Текст книги "Lord John and the Hand of Devils"

Автор книги: Diana Gabaldon

Соавторы: Diana Gabaldon,Diana Gabaldon
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

“Come on!” Hanson shouted. He was already reaching for the hands of the sailors on the brig. Grey rose, lurching to keep his footing, was seized by several helpful pairs of hands and virtually thrown aboard the brig. He seized the rail to keep from falling back, and over his shoulder saw Stapleton’s grinning face below.

He sketched a salute, then turned to deal with the matter at hand.

What do you mean, it’s a naval vessel?” Jones looked disbelieving. “This?”

The captain of the Ronson,for so the small and elderly brig was named, looked displeased. He was very young, but conscious of the dignity of his service, his ship, and himself.

“We are one of His Majesty’s ships,” he said stiffly. “You are under the jurisdiction of the navy, Captain. And you will nottake this man.”

The man, Stoughton, drew breath at this, and left off looking quite so terrified.

“He’s right, you know.” Captain Hanson, crammed into the tiny cabin with Grey, Jones, and Stoughton, had been listening to all the arguments and counterarguments, an expression of bemused absorption on his face. “His authority on his own vessel is absolute—save a senior naval officer should come aboard.”

“Well, bloody hell! Are you not a senior officer, then?” Jones cried. His eyes were bloodshot, he was soaked with river water, and his hair was standing on end.

“Well, yes,” Hanson said mildly. “But the gentleman who wrote that letter is a good deal more senior still.” He nodded at the open letter on the desk, the sheet of paper that Stoughton had been carrying in his bosom.

It was crumpled and damp, but clearly legible. It was signed by a vice-admiral, and it gave one Howard Stoughton safe passage upon any of His Majesty’s ships.

“But the man is a fucking traitor!” Jones was still holding his cutlass. He tightened his fist upon it and glared at the hapless Stoughton, who recoiled a little but stood his ground.

“I am not!” he said, sticking out his chin. “’Twasn’t treason, whatever else you like to call it.”

The two sea captains glanced at each other, and Grey felt something unseen pass between them.

“A word with you, sir?” Hanson asked politely. “If you will perhaps excuse us, gentlemen…”

Grey and Jones were obliged to leave, the Ronson’s mate escorting them up on deck and out of earshot.

“I don’t frigging believe it. How can he…”

Grey wasn’t listening. He went to the rail and leaned over, to see Stapleton engaged in argument with the gig’s bosun, apparently over the portmanteau. The bosun had the case between his feet, and appeared to be resisting Stapleton’s efforts to open it.

“What do you think is in there, Mr. Stapleton?” he called.

Neil looked up, face still flushed, and Grey caught the gleam of his teeth as he shouted back.

“Gold,” he said. “Maybe papers. Maybe a name. I hope so.”

Grey nodded, then caught the bosun’s eye.

“Don’t let him open it,” he called, and turned away. Occam’s razor said Stoughton had acted alone—all other things being equal. But someone had exerted considerable force upon the navy to produce that letter. And he did not think Stoughton possessed anything like that sort of influence.

Grey smelt a rat; a large one.

If he hadn’tacted alone, Grey wanted the name of his confederate. And he had no faith at all that that name would ever come to light, once Hubert Bowles got his hands on it. Particularly not if that name had anything to do with His Majesty’s navy.

The sound of the cabin door opening presaged the appearance on deck of Captain Hanson, who jerked his chin to summon Grey aside. He looked bemused.

“Right,” he said. “I have thirty seconds, and this is between you and me. He is who you think he is, and he’s done what you think he’s done—and he’s going to France in the Ronson.I’m sorry.”

Grey took a long, deep breath, and wiped a flying strand of hair out of his face.

“I see,” he said, calmly under the circumstances. “He sold the copper to the navy.”

Hanson had the grace to look embarrassed.

“It is wartime,” he said. “The lives of our men—”

“Is the life of a sailor worth more than that of a soldier?”

Hanson’s lips set in a grimace, but he didn’t reply.

Grey realized that his nails were cutting into the palms of his hands, and consciously unclenched his fists, breathing. Hanson was stirring, preparing to go.

“One thing,” Grey said, holding Hanson’s eye.

The captain made a brief motion of the head, not quite agreement, but willingness to listen.

“One minute alone with that portmanteau. The price of the gunners’ lives.”

Hanson’s jaw worked for a moment.

“Not alone,” he said finally. “With me.”

“Done,” said Grey.

It was nearly sunset when he emerged from Captain Hanson’s cabin. Jones was sitting on a gun case by the rail. He had passed the point of apoplexy long since, and merely regarded Grey with a suspicious, bloodshot eye.

“Got it, did you?” he said.

Grey nodded.

“And you aren’t going to tell me, are you?” Jones sounded bitter, but resigned.

Grey reached into his pocket, brought out the small lump of the leopard’s head, cold and hard, and dropped it into Jones’s open palm.

“You have the proof you sought. You and Gormley were right; the cannons failed because of lack of copper, and it was Stoughton who stole it. You will make your report to that effect—and before you give it to your colonel in the Royal Artillery Regiment and to Bowles, you will send a copy to the Royal Commission of Inquiry into the explosion of the cannon Tom Pilchard.”

Seeing Jones’s brow knit, he hardened his voice.

“That, Captain, is an order from a superior officer. Assuming you would prefer that your colonel continues in ignorance of your association with Mr. Bowles, I suggest you follow it.”

Jones made a small rumbling noise in his throat, but nodded reluctantly.

“Yes, all right. But that the bugger should escape altogether…and now you’re going to let the other bugger escape, too, aren’t you? The man who brokered this infernal transaction? I tell you, Major, it drives me mad!”

“I don’t blame you.” Grey sat down beside him, suddenly exhausted. “War may be a brutal occupation, but politics is far more so.”

They sat in silence for a moment, watching the sailors. Appledore was bellowing for the gig to be brought alongside. Hearing this, Jones sat bolt upright once more.

“But poor little Herbert Gormley—what of him? Tell me at least that you made Stoughton tell you what he did with Gormley! Is he dead?”

Fatigue of a not unpleasant sort blanketed Grey’s limbs. He was tired, but not drained. And what was another hour or two, between him and the delightful prospect of supper and bed? The London end of the business could wait until tomorrow.

“No, he’s in the hulks,” Grey said, nodding upriver at the distant prison ships. “We’re going to go and get him now.”

The navy was in it up to their necks!” Quarry said. “Goddamned bloody sods!”

Grey had seldom seen Quarry so angry. The scar on his cheek stood out white and the eye on that side was pulled nearly shut.

“Not all of them.” He rubbed a hand across his face, still surprised to find it smooth. He felt seedy and grimy—but Tom Byrd had insisted upon shaving him before letting him go to the Beefsteak.

“Hanson didn’t know; if he had, he would never have agreed to board the Ronson.And he was very angry at discovering that his bosun’s mate—that was Appledore, the apelike fellow I told you of—was involved in such adventures without his knowledge. Had it not been for his indignation at being so practiced upon—his authority usurped without his knowledge or consent—I doubt he would have told me anything. As it was…”

As it was, the matter had become clear to Grey sometime before Hanson himself had realized the degree of the navy’s involvement. For Appledore to have abducted Gormley—taking all the men he could find who matched Gormley’s description—obviously at Stoughton’s instigation, but without the knowledge of his own captain…

“That argued the existence of someone inthe navy, involved in the matter, whose authority superseded Hanson’s. And when I saw the letter from the…gentleman of whom we spoke—” They were alone in the Beefsteak’s smoking room, but there were people in the hallway, and discretion forbade his speaking the vice-admiral’s name aloud in any case.

“‘Gentleman.’ Pfaugh!” Quarry made as though to spit on the floor, but caught the eye of the steward coming in with brandy, and refrained. “Scuttling sewer rat,” he muttered, instead.

“A bilge rat, surely, Harry?” Grey took the brandy glass from Mr. Bodley’s tray with a nod of thanks, and waited until the steward had departed before continuing.

“Rat or no, such a highly placed gentleman wouldn’t risk any direct association with Stoughton. The only such indication is that letter of immunity—and that was worded in such a way as to give no proof of anything. In fact, had Stoughton not reached the Ronson—damn Stapleton, for not contriving some means of stopping him in time!—the letter would have been valueless. It offered him nothing but safe passage, and if the matter became public, that could be dismissed as a simple courtesy to the Arsenal, allowing him to travel easily as his official business might demand.”

Quarry huffed into his drink, but gave a grudging nod.

“Aye, I see. And so you concluded rightly that there was a third rotten apple in that barrel—someone who stood between Stoughton and our elevated bilge rat.”

Grey nodded in turn, closing his eyes involuntarily at the pleasing burn of the liquor on his palate.

“Yes, and that consideration in turn focused my attention on the members of the commission. For it must be someone who had regular business with the Arsenal—and thus could consult with Stoughton without arousing suspicion. And likewise, it must be someone for whom consorting with a vice-admiral also would cause no remark.

“Beyond that,” he said, licking a sticky drop from his lower lip, “the assumption that one of those three was involved in this matter would have explained their notably uncharitable behavior toward me in the course of the inquiry. Pinning responsibility for the death of Tom Pilchard to my coat would deflect any inquiry into other possible causes, andprevent the explosion being linked with the destruction of the other cannon, as well as having the salutary effect of discrediting one or both of my brothers. And any one of those three men could easily have influenced the other two, so as to guide the questioning as he desired.”

“Hmph.” Quarry frowned at the amber liquid in his glass, drank it off as though it were water, and set the glass aside. “Well, if discrediting Melton were the principal motive of our wicked bugger, it would be Twelvetrees. Bad blood, there. I shouldn’t be surprised if it comes to pistols at dawn between him and Melton, one of these days.”

“True,” Grey agreed. “And Hal would shoot him like a dog, with pleasure. But it wasn’tthe principal motive. Twelvetrees is a sod, but an honorable sod. He’s not merely a soldier, nor yet a colonel—he’s a colonel of the Royal Artillery.”

Quarry nodded, purse-lipped, taking the point. “Aye. Rob the army and take money from the naval bilge rat, to kill his own men? Never.”

“Exactly. Because bloody Stoughton was right—it wasn’ttreason, merely criminal. Ergo, the simplest motive is the most likely: money.”

“And Marchmont wipes his arse with cloth of gold; he doesn’t need money. Whereas Oswald…”

“Is a politician of no particular means,” Grey finished. “Thus by definition in constant need of money.”

“Thus by definition without conscience or honor? Quite. Oh, sorry, your half brother’s one, too, isn’t he? Steward!”

Mr. Bodley, well-acquainted with Quarry’s habits, was already bringing in more brandy and a small wooden box of Spanish cigars. Quarry selected two with care, clipped the end of one, and handed it to Grey, who held it for Mr. Bodley’s taper.

He seldom smoked, and the rush of tobacco through his blood made his heart pound. He felt a slight twinge in his chest, but ignored it.

Quarry blew a long, pleasurable stream of smoke through pursed lips.

“Can you prove it?” he asked, offhanded. “ Ibelieve you implicitly, of course. But beyond that…”

Grey squinted, trying to blow a smoke ring, but failed dismally.

“I don’t suppose it would stand up in court,” he said. “But I found this, in Stoughton’s portmanteau. As I said, had Stoughton failed to reach the ship, he could expect no protection from the navy. If I were a villain, I’d want a bit of leverage upon my fellow villain, just in case.”

He reached into his pocket and removed a small medal, attached to a silk ribbon.

“I saw Oswald wearing this, at the inquiry. I don’t know whether he gave it to Stoughton as acknowledgment of their connexion, or whether Stoughton simply stole it. Oswald would claim the latter, I suppose.”

Quarry frowned at the bit of metal, pretending that he did not require spectacles to make out the engraving, which he did.

“It’s an army decoration, surely; Oswald’s never been a soldier,” he said, handing it back. “Could simply claim it isn’t his, couldn’t he?”

“Hardly. His father’s name is engraved on the back. And Mortimer Montmorency Oswald—the Third, if you please—is not quiteso common as ‘John Smith,’ I daresay.”

Quarry laughed immoderately, taking back the medal and turning it over in his hand.

“Montmorency, by God? So his father was in the army, was he? Decorated for valor?”

“Well, no,” Grey said. “It’s a medal for good conduct. As to what I propose to do,” he added, stubbing out his cigar and rising to his feet, “I am going home to change my clothes. I have an engagement this evening—a masqued ball at Vauxhall.”

Quarry blinked up at him through a cloud of smoke.

“A masqued ball? What on earth do you propose to go as?”

“Why, as the Hero of Crefeld,” Grey said, taking back the medal and pocketing it. “What else?”

In fact, he went as himself. Not in uniform, but attired in an inconspicuous suit of dark blue, worn with a scarlet domino. Those whom he sought would know him by sight.

They would have to, he thought, seeing the hordes of people streaming through the gates of the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. If those with whom he sought interview were disguised in any effective way—and one of them at least would certainly be masked—he would have little hope of distinguishing them among the throng.

“Oh,” breathed Tom, completely entranced at sight of the trees, largely leafless but strung with hundreds of glimmering lights. “It’s fairyland!”

“Something like,” Grey agreed, smiling despite the beating of his heart. “Try not to be too enraptured by the local fairies, though; a good many of them would pick your pocket as soon as look at you, and the rest would give you fair value under a bush, with a dose of the clap thrown in for free.”

He paid admission for himself and Tom, and they walked into the maze of pathways that spread along the bank of the Thames, leading from grottoes where musicians played, muffled to the eyes against the autumn chill, to arbors where tables of luscious viands were spread, supper boxes piled high behind laboring servants dressed in livery. The great Rotunda, where dancing was held, rose like a bubble in the center of the Gardens, and laughter ran through the night like currents in a river, catching up the merrymakers and carrying them along from adventure to adventure.

“Enjoy yourself, Tom,” said Grey, handing Byrd some money. “Don’t stay too close; Oswald’s a wary bird.”

“He won’t see me, me lord,” Tom assured him, straightening the black domino he wore. “But I’ll not be far off, don’t you worry!”

Grey nodded, and parting company with his servant, chose a path at random and strolled in the direction of the strains of Handel.

Sheltered by thick hedges and brick walls and thronged with bodies, it was scarcely cold in the gardens, despite the lateness of the season. The chill was pleasant, caressing face and hands—and any other bits of exposed flesh—enhancing the heat of the rest of the body by contrast.

There was a great deal of flesh exposed, to be sure. It gleamed among the light and shadow, set off by the rich colors of the costumes—the scarlets, crimsons, and purples, greens and blues, the flaunting yellow of tropical birds. Here and there a woman—perhaps—who chose to dress in stark black and white by way of contrast. These came dramatic out of the shadows, seeming to emerge from the night itself. One gave him a languishing look as she passed, reached out a hand to him, and as he raised his own, involuntarily, took hold of it, drew one of his fingers into her mouth, and sucked hard.

She drew it slowly free, her teeth– herteeth? He could not tell—exquisite on his skin, then dropped his hand, flashed him a brilliant smile, and ran away, light-footed down the path. He stood a moment looking after her—or him—and then walked on.

He heard whoops of delight approaching, and stepped hastily aside in time to avoid being run down by a covey of girls, scantily clad and equipped with skates, these ingeniously mounted on tiny wheels, so that they whizzed down the path in a body, draperies flying, squealing with excitement. A clatter of applause made him glance aside; a series of spinning plates on rods appeared over a hedge—jugglers in an adjoining alcove.

Music, smoke, food, wine, beer, rum punch, and spectacle—all combined to induce an atmosphere of indulgence, not to say license. The Pleasure Gardens were liberally equipped with dark spaces, alcoves, grottoes, and secluded benches; most of these were being fully employed by couples of all sorts.

He was aware—as most of the merrymakers were not—of the mollies among the crowd. Some dressed as women, others in their own male garb surmounted by outlandish masks, finding each other by glance and grimace, by whatever alchemy of flesh enabled body to seek body, freed by disguise of their usual constraints.

More than one gay blade glanced at him, and now and then one jostled him in passing, a hand brushing his arm, his back, lingering an instant on his hip, the touch a question. He smiled now and then, but walked on.

Feeling hungry, he turned in to a supper table, bought a box, and found a place on the nearby lawn to eat. As he finished a breast of roast fowl and tossed the bones under a bush, a man sat down beside him. Sat much closer than was usual.

He glanced warily at the man, but did not know him, and deliberately looked away, giving no hint of invitation.

“Lord John,” said the man, in a pleasant voice.

It gave him a shock, and he choked, a bit of chicken caught in his throat.

“Do I know you, sir?” he said, politely, when he had finished coughing.

“Oh, no,” said the gentleman—for he was a gentleman, by his voice. “Nor will you, I’m afraid. My loss, I am sure. I come merely as a messenger.” He smiled, a pleasant smile beneath the mask of a great horned owl.

“Indeed.” Grey wiped greasy fingers on his handkerchief. “On whose behalf are you come, then?”

“Oh, on behalf of England. I beg you will forgive the melodrama of that statement,” he said, deprecating. “It is true, though.”

“Is that so?” The man wore no weapon—these were firmly discouraged in Vauxhall, but the odd knife was common, now and then a pistol.

“Yes. And the message, Lord John, is that you will abandon any efforts to expose Mortimer Oswald.”

“Will I?” he said, maintaining a tone of skepticism, though his stomach had clenched hard with the words. “Are you from the navy, then?”

“No, nor from the army, either,” said the man, imperturbable. “I am employed by the Ministry of War, if that information is of use to you. I doubt it will be.”

Grey doubted it, too—but he didn’t doubt the man’s assertion. He felt a low, burning anger growing, but this was tinged with a certain sense of fatality. Somehow, he was not truly surprised.

“So you mean Oswald to escape payment for his crimes?” he asked. “His actions have meant the death of several men, the maiming of several more, and the endangerment—the ongoing endangerment, I might add—of hundreds. This means nothing to the government?”

The man turned to face him straight-on, the painted eyes of his owl mask huge and fierce, obliterating the puny humanity of the man’s own orbs.

“It will not serve the interests of the country for Oswald to be openly accused—let alone convicted—of corruption. Do you not realize the effect? Such accusations, such a trial, would cause widespread public anger and alarm, discrediting both the army and the navy, endangering relationships with our German allies, giving heart to our enemies…No, my lord. You will not pursue Oswald.”

“And if I do?”

“That would be most unwise,” the man said softly. His own eyes were closed; Grey could see the pale lids through the holes of his mask. Suddenly he opened them; they were dark in the flickering light; Grey could not tell the color.

“We will see that Mr. Oswald does no further harm, I assure you.”

“And it would suit the War Office’s purposes so much better to have a member of Parliament who can be quietly blackmailed to vote as you like, rather than one being hanged in effigy and hounded in the broadsheets?” He had a grip on his anger now, and his voice was steady.

The owl inclined his head gravely, without speaking, and the man gathered his feet under him, preparing to rise. Grey stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Do you know, I think I am not very wise?” he said conversationally.

The man became very still.

“Indeed?” he said, still polite, but noticeably less friendly.

“If I were to speak openly of what I know—to a journalist, perhaps? I have proof, you know, and witnesses; not enough for a trial by jury, perhaps, but more than adequate for a trial in the press. A Question in the House of Lords?”

“Your career means nothing to you?” A note of threat had entered the owl’s voice.

“No,” Grey said, and took a deep breath, ignoring the harsh stab of pain in his chest. “My honor means something, though.”

The man’s mouth drew in at the corners, lips pressed tight. It was a good mouth, Grey thought; full-lipped, but not crude. Would he know the man by his mouth alone, if he saw it again? He waited while the man thought, feeling oddly calm. He’d meant what he said, and had no regrets, whatever might come of it now. He thought they would not try to kill him; that would accomplish nothing. Ruin him, perhaps. He didn’t care.

At last the owl allowed his mouth to relax, and turned his head away.

“Oswald will resign quietly, for reasons of ill health. Your brother will be appointed to replace him for the remainder of his term. Will that satisfy you?”

Grey wondered for an instant whether Edgar might do the country more harm than Oswald. But England had survived stupidity in government for centuries; there were worse things. And if the War Office thought Grey as corrupt as themselves, what did that matter?

“Done,” he said, raising his voice a little, to be heard over the sound of violins from a strolling band of gypsies.

The owl rose silently and vanished into the throng. Grey didn’t try to see where he went. All he would have to do was to remove the mask and tuck it under his arm to become invisible.

“Who was that?” said a voice near his ear.

He turned with no sense of surprise—it was that sort of night, where the unreality of the surroundings lent all experience a dreamlike air—to find Neil the Cunt seated beside him on the frosty grass, blue eyes glowing through the feathered mask of a fighting cock.

“Bugger off, Mr. Stapleton,” he said mildly.

“Oh, now, Mary, let us not bicker.” Stapleton leaned back on the heels of his hands, legs flung oh-so-casually apart, the better to display his very considerable assets.

“You can tell me,” he coaxed. “He didn’t look as though he wished you well, you know. It might be useful to you to have a friend with your best interests at heart to watch your back.”

“I daresay it would,” Grey said dryly. “That would not, however, be Hubert Bowles. Or you. Were you following me, or the gentleman who has just left us?”

“If I’d been following him, I’d know who he was, wouldn’t I?”

“Quite possibly you doknow, Mr. Stapleton, and only wish to know whether I do.”

Stapleton made a sound, almost a laugh, and edged closer, so that his leg touched Grey’s. Not for the first time, Grey was startled at the heat of Stapleton’s body; even through the layers of cloth between them, he glowed with a warmth that made the red and yellow feathers of his mask seem about to burst into flames.

“Charming ensemble,” Neil drawled, eyes burning through his mask with a boldness far past flirtation. “You have always such exquisite tastein your dress.” He reached out to finger the lawn ruffle of Grey’s shirt, long fingers sliding slowly—very slowly—down the length of it, slipping between the buttons, his warm touch just perceptible on the bare, cool skin of Grey’s breast.

Grey’s heart gave a sudden bump, pain stabbed him, and he stiffened. He felt as though his chest were transfixed by an iron rod, holding him immobile. Tried to breathe, but was stopped by the pain. Christ, was he going to die in public, in a pleasure garden, in the company of a sodomite spy dressed like a rooster? He could only hope that Tom was nearby, and would remove his body before anybody noticed.

“What’s that?” Stapleton sounded startled, drawing back his fingers as though burned.

Grey was afraid to move, but managed to bend his neck enough to look down. A spot of blood the size of a sixpence bloomed on his shirt.

He had to breathe; he would suffocate. He drew a breath and winced at the resultant sensation—but didn’t die immediately. His hands and feet felt cold.

“Leave me,” he gasped. “I’m unwell.”

Stapleton’s eyes darted to and fro, doubtful. His mouth compressed in the shadow of the rooster’s open beak, but after a long moment’s hesitation, he rose abruptly and disappeared.

Grey essayed another breath, and found that his heart continued to beat, though each thump sent a jarring pain through his breast. He gritted his teeth and reached gingerly inside his shirt.

A tiny nub of metal, like the end of a needle, protruded half an inch from the skin of his chest. Breathing as shallowly as he dared, he pinched it tight between finger and thumb, and pulled.

Pulled harder, air hissing between his teeth, and it came, in a sudden, easing glide.

“Jesus,” he whispered, and took a long, deep, unhindered breath. “Thank you.” His chest burned a little where it had come out, but his heart beat without pain. He sat for some time, fist folded about the metal splinter, his other hand pressing the fabric of his shirt against the tiny wound to stanch the bleeding.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, simply feeling happy. Revelers went by in groups, in couples, here and there a solitary man on the prowl. Some of them glanced at him, but he gave no sign of acknowledgment or welcome, and they passed on.

Then another solitary man came round the corner of the path, his shadow cast before him. Very tall, crowned with a mitre. Grey looked up.

Not a bishop. A grenadier in a high peaked cap, with his bomb sack slung over one shoulder, the brass tube at his belt glowing, eerie with the light of a burning slow match. At least it wasn’t another frigging bird, Grey thought, but a feeling of cold moved down his spine.

The grenadier was moving slowly, plainly looking for someone; his head turned from side to side, his features completely hidden by a full-length black-silk mask.

“Captain Fanshawe.” Grey spoke quietly, but the blank face turned at once in his direction. The grenadier looked over his shoulder, but the path was vacant for the moment. He settled his sack more firmly on his shoulder and came toward Grey, who rose to meet him.

“I had your note.” The voice was the same, colorless, precise.

“And you came. I thank you, sir.” Grey pushed the splinter into his pocket, his heart beating fast and freely now. “You will tell me, then?” He must; he would not have come, only to refuse. “Where is Anne Thackeray?”

The grenadier unslung his sack, lowered it to the ground, and leaned back against a tree, arms folded.

“Do you come here often, Major?” he asked. “I do.”

“No, not often.” Grey looked round and saw a low brick wall, the river’s darkened gleam beyond it. He sat down, prepared to listen.

“But you knew I would find the surroundings…comfortable. That was thoughtful of you, Major.”

Grey made no answer, but inclined his head.

The grenadier sighed deeply, and let his hands fall to his sides.

“She is dead,” he said quietly.

Grey had thought this likely, but felt still a pang of startled grief at the death of hope, thinking of Barbara Thackeray and Simon Coles.

“How?” he asked, just as quietly. “In childbirth?”

“No.” The man laughed, a harsh, unsettling sound. “Last week.”

“How?”

“By my hand—or as near as makes no never-mind, as the country people say.”

“Indeed.” He let the silence grow around them. Music still played, but the nearest orchestra was at a distance.

Fanshawe stood abruptly upright.

“Bloody hell,” he said, and for the first time, his voice was alive, full of anger and self-contempt. “What am I playing at? If I’ve come to tell you, I shall tell you. No reason why not, now.”

He turned his blank, black face on Grey, who saw that there was a single eyehole pierced in it, but the eye within so dark that the effect was like talking to a wall.

“I meant to kill Philip Lister,” Fanshawe said. “You’ve guessed that, I suppose.”

Grey made a small motion of the head—though in fact he had not.

“The powder?” he said, one small further puzzle piece falling into place. “You made the unstable bomb cartridges. How did you mean to use them—and how in hell did they get to the battlefields?”

Fanshawe made a small snorting sound.

“Accident. Two of them, in fact. I meant to ask Philip to come with me, to have a look at something in the mill. It would have been a simple thing, to leave him to wait by one of the sheds, go inside and set a match, then leave and go away quietly, wait for the bang. That would have been simple. But, no, I had to be clever about it.”

Marcus Fanshawe was an expert, raised in the shadow of a gunpowder mill, fearless in the making and handling of the dangerous energy.