A Seditious Affair(27)

It hit Silas in the belly. Feckless Harry, so cheerfully comfortable in his new life, doing that? Silas loved the young idiot, always had, but he had no illusions. Flexible to a fault, Harry was, never taking a stand.

But he’d done it now, for Silas.

“Well,” he said, hearing the rasp in his voice. “Good lad. Is he all right?”

“He is in grave disgrace with his family, and word of his undesirable associations is spreading,” Frey rapped out, and perhaps Silas’s face showed something at that, because he went on in a somewhat more measured tone. “But he has good friends by him too. One in particular is very fierce in his support.”

“Fop fellow, might that be?”

“Indeed.”

Harry’s lover. Silas sniffed. “Doesn’t sound much use to me.”

“He is, when he cares to be, one of the most offensive men in London. You should have heard him on the topic of this damned coat. Oh, blast it. The fact is, Skelton is rebuffed for the moment only. Down, but far from out. He thinks that Harry has the knowledge to incriminate you. So do I, as it happens.” Frey gave a wintry smile. “I don’t know whether he believes this story about the fire to be true, but if he learns that Harry gave your man a coat and a purse of money, it will certainly lend support to his theory. It does not look good.”

“That’s what I reckoned.”

“Has anyone in authority seen this?”

“Just the watch, far as I know. We’ve not called the crowner yet; I wanted to talk to you first. Well, Harry, but—”

“You had the good sense to stay well away from him,” Frey completed. “What are your thoughts?”

“I’m inclined to burn the coat,” Silas said bluntly. “George wasn’t killed for it, or the money either.”

“Any idea why he was killed?”

“None. Had a mouth on him, so maybe he spoke sidewise to the wrong fellow. I’d say burn the coat and give the money to George’s mother. God knows she’ll need it. But if I did that, then turns out the watch kept a record of what he was wearing…”

“It would look even worse for you and Harry.”

“Or for George, if he’s accused of stealing. And there’s Martha, his ma. What if anyone asks where the money came from? Bad enough to have lost her boy.”

“I see.” Frey frowned. “Presumably the watch were not aware of the large sum on the body?”

“Or they’d have stolen it? Ha. Can’t say. His father was a watchman, so perhaps…”

“So it is possible that the coat and the money are a matter of record.” He considered a moment. “Have you a pen and paper?”

Silas produced them, well aware that the nib was badly cut, the ink thick. Frey made no comment as he bent to write brief memoranda on three separate pages. There was no sound for a little while but the scratch of the pen.

“There.” Frey straightened. “The coat, please.”

Silas looked at the first paper, written in a beautiful copperplate hand despite the bad nib. It was a receipt for the coat, with a brief description, and a signature: Dominic Frey.

“You’re taking it as evidence?” he said, not quite believing what he saw. “Against Harry? What the—”

“Do try not to be so tediously suspicious. I’m going to burn it,” Frey said, cold and clear. “And I hope that will be the end of this accursed garment, but should any questions arise, you have a receipt. I took it; what happens to it is my responsibility and none of your concern. Give me the purse.”

Silas thought about that for a moment, then fished it out of his desk drawer and tossed the heavy little bag over.

Frey’s hand closed around it. “That’s now in my custody. That bag there, please.”

Silas handed over the burlap sack. Frey emptied the stream of golden guineas into it with a metallic chinking and pocketed the empty purse.

“Very well. I have, officially, taken custody of the purse. I have also given you a sum of money to pass to the bereaved mother, with my condolences, and with a note to that effect in case of questions.”

“Taking a lot on yourself, ain’t you?”

“You know, I’m sure we discussed this. My station in life gives me greater responsibilities.” He gave a superior nod. “Don’t concern yourself anymore. It’s in my charge.”

The bastard. Silas opened his mouth, closed it in impotent fury, saw the glint of satisfaction in the other man’s eyes, and for one mad second, had to bite back an urge to laugh.

“Aye, well,” he managed, unable to think of a suitable retort. He should probably thank the sod, but he was damned if he’d do that.