"You look like death warmed over," Quarry said without preamble, after a briefly searching look at him. This annoyed Grey, as Tom Byrd had taken considerable pains with his appearance, and he had thought he looked quite well, inspecting himself in the glass before setting out.
"You're looking well, too, Harry," he replied equably, finding no quick riposte. In fact, he did. War agreed with Quarry, lending a fine edge to a body and a character otherwise somewhat inclined to sloth, gluttony, cigars, and other appetites of the flesh.
"Melton said you'd had a bad time since Germany." Quarry ushered him to the dining room and into a chair with an annoying solicitude, all but tucking a napkin under Grey's chin.
"Did he," Grey replied shortly. How much had Hal told Quarry--and how much had he heard on his own? Rumor spread faster in the army than it did among the London salons.
Luckily, Quarry seemed disinclined to inquire after the particulars--which probably meant he'd already heard them, Grey concluded grimly.
Quarry looked him over and shook his head. "Too thin by half! Have to feed you up, I suppose." This assessment was followed by Quarry's ordering--without consulting him--thick soup, game pie, fried trout with grapes, lamb with a quince preserve and roast potatoes, and a broccoli sallet with radishes and vinegar, the whole to be followed by a jelly trifle.
"I can't eat a quarter of that, Harry," Grey protested. "I'll burst."
Quarry ignored this, waving a hand to urge the waiter to ladle more soup into Grey's bowl.
"You need sustenance," he said, "from what I hear."
Grey looked askance at him over his half-raised spoon.
"What you hear? What do you hear, may I ask?"
Quarry's craggily handsome face adopted the look that he normally wore when intending to be discreet, the fine white scar across his cheek pulling down the eye on that side in a knowing leer.
"Heard they knocked you about a bit at the Arsenal day before yesterday."
Grey put down the spoon and stared at him.
"Who told you that?"
"Chap named Simpson."
Grey racked his brain for anyone named Simpson whom he had met in the course of his visit to the Arsenal, but drew a complete blank.
"Who the hell is Simpson?" To show his general unconcern over the matter, he took an unwary gulp of soup, and burnt his tongue.
"Don't recall his actual title--under-under-sub-secretary to the assistant something-or-other, I suppose. He said he picked you up off the floor--physically. Didn't know royal commissions resorted to cudgeling their witnesses." Harry raised an interrogative brow.
"Oh, him." Grey touched his singed tongue gingerly to the roof of his mouth. "He did not pick me up; I rose quite without assistance, having caught my foot in the carpeting. Mr. Simpson happened merely to be present."
Quarry looked at him thoughtfully, nodded, and inhaled a vast quantity of soup.
"Might easily happen to anyone," he said mildly. "Ratty old thing, that carpet, full of holes. Know it well."
Recognizing this for the cue it was, Grey sighed and picked up his spoon again.
"You know it well. Right, Harry. Why are you haunting the Arsenal, and what is it you want to know?"
"Haunting," Quarry repeated thoughtfully, signaling the waiter to remove his soup plate. "Interesting choice of words, that. Our Mr. Simpson said he rather thought you'd met the ghost."
That rattled him more than he wished to show. He waved away the soup, affecting indifference.
"So the Arsenal has its own ghost, has it? Would that be an artilleryman, wearing an ancient uniform?"
"Oh, you did see him, then." Harry's eyes sharpened with interest. "The artilleryman, was it? Some see him as a Roman centurion--there's a Roman cemetery under the Arsenal, did you know?"
"No. How do you know whether it's a ghost with a taste for fancy dress, or two ghosts--or whether it's a ghost at all?"
"Never seen him myself. I'm not the sort who sees phantoms," Quarry said, with a sort of smugness that Grey found irritating.
"And I am, I suppose?" Not waiting for an answer, he picked up a bread roll. "Did you set this Simpson to watch me, Harry?"
"Someone should be watching you," Quarry said. "Have you any notion what kind of trouble you're in?"
"No, but I suppose you're going to tell me. Is it mutiny to walk out on the questions of a royal commission? Am I to be shot at dawn tomorrow?"
He was not sure whether to be grateful for Harry's concern, or annoyed at his solicitude. The one thing he did know was that he required someone to discuss the matter with, though, and so he kept his tone light.
"Too simple." Quarry's face twitched, and he waved the steward with the wine bottle over to refill their glasses. "Twelvetrees wants Melton's balls, but failing that, he'll have yours. His assumption being, I suppose, that it would discredit Melton to have his younger brother accused of negligence and forced--at the least--to resign his commission amidst a sea of talk."
"They can accuse all they like," Grey said hotly. "They can't prove a damn thing." Or he hoped they couldn't. What in God's name might the rammer have told them? Or the other man from Tom Pilchard's crew?
Quarry raised a thick brow.
"I doubt they'd have to," he said bluntly, "if they can raise enough doubt about your actions, and get enough talk started. Surely you know that."
Grey felt blood starting to throb in his temples, and concentrated on keeping his hands steady as he buttered a bite of bread.
"What I know," he said levelly, "is that they cannot force me to resign my commission, let alone prosecute me for negligence or malfeasance, without evidence. And I am assuming that they have none, because if they did, the ubiquitous Mr. Simpson would have told you of it." He raised a brow at Quarry. "Am I right?"
Quarry's mouth twitched.
"It isn't only Twelvetrees, mind," he said, lifting a monitory finger. "I suppose you didn't know that the gentleman presently sitting in the Tower, accused of treason as the result of your recent industry, is Marchmont's cousin?"
Grey choked on the bite of roll he had taken.
"I'll take that as a 'no,' shall I?" Quarry sat back, allowing the waiter to serve his lamb, while Mr. Bodley imperturbably struck Grey between the shoulder blades, dislodging the roll, before continuing to pour the wine.
"Is this entire commission engineered for the purpose of discrediting me, then?" Grey asked, as soon as he had got his breath back.
"'Strewth, no. It wasn't only your bloody gun that's blown up. Eight more of 'em, within the last ten months."
Grey's jaw dropped with astonishment, and he belatedly recalled the shattered remnants laid out for autopsy behind the proving grounds. Certainly more broken guns lay on those tables than the mortal remains of Tom Pilchard.
"This, naturally, is not something the Ordnance Office wants talked about. Might put the wind up the Germans--to say nothing of the Dutch--who are paying through the nose for cannon from the Royal Foundry, under the impression that these are the best armament available anywhere.
"Not that this is entirely a bad thing," he added, shoveling a judicious quantity of quince preserve over his lamb. "It's what's keeping them from trying harder than they are to have you drawn and quartered. You might have blown up one cannon, but you can't have done nine."
"I did not blow it up!"
Harry blinked, surprised, and Grey felt his cheeks flush. He looked down into his plate and saw that the fork in his hand was shaking, ever so slightly. He laid it carefully down, and taking his wineglass in both hands, drank deep.
"I know that," Quarry said, quietly.
Grey nodded, not trusting himself to speak. But do I know it? he thought.
Quarry coughed, delicately separating a forkful of succulent meat from its gristle.
"The word 'sabotage' is being breathed--though the Ordnance Office is doing its level best to stifle any such breathing. Yet another reason to make a scapegoat of you, you see: make enough noise about Tom
Pilchard, and perhaps the grubs of Fleet Street will be so busy baying at your heels, they won't hear about the other ruptured guns."
"Sabotage," Grey repeated blankly. "How can you--Oh, Jesus. It's bloody Edgar, isn't it? They honestly suspect Edgar DeVane of--of--Christ, what on earth do they think he's done?"
"It hasn't got so far as thinking," Harry assured him drily. "And I've no idea whether they actually suspect your half brother of anything personally. Might only have been dragging him in in order to rattle you and make you do something injudicious--like walk out of the inquiry."
He chewed, closing his eyes in momentary bliss.
"By God, that's good. Anyway," he went on, swallowing and opening his eyes. "I've had nothing to do with artillery, myself. But I suppose it would be possible to blow up a cannon with a bomb of some sort, disguised as a canister of ordinary shot?"
"I suppose so." Grey picked up his fork, then laid it down again and clenched his hands together in his lap.
"Well. Have you any useful suggestions to make, Harry?"
"I think you should eat your trout while it's still hot." Quarry prodded his own fish approvingly in illustration. "Beyond that..." He eyed Grey, chewing.
"There is a certain opinion in the regiment, to the effect that perhaps you should be seconded to the Sixty-fifth, or possibly the Seventy-eighth. Temporarily, of course; let things blow over and quiet down."
The Sixty-fifth was presently stationed in the West Indies, Grey knew; the Seventy-eighth was a Highland regiment somewhere in the American colonies--the Northwest Territory, perhaps, or some other outlandish place.
"Thus allowing Twelvetrees and Marchmont to claim that I've fled to avoid prosecution, thus lending credence to their preposterous insinuations. I think not."
Harry nodded, matter-of-fact.
"Of course. Which leaves us with my original suggestion."
Grey raised an eyebrow at him.
"Eat your trout," Quarry said. "And the devil with your hands. Mine would shake, too, in your position."
Hal was, of course, with the part of the regiment presently in winter quarters in Prussia. Harry had wanted to send word to him, but Grey declined.
"There is little Hal can do, and his presence would merely inflame feelings further," he pointed out. "Let me see what I can do alone; time enough to advise him if anything drastic should happen."
"And what do you propose to do?" Quarry asked, giving him a narrow look.
"Go down to Sussex and see Edgar DeVane," Grey replied. "He ought at least to know that his name is being put forward as a suspected saboteur. And if there should be anything whatever to the matter..."
"Well, that will at least get you out of Town and out of sight for a bit," Quarry agreed dubiously. "Can't hurt. And you could be back within two or three days, should anything--you will pardon my choice of words, I trust--blow up."
Grey's departure for Sussex was delayed, however, by receipt of a note in the morning post.
"What is it, me lord?" Tom, attracted by Grey's muttered blasphemies, stuck his head out of the pantry, where he had been cleaning boots.
"A Mr. Lister, from Sussex, is in Town. He wishes to call upon me, should I find that convenient."
Tom shrugged. "You might have found it convenient to be already gone, me lord," he suggested.
"I would, but I can't. He's the father of Lieutenant Lister, the officer who was killed at Crefeld. He's heard that I have his son's sword, and while he's much too polite to say he wants it back, that is his obvious desire."
Grey reached for ink and paper with a sigh.
"I'll tell him to come this afternoon. We'll leave tomorrow."
Mr. Lister had a slight stammer, made worse by emotion, and a small, pale face, overwhelmed by a very new and full-bottomed wig, from whose depths he peeped out like a wary field mouse.
"Lord John G-Grey? I intrude intolerably, sir, but I--Colonel Quarry said...that is, I do hope I am not..."
"Not in the slightest," Grey said firmly. "And it is I who must beg pardon of you, sir. You should not have put yourself to the trouble of coming; I should have been most pleased to wait upon you." Lord John bowed him to a chair, flicking a glance at Tom, who promptly vanished in search of refreshment.
"Oh, no, n-not at all, my lord. I--it is most gracious in you to receive me so s-suddenly. I know I am..." He waved a small, neat hand in a gesture that encompassed social doubt, self-effacement, and abject apology--and conveyed such a sense of helplessness that Grey felt himself obliged to take Mr. Lister's arm and lead him physically to a seat.
"I must apologize, sir," he said, having seen his guest settled. "I ought to have made an effort to inquire for Lieutenant Lister's family long before this."
A faint approximation of a smile touched Mr. Lister's face.
"That is kind in you to say, sir. But there is no reason, really, why you should. Philip"--his lips twitched at speaking his dead son's name--"Philip was not of your regiment, nor in any way under your command."
"He was a fellow officer," Grey assured him. "And thus has claim to both my duty and respect--as does his family." Having been drenched to the skin in Philip Lister's blood seemed an even more immediate claim upon his interest, but he thought he would not mention the fact.
"Oh." Mr. Lister drew a deep breath, and seemed a little easier. "I--Thank you."
"Will you take something, sir? A little wine, perhaps?" Tom had appeared, manfully lugging an enormous tray equipped with a rattling array of bottles, decanters, glasses, and an immense seed cake. Where had he got that? Grey wondered.
"Oh! No, I thank you, my lord. I d-do not take spirits. We are Methodist, you understand."
"Of course," Grey said. "We'll have tea, Tom, if you please."
Tom gave Mr. Lister a disapproving look, but decanted the cake onto the table, hoisted the tray, and rattled off into the recesses of the apartment.
There was an awkward pause, which a little port or Madeira would have covered admirably. Not for the first time, Grey wondered at a religion which rejected so many of the things that made life tolerable. Perhaps it sprang from an intent to make heaven seem that much more desirable by contrast to a life from which pleasure had been largely removed.
But he must admit that his own attitudes toward Methodists perhaps lacked justice, having been badly colored by--He choked off that line of thought before it could reach its natural conclusion, and picking up the knife Tom had brought, waved it inquiringly in the direction of the seed cake.
Mr. Lister accepted the offer with alacrity, but obviously more in order to have something to do than from appetite, for he merely poked at his allotted portion, breaking off small bits and mashing them randomly with his fork.
Grey did his best to conduct a conversation, making courteous inquiries regarding Mr. Lister's wife and other family, but it was hard going, with the shade of Philip Lister perched like a vulture over the seed cake on the table between them.
At last, Grey put down his cup and glanced at Tom, hovering discreetly near the door.
"Tom, do you have Lieutenant Lister's sword convenient?"
"Oh, yes, me lord," Tom assured him, with an air of relief. Mr. Lister was getting on his nerves, too. "Cleaned and polished, kept quite proper!"
It was. Grey doubted that the sword had ever achieved such a blinding state of propriety while in the care of its original owner.
Grey felt an unexpected pang as he took the sheathed sword from Tom and presented it to Mr. Lister. He had no thought of keeping it, of course, and in fact had barely thought of it in the days since his return to England. Seeing it, though, and holding it, brought back in a sudden rush the events surrounding the battle at Crefeld.
The fog of misery and terror he had felt on that day enveloped him again, miasmalike--and then, cutting through all that, the weight of the sword in his hand, the same as the feeling in him when he had seized it from Lister's body. In that moment, he had thrown all emotion and any sense of self-preservation t
o the wind, and flung himself howling on the deserting gun crew, shouting and beating them with the flat of the sword, forcing them back to their duty by the power of his will.
He had not realized it until much later, but that moment of abnegation had had the paradoxical effect of making him whole, as though the heat of battle had melted all the shattered bits of mind and heart and forged him anew--into something hard and adamant, incapable of being hurt.
Then, of course, Tom Pilchard had blown up.
His hand had grown damp on the leather of the scabbard, and it took an actual effort of will to relinquish it.
Mr. Lister looked at the sword for some time, holding it upon the palms of his hands as though it might be some holy relic. Finally, very gently, he set it upon his knees, and coughed.
"I th-thank you, Lord John," he said. His face worked for a moment, formulating words with such effort as to suggest that each one must be individually molded of clay.
"I--that is, my wife. His m-mother. I d-do not wish to...cause offense. Certainly. Or--or discomfort. B-but it would be perhaps some s-solace, were she to know what...what..." He stopped abruptly, eyes closed. He sat thus for some moments, absolutely still, seeming not even to breathe, and Grey exchanged an uneasy look with Tom, not sure whether his guest was merely overcome with emotion, or suffering a fit of some kind.
At last, Mr. Lister drew breath, though he did not open his eyes.
"Did he speak?" he asked hoarsely. "Did you talk...talk to him? His last--his last w-words..." Tears had begun to course down Mr. Lister's pale face.
Methodist be damned, Grey thought. Prayer doubtless had its place, but when you were right up against it, there was no substitute for alcohol.
"Brandy, please, Tom," he said, but it was there already, Tom nearly spilling the glass in his haste.
"Mr. Lister. Please, sir." He leaned forward, tried to take Lister's hands in his, but they were clenched into fists.
He remembered the lieutenant's last words, vividly. Likewise, Philip Lister's expression of openmouthed astonishment as the cannonball had struck the ground, hit a stone, and soared up into the air--an instant later decapitating the lieutenant and rendering his last words ironically prophetic.
Lord John and the Hand of Devils Page 18
