Rogue Spy

Twenty-five

“Six men headed for Soho,” Hawker said, “armed with a copy of this.” He shoved aside an unlit lantern, three letters, and a pair of driving gloves to unroll the sketch on the hall table. “The Merchant, looking ordinary.”

“Many deadly men look ordinary.” Galba was already dressed for the street, meticulous in overcoat and hat. He frowned at the face that looked up at them from the table.

“I prefer it when killers show a little murder on their countenance,” Hawker said.

Doyle said, “It’s there. You see it in what’s missing.”

Galba put a glove on, finger by finger, stiff and emphatic about it. “I know this man.”

Doyle touched the corner of the paper. “You met him in France?”

“At Cambridge. Bring it in here.”

The downstairs study was empty, all the traffic of the early morning having run itself off to another part of the house or out to Soho. A dozen agents left a certain disorder behind.

In the study, Hawker laid the picture flat on the desk. Galba turned up the flame in the lamp, and they all looked at it.

Hawker said, “Cambridge?”

Galba narrowed his eyes, studying feature by feature. “This is Peter Styles.”

“Styles . . . Styles.” Doyle visibly shuffled through his memory. “The Honorable Peter Styles, who turned out to be somewhat less than honorable after all. That Foreign Office theft . . . it must be twenty-five years ago. He was the second—maybe third—son of one of the earls up north.”

“The Earl of Cardinham. I believe this Peter is now the heir. He took a First at Cambridge.”

“Before my time,” Doyle said. “Hawk, if you’re standing around idle . . .”

“I am never idle, Mr. Doyle. I am always preparing for the next stroke of brilliance.”

“Right. Do that while you put these in the dumbwaiter.” Doyle passed over coffee cups and hooked up a pair of ale tankards deftly in one hand, betraying some experience in that activity.

“I don’t know why everyone is determined to make me a waiter.” Hawker was not silent with the plates and cups. “So the Merchant is an Englishman.”

“This man is.” Galba picked up the sketch.

“I am casting my mind back a good ways now. Styles made a great noise at Cambridge.” Doyle rubbed the back of his neck. “I heard about it even in my day. He was leading around a band of noble radicals who were going to reform the world. A brilliant mind, but something wrong with him even then. Hawk, get that last cup on the windowsill, will you.”

“We would not wish to leave it behind, all forlorn without its fellows.”

“We would not wish someone to break it up and use the edges to attack,” Doyle said. “I don’t remember much more about Styles. He left behind nasty rumors and unpaid bills when he shook the dust of Cambridge off his boots. They say he crippled a man in a duel. They say he seduced his landlady’s daughter, age fourteen.”

“A charming fellow,” Hawker said.

“And a credit to the Foreign Office, which is where he went next. A year later he went through the offices and helped himself to every secret that wasn’t nailed down and a pile of money intended for bribes in the German states and took the packet from Dover.”

Hawker brushed his hands. “I have frequently asked myself why I don’t do the same. If you don’t have any more menial work for me, I will depart. I’m supposed to be following Pax.”

“Follow him,” Galba said. “Stay close. The Merchant knows his face.”

“And that she-wolf may cut his throat in a fit of pique. Maybe I can eliminate one or the other of those threats.”

“Don’t kill anybody,” Doyle said.

“You are tying my hands as an effective agent. You do know that.” The rest of Hawker’s commentary disappeared down the hall with him.

When Hawker was gone, Galba and Doyle stood in silence for few minutes.

Galba said, “Do you see it?”

“What?” Doyle said.

“Look closely.” Galba was doing just that. “Forget who it is. See it as if it were hanging on the wall in a country house.”

Doyle took the sketch. “I’d think it was good. I’d wonder who the artist was. I’d think the man looks familiar. I never saw Peter Styles, so I can’t—” Doyle stopped. Stared for another moment. Whispered, “Frogs and little dancing fishes. I don’t believe it.”

Galba said, “The resemblance is unmistakable.”