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S ilas looked up in alarm at Ezra, towering over him.

“Sit, please, Mr. Curiel,” Pemberton said. “This is but one part of the puzzle. You must promise to refrain from action until we have everything assembled.”

Ezra sat, and Pemberton looked around at the group of men. “Now, is there anything we have not covered?”

“Will and I went through the guest list for you,” Magnus said. He withdrew a piece of paper from his jacket and handed it to Silas. “There was a wide selection of guests at various times. Not all inverts.”

“Very good,” Pemberton said. “That will be useful if we need to call witnesses to Ezra’s presence here and establish his alibi.”

Eventually they were all dismissed. “I don’t wish to return to Hackney,” Ezra told Silas as they walked out to Ormond Yard. “I am afraid that if I see Rebecca I will be very angry with her, and that would only encourage her to reiterate her claims against me.”

“You will come to my room with me,” Silas said, and put his hand on Ezra’s arm.

They walked through the darkened streets together. “You don’t believe the allegations against me, do you?” Ezra asked.

“If I did, would I marshal my friends and my employer to assist in your defense?” Silas said. “Of course I do not.”

“While I was imprisoned, I thought of you,” Ezra said. He smiled. “How you would decorate even a dank cell with your scarves and your pictures. How you can make any place you are seem like a home, and any man in your arms feel safe and loved.”

“You would never be comfortable in a tiny room such as mine,” Silas said. “Where would you exercise?”

“If I am found innocent, we will address the manner of our living,” Ezra said. “Surely with my help you can find a better place to live.”

“The better the place, the more the eyes upon us,” Silas said. “At least in my room, no one knows you are there.”

They arrived at Silas’s room, and because both were exhausted, they did little more than cuddle before both fell asleep.

Tuesday morning, Ezra left early to return to his regular workout routine. Silas pulled his collar up around his neck as he walked out into the December chill, his nose full of the smell of coal and wood smoke. The fog was thick as pea soup, muffling the sound of carriage wheels on cobblestone streets and the pealing of church bells calling the faithful to early morning services.

On his way to the Inns of Court, he passed houses decorated with wreaths and garlands made of evergreen branches, holly, and mistletoe on their doors and windows, reminding him that Christmas was coming. What would Ezra do during the holidays, he wondered? Surely his household would not celebrate.

Silas felt a pang of nostalgia for his childhood, when his father brought in a small tree and he and his mother and sister decorated it. The thrill of waking on Christmas morning to see what Father Christmas had brought him. Perhaps a wooden toy or the exotic taste and smell of an orange.

He shook those thoughts away. His sister would be grown by now, and he doubted his parents would do much to celebrate.

Even though it was still early, he arrived to find Luke outside. The boy was practicing some form of exercise, though awkwardly. “I shall give you your own key,” Silas said. “There is no reason for you to wait outside if you are the first to arrive.”

“It’s all right,” Luke said. “I’m doing my boxing practice.”

“Are you an aficionado of that sport, then?” Silas asked, as he unlocked the door.

“Don’t know what that means,” Luke said.

“A fan,” Silas said. “Do you want to box yourself someday?”

“We had a man at school who taught us self-defense for a while,” Luke said. “Said it was good to keep our bodies strong, and also in case someone tried to hurt us.”

Silas watched as Luke made the tea. The boy was shaping up well.

Pemberton was in court, so Silas spent the morning copying out his notes from the previous evening and trying to make sense of what came next. There was an inflammatory article in the Times about the Suez deal, and though there was no mention of Nathan Walpert, it was clear that his death was continuing to stir up trouble.

Silas spent a great deal of time understanding the specifics of the deal—who was to pay what when, how the Rothschild bank came in, and what Disraeli’s larger goals might be. While there were many elements he didn’t fully understand, he could not make a case that Walpert might have had access to specialized information, or that his death was in any way connected to the deal.

“He was just a banker,” he told Pemberton that afternoon. “Little more than a clerk. He had some training in accounts and had a good head for numbers, but I can’t find anything that suggests he had special access to information which he might have traded or sold.”

“Wasn’t there a suggestion from someone Raoul spoke with that Walpert might have had a tendency for men?” Pemberton asked. “Could he have repressed his desires so long that they exploded that night and he offered his mouth to someone, as way to gain coin toward his debts, and that man reacted badly?”

Silas wondered for a moment if that might describe Pemberton himself. As far as he knew, Pemberton was not active in his desires. “That might fit in with what Gerard Houghton saw,” he said.

Pemberton went into his office and Silas returned to his desk. Late in the afternoon a message arrived from Toby Marsh, which Silas read and then took into Pemberton’s office.

“There was some mention in the Times this morning of the Suez deal, but nothing that concerned Walpert’s death,” Pemberton said after he read it. “This message from Marsh indicates the Foreign Office has concluded its investigation, with the same result.”

“What does that mean for our case?”

“It means that one of our avenues of interest has run into a dead end.”

Silas felt an emptiness in his stomach as he walked back to his desk. He still believed fervently that Ezra was innocent, but he began to worry that Pemberton would be unable to provide enough evidence to convince a judge.

He looked through the paperwork for the case and found Ezra’s home in Hackney. Could he dare go there? Perhaps find a boy to take a message up to the door, asking Ezra to meet him nearby? There was no indication of where Ezra worked out during the day, and it was possible he wouldn’t even be home.

Silas dithered for the rest of the afternoon, finally giving in. He had to see Ezra and talk to him, to learn how his lover felt and reassure himself that the bond he felt was not all in his imagination.

He set out to walk to Ezra’s home, making a few turns until he reached Old Street, which should take him most of the way. It was farther than he thought, and after nearly an hour had passed and the sun had dropped, he began to worry that he had made a terrible mistake. Suppose he should discover Ezra at dinner with his wife, enjoying a companionship that he had denied?

His footsteps faltered. He should turn around and go home.

But no, he had come this far. He had to continue.

He came to Mare Street, which he knew from his map ran through much of Hackney, and turned onto it. As he approached Tudor Road, where Ezra resided, he smelled the cedar fragrance of cigar smoke in the area—a scent that struck him with memory of the cigar Ezra had smoked as they walked to Ormond Yard the night of the soirée – the night that Nathan Walpert had been murdered.

He followed his nose until he spotted Ezra’s distinctive frame ahead of him. “Mr. Curiel?” he said.

Ezra peered forward. “Silas? What in God’s name are you doing here?”

“I had to see you,” Silas said. “Why are you on the street?”

“I need a good cigar when I am agitated,” Ezra said. “The scent calms me. And Rebecca will not allow me to smoke in the house. She says that it makes her sneeze.”

He laughed shortly. “Not that she would ever do anything so un-ladylike as to sneeze or fart, at least not in my presence.”

Silas came closer, and Ezra put a hand on his shoulder—perhaps a gesture of fellow feeling, or one that cautioned Silas not to come any closer. They were on Ezra’s home turf.

“But you must have a stronger reason to come all this way,” Ezra said. “And on foot! Have there been new developments in my case?”

Silas shrugged. “Barrister Pembroke has exhausted one area that might have proved a distraction. The idea that Walpert was killed because of his affiliation with Rothchild’s and the Suez canal deal.”

“But he still has your testimony,” Ezra said. “That you were with me at the party at the time Walpert was killed.”

“Indeed. And if necessary he can push Gerard Houghton to state that he saw the assault on Walpert, and it occurred while you and I were at the party.”

“Then what worries you?”

He looked at Silas, and then said, “Come with me.”

He led Silas down the street, turned a corner, then into an alley, disturbing a cat as they did. Then he gently pushed Silas against the wall and leaned forward to kiss him.

Silas’s body relaxed, releasing tension he had only vaguely understood he held. This physical touch was what he needed to remind him of the connection he had to Ezra, and its strength.

They kissed, and their bodies moved together, Silas with his back against the rough brick. But he hardly felt that through his thick overcoat. Instead he was suffused with the warmth of Ezra’s breath, his body.

“I wish I could take you back to my house and have my way with you,” Ezra said. “But it would not do to bait Rebecca, and give her concrete evidence of the fact that our marriage has ever been a sham.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” Silas said. “Now, or ever.”

“Ever is a long time,” Ezra said gently. “And there are many hurdles we must conquer before then.” He smiled. “Come, let me hail you a carriage. You must get to bed, and rest, to be able to continue to marshal all your forces in my defense.”

* * *

W EDNESDAY MORNING, Pemberton came into the office, accompanied by a cold wind, and Luke offered him a mug of tea from the still-warm pot. Robb took Pemberton’s coat, and Silas followed Pemberton into his office. “Have you read this morning’s Times ?” Pemberton asked.

“I have,” Silas said. “I was surprised that in the announcement of the completion of the financing, there was no mention of Walpert’s death.”

“That’s because no one in any position of power gives our theory any credence,” Pemberton said. “As we learned yesterday afternoon from the Foreign Office. And it squashes most of our ideas that Walpert was killed because of his position at Rothschild’s. We have no real evidence, only suspicion, and that will carry no weight now that deal is complete.”

“What should I do now?”

“I need you to compile a detailed itinerary of Mr. Curiel’s movements on the night of the murder. When he arrived at the boxing ring, and the hour his bout finished. How long passed before you met him outside? Then the time of your arrival at the Tabard Inn, with any supporting evidence that he was there. Have you been back to the restaurant since then?”

Silas shook his head.

“Then you must return this evening and quiz the staff. Do they remember seeing the two of you together on the night in question? Is there any detail that might convince Justice Kenyon that Curiel was there at that time?”

“Have you ever been there?” Silas asked.

“The Tabard Inn? On occasion, yes.”

“Then you know the barmaid...”

“Is a man in a dress,” Pemberton said. “He would not make a very good witness if that information were to come out, and could possibly expose him to prosecution. So ask him what he knows, but try to get corroboration.”

“I’ll do that.”

“And then continue with the rest of the evening. The time you left the Tabard, and your arrival at Ormond Yard. Will is a sharp lad—he’ll probably be able to state the approximate time you both arrived.”

“And I have the guest list that he and Magnus prepared.”

“Good. See if you can put that in order of arrival and departure.”

“I’ll take care of that.”

“And then when you are finished with documenting Mr. Curiel’s alibi, I’m afraid you must return to your research on similar cases of manslaughter. Even though we both know he is innocent, we must be prepared for the fact that despite our best efforts, he is declared guilty and I must argue regarding his penalty.”

Silas was discouraged, but he returned to his desk and began writing what Pemberton had asked for. By the end of the afternoon, he had done all he could without the help of either Magnus or Will, and he resolved to stop by Ormond Yard on his way to ask questions at the Tabard Inn.