There was no smile on his face now, however, as he stepped out of the site of the Reconciliation—known euphemistically as the Retreat—to find Dowd sitting perched on a shooting stick a few yards from the door. It was early afternoon but the sun was already low.in the sky, the air as chilly as Dowd’s welcome. It was almost enough to make him turn around and go back to Yzordderrex, revolution or no.
“Why do I think you haven’t come here with sparkling news?” he said.
Dowd rose with his usual theatricality. “I’m afraid you’re absolutely correct,” he said.
“Let me guess: the government fell! The house burned down.” His face dropped. “Not my brother?” he said. “Not Charlie?” He tried to read Dowd’s face. “What: dead? A massive coronary. When was the funeral?”
“No, he’s alive. But the problem lies with him.”
“Always has. Always has. Will you fetch my goods and chattels out of the folly? We’ll talk as we walk. Go on in, will you? There’s nothing there that’s going to bite.”
Dowd had stayed out of the Retreat all the time he’d waited for Godolphin (a wearisome three days), even though it would have given him some measure of protection against the bitter cold. Not that his system was susceptible to such discomforts, but he fancied himself an empathic soul, and his time on Earth had taught him to feel cold as an intellectual concept, if not a physical one, and he might have wished to take shelter. Anywhere other than the Retreat. Not only had many esoterics died there (and he didn’t enjoy the proximity of death unless he’d been its bringer), but the Retreat was a passing place between the Fifth Dominion and the other four, including, of course, the home from which he was in permanent exile. To be so close to the door through which his home lay, and be prevented by the conjurations of his first keeper, Joshua Godolphin, from opening that door, was painful. The cold was preferable.
He stepped inside now, however, having no choice in the matter. The Retreat had been built in neoclassical style: twelve marble pillars rising to support a dome that called for decoration but had none. The plainness of the whole lent it gravity and a certain functionalism which was not inappropriate. It was, after all, no more than a station, built to serve countless passengers and now used by only one. On the floor, set in the middle of the elaborate mosaic that appeared to be the building’s sole concession to prettifica-tion but was in fact the evidence of its true purpose, were the bundles of artifacts Godolphin brought back from his travels, neatly tied up by Hoi-Polloi Nuits-St.-Georges, the knots encrusted with scarlet sealing wax. It was her present delight, this business with the wax, and Dowd cursed it, given that it fell to him to unpack these treasures. He crossed to the center of the mosaic, light on his heels. This was tremulous terrain, and he didn’t trust it. But moments later he emerged with his freight, to find that Godolphin was already marching out of the copse that screened the Retreat from both the house (empty, of course; in ruins) and any casual spy who peered over the wall. He took a deep breath and went after his master, knowing the explanation ahead would not be easy.
“So they’ve summoned me, have they?” Oscar said, as they drove back into London, the traffic thickening with the dusk. “Well, let them wait.”
“You’re not going to tell them you’re here?”
“In my time, not in theirs. This is a mess, Dowdy. A wretched mess.”
“You told me to help Estabrook if he needed it.”
“Helping him hire an assassin isn’t what I had in mind.”
“Chant was very discreet.”
“Death makes you that way, I find. You really have made a pig’s ear of the whole thing.”
“I protest,” said Dowd. “What else was I supposed to do? You knew he wanted the woman dead, and you washed your hands of it.”
“All true,” said Godolphin. “She is dead, I assume?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve been scouring the papers, and there’s no mention.”