A couple of hours later, Crane sat at ease in the Traders. Stephen was next to him, wearing the suit Crane had bought him. Stephen’s obvious poverty, added to the height difference, made a mismatch in their appearances that drew far more attention than was prudent, and since Crane was an extraordinarily rich man where Stephen struggled to pay the rent, it had seemed only sensible to him that he should fund a decent set of clothes. Stephen had reluctantly accepted that, but had reacted with fury when he learned that Crane had had several other suits made up for him at the same time. He would have been livid had he known quite how obscenely expensive the discreet tailoring establishment was.
Anyone who cared about clothes would have known, Crane reflected. The material he’d selected, with no useful help from his sartorially inexperienced lover, was a subtle heather mix with tiny flecks of red and yellow, a quiet, autumnal effect that set off Stephen’s hair and eyes perfectly, and it was flatteringly cut, without any ostentatious attempt to make up for his lack of height or breadth. He looked, Crane thought, delightful: well dressed, bright-eyed and freshly fucked, the latter point hopefully lost on the men gathered around the table with them.
They were in the Traders’ conversation room for postprandial drinks. Cryer was there, with one speculative eye on the attractive young man who had arrived with Crane; Humphris, abstracted and frowning; and Peyton, interjecting obvious sarcasm whenever he could. Shaycott was enthusiastically retelling Willetts’ Red Tide tale yet again, but had earned his keep by introducing a Java man named Oldbury who Crane hadn’t met before, and a scholarly type called Dr. Almont, who he had seen haunting the library on several occasions, and who apparently was an expert on Polynesian tradition, insofar as that was possible without ever having left England.
Shaycott came to the much-anticipated end of his tale and got a minimal grunt of appreciation from most of those present and an enthusiastic response from Stephen.
“What a marvellous yarn, thank you, sir. Is that a common legend in those parts, I wonder, the rat cult?”
“Not that I heard,” Oldbury said. “Only ever had it from Willetts.”
“It has some similarities to other tales in the tropes of the priestess and the summoning.” Dr. Almont was ready to lecture. “Interestingly, it lacks an element one would have expected, which may be found in many superficially similar tales, the device or motif of the anitu.”
“Ghost,” said Oldbury.
“More than merely a ghost, if I may say so. The anitu, or spirit of the dead that has the capacity to animate another body—”
“Not in this one,” Oldbury said firmly. “No ghosts, just rats.”
“How much truth would you say there was in this?” Crane asked.
“Truth!” Peyton snorted. “Giant rats and lovely darkies! Honestly, Vaudrey—”
“Crane. Lord Crane.”
Peyton flushed. “Willetts was a shocking liar. His stories were all absolute rubbish. You should know. He had the most marvellous tale about you.”
“If you mean the one about the crabman, it is, unfortunately, quite accurate.” The chorus of incredulous mockery that erupted suggested Willetts had shared the story widely. Crane spared an unkind thought for the deceased trader and waited for the catcalls to die down. “Yes, well, I was horribly drunk. These things happen.”
“They don’t happen to anyone else.” Monk looked amused for the first time that evening.
“Oh, I don’t know. I always thought things happened to Willetts.”
Oldbury gave a grunt of agreement. “Ready for any spree. Looked for adventure.”
“And when one looks for adventure, one often finds it. I’ve seen some strange sights—” Shaycott began.
Crane came in over him ruthlessly. “We all have. Did you ever see this rat amulet of his, Oldbury?”
The Java man shrugged. “Any amount of stuff. Rooms packed with it.”
“What’s happening to his things?” Crane asked. “Who’s his next of kin? Did he even have family over here?”
“Sister. Why he came back. Sick, you know. Lungs.”
“Poor chap,” Crane said, frowning. “Do you have her direction, at all? I’d like to send my condolences.”
The conversation splintered up into groups. Crane ensured he was with Oldbury and Humphris, finding out what he could about Willetts’ murder without seeming too obvious. He didn’t get much. After half an hour or so he looked around for Stephen, who had taken the unenviable task of talking to Dr. Almont. The scholar was still there, now latched on to Shaycott, but Stephen was gone.
“Looking for your pal?” asked Town, at his elbow.
“He probably jumped from the window,” said Crane. “Almont is a shocking dullard, isn’t he?”
Town rolled his eyes. “He and Shaycott won’t shut up, and Oldbury talks as though he was charged by the word. I don’t know what it is about Java men. Bores, every last one. Except Willetts. You have an interest there?”
“Not particularly. Just rather sorry for the poor fellow, wondered if I might help his sister. Day’s the one interested in Java.”
“Your little, ah, friend?” Town waggled his eyebrows.