“It seems he was coshed, most likely knocked unconscious, then tossed into the water. He would have drowned quickly.”
The bishop glanced at Clarice. Although pale, she was holding up better than he. The sight seemed to stiffen his spine. “Yes, well, we will, of course, do all that’s necessary. If you could have the body delivered here—”
A knock fell on the door. The bishop scowled. “What is it?” His tone was querulous; he was deeply shaken.
Olsen looked in. “I apologize for interrupting, my lord, but a message has arrived for Lord Warnefleet.”
Jack crossed to meet Olsen. Ta
king the note, he glanced at the seal, then broke it. Unfolding the note, he glanced at the bishop. “It’s from Christian Allardyce—Dearne.”
The bishop blinked. “He’s one of you, too?”
Jack didn’t answer. Scanning the note’s contents, he returned to where the bishop, Clarice, and the dean waited, Olsen at his heels. “Two evenings ago, Humphries was seen walking along the river bank near Tower Bridge. He was with another man—a large man, soberly dressed, with a pale, very round face.” He looked up.
Clarice met his eyes. “The same man—the courier-cum-informer we’ve been tripping over all along, from Avening to here.”
Jack nodded.
“But…why kill poor Humphries?” The bishop looked bewildered.
“Presumably because Humphries knew this man too well and could identify him.” Jack sighed. “I suspect we’ve reached a dead end with our investigations. Unless Humphries has left any information in his room?”
He looked at Olsen and the dean; both shook their heads.
“When he didn’t return,” the dean said, “we searched everywhere hoping to find the name of some meeting place, some address or way of contacting this person, but there was nothing in Humphries’ papers.”
Jack grimaced. “Standard practice. Nothing ever to be written down.”
A moment passed as they absorbed the fact that not only was Humphries dead, but that his murderer would almost certainly escape justice.
Clarice stirred. “What about the charges against James?”
The bishop blinked, refocused, then waved his hand. “Consider them erased.” He met Clarice’s eyes. “I’m exceedingly glad I forbade James to leave Avening. Bad enough I’ve lost one good man to this…this charade of someone’s making. If I’d lost James, too, I would have been extremely unhappy. I will, of course, write to him, but I would be greatly obliged if, when you see him, you would assure him of my continued support and that we look to see him when next he ventures to the capital for his studies.”
“Indeed, my lord.” Clarice curtsied.
Jack bowed. “If you will excuse us, my lord, I believe I should take this information to Whitehall without delay.”
Reiterating his thanks, the bishop dismissed them.
Olsen and the dean followed them out. Jack assured them Humphries’ body would be delivered shortly to the palace. Teddy appeared as they crossed the front hall; he spoke briefly with Clarice, then stood on the steps with Olsen and the dean as Jack handed Clarice up into the carriage. With a salute to the three men, Jack joined her. The coachman flicked his whip and the carriage rolled smoothly down the palace drive.
Whitehall wasn’t far away.
Clarice, of course, had absolutely no intention of waiting in the carriage while Jack consulted with Dalziel. Jack was perfectly sure she wanted another look at his enigmatic superior, and he saw no reason to deny her; it might jog her memory over who Dalziel was.
He ushered her into the bowels of the building, into the anteroom that gave onto Dalziel’s office. He gave his name to the unassuming clerk, to whom it meant nothing. While the clerk went to inquire his master’s pleasure, Jack wondered if Dalziel constantly changed clerks; they were never the same.
The clerk returned almost immediately. “He will see you now, but the lady must remain here.”
Jack knew from the way the clerk very nearly quailed that Clarice had narrowed her eyes at him. Before she could cut the poor man to ribbons, he squeezed her hand. “No point. He’s a law unto himself. Wait here, I won’t be long.”
He left her muttering about the trumped-up behavior of scions of the nobility, of which she, of course, was one. She couldn’t see his smile as he walked down the short corridor to Dalziel’s room, the highly relieved clerk trotting before him. The clerk showed him in, then departed, closing the door.
Dalziel rose from behind his desk; he extended his hand and Jack shook it, a courtesy they wouldn’t have exchanged before, but Jack was no longer one of Dalziel’s subordinates. Now, they met more or less as equals, as gentlemen tying up the final untidy threads of a decades-long war.
Dalziel’s gaze had raked his face the instant he’d walked into the room. Now, waving him to the chair before the desk, Dalziel slumped heavily back into his. “I take it you bear no good news?”