A Seditious Affair(28)
“Very good.” Frey took up his hat and the coat. “I shall let Harry know not to do anything so foolhardy again.”
“Tell him about George too, will you?” Silas grimaced. “They were friends.”
Frey’s rigid shoulders seemed to soften a little. “Yes. I will. I am sorry for your loss.”
Silas nodded. Frey nodded back and walked out of the shop.
Silas stared after him. That was that then. Not even a goodbye. Fair enough, after he’d planted the man a facer. It said something for him that he’d come at all, in fact, let alone that he’d so unquestioningly taken a problem for Harry, Martha, and Silas onto his own shoulders.
He’d never thought of the Tory as weak. But Dominic Frey in full, effortless authority was something else. Something—
Something Silas would have liked to think of next Wednesday, to make that strength bend for him, but there would be no next Wednesday, not ever.
He’d known it was over. He’d punched Frey and told him to piss off and thought that was it. But somehow the reality of the Tory walking away without a farewell left a cavernous hole inside Silas that was too big to comprehend.
He was still staring dumbly at the door when it reopened.
“The devil with this.” Frey strode in and shut the door behind him with a bang. “Are we alone? Good. I’m not ending it this way.”
“What?”
“Our Wednesdays meant something to me, damn it. Not just the acts. I still have books of yours to return, for heaven’s sake. I wouldn’t have chosen to end our time together as we did. As I did. I panicked, to tell truth, and I regret that, and— Will you come next Wednesday?”
Silas sucked in a breath through his teeth, almost a gasp.
“Just to talk,” Frey added hastily. “To end things like decent men. I think we owe each other that, and I don’t want to do it over a body.”
“Just to talk?”
“Yes. Not—I can’t stress this enough—as an opportunity for violent assault.”
“Aye, I meant to say. Sorry about that.”
“You may damned well be, the trouble you caused me. Will you come?”
“To Millay’s?”
The Tory looked a little pink. “Well, it’s a safe place to talk, and easier than finding somewhere new. And I shouldn’t come back here.”
“No. All right. Just to talk, like you say.”
Frey gave him a fraction of a smile. “Thank you. I had better go. Get this corpse reported and buried.”
“Teach your grandmother to suck eggs. Wednesday then.”
They nodded at each other. A brief hesitation, and Frey departed once more, leaving Silas alone with a corpse, an appointment, and a lightening of the heart that would not be repressed, no matter how absurd.
—
Wednesday was just a couple of days away, but it seemed longer to Dominic. This was a farewell only, he knew that, but at least Silas had listened, would listen. At least everything wouldn’t end in hatred. That mattered.
He arrived early. Mistress Zoë gave him a warm smile as she walked with him to the usual room, doubtless because he’d ordered a bottle of imperial Tokay at eye-watering cost. It was an absurd extravagance, which Silas would not appreciate or understand, but Dominic had noticed his liking for the sweeter wines. And Silas would probably never drink good wine again. Dominic could not bring himself to make the last experience less than memorable.
He started pouring when he heard Silas’s tread.
“Celebrating?” Silas asked, shutting the door behind him. He’d shaved as well as ever he did, which was not very cleanly, and his shirt and neckcloth were quite respectable. Dominic tried not to read anything into that.
“Drinking. Here.”
Silas took the glass, sniffed, sipped. His eyes went wide. He tasted the wine again, gleaming gold in its glass, and said, “All right, I’m reckoning this is good stuff.”
Dominic shrugged. Silas took another mouthful, with obvious pleasure, and Dominic had the sudden, ludicrous thought that he could send the man a bottle sometime, anonymously, a simple gift…
Stop it.
“I should tell you,” Dominic said abruptly. “We know who killed your man, Charkin. I’m afraid it was Harry’s valet.”
That took a second to register. “You what?”
Dominic set out, as far as possible, to explain. This was not easy. Harry’s grandfather had paid the valet to kill his own grandson and shot himself yesterday evening when his plans had been scotched, two facts that had to be concealed at all costs. “The valet seems to have been homicidal. He came after Harry on Friday evening and, as far as we can tell, stabbed Charkin as a matter of mistaken identity. The puce coat.” Silas swore. “He then made another attempt last night, in the street—”