Mr Grigsby had of course overheard everything that had passed in the doorway, but nevertheless he greeted the newcomer with all the merry enthusiasm of a country squire entertaining a guest in his manor. Tolhurst responded in kind with an indulgent smile and accepted Mr Grigsby’s invitation to sit in Wren’s chair.
“I’m afraid I have some questions of a delicate nature,” Tolhurst said, with an apologetic glance at Wren.
“You may trust my clerk with your life,” Mr Grigsby declared before Wren could make a silent retreat from the office.
Tolhurst relented with a chuckle. “Let us hope the stakes do not come to that! But yes, the subject is as dear to me as my own life. I must ask after my nephew—Mr Felix Knoll,” he added, with another glance at Wren to show he spoke for his benefit.
And there, the final puzzle piece fell into place. Wren had read the name Tolhurst somewhere before, after all; in the last will and testament of Felix Knoll, senior, and on several financial documents pertaining to the case since then, though not many and not in recent years. A better clerk would have recognized the name from the start. Wren thought he deserved some leniency on account of Tolhurst being so unlike his nephew in every possible way—except for the eyes, which, Wren had to admit, shared that same curious shade of blue.
“I’ve heard tell of my nephew encountering some difficulty,” Tolhurst continued. “A difficulty which he may have hoped to alleviate by visiting your office yesterday.”
“While I’m touched by your tender concern,” said Mr Grigsby, “I cannot divulge more than you’ve already heard.”
“Nor would I ever ask you to break your confidence,” Tolhurst hastened to add. “However, I only wish to know—is his need dire? Does he require my assistance to save him from his perils? I’d ask him directly, but you know as well as I the pride of a young man. Felix is no different in his obstinate quest for independence. A direct question from me would embarrass him, and it might shatter his trust in me beyond repair if I should overstep.”
Wren tried very hard not to reflect on how Felix could piss away his annual allowance and still have concerned relations coming up out of the woodwork to look after him, like nursemaids tending a shrieking infant, while Wren himself could follow every rule save one and still find himself cast out on his arse.
“On that account, you may rest easy,” said Mr Grigsby with a comforting smile. “His difficulty is of the most minor sort and will resolve itself with the coming of the new year.”
Tolhurst mirrored Mr Grigsby’s placid expression. “I’m most relieved to hear it.” He hesitated, then added, “He said also that he attempted to draw on his trust and found it wanting.”
Mr Grigsby’s beatific smile altered not one jot.
Tolhurst had the decency to look abashed. “Is there nothing that may be done to enable him to withdraw the funds he requires this quarter?”
“I’m afraid not,” Mr Grigsby told him, not unkindly. “But again, you may rest assured—the need is not dire. I daresay he will laugh about it if you question him on the subject in a year or so.”
“As you say,” Tolhurst replied with a laugh of his own. “Well do I remember my own foolish pursuits at his age and how important they seemed to me then! Do forgive my interruption, Mr Grigsby—I’ll not intrude on your hospitality further. No, no, it’s quite all right,” he added, waving off Mr Grigsby’s offer of tea. “I’m sure you’ve much to do, and no doubt Mr…?” He trailed off, looking to Wren with an expectant air.
“Lofthouse,” Wren supplied.
“No doubt Mr Lofthouse wishes me out of your hair,” Tolhurst finished, with a smile at Wren to show he meant no offence. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Lofthouse—and a pleasure to see you again, Mr Grigsby.”
With that, he donned his beaver hat, bid the pair of them good day, and showed himself out.
While Mr Grigsby might have wished Tolhurst could stay all afternoon, Wren didn’t share in his sentiments. Particularly not today of all days, when anticipation of what the evening would hold frayed his nerves to their absolute limit. Though, he supposed as he returned to his desk, he ought to have thanked Tolhurst for breaking up the tedious hours ‘til the work-day’s end.
Despite Wren’s hopes that Mr Grigsby would take it into his head to dine early this evening, Mr Grigsby departed at eight. Wren echoed his well-wishes and locked up behind him. Then he put the kettle on—for perhaps Butcher, unlike Tolhurst, would care for some refreshment—and settled in to wait.
One hour and three cups of tea later, Wren could no longer sit still. He got up to pace. From the window by his desk to the door, he could take six strides. From there to the back staircase that led up to his garret, another four, and then three more strides returned him to his desk.
An innumerable number of strides and several more cups of tea passed between the moment he began pacing and the moment the mantle clock struck nine. He tried sitting down at his desk again. Pen and paper occupied his hands, though his quaking fingers fumbled both, and his knee bounced with abandon.
The rattle of the door-latch at half-past the hour sent Wren leaping to his feet—but it was only Mr Grigsby returning from dinner. Wren gave a stiff smile as his employer bid him goodnight and headed up to his own rooms above the office. The moment Mr Grigsby vanished upstairs, Wren returned to his desk with renewed fervour.
By the time the clock struck eleven, Wren had finished filling his margins with jousting squirrels and snails and begun to wonder if something had happened to Butcher on the way to Mr Grigsby’s chambers.
As the clock struck half-past the hour, however, it occurred to Wren that perhaps Butcher didn’t intend to visit him after all.
The clock struck midnight. Wren conceded defeat. He blew out his candle and made for the stairs. As he ascended past Mr Grigsby’s door and continued on up to his garret, he scolded himself for acting such a fool, like a love-lorn schoolboy awaiting notice from a senior classmate. Stifling a yawn, he withdrew his key from his trouser pocket to unlock the door to his room.
He opened the door to find a catastrophe.
Hundreds of papers lay strew about, blanketing the room in stark white spotted with the dark ink of Wren’s pen-strokes like coal-dusted snowfall after a blizzard, forming drifts and mounds of Wren’s darkest secrets. The illumination of this tragedy came not from moonbeams or candlelight, but from a flickering blue glow the size of a matchstick flame in the cupped palm of a broad-shouldered, slender-waisted shadow sitting hunched on his bed, with still more papers filling the lap, and a sheaf held up in a fist before the face.
Butcher.
~
