Page 63 of A Debt Inherited

The visitor entered, announced and composed. Sir Montgomery Price—no relation, as courtesy soon obliged him to explain—carried himself with the quiet assurance of a man accustomed to being received. His greatcoat, powdered from the road, gave off lavender, damp wool, and cool air. He was of middling height and slight build, fair-haired, pale-eyed, and regular in feature. His face offered no defect by which memory might hold him. He smiled as he entered, but the expression altered when his glance touched the threadbare rug, the half-spent fire, and the papers spread across Kerr’s desk. Kerr saw the calculation before Price hid it.

“Mr Kerr,” he said with measured courtesy, “I fear I intrude upon business.”

“You find me between occupations,” Kerr replied.

“Then I arrive at an opportune hour.” Price removed his gloves and held them. “You kept careful accounts once, I am told. Our mutual acquaintance admired your work.”

Kerr’s eyes lifted at the phrase. “Admired? Is there something I have missed?”

A faint smile. “That is a question I cannot answer.”

The tone—easy, assured—belonged to one speaking within the circle, not of it. Kerr felt the first turn of unease.

Price went on. “Available men of our ilk are rare. You may recall he likes the breed.”

“I remember,” Kerr said quietly. “Does he?”

“I believe so,” said Price. “Though consistency is as rare a quality as judgement.”

Kerr studied him, the calm voice, the polished restraint. Something in the phrasing struck a familiar rhythm—the same speech he had once used upon lesser men when collecting debts for the Forge. The resemblance was too precise to mistake.

“You speak as one who knows the trade,” Kerr said.

Price inclined his head. “In a modest way. I find it profitable to tidy what others leave untidy. It suits my temperament.”

No one spoke for several beats.

“I had not heard the Forge took on new clerks,” Kerr said.

“Not clerks,” Price corrected softly. “Associates. The work continues, though the names change. It is the nature of things to—evolve.”

“Evolution can be fatal.”

“Only to those who resist it.”

Kerr felt the room draw smaller—the air thick with the scent of damp wool and lavender.

“You speak as though my usefulness were concluded.”

“Our friend dislikes uncertain obligations.”

The veiled sentence turned courtesy to warning.

Price’s tone softened, almost confiding. “In ordinary circumstances,” he said, “a gentleman who finds himself in arrears may expect a civil interval—time enough to set matters right. But when a matter lingers too long, patience begins to look like neglect.”

“I take your meaning,” Kerr said.

“I hoped you might.” Price rose, drawing on his gloves with measured care. “It spares unpleasantness on all sides.”

Kerr watched him, cold clarity settling in. Three days, perhaps. Enough time to fail with dignity, not enough to survive with it.

Price inclined his head slightly. “I shall report that we understand one another.”

“I daresay you will,” Kerr said.

“Then I wish you a most orderly day.”

The latch clicked; the faint scent of lavender lingered where he had stood.