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said, jerking his head toward another table. “There is a bit of welcome news, is it not? It would
appear we are having lamb for dinner.”
“Welcome news indeed,” Rayley said drily, for he also had noticed the racks of lamb as
he entered, lined neatly up against the wall and unwrapped for defrosting. It was all a bit much to
take in, the puddles of animal blood on the floor, as the lamb slowly dripped, the vials of human
blood on the counter. The fingers and the ribs and the hanging birds and the staring eyes, all of it, all
together, and Rayley suspected his dreams would be memorable tonight. “In truth I don’t know why I
want to learn your work at all, Bainbridge. For this is a dreadfully macabre sort of business, is it
not?”
***
Bombay Jail
1:30 PM
The old man stared at Trevor impassively. He did not seem particularly pleased to have
been escorted from his cell into a larger, airier room for his interview, and the words “Scotland
Yard” had not created in Anthony Weaver the sort of nervous expectation they generally created in
others.
Nor did the man appear to be bound by the protocol of the situation. In fact, he spoke
first.
“Did Geraldine travel with you? Or did she merely send you?”
“Merely?” Trevor snapped. “There is no ‘merely’ about it. A contingent of investigators
traveling from London to Bombay on a domestic matter is a noteworthy event, Secretary-General, and
I should think you would be grateful to anyone who had gone to such trouble on your behalf.”
“This is not a domestic matter,” Weaver said and despite his immediate dislike of the
man, Trevor was impressed with his composure, with the calm, even timbre of his voice. If he was
near seventy, on trial for murder, and incarcerated in a moldy Bombay jail, he doubted his own nerves
would have held so steady. “This is not a matter of a man killing his wife,” Weaver continued. “It is
more likely a case of political intrigue.”
“We are aware of that possibility,” said Trevor. “As is The Queen.”
“The Queen?” said Weaver, his face for the first time showing emotion. “The Queen
herself has taken an interest in my predicament?”
“If the Queen has taken an interest,” Trevor said, “it is more due to the status of the
deceased than the accused, I assure you.”
“It was Michael, wasn’t it?” Weaver said, twisting nervously in his chair. “He went to
her. Told her everything.”
Well, he certainly didn’t tell her everything, Trevor thought. Whatever everything is.
Something about the mention of either the Queen or Michael Everlee’s name had brought a new
energy to the small room, some sense of urgency. “Your stepson,” Trevor said cautiously, “did indeed
write Her Majesty on your behalf before he left London.”
“And so Michael too has come to Bombay?” Weaver said. A sheen of perspiration
suddenly appeared upon his face and he rubbed his lips with the back of his hand. “He is with you?”
Dear God, but the discussion had gotten out of hand quickly and Trevor momentarily
sank back in his chair, unsure of how to continue. Weaver was a difficult man to label, that much was
certain. So cool at first and now so agitated, his mood shifting without warning, his eyes suddenly
darting around the room. And he seemed to have leapt to many assumptions without evidence – an