t push; there was time now for everything.
“She is worse,” Trevelyan said at last, unable to bear the silence. “She shouldn’t be. I have seen malaria often; the first attack is normally the worst—if there is cinchona for treatment, subsequent attacks grow less frequent, less severe. Scanlon says so, too,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“Has she suffered long with the disease?” Grey asked, curious. It was not a malady that often afflicted city-dwellers, but the lady might perhaps have acquired it in the course of traveling with Mayrhofer.
“Two weeks.”
Grey opened his eyes, to see Trevelyan standing upright, his short hair flicked into a crest by the wind, chin raised. Water stood in his eyes; perhaps it was caused by the rushing wind.
“I should not have let him do it,” Trevelyan muttered. His hands clenched on the rail in a futile rage tinged with despair. “Christ, how could I have let him do it?”
“Who?” Grey asked.
“Scanlon, of course.” Trevelyan turned away momentarily, rubbing a wrist across his eyes, then dropped back, leaning against the rail, his back to the sea. He folded his arms across his chest and stared moodily ahead, intent on whatever dire visions he harbored within.
“Let us walk,” Grey suggested, after a moment. “Come; the air will do you good.”
Trevelyan hesitated, but then shrugged and assented. They walked in silence for some time, circling the deck, dodging seamen about their tasks.
Mindful of his leather-heeled boots and the heaving deck, Grey strode carefully at first, but the boards were dry, and the motion of the ship a stimulus to his senses; despite his own predicament, he felt his spirits rise with the blood that surged through his cheeks and refreshed his cramped limbs. He began to feel truly himself again for the first time in days.
True, he was captive on a ship headed for India, and thus unlikely to see home again soon. But he was a soldier, used to long journeys and separations—and the thought of India, with all its mysteries of light and histories of blood, was undeniably exciting. And Quarry could be trusted to inform his family that he was likely still alive.
What would his family do about the wedding preparations? he wondered. Trevelyan’s abrupt flight would be an enormous scandal, and an even greater one if word got out—which indubitably it would—of the involvement of Frau Mayrhofer and of her husband’s shocking murder. He was not disposed to believe the lady’s claim to have killed Mayrhofer; not after seeing the body. Even in health, for a woman to have done that … and Maria Mayrhofer was slightly built, no larger than his cousin Olivia.
Poor Olivia; her name would be spread over the London broadsheets for weeks as the jilted fiancée—but at least her personal reputation would be spared. Thank God the affair had come to a head before the wedding, and not afterward. That was something.