Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(4)

“Lazenby is an archaeologist,” Major Peabody said over Saul. “An Oxford man, now devoting his time to my studies.”

“And what do you do, Mr. Glyde?” Saul asked, before the Major could say any more. “Are you a man of leisure?” The suit he wore was sufficiently well-made to suggest wealth, whether earned or inherited.

“Ah, no, so few of us can afford leisure these days. Those iniquitous death duties, you know. I work for my bread. I’m a commercial traveller.”

Death duties had hit the great landed estates very hard, and the newspapers were filled with stories of the newly labouring aristocracy. The heirs to earldoms were becoming radio announcers and photographers, while the daughters of dukes took up as mannequins or wrote pieces for magazines. Nevertheless, the disjunct between the man’s appearance and the idea of a commercial traveller was such that Saul found his brows lifting sharply. “You’re a salesman? Of what?”

“Wines and spirits,” Mr. Glyde said promptly.

“For whom?”

Mr. Glyde’s smile glinted. “Plummet and Rose.”

“Where’s your sample case?”

“I sent it on ahead.” The smile was widening.

Major Peabody gave a harrumph. “There is no need to interrogate our fellow traveller, Lazenby. Wines and spirits are a most respectable business for a gentleman. Perhaps you could recommend me a port, Mr. Glyde? I have need to replenish my cellar.”

They discussed port for a while. Saul stayed out of the conversation, watching Mr. Glyde’s face. He knew nothing of the wines and spirits trade but he did feel sure that a commercial traveller of any competence would have a sales book with him, or make an effort to conclude a bargain, and Mr. Glyde was obviously competent. He had that air, the effortless confidence of a man who never questioned his own intelligence, fortitude, or judgement. Saul wouldn’t have been able to put his finger on precisely what showed it, but you could tell it in a man, just as you could tell a man from whom it had gone.

But the clever Mr. Glyde wasn’t making any effort to sell wines and spirits to a highly receptive audience, and Saul had an increasing sense that something didn’t add up.

It had to be chance that Mr. Glyde was on this train, in his carriage. There was no other possibility, given they hadn’t exchanged names. Or—had he still been there when Saul had given his name to the park keeper? Might he have tracked him down from that?

But why would he? Saul didn’t believe for a moment that Mr. Randolph Glyde, with his well-cut suit and faint, lazy smile, would go to such trouble for a thin, sunburned man with defeated eyes. If he’d wanted a fuck, which was at least in principle not outwith the bounds of probability, Saul was of the opinion he’d have suggested one on the spot.

He had no reason to have tracked Saul down. But if his presence here was chance, why was he giving every impression of lying about his profession, and why hadn’t he said anything about their previous meeting? Jolly peculiar show with that tree bursting into flame for no reason, wasn’t it?

As he’d anticipated, his employer took the first opportunity to turn the conversation to his obsession. Mr. Glyde made some remark about a vintage port tasting better with a dusty old book by his side upon which Major Peabody leapt, launching into a description of his library. The self-described salesman made no effort to bring the conversation back to the topic of port, instead listening to the Major with a look that was just slightly sceptical as he described his great theory of the psychic patterns of London, giving Saul undeserved and unwanted credit as his collaborator. Saul could only sit, fuming, as Mr. Glyde’s eyelids flickered occasionally in his direction.

After interminable miles, the train pulled in to a station where there would be a ten-minute stop for passengers’ comfort. Major Peabody hurried out to use the facilities. Saul and Mr. Glyde sat and looked at one another.

“So,” Glyde said. “Archaeologist. Have you dug up very many magical artefacts in North London?”

Saul set his teeth. “Major Peabody is my employer. I can’t listen to any mockery of his enthusiasms.”

“Then you must spend a great deal of time with your fingers stuffed in your ears. What drives an Oxford man to work on such tarradiddles? He must pay remarkably well to silence the objections of your academic training, if not your conscience.”

“That is none of your damned business,” Saul said furiously. “I might as well demand what makes a gentleman lie to total strangers about his profession.”

Glyde’s lips curved unpleasantly. “What a peculiar accusation.”

“You’re a highly peculiar salesman. I don’t know what brings you to this train—”

“Do you not,” Glyde said, and those light eyes snapped onto Saul’s with almost physical force, drilling into him, a look so intense and commanding that Saul felt a momentary urge to curl up and agree to anything. “Do you not have an inkling of my purpose, Mr. Lazenby?”

Saul narrowed his eyes, a physical expression of defiance that seemed to help his inner resolve. “The only motive I can imagine is one entirely discreditable to a gentleman, and if that is the case, I suggest you don’t try it. In fact, I suggest you find another carriage. I’ve no interest in your importunities and I shan’t see my employer insulted.”

Glyde’s brows shot up, then he laughed. “Nicely deflected. I almost wonder if I believe you.”