Grey was so exercised in mind that he took no notice at all of his surroundings. Emerging into the portrait hallway, he did not wait to be shown out, but stamped off via the most direct route that presented itself. In consequence, he found himself a few moments later outside the house, in the midst of a raging downpour, but with Bell Street, where he had come in, nowhere in sight.
He paused, breathing heavily, thought of skulking back into the manor house to ask direction, dismissed that notion instanter, and looked round for an alternate means of egress.
He was surrounded by a cluster of smaller buildings, mostly wet brick, roofed with rain-slick slates, and with a profusion of small, muddy lanes leading to and fro among them.
No wonder they called the bloody place “the Warren,” he thought grimly, and was inclined to find his present confusion merely a continuation of the morning’s aggravation. He chose a direction at random and set off, cursing the Arsenal and all its works.
Ten minutes of tramping through rain and mud left his clothes wet, his boots fouled, and his temper fouler, but he was no closer to escape. A shattering boom! from very close at hand made him veer suddenly sideways, fetching up against one of the myriad brick buildings, heart thundering in his chest. He pressed a hand hard over it, and tried without effect to calm his breathing.
His hands and feet were chilled to the bone, but he felt fresh sweat trickle down his ribs, further dampening his already clammy linen. Not that it mattered; he would be soaked to the skin in another few minutes.
“Oh, the devil with it,” he muttered to himself, and seizing the nearest door handle in sight, shoved it open.
He found himself in a low-ceilinged room that smelt strongly of sulfur, hot metal, and other noxious substances. It did, however, have a fire in the hearth, and he headed for this like a racing pigeon homing to its cot.
He slung his cloak forward over his shoulder and closed his eyes in momentary bliss at the feel of heat on his legs and backside.
A sound caused him to open his eyes, and he saw that the noise of his entry had attracted a young man, presently gaping at him from a door on the far side of the room.
“Sir?” said the young man tentatively, taking in Grey’s uniform. The young man himself was in shirtsleeves and breeches, a slender chap with dark, curly hair and a face of almost girlish delicacy, perhaps a few years younger than himself.
“I beg your pardon for my unseemly intrusion,” Grey said, letting his cloak fall and forcing a smile. “I am Major John Grey. I was unfortunately—” He had begun some explanation of his presence, but the young man’s eyes forestalled him with an exclamation of surprise.
“Major Grey! Why, I know you!”
“You do?” For some reason, this made Grey somewhat uneasy.
“But of course, of course! Or rather,” the young man corrected himself, “I know your name. You were called before the commission this morning, were you not?”
“I was,” Grey said shortly, fury returning at the memory.
“Oh—but I forget myself; your pardon; sir. I am Herbert Gormley.” He bobbed an awkward bow, which Grey returned, with mutual murmurs of “your servant, sir.”
Glancing round, he saw that the strong odors came from an assortment of pots and glass vessels scattered higgledy-piggledy across an assortment of tables and benches. Wisps of steam rose from a small earthen pot on the table nearest him.
“Could that be tea?” Grey asked dubiously.
It could. Gormley, clearly grateful for the opportunity to be hospitable, snatched up a filthy cloth, and using this as a pot holder, poured hot liquid into a pottery mug, which he handed to Grey.
The tea was the same grayish color as the mud on his boots, and the smell led him to suspect that the mug was not employed strictly as a drinking vessel—but it was hot, and that was all that mattered.
“Er…what is this place?” Grey inquired, emerging from the mug and waving at their surroundings.
“This is the Royal Laboratory, sir!” Gormley said, straightening his back with an air of pride. “If you please, sir? I’ll fetch someone directly; he will be so excited!”
Before Grey could speak to stop him, Gormley had darted back into the recesses of the building.
Grey’s uneasy feeling returned. Excited? The revelation that everyone in the Warren seemed to have heard about his appearance before the commission was sufficiently sinister. That anyone should be excited about it was unsettling.
In Grey’s not inconsiderable experience, for a soldier to be talked about was a good thing only if the conversation were in reference to some laudable feat of arms. Otherwise, a prudent man kept his head down, lest it be—this unwary thought evoked a sudden memory of Lieutenant Lister, and he shuddered convulsively, slopping hot tea over his knuckles.
He set the cup down and wiped his hand on his cloak, debating the wisdom of absquatulating before Gormley returned with his “someone”—but the rain was now slashing ferociously at the shutters, driven by a freezing east wind, and he hesitated an instant too long.
“Major Grey?” A dark, burly soldier in a Royal Artillery captain’s uniform emerged, a look of mingled welcome and wariness upon his heavy face. “Captain Reginald Jones, sir. May I welcome you to our humble abode?” He offered his hand, tilting his head in irony toward the cluttered room.
“I am obliged to you, sir, both for shelter from the storm and for the kind refreshment,” Grey replied, taking both the offered hand and advantage of the pounding rain to indicate his reason for intrusion.
“Oh, you did not come in response to my invitation?” Jones had thick brows, like woolly caterpillars, which arched themselves in inquiry.
“Invitation?” Grey repeated, the sense of unease returning. “I received no invitation, Captain, though I assure you—”
“I did tell you, sir,” Gormley said reproachfully to the captain. “When I took your note across to the manor, they said I had just missed the major, who had already left.”
“Oh, so you did, so you did, Herbert,” Jones said, smacking himself theatrically on the forehead. “Well, then, it seems good luck or Providence has delivered you to us, Major.”
“Indeed,” Grey said warily. “Why?”
Captain Jones smiled warmly at him.
“Why, Major, we have something to show you.”