Page 32 of The Songbird of Wychwood
PERCY
A thudding sound woke me from the arms of my warm sleeping lover. The bedroom was dark, except for a shaft of bright sunlight peeking through the heavy drapes. Last night I’d spoken about how Theo met his end. We consumed two bottles of wine in honour of Theo and Edmund, and then before we slept, we’d made love twice in celebration of our partnership.
Naked, I scurried out of bed. Whoever this was at the door, they needed to stop that blasted racket urgently so as not to wake George. The shock of the frigid temperature made my morning wood wither to the size of a twig, and my bollocks shrivel to that of walnuts. I opened the wardrobe to see Theo’s red velvet smoking jacket, which I hurriedly put on and tied, then I pushed my feet into his monogrammed slippers.
“Enough, enough of that,” I said as I rushed down the darkened hall to unlock the front door. Eloise stood on the stoop, her face flushed and her expression anxious.
“What the devil’s going on?”
“Quick, let me in,” she said nervously. I stepped back to let her in. Then looked outside, left and right, but didn’t see anything amiss in our little side street off Hyde Park corner.
“George is still asleep,” I said in warning to Eloise.
“George is not still asleep,” George informed groggily as he shuffled down the hall. “I don’t think anyone could have slept through that racket.”
“What the hell are you wearing?” Eloise guffawed as she stared at George.
“The wardrobe was open and Theo has some lovely garments. I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed this dressing gown.”
It was very flamboyant silk with lace cuffs, and not in a style Theo wore in his later years.
“So, what’s the reason for this rude awakening?” George asked.
“Grayson was denied bail,” Eloise revealed excitedly as she hurried past him and into the kitchen. We followed and waited in silent anticipation for her to share the news. She automatically started the gas range and was filling the kettle before she spoke again.
“He won’t be back anytime soon, if at all,” she said, “And you want to know what the most curious thing is?”
“Yes, tell us!” we said in frustrated unison.
“…turns out Grayson don’t actually own the Middlesex.”
“What do you mean he don’t own the Middlesex?” George asked perplexed. He pulled out a chair and sat at the kitchen table.
“Arthur’s brother’s a copper at Bow Street. Arthur told me last night that his brother told him that Grayson’s been charged with copyright infringement, fraud, and grand larceny ,” Eloise informed excitedly.
“Grand larceny?” George gasped.
“He had to prove his income to the court. So that meant his lawyer had to give a list of his properties, businesses, and earnings so the judge could decide on his bail. At the hearing it was revealed that Grayson leases the Middlesex…for one peppercorn a year…from the bleedin’ Duke of Bedford. Can you believe it?”
“One peppercorn. No, you’re havin’ a laugh!” George exclaimed.
“You know what this means?” I said, but George just looked at me blank faced. “It means that Alfred Grayson’s crimes are very serious, and his net worth was not enough to cover any bail amount,” I explained. “Clearly, no one would vouch for him either! My goodness, the Crown lawyer must have some damning evidence, far more than your witness statement, George!”
“Exactly!” Eloise brightened as she turned back to the counter and began to make tea. “Something skeevy’s been goin’ on and no mistake. He’s been up to no good right under our noses, George, and you ain’t the only victim.”
“Who’s the Duke of Bedford?” George asked perplexed.
“He’s a very wealthy man. The Bedford Estate owns swathes of the city, Bloomsbury, Fitzrovia, and Covent Garden. Every building is leasehold and pays a ground rent to the estate each year,” I informed. “But why would the Duke permit Alfred Grayson to lease and run a profitable business from a building he owns for a nominal rent?” I was very curious about this matter and as soon as I was in the office I’d call down to the Daily Gazette and speak with my father!
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