Page 12 of The Magpie Lord
“Then if you don’t mind...”
Crane inclined his head. Stephen stripped off his gloves and his shabby coat with relief, grateful that no ladies were present. He slung his bag onto a luggage rack and sank back into a well-upholstered seat.
On the other row of seats, Merrick and Crane looked at him, and at each other.
“Busy morning, was it?” said Crane at last. “Or a long night?”
“The latter, running into the former. Some business to take care of.”
“So I see. Merrick, get a pot of coffee lined up for Mr. Day, strong, and on your way, tell the guard we’re reserving this whole carriage to the end of the line. Encourage him not to come in. Get the blinds on your way out.”
“My lord,” said Merrick woodenly, pulling the blinds on the compartment door and letting himself out.
“Is there a reason you’re making this a private compartment?” Stephen enquired warily.
“Yes. Is there a reason your sleeve is soaked in blood?”
“What? Where? Ohbother.” Stephen contorted himself to look at his left elbow. “Blast.”
“It looks to the untutored eye as though you have been leaning in a puddle of blood,” said Crane. “Quite a large puddle.”
“I dare say it does.”
“Because...?”
“I can’t talk about my business. I’m sure you understand.”
“But since you’re now aboutmybusiness, Mr. Day, I’d like to know whose blood you’re wearing. Within the bounds of discretion. For my own peace of mind.”
Stephen gave him a narrow-eyed look. “It was a cat. And bleeding it wasn’t my idea, I can assure you.” He stifled a yawn.
There was a subdued knock and Merrick entered bearing a tray.
“Another small miracle, thank you.” Crane nodded towards Stephen. “It’s cat’s blood, in case you were wondering.”
“Course it is.” Merrick manipulated cups and coffeepot deftly. “There you are, sir, that’ll set you up. You won’t be disturbed, my lord. Do you need me?”
“No, carry on,” said Crane. Merrick responded in Chinese and there was a brief staccato exchange before he withdrew again.
Stephen sipped his coffee, watching Crane over the cup’s brim. “What was that?”
“I reminded him not to fleece the fireman too badly. He’s a devil with a pack of cards. Why are you here, Mr. Day? We were expecting Mr. Fairley.”
“Yes, I know. I, ah...I got your lawyer’s letter.”
The stiff cream vellum envelope, wildly incongruous as it lay on his doormat with the cheap stationery and the bills. The letter it held, from Crane’s lawyers, who were not Griffin and Welsh. The written, notarised statement from Humphrey Griffin, stating how he had forced Allan Day to sign the documents that had ruined him, laying out the lies, detailing the persecution to which he had been subjected, all on the orders of Quentin, Lord Crane. The list of names to whom copies of that notarised statement were being sent, on the orders of Lucien, Lord Crane. The dry request that Stephen should supply names and addresses of any parties to whom further copies should be sent.
He had opened an envelope and found in it his father’s long-lost reputation. And he had cried, kneeling in the hallway, for the first time in years.
“How did you get Griffin to admit all that, Lord Crane?” he asked now, leaning forward. “It’s an admission of perjury as well as utterly disgraceful conduct. Why did he agree to write it?”
“I am in the process of nailing Mr. Humphrey Griffin to the wall so thoroughly that future generations will mistake him for a tapestry. Currently, he is under the impression that his cooperation may incline me not to press for a lengthy prison sentence for embezzlement, malpractice, extortion, and perjury.”
“Will it?”
Crane smiled, not pleasantly. “No. But it scarcely matters. When I have finished with him, Mr. Griffin will be begging for an extra ten years in gaol, just to have walls between himself and me.”
“Oh,” said Stephen. “Good.”
