Chapter Twenty-Three
In the end, it wasn’t as difficult to unravel a cunning plan involving government officials, members of Parliament, and the scion of an ancient magical family as Max would have expected.
All one really needed was a couple of journalists.
Cecily and Will arrived at Vesper’s flat the next day looking puzzled to have been summoned so urgently on a weekend morning, though rather not puzzled to find Max already there, wearing the previous evening’s clothes.
“This is fascinating information that I shall be returning to when we have less important matters at hand,” Cecily informed her sister as she accepted a cup of tea from her.
Will was somewhat less diplomatic about it. “I knew you needed a shag,” he said to Max bluntly, the instant the two of them were alone in the sitting room for half a second while Vesper and her sister argued over jam preferences in the kitchen. “Look at you—you’re grinning.”
“I’m basking in what is hopefully soon to be a professional success.”
“No—you’ve just had a good shag,” Will said definitively. “This means I won my bet with Vera; you were a week sooner than she expected.”
“I don’t suppose you’d consider refraining from betting on my love life in the future?”
“So long as Vesper sticks around, I won’t say another word,” Will said with a grin, but his face softened after a moment. “I quite like her, you know; she keeps things interesting.”
This was, Max thought, one of his favorite things about Vesper, too. It was becoming quite a long list.
Will and Cecily were briefed on the situation as it currently stood while pastries were consumed; Max had darted out to collect them from the bakery around the corner that morning while Vesper slept next to him.
They’d been too exhausted and exhilarated when they arrived home in the wee hours of the morning to do anything other than tumble into bed and fall asleep a moment later, but Max had awoken in the soft morning light to find Vesper curled up next to him, a soft frown curving the edges of her mouth in her sleep.
He’d felt warm and tender at the sight, and instead of lingering to contemplate this, he’d crept out in search of baked goods.
When he’d returned, he’d awoken her with a kiss; she had mumbled sleepily, made a variety of incoherent protests about the early hour, and then twined her arms around his neck, pulling him back down into the warmth of her body.
It had been quite a while before he’d got up again.
Once he had, though, they’d both sprung into action.
Cecily and Will looked increasingly awake as the magnitude of the potential story they were being handed dawned on them.
“Do we need some sort of proof?” Vesper asked, sounding uncharacteristically anxious as she and Max finished their summarization of their findings so far. Will had fished a notebook out of his pocket and was scribbling away; he glanced over at Cecily, and then they shook their heads in unison.
“No,” Cecily said, thoughtful. “Or, at least, I don’t think so—this is plenty to get us started. We really just need one person who’s willing to talk.” She looked at Max, assessing. “I take it you don’t want to approach your father with this?”
“He and I do not have a history of calm and reasoned conversations,” Max said dryly. “I doubt that would end well. Besides, I can’t imagine he’d have any motive to admit it—this could destroy his business.”
“True,” Will said. “Ditto for Raffles, I’ll bet—if he and Grimme-Nox orchestrated this together, it’ll be the end of his entire political career.”
“What about Finlay?” Vesper asked suddenly, leaning forward. “We think he’s mixed up in all this somehow, but if he didn’t directly plan it, I wonder if we can convince him to talk? Offer to keep his name out of the papers in exchange?”
Max grimaced in distaste at this, but was forced to concede it was a decent plan.
“I doubt he’ll speak to me,” Cecily said ruefully. “He’s, er, not a particular fan of The Spark.” She looked at Will inquiringly. “Perhaps The Times would be more to his taste?”
“Or,” Vesper said, eyes flicking to Max, “perhaps the perfect person to approach him initially wouldn’t be a journalist at all—but an eminently trustworthy and upstanding government employee?”
Which is how Max found himself calling out from work sick on Monday, and instead standing, at the respectable hour of eleven o’clock, outside Jacob Finlay’s office door in the Palace of Westminster.
Feeling a bit as if he were inhabiting a different universe, he gave his name—and, crucially, his professional title—to the secretary who opened the door of the antechamber, and he was, in short order, shown into Finlay’s office, where the man in question awaited him behind an imposing oak desk.
The entire situation felt like a strange historical artifact; nothing about the twentieth century was evident, barring a discreet wireless tucked onto a bookshelf.
“Mr. Ashbridge, is it?” Finlay asked, lifting his gaze from the thick stack of correspondence on his desk. “It’s only out of my affection for Mrs. Raffles that I’m seeing you: My schedule is quite busy today.”
“Of course,” Max said, with a respectful nod.
He’d been sure to mention Raffles’s name to the secretary at the door—if this conversation went as planned, then he didn’t need to worry about word getting back to her.
“I appreciate your time.” He took a seat without being invited in one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs opposite Finlay’s desk, and he said, without preamble, “I’d like to discuss your involvement in a series of poisonings at the Marylebone clubs. ”
Finlay, ever the politician, had a pretty good poker face, but even he was unable to keep any hint of emotion from his expression, and for a moment he looked genuinely startled. “I’m sorry?”
“Well,” Max said, leaning back in his seat, “it’s come to my attention, courtesy of a couple of reliable sources, that there is plenty of evidence to suggest that you are somehow wrapped up in a scheme involving Michael Raffles and Augustus Grimme-Nox, and that the magic at various clubs has been tampered with. ”
“Magic is a dangerous forbidden substance—something I presume you’re aware of, given your line of work.” Finlay gave Max a thin smile. “I’m sorry to hear there’s been some trouble, but this is quite a wild accusation.”
He was very good, Max thought in a detached sort of way. Unfortunately, he wasn’t quite good enough: His hands were gripping the arms of his chair just a bit too tight.
“Ah.” Max smiled faintly. “My mistake. That’s unfortunate—I have a couple of friends at The Spark and The Times who are quite interested in this story and were hoping to cut some sort of deal with you to keep your name out of the proceedings, but I’ll simply tell them you’re not interested, and let them write whatever story they will. ”
With that, Max rose to his feet, turned, and walked to the door.
He only made it halfway across the room before Finlay said sharply, “Wait.”
Careful to keep any trace of smugness or triumph off his face, Max turned. Finlay was regarding him with a coldly appraising eye—he had the air of a man who was rapidly reassessing an opponent.
He was silent a long moment, then said, “I’d want assurances.”
Max inclined his head. “I think they can provide them.”
Finlay considered him for another few seconds. “I fail to see where you come into this, Mr. Ashbridge.”
“Call it a… personal interest.”
Finlay looked unimpressed. “Lots of men have blown up their entire careers for personal interests. It would seem you’re merely the latest in that noble line.”
“Let me worry about my career—and I’ll let you worry about preserving what’s left of yours.”
“I wonder if Effie Raffles knew who she was hiring,” Finlay said, sounding genuinely curious.
Max couldn’t prevent the small smile that crossed his face at this. “Well, I think she’s about to find out.”
That evening, he arrived at Holloway’s to be greeted by a smug-looking Cecily. She was sitting in the snug, nursing a cup of tea and typing furiously on a typewriter, consulting a tattered notebook filled with shorthand scribbles.
“Ashbridge!” she said brightly, beckoning him when he poked his head into the room. “Brilliant work this morning.”
“I take it you and Will had success in your interview with Finlay?”
Cecily nodded happily. “Chamberlain’s still with him, going over the finer details.
I wanted to get a head start on drafting the copy—Chamberlain will join me later.
” She sounded extremely pleased with herself, in a particular way that Max was beginning to suspect was a Holloway family trait, before adding, very sharply, “George, do not even think of putting that in your mouth.”
Max blinked, then leaned forward, craning his neck; tucked between the edge of the armchair Cecily occupied and the wall was a small, dark-haired boy who appeared to have pried up a loose floorboard to reveal some sort of bounty hidden in a pillowcase.
He was currently holding an old coin up to his eye to scrutinize.
This must be the nephew that both Vesper and Freddie had discussed in such haunted tones.
The boy looked up and deigned to take notice of Max. “Who are you?”
“Mr. Ashbridge,” Cecily said. “He’s a friend of Auntie Vesper’s.”
“I thought you didn’t like Auntie Vesper’s friends,” George informed his mother, his chubby face creasing into a frown. “You said she always chooses the wrong men to be friends with.”
“Well,” Cecily said, laughter in her voice, “Mr. Ashbridge is an exception. For that reason, I’m hoping he and Auntie Vesper will be friends for quite a while.”
“Do you want to be friends with Auntie Vesper for quite a while?” George demanded of Max, a fierce scowl on his face.
“I do,” Max said gravely, and, thus mollified, George returned his attention to the coin.