The 29th of Dentis - Nine Minutes Past the Second Hour
“I’m not a fool Mr Shrike. You’ve laid it out prettily enough. Watch the man’s house . . ”
“Discreetly.”
“‘Course discreetly. Discretion is my middle name.” That much is true. No exaggeration. The boy has a curious name, too grand and yet not so. Bailiff Discretion Sneed. Whatever his parents had been thinking when his naming came could only be imagined. Names are no proof of competence or good fail. Precedent he has. Bailey is a good agent. Quick, quiet, and observant. Not docile, not by a long chalk. Docile agents are useless. They cannot improvise, or tell you when your plans are foolish or mad. Bailey has no such compunctions.The Service should employ more burglars and pickpockets. He has no illusions about the boy’s past. Here it is an asset, and one he has to hand. He will play with the cards he has been dealt. He can do nothing else.
“I will hold you to that,” he says, leaning back into his chair. It is quiet in the parlour save for the soft crackling of a dying fire and the occasional ring of the decanter being unstoppered. The fine brandy that the boy has stolen from somewhere. It seems proper. A small crime to bring himself into the company of thieves. A token that this is no ordinary, no simple request. Before tonight Bailey has never passed the inner door, never sat in one of the armchairs, folded up like a cat. Yet he is here now, and not for the last time. There is something natural about this, something inevitable. It is a year for conspiracies, a season for strange alliances.
With more gravity that he expects, Bailey swirls the brandy in his snifter, staring down into the amber liquid. Somehow, the boy’s eyes grow darker. Is he trying to see his path in the swirling liquid? Conjuring vision of the Incumbent’s fine house on Ro Hill? Is the boy’s magic strong enough for that? Perhaps it is, perhaps not. Perhaps it is just a trick of the light.
“I ain’t never been caught sir, saving by your own good self.” Another truth, or near enough.
There are no tattoos upon the boy, no criminals’ roses on hands or face, no tally-bars to mark the time of incarceration. If ever he had been caught, he must have been a mere child. He is nearly a child still. He remembers the night he found Bailey, curled up and sleeping in the alcove in the vestibule. The boy had claimed he came in for shelter from the cold. It had been a cold night. A boy does not pick an outer lock, not leave scratches upon the inner merely seeking a warm kip for the night. For the crime not quite committed, he had sentenced the boy to an indeterminate sentence of employment. He has never regretted it.
“So,” Bailey continues, eyes still fixed on the brandy, “do you know who you’re looking for? That’ll make the job easier.”
“I have no idea,” he says, swirling his own brandy and wondering if this course of action is ever likely to bear fruit. “He keeps, or kept, a mistress. Men tell their mistresses things they tell no one else. I need to find this woman, this ‘Little Bird’, and I need to speak to her. That is all. I wish no scandal, no damage, to come to the Incumbent. All I require is information.” All. He nearly laughs. Even now he can feel the gaps in his understanding, the moth-holes in the tapestry of events. They are vast things, and too many. He cannot piece it all back together. That does not mean he will not try. “I doubt she would come to the house, at least not in a way to be easily seen. She may be a friend of the wife, or a colleague.” He thinks of Trevisani, of her ‘business’, and reconsiders. “Or then again, she may not. Something gnaws at the back of my mind, something I have missed or failed to see. Something about the matter seems not quite right.”
The whole matter smells of week-old fish. Nothing lines up, nothing hangs together. The Incumbent dances of the end of many strings. Trevisani is pulling on at least some of them. There is more to this than a simple indiscretion. Politicians are expected to have affairs and keep paramours. It is practically a requirement of high office. What is he missing? What is the heart of the matter?
For the first, and only, time in his life he curses himself for having no wanting for romance, no carnal drive. Would such desires illuminate things, shine a light in dark corners he cannot quite see?
Bailey nods. “Just watching? Won’t be no trouble slipping into the house and having a rummage about the private papers. Juicy letters, perhaps with addresses, dates of assignations, and terrible poetry. Men always seem to write the worst poetry to their pretty pieces.” Bailey cocks a smile and takes a sip of the brandy. “I’ve done it all before, any number of times. I like creeping though a stately home. The carpets are always so soft. No one ever hears me going by.”
“The hour has not come for that. Leave the Incumbent’s house in peace. Remember, we are watching over him, not plotting against him.” And are you not, he thinks. He sees the man now, growing pale and wan in his booth at the Elephant, hears his voice entreating him to let the matter drop. That cannot be allowed. Not this time. The dead of Dorehaven are testament enough to that. He cannot allow any more blood to stain his hands. The Incumbent claims his hands bloodless, but he can see the stains even now, beneath the ink.
Don’t flatter yourself, he thinks. There is nothing you could have done. The dead would still be dead. The words are true. The words bring no comfort. He is one man, and one man does not matter. Another empty comfort, a hollow truth. The stains are there, whatever the events. They cannot be scrubbed away. They can only be justified. In the end.
“You alright Mr Shrike?” Bailey’s voice breaking his crimson meditation. How long has he sat in silence, staring at his hands, cursing his inactions? He cannot be sure. Perhaps hours. Perhaps no time at all.
“Yes,” he says. That is a lie. He is far from alright. He may never be again. What does it matter? He can do more as a man run ragged, deprived of sleep, and full of anger, than ever he could do in Chancery writing dry reports on dryer policy. It will cost him, of that he has no doubt. He can only hope the cost is worth the candle. “Just a bit distracted. It has been a long night.” The longest he can remember, and still not quite over.
He draws himself up in his chair, retakes the brandy. “You have your instructions. The rest is up to you. If you run into any difficulties . . .”
Bailey’s smile vanishes, replaced by a deadly calm. “Won’t be no difficulties. Or, leastways none I can’t handle.”