Blame It on Bath Page 0,94

stooped, spare man several decades older than he. The crown of his head shone bald and pale amid his thinning gray hair. He leaned heavily on a cane, but when he turned around, there was nothing frail or unsteady about his eyes. He put Gerard in mind of a giant fledgling, plucked and shriveled.

“Yes,” murmured the other man. His shiny black gaze traveled up and down Gerard. “Excellent. I am Robert Nollworth.” He gave a bow so stiff, Gerard expected his bones to creak. “I received a letter from your wife, I believe.”

Receiving a letter was far different from having anything helpful to say. Gerard closed the door behind him and gestured to the sofa. “Indeed. Won’t you be seated?”

Nollworth dipped his head. “That is very good of you, sir.” He limped to the sofa and seated himself, keeping his cane before him and clasping his spidery fingers about the knob.

Gerard took the chair opposite, preparing himself for anything. “You believe your father-in-law is the man my wife wrote of?”

“It’s a long journey to Bath from Allenton,” Mr. Nollworth replied obliquely. “Almost twenty miles. I came yesterday, and I mean to return today.”

“That was very good of you to come so far. I’m sure a letter in reply would have sufficed.”

“No, not in this case.” He tapped the side of his long, pointed nose. “Discretion, young man.” Gerard raised his eyebrows in question, but Nollworth merely settled himself on the cushion. “Yes, I was acquainted with the man your wife wrote of.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Gerard, hiding his surprise. “What can you tell me of him?”

The old man made a face. “Depends. What are you hoping to hear?”

Nollworth, he realized, was a cardplayer. He alone knew the value of the hand he held, and he meant to win with it. Precisely how much he meant to win was an open question, but Gerard had no doubt there was a figure fixed in the man’s mind. Brilliant. This could take an eternity. He eased back in his own seat, keeping his face carefully blank. “I hope to hear the truth,” he replied.

“Truth!” Nollworth’s eyes glittered. “Very hard to pin that particular creature down sometimes, eh, young man?”

“Yes,” said Gerard dryly.

“It bends and twists and looks one way in one light, and another way entirely from a different perspective. It’s likely the most elusive thing in the world.”

For a moment they took each other’s measure in silence. “How are you acquainted with Reverend Ogilvie?” he asked at last.

Nollworth cracked a humorless smile. “Through marriage. My wife is his daughter. His only child.”

“Then you know where I can find him.”

“Of course,” said Nollworth, his smile growing. “He’s not hard to find; been in the same place for these last ten years or more. You can find him in the churchyard, lying under a headstone that cost me a pretty penny.”

Just as he’d hoped. Ogilvie was dead—not really surprising, given he would have been well over eighty if he still lived. The only better news would be that Dorothy Cope had been buried in the same churchyard for forty years. “I’m very sorry for your wife’s loss,” he said politely. “How kind of you to come personally to Bath to tell me.”

Nollworth rocked back in his seat. “Yes, kind indeed. I imagine it comes as very welcome news to you.”

“Neither welcome nor unwelcome,” Gerard lied smoothly. “Merely . . . informative.”

“Ah, informative,” murmured Nollworth, lingering on the last word. “That’s quite another matter.”

So there was another card in his hand. “As my wife wrote you, I’m looking into a question of some family history. Reverend Ogilvie’s name appeared, but only once. It was my hope, however faint, he might help sort out my questions. But the event was many years ago, though, and since the gentleman’s gone to his heavenly reward . . .” Gerard lifted one hand in a gesture of acceptance. “It is a disappointment.”

“Family history.” Nollworth flashed his reptilian smile again. “Yes, I can imagine your disappointment.” He scratched his chin. “I did wonder why someone might be looking for my dear papa-in-law. Caused a bit of a commotion, it did, when your letter arrived. You couldn’t be a friend of his, or else you’d’ve known he was dead—and most likely be glad to leave him to the worms.”

He inclined his head. “No, I was never acquainted with the man personally.”

“That’s right, you weren’t.” The visitor’s hooded eyes burned with fiendish delight. Gerard could easily imagine him casting