AN: Another, very short update. No Ruth, but at least Sir Henry is back in England...
London provided welcome relief. It was dirty, its poorer people were underfed, and its streets were rife with pickpockets and prostitutes, but at least it was familiar dirt, poverty, crime. Sir Henry's most pressing concern was finding assistance for Lieutenant Quinn. Fortunately, he knew just where to inquire.
He located Alec White in the parlour of his lodgings, over a tankard of beer. He wasted no time in stating his business. "You are to go to Paris, contact Lieutenant Quinn, and give him whatever assistance he may require."
The momentary silence was both deafening and discouraging. At last, Captain White reminded him, "Harry, I left the Army three years ago - I'm no soldier anymore, to be ordered around!" Sir Henry sighed and took a seat. Whenever he was in the presence of Alec White for lengthy periods of time, he found himself either suffering from a head ache, or longing for the regimented command structures of the regulars. At present, both states of mind were bearing in upon him with urgency.
"No, but you are discreet and, despite appearances, a good agent," he replied in clipped tones. White appeared to be considering the matter. He took a thoughtful swig from his tankard and then set it down with a nod. Harry continued. "Whatever you find out, I want you to bring it back in person. If you cannot contact me, you are to take the information to Mr Wynn-Jones, the clergyman at Middlethorpe."
He hesitated, judging the situation. There really ought to be a third contact, he realised, someone else entirely removed from the dangers of the War Office, and the Greek to its Trojan Horse. At last, he ordered, "If he is not available… Miss Ruth Evershed is currently resident at Kieley, a mile or so away." Captain White looked as if he had never heard a more astonishing order in his life. His jaw seemed to slacken, and Sir Henry began to feel rather self-conscious. While he himself knew that Miss Evershed's calm good sense would see that anything entrusted to her possession reached the person best able to take charge of it, others would not be so quick to see her merits. "A woman?" Captain White asked, disbelievingly. It was this that raised Sir Henry's hackles. That anyone would dare to describe Miss Evershed merely as 'a woman' and judge her abilities without knowing anything more of was maddening in the extreme, and not an attitude that was likely to recommend White further to him. "I would trust her with my life, White," he snapped shortly. Then, turning the subject, he asked, "Now, what news of Mace? I have my man at the War Office on to it, but he is very… methodical."
White snorted; his contempt for the War Office was well-known and covered by the merest veneer of civility at the best of times. "Slow, you mean," he corrected. "Mace is a difficult man to catch out. His routine is fairly unexceptionable. He visits his tailor, he attends evening functions, spends time in the 'stews.'" Sir Henry's face twisted in distaste. Just as he would have expected - Mace was another greedy, lecherous, cowardly rat, just like Fontaine. Unfortunately, it did not appear that White had discovered any more of a connection between the two men, a connection that Sir Henry had convinced himself was there.
"I see," he replied, dryly. It appeared that Mace had been making the most of his time in London, clearly. "No unusual activities? Odd exchanges of letters? Has there been any success in placing an agent inside his house?"
White shook his head. "No, but I have been making inquiries." He smirked almost wistfully. "There's a rather pretty lass who's head housemaid there, and… things are progressing."
Harry decided that it was safer not to probe further. Alec White's romantic exploits were none of his concern. "Very well. Find a man to take over your work here, and I will arrange your passage to France. Have you anything else to report?" Here for the first time, White showed uncertainty. He drained his tankard, delaying the time when he would be forced to answer, but eventually he nodded.
"Your son was married three days ago to Miss Walter."
The words hung heavily on the air, and even heavier upon Sir Henry's heart. He had not truly thought that the lad would be so irresponsible. He recalled the threats he had made to his son at their last meeting and sighed deeply, sitting down. He had believed the boy had more sense than to tie himself to a girl whose father would show no more generosity towards the disgraced couple than Sir Henry himself would. He ought to be glad, he supposed, that Graham had married the girl, instead of throwing her aside - but it puzzled him. He believed that he knew his son's character, and could not understand why he had not cast her aside. Sir Henry had kept a close eye, if not a close rein, over his son for the past five years - he knew that Graham had had mistresses before, actresses and worse, all ruthlessly cut from his life like weeds from a perfectly ordered garden when they had become tiresome or a nuisance. What had been so different about Miss Walter? Had he expected her father to be grateful for the marriage, saving his daughter from social ruin? Had he expected some sort of pecuniary advantage?
His thoughts were running away with him, and White was watching him anxiously. He rose. "I shall make the necessary arrangements for your journey," he repeated. "And my thanks for informing me about… the other matter. Good day, White."
So enveloped was Sir Henry in his thoughts that he did not notice the cloaked figure who followed him from White's lodgings to the War Office, waited outside while he conducted some necessary business, and then trailed him home. Nor did he notice, the next day, when he left London for Middlethorpe, in his racing curricle, that the same gentleman was following close behind…