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look at him, but he was sure he was attended to, and carefully. ‘The third is related to the confidential and delicate nature of intelligence in time of war. I must know, for the sake of our country’s interests and those that serve them, what is afoot here. Is there a conspiracy to betray this nation to the French? Who is involved in the matter and what damage might they already have done? Who was this master sent to lead? What was the nature of this man Fitzraven?’

    Harriet turned towards him suddenly. ‘Are there not continually such plots?’ she asked.

    Mr Palmer nodded. ‘I find myself much engaged, but let me complete my argument. The agents of the French are not foolish. If Fitzraven was in some way involved, my appearance asking questions as to his life, activities and death will no doubt send the conspirators into hiding, and what I can learn will be severely curtailed.’

    ‘Whereas Crowther and I can blunder about asking whatever we like, and people will assume we have simply discovered murder to be an enlivening pastime?’ Harriet’s voice was softer than it had been hitherto, and was laced now with amusement. Mr Palmer smiled.

    ‘Exactly, Mrs Westerman. It will be thought you and Mr Crowther seek only to increase or consolidate your renown and so cannot resist the opportunity to examine a man who died in apparently mysterious circumstances. I wish to know of this man’s connections, his habits and nature. I must discover if he was the man my contact learned of, and if, by his death, we may find out what networks of intelligence the French have in this country and where and how deeply they reach.’

    ‘How mysterious were the circumstances of his death?’ Crowther said. ‘Bodies are pulled from the Thames every day.’

    ‘I hope you will let the matter speak for itself. The reports I have are suggestive, but at second hand. Let me not cloud your enquiry with imprecise information at this stage.’

    It seemed to Mr Palmer at this moment that his proposal was still under consideration.

    Crowther picked at his cuff and said, very softly, ‘To whom do you answer, Mr Palmer?’ There was a cold steel in the words.

    ‘My remit in these matters is wide,’ Mr Palmer told him. ‘I have some money and staff at my disposal, and the liberty to act as I see fit in most matters. Lord Sandwich is the First Lord of the Admiralty – beyond that I am answerable to my King, and the law. As are we all.’

    The little clock on the mantelpiece marked the half-hour with an elaborate chime that made Mrs Westerman start. But neither she nor Crowther made him any reply.

    ‘We are at war,’ Mr Palmer said after some moments of silence. ‘Information can be as vital, or as deadly, as ordnance. If news – accurate news – of the preparedness of our ships, stores, or troops regularly reaches the French naval command, men will die. I come in all humility to ask for your assistance.’

    Crowther tented his fingers again and said, ‘Then, Mr Palmer, you shall have it.’

I.4

    S OME MINUTES AFTER Mr Palmer left Berkeley Square, the promised invitation from Justice Pither arrived. Its tone suggested that the idea of consulting them was all his own. Mr Gabriel Crowther watched Mrs Westerman read the note in her turn. She was pulling on a red ringlet that framed her face, and seemed in danger of straightening it. She was not looking well, and she had told him enough of her last visit to Dr Trevelyan’s establishment to know it had not given her any comfort. Her husband’s illness had overtaken her like a damp fog. Her lively eyes had become dull, fading from emerald to pondwater in a little more than three months, and her hair, shot through with a fire that seemed to burn when she was angry or afraid, had begun to look rusty and brittle. She was thin. If she were a horse, he would have had her shot. He resisted the temptation to tell her so.

    ‘Do stop glowering at me like that, Crowther,’ Harriet said,