Free The Devil's Mask by Christopher Wakling Page A

the swell of her hip. I was still giving my metronomic account of the matter, but what I wanted to do was shout an obscenity, kick a hole in the table, and walk out. If I was going to have such thoughts about a woman, then oughtn’t Lilly to be the one to spring to mind? I stopped talking.
    â€˜Very interesting. Thoroughly … thorough. Thank you.’ Orton’s palms, turned up on the tabletop, were a raw pink. ‘And you’ve nothing further to add, Adam?’ he deferred to Carthy again.
    â€˜No. There’s the matter of the Company’s backers, which I can detail if you so wish …’ Carthy’s knowing look made my heart quicken. I did not want to have to concede Bright & Co.’s involvement. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the seat of an occasional chair beside the fireplace bulge and settle with the shape of a tortoiseshell cat. That was what the lemon zest was intended to mask, the smell of cat piss. Mercifully, Orton’s lack of interest extended to those who had shares in the Western Trading Company. He waved away Carthy’s suggestion with a flick of his flayed hands.
    â€˜A summary for the file, with your … findings set down, will suffice,’ he said quickly, and then, visibly more animated again, he began regaling Carthy with a further account of his weekend’s fossicking for rocks. Ammonites were the new old thing, he explained, his hands fluttering at one another with pleasure.
    My temper wasn’t improved by Carthy’s insistence that we climb into his wretched coach again for the return journey. To avoid the appearance of fuming in silence, I eventually asked, ‘What was all that about?’
    â€˜I know!’ Carthy shook his head. ‘Frittering his time away in the mud. I once made the mistake of telling him I’d collected shells as a boy. But that’s a world away from a grown man, of his authority …’
    â€˜That’s not what I’m talking about.’
    â€˜No?’ replied Carthy disingenuously.
    â€˜No. What’s really going on?’
    Carthy took a long look at the shop-fronts rattling past. ‘Hard to say. This job seemed like a perfect opportunity to make a difference. Heaven knows the mess the Dock Company presides over needs clearing up, for the good of the city. That’s why Orton instructed us, I assumed. He’s the new man there. I understood we were to present him with results he could act upon. There was no mention of the wretched fossils when he dropped off the documents. Evidently, I misjudged the man’s intentions. He needs something on the file, but it certainly doesn’t look like he’s planning on waving it in anyone’s face. Insurance of some sort, I’ll wager that’s what he’s after. A note of our findings will give him leverage to shore up his position within the Company. It’s a missed opportunity.’
    The coach had slowed up in the throng of Corn Street. A horse’s head, hanging momentarily beside the open window, exploded in a sneeze: tendrils of snot swayed from its nostrils just inches from my face. I flinched; the apparition drifted from view.
    â€˜But it doesn’t make any difference,’ Carthy went on. ‘Though Orton’s softened for now, our brief is unchanged. You must finish your analysis and write it up and send it over for the man to file. Who knows, maybe the wind will shift again and he will enjoy a change of heart.’
    I nodded, placated by the note of confidence in Carthy’s voice, even if what he was saying oppressed me further. That’s the trouble with lawyering. Though it gives the appearance of being necessary, vital even, too often the work is adding braces to belted trousers, or is entirely for show. I hung on to the sillof the carriage as it slewed and clattered over a rutted stretch of road.
    â€˜Keep digging,’ Carthy muttered. ‘But carefully. Orton told me he uses a