“I can’t guarantee there’s nothing on the other side.”
“Ah. Oh well, nothing ventured. May I?”
“Carefully.”
Curtis took the flashlight and kept its beam on the putty and wire jury-rig as da Silva pulled the storeroom door open, as far as the wire would allow. No alarms sounded that he could hear. He let out a breath.
“Good work,” murmured da Silva. “Right. Coming in?”
He slipped through the gap. Curtis, much bulkier, edged through, shut the door behind him, and opened the dark lantern slide as far as it would go to illuminate the scene. It was a small room with no windows and no exits. There were a few stacked chairs, a table, and a large wooden cabinet. He pulled at the top drawer, which was locked.
“Excuse me.” Da Silva pierced the lock with a slender piece of metal, and wiggled it. There was, almost at once, a click. He pulled open the top drawer. “You take this, I’ll do the bottom one, and we’ll meet in the middle?”
Curtis nodded. Da Silva produced a second flashlight and closed the lantern slide again, so that the only illumination came from each man’s torch. He dropped casually to a crouch and pulled open the lowest drawer.
Uncomfortably aware of da Silva at his feet, Curtis began to flick through the hanging files. Within a few seconds, he came across photographic prints. He pulled one out, and his mouth went dry.
“Look.”
Da Silva straightened up so he stood next to Curtis and looked at the image in the torchlight.
“Well. If one wanted to blackmail the lady, that would suffice. Put it back where you got it.”
Curtis slid the picture back into place. Da Silva was already flicking through the next folder, and Curtis realised that he hadn’t been first-time lucky. Every folder held something. He winced at the procession of images, some a little blurry, black, grey and white snapshots of pleasure or depravity.
“Christ!” he hissed as da Silva took out a photograph that made his guts turn over. “Put it away.”
Da Silva didn’t. He was peering at the image, and Curtis glared at him. “For God’s sake. I know him. He was at Oxford a couple of years after me. Put it away.”
“Which one do you know?”
“The one—underneath.” The one on all fours, face contorted with pain or pleasure, shoulders gripped by the powerful man who knelt behind him.
“Who is he?”
“None of your business.”
“Don’t be bloody stupid. Who is he, or more to the point, what does he do?” There was nothing louche in da Silva’s tone, rather a sharp urgency.
“Foreign Office,” said Curtis reluctantly. “He’s an under-secretary.”
“How ironic.” Da Silva’s words were clipped. “Because he’s under a secretary right there, or at least an attaché. The blond’s in the Prussian embassy.”
Curtis stared at the fair-haired Prussian, captured in the act as he took the other man with obvious roughness. He felt peculiar, intrusive, quivering with illicit sensation. “I don’t think a Foreign Office man should be doing that with a Prussian diplomat.”
“Nor do I.” Da Silva dropped the photo back into place and started going through more folders. “Here’s another one.”
Curtis grabbed the photo, incredulous. “For the love of God. I know him as well. He was in my college. Belongs to my club.”
“He belongs to a couple of mine, come to that. Not very discreet. Isn’t he an equerry of His Majesty?” Curtis nodded. “Most indiscreet. Notice we can’t see the other chap’s face.” The equerry was obviously thrusting into a male body, but the recipient had his head buried in the sheets. Da Silva frowned. “Blond. I wonder if that’s the obliging footman.”
“That fellow Wesley?” Curtis tried to call him to mind. “It could be, I suppose.”
“And— Oh. Look.”
Curtis looked at the photograph da Silva held out, a woman being enjoyed by, and taking a good deal of enjoyment from, a man with a Y-shaped scar on his shoulder. He didn’t recognise her, but as his gaze moved from the man’s body to his face, his mouth dropped open. “Isn’t that Lambdon?”
“It is. And…” Da Silva flicked back to the beginning of the drawer and pulled out the first picture again. This photograph was framed so that the man in it was cut off at the neck, but da Silva’s finger tapped the distinctive scar on his shoulder. “It looks like this is too. Mr. Lambdon taking a leading role.”
“Sir Hubert can’t be blackmailing his own brother-in-law!”
“What makes you think it’s Lambdon being blackmailed? Come to that, what makes you think it’s just Sir Hubert blackmailing? Look at these, Curtis.” Da Silva swept his hand over the drawer of files. “How many Oxford contemporaries of yours have you seen in this lot, your time or younger?”