“Offended?” Zechariah said, with a perturbed look. “I just have important things to do.”

Like get that letter burning in his pocket to that … constable, apparently. Catholic constable? God, no wonder he had hesitated to meet. The poor thing was probably flogging himself every night when Zechariah could be doing it for him.

A brow arched when Crane seemed insistent on the company. He looked down to the tea-… coffee? and immediately said:

“Coffee has color.”

Which was likely a large part of the reason Zechariah was not typically asked to stay around. But while Zechariah was leaving niceties trampled behind him, the gears were actively turning in his head as Crane spoke. One Protestant, two unknown, leaving one constable identified Catholic who went to St. Hilda’s … but what if Crane went to the other St. Hilda’s?

Hashem above. He already knew Crane was not referring to that one out of process of elimination.

Zechariah wore a remorseful expression that was probably more familiar on the faces of caught suspects than him. Was this the man he…

Premeditated excuses were one thing. He had thought plenty about all the romantic ways they might meet. On a boat, perhaps, or on holiday on some island. Perhaps at the opera, or other unlikely places to find a man who promised his future cover story modest means. He had decided after letting the fantasy play out in his mind that, no, Zechariah would have to be the one to take Not-Richard to the opera, which had spawned yet another.

But what Zechariah did not handle well was surprises.

“You said you were ugly,” he blurted out instead.

Now he looked offended.