Green was indeed in the stables behind the Red Lion, shoveling manure. Icarus blinked, scarcely able to recognize him. “Mr. Green?”
Green straightened wearily. “Sir?” He was a slight young man, unshaven and grimy, wearing a filthy shirt and even filthier breeches. The fragrance of horse dung wafted from him.
“My name is Reid. You may remember me from Portugal.”
Green looked at him more closely. “Major Reid.”
“You’re a hard man to find. We’ve been looking for you for several days.”
“Looking for me?” Green said blankly. “Why?”
“Cast your mind back to the day before the engagement at Vimeiro,” Icarus said, watching the man’s face intently. Was this his traitor? Somehow, he didn’t think so. “Do you remember Dunlop mentioning me at all?”
“He mentioned you most days, sir. Jealous of you, he was. Called you the general’s golden boy.”
“On that particular day, Dunlop told you of my rendezvous with my scouts. Do you remember that?”
Green thought for a moment, his eyes unfocused, and then nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Did you tell anyone what he told you? Where we’d be? And when?”
Green’s brow wrinkled. “Of course not!” The note of indignation in his voice was perfect.
Icarus glanced at Miss Trentham.
She nodded. Green was telling the truth.
Icarus sighed. “Thank you.”
Green shrugged, and turned back to the pile of manure.
“Ah . . . if you don’t mind my asking . . . why are you here, Mr. Green?”
Green stabbed his shovel into the manure. “Mr. Dunlop done a runner, is why I’m here,” he said bitterly. “Left me to pay his shot and my shot—which I couldn’t do, seeing as how he owed me three months’ pay. It’s either this, or debtors’ prison.”
Icarus’s eyebrows rose. “Who told you that?”
“Mr. Busbee.”
Icarus glanced at Miss Trentham. She nodded. Green was telling the truth again.
“How much did Dunlop owe you?”
“Ten quid.”
Icarus pulled out his pocketbook, extracted a ten-pound note, and held it out.
Green’s mouth dropped open. “Sir?”
“Go on, take it.”
“But—”
“Take it.”
Hesitantly, Green did. “Thank you, sir.” Moisture sheened his eyes. He blinked several times.
“How much is there still to pay?”
“Less than a quid. Busbee’s keeping tabs. But I can pay that now—”
“You’re not responsible for that obligation. Dunlop was. And since he neglected to discharge it, I will.” Icarus used his major’s voice: authoritative, brooking no argument.
Green hesitated, clutching the note in his dirty fingers, and then said, “Thank you, sir,” again.
Icarus tucked the pocketbook back in his coat. “It may interest you to know that Dunlop is currently a resident of Marshalsea Prison.”
Green blinked. “Marshalsea? Mr. Dunlop?”
“He’s not enjoying the experience.”
Green grinned. It transformed his face, making him look like a schoolboy at a fair. “Hard to see as how anyone could enjoy that!”
“Indeed.” Icarus studied the young man. Green had been competent at his job, as far as he could recall. “I have no manservant at present,” he said abruptly. “I can offer you a month’s employment, and a good reference at the end of that.”
Green’s eyes widened. “Me, sir?”
“If you would like.”
“Yes, sir!”
“I’m staying at the Plough, on Beadle Street. Present yourself there once you’ve cleaned yourself up. I’ll pay your shot here.”
“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!” Green hurried off, leaving the shovel jammed in the manure heap.
Icarus turned to find Miss Trentham watching him, her veil pulled back and her eyebrows slightly raised. “Very chivalrous, Mr. Reid.”
To his annoyance, Icarus felt himself flush.
“Busbee sounds like rather a villain,” she said, twitching down her veil again. “Surely the debt was Dunlop’s, not Green’s?”
“He sounds very much like a villain.” Icarus set his jaw and strode back into the Red Lion. It would give him great pleasure to rip Busbee’s head off and shove it up his posterior.
By the time he ran Busbee to ground—in his storeroom—Icarus had rethought his tactics. “I understand that Dunlop departed without paying his shot,” he said, in a reasonable tone.
Busbee eyed him warily. “That he did! More’n eight quid, he owed me. A week’s board for him and his man, plus three bottles of my best wine each night.”
“Ah . . . I think you might be mistaken,” Miss Trentham said gently. “Are you certain it was so much?”
Busbee swelled. “Positive!”
Miss Trentham shook her head.
“I’m sure Mr. Busbee keeps accounts,” Icarus said, with a tight, unfelt smile. “Shall we examine them?”
Busbee thought of several reasons why he couldn’t possibly allow them to view his books. Icarus grew impatient. “Then perhaps we should take this matter to the magistrate?”
Busbee led them to his office and sullenly produced his ledger. Icarus bent over the desk and ran his finger down the columns. “Four nights’ accommodation. Three dinners and . . . seven bottles of wine. This is your handwriting, I take it?” He tapped the sum that had been scrawled at the bottom.
“Yes,” Busbee said, even more sullenly.
“Not eight pounds,” Icarus said, straightening. “Not even close.”
“I misremembered!”
Icarus studied the man’s face. “Did you tell Mr. Green that he’d go to debtors’ prison if he couldn’t pay what his master owed you?”
Busbee flushed. “Of course not!”
“I think you’re misremembering again,” Miss Trentham said.
Busbee cast her a resentful glance. “I’m not an almshouse. Seven bottles of my best wine! Someone had to pay for it!”
“I sympathize with your problem,” Icarus said. “But not with your method of achieving redress. Mr. Green was even more Dunlop’s victim than you were.”
“Why should I be out of pocket?” Busbee muttered. “It’s not fair, is what it is.”
“Mr. Green has worked for you for . . . how long? A month? Without wages. Is that fair?”
Busbee folded his lips together and didn’t answer.
“How much do you pay your ostlers?”
“A shilling a day.”
“Ah . . . Mr. Busbee?” Miss Trentham said.
Busbee gave her a surly glance. “One and six a day.”
Icarus looked at the dates in the ledger. He did some mental arithmetic. One and a half shillings a day, multiplied by thirty . . . “So he’s earned two and a half pounds in your service. I think you’d better pay him, don’t you?”
“Why should I be out of pocket?”
Icarus reached inside his coat and pulled out his pocketbook. “Who says you will be?”
Busbee considered the matter for several seconds, then unlocked a drawer in his scarred desk and counted out two pounds and ten shillings. Scowling, he shoved the money at Icarus. “That’s all I owe him. Now what about what Dunlop owes me?”
Miss Trentham cocked her head. “Are you certain that’s all you owe Green, Mr. Busbee?”
Icarus glanced at her sharply. So did Mr. Busbee.
“I don’t owe Green nothing more!” Busbee protested loudly. His voice was fractionally high-pitched, fractionally off-tone. Even Icarus heard that he was lying.
“That does it,” he said, losing his patience with the man. “The magistrate. Now.” He strode round the desk and reached for Busbee.
Busbee scrambled backwards and fell over his own chair. “All right! All right! I’ll give it to you!”
Icarus halted.
Busbee crawled to his feet and fumbled with the drawer again. He counted out more money. He was sweating profusely, giving off a rank animal odor. Icarus’s nose recognized the smell for what it was: fear.
“What’s this?”
“Green gave me some of his things as . . . as payment.” Busbee glanced at Miss Trentham, and slid his hand into his waistcoat pocket and brought out a watch. He placed it on the pile.
“You took Green’s watch and pawned his belongings?”
Busbee glanced at him, and had the intelligence not to speak.
Icarus could barely speak, either. Outrage tightened his throat and thickened his tongue. “Is that everything you owe Mr. Green?”
Busbee nodded.
“Say it,” Icarus said, between his teeth.
“It’s everything.”
“Mr. Busbee is telling the truth for once,” Miss Trentham said.
Icarus counted out the money. Three pounds ten. Plus the watch. “I can understand not wanting to be out of pocket, but this is far more than that! You profited from it!”
“Perhaps the magistrate would be best?” Miss Trentham said coolly. “He does seem an out-and-out rogue.”
“No!” Busbee cried. “Please! I promise I’ll never do it again!”
Icarus glanced at Miss Trentham, aloof behind her veil, and then fastened his gaze back on Busbee. “I need a better guarantee than that, Mr. Busbee. Your word. Your word that you will never be dishonest in your dealings with anyone, ever again.” He showed his teeth in a smile. “And you’d better mean it.”
Busbee wet his lips. Sweat stood out on his doughy cheeks, on his domed forehead. He darted a glance at Miss Trentham. “My word,” he said. “I’ll never be dishonest in my dealings with anyone ever again.”
“Does he mean it?”
Miss Trentham nodded.
Icarus put Green’s money in his pocket, along with the watch, and opened his pocketbook. Carefully, he counted out the exact sum that Dunlop owed and, equally carefully, placed it on the ledger. What he really wanted to do was bury the money in the manure heap and make Busbee dig for it.