Page 42 of A Debt Inherited

Grant reached for the newspaper, folded it badly, then unfolded it again. “How much did he say?”

“He did not instruct me to bargain.”

“I have expectations.”

“Then Sunday should prove convenient.”

Grant looked at him with dislike, then with calculation. “You are not one of his usual men.”

“No.”

“Who are you?”

Kerr set his hat beneath his arm. “The man he sent.”

Silence lengthened. Then Grant crossed to a small escritoire, unlocked it, and took out a purse. He counted slowly, as if each coin accused him. Kerr neither hurried nor helped.

When the sum lay on the table, Grant pushed it across.

“You may tell your master I dislike his methods.”

Kerr took the money. “I believe he knows.”

Sykes counted the coins at the Forge and gave Kerr five shillings for the errand.

“You spoke?”

“As required.”

“And he paid?”

“As you see.”

Sykes grinned then, showing a broken tooth. “Mrs Price said you had ice in you.”

“She overstated my virtues.”

“Virtues don’t earn,” Sykes said, and turned to the next man.

At Upper Gower Street, the house stood dark except for the kitchen lamp belowstairs. Price opened the door before Kerr used his key. His eyes went to Kerr’s coat, then away.

“Late night, sir.”

“A profitable one.”

Price said nothing.

In the back parlour, Kerr set the coins upon the desk. Seven shillings in all. Not enough to save him. Enough to matter.

He opened the account book. The old columns waited with their patient lines: coal, candles, butcher, laundress, wages. Honest wants in honest ink.

He dipped the pen and wrote the date.

Received—confidential service: 7s.

The words looked almost respectable once the sand had dried them.

Kerr closed the book and stacked the coins by size. Shillings together. Sixpences beside them. Copper last.