Before she could strike, though, a shadow fell through the open door of the cookhouse and there was a brief knock upon its jamb.
“Mein Herr?” It was Gunter, an ostler from the livery stables Hal patronized, obsequious in his leather apron.
“Ja? Was ist das?” Grey asked. He saw Moira blink, momentarily suspend her next thwack, and swivel her head from him to Gunter and back, squinting suspiciously.
Gunter shrugged, raising his brows in abnegation of responsibility, and handed over a neatly folded note, sealed with candle wax, and waved a hand over his shoulder to indicate that someone at the livery had given it to him. Grey fumbled in his pocket for a coin, came out with a penny and a shilling, handed over the shilling, and took the note with a brief word of thanks.
He’d thought at first that it was something for Hal, but the note was addressed to Lord John Grey, in a neat, secretarial style quite at odds with the note’s casually obscure delivery. The message inside was in the same hand, but just as puzzling as the exterior.
My Lord,
I am told that you once employed a Man by the name of Thomas Byrd. This Man took Passage from England upon my Ship, the Pallas, and paid for his Passage upon Embarkation. However, he has formed an Attachment to a Young Person he met aboard—and this Young Person did not pay for her Passage, having instead stowed away in the Hold. Mr. Byrd says he will pay for her Passage, to avoid her being taken up by the Sheriff and gaoled, but does not possess ready Cash for this Purpose. Being reluctant to commit such a comely young Woman to the local Prison, I asked whether Mr. Byrd might have Friends who would bear his Expenses. He demurred, not wishing to presume upon his Acquaintance, but I had heard him mention your Name, whilst onboard, and so I take the Liberty of informing you of his Circumstances.
Should you wish to assist Mr. Byrd, or at least to speak with him, he is still aboard us. Pallas is docked at the easternmost Warehouse Quay.
Your most humble and obedient Servant, sir,
John Doyle, Captain
“How very peculiar,” Grey said, turning the paper over, as though the back might be more informative.
“Oh, it ain’t peculiar, sir,” Moira assured him, wiping a hand across her sweating brow. “It’s only a female.”
“What?”
“Female,” she repeated, gesturing at the decapitated fish. “It’s females what has eggs, what’s called roe.”
“Oh.” He saw that she had not only removed the head, tail, and fins, opened the great flat body, and shoveled out the guts, but had also reserved a large, solid mass of some dark substance—presumably fish eggs—this oozing oil onto a plate that had been set aside on a shelf, there being no room for it on the scale-encrusted surface where the fish itself was being transformed into dinner. “Quite,” he said. “Might we have some with eggs, do you think?”
“Just what I had in mind, me lord,” she assured him. “Fresh toast soldiers with poached eggs and roe, with a bit o’ melted butter to pour over. What His Grace calls a horsederve.”
“Splendid,” he said, with a smile. “I’ll be home for supper in good time!”
Had it not been for this stark obtrusion of femininity, he might not have gone. But the mention of females had reminded him of Tom’s marked susceptibility to young women—something that had （so far as he knew） been held in strict abeyance during his two marriages. But his last letter from Tom—who wrote infrequently, but well—had told him that Tom’s second wife had recently died, and as his eldest boy was now eighteen, he had it in mind to leave young Barney in charge of the business for a bit and perhaps undertake a journey to Germany, he not having visited there since their early acquaintance with the Graf von Namtzen, and he begged that Lord John would be so kind as to extend his regards to the graf, when Lord John might be in communication with the same.
He supposed it was at least possible that Tom, embarked on a personal voyage of discovery, might have been inspired to leave Europe altogether. And that in doing so, still in the throes of grief, he might well have been drawn to a young woman in obviously dire straits. Tom was a gallant man, and a very kind one.
On the other hand, this letter had a distinct smell of fish, and it wasn’t turbot. He folded it thoughtfully and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket.
“What the hell,” he said aloud, startling Moira in mid-chop. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. O’Meara. I meant only that it’s a pleasant day for a walk.”
IT WAS A pleasant day, with a breeze stirring the heavy summer air, and he enjoyed the stroll down to Bay Street, where he stopped to climb down the steps and walk barefoot on the sandy beach for a bit, before resuming a casual peregrination toward the warehouse district.