“Rem acu tetigisti,”Quarry replied, then snorted, half-pleased with himself.
Grey smiled in spite of himself. “You have touched the matter with a needle”; it meant, “you’ve put your finger on it.” Probably the only bit of Latin Quarry recalled from his schooldays, other than cave canem.
“And was O’Connell the only suspect?”
“No, damn it. Hence the difficulty. We couldn’t simply arrest him and sweat the truth out of him with no more evidence than the fact of his being there. At least six other men—all from different regiments, damn it!—were there during the relevant time, as well.”
“I see. So the other regiments are now quietly investigating theirpotential black sheep?”
“They are. On the other hand,” Quarry added judiciously, “the other five are still alive. Which might be an indication, eh?”
The coach stopped, and the sounds and smells of Kettrick’s Eel-Pye House floated through the window: laughter and talk, the sizzle of food and clank of wooden plates and pie tins. The brine-smell of jellied eels and ale and the solace of floury pies lapped round them, warm and comforting, spiced with the sauce of alcoholic conviviality.
“Do we know for certain how O’Connell was killed? Did anyone from the regiment see the body?” Grey asked suddenly, as Quarry descended heavily to the pavement.
“No,” Quarry said, not looking round, but heading for the door with single-minded determination. “You’re going to go and do that tomorrow, before they bury the bugger.”
Grey waited until the pies had been set down in front of them before he undertook to argue with Quarry’s statement that he, Grey, was forthwith relieved of other duties in order to pursue an investigation into the activities and death of Sergeant Timothy O’Connell.
“Why me?” Grey was astonished. “Surely it’s sufficiently serious a matter to justify the senior ranking officer’s attention—that would be you, Harry,” he pointed out, “or possibly Bernard.”
Quarry had his eyes closed in momentary bliss, mouth full of eel pie. He chewed slowly, swallowed, then opened his eyes reluctantly.
“Bernard—ha-ha. Very funny.” He brushed crumbs from his chest. “As for me . . . well, it might be, ordinarily. Fact is, though—I was in Calais, too, when the requisitions were taken. Could have done it meself. Didn’t, of course, but I could have.”
“No one in his right mind would suspect you, Harry, surely?”
“Think the War Office is in its right mind, do you?” Quarry raised one cynical eyebrow, along with his spoon.
“I take your point. But still . . .”
“Crenshaw was on home leave,” Quarry said, naming one of the captains of the regiment. “Meant to be in England, but who’s to say he didn’t sneak back to Calais?”
“And Captain Wilmot? You can’t all have been on leave!”
“Oh, Wilmot was in camp where he ought to have been, all proper and above suspicion. But he had a fit of some sort at his club this Monday past. Apoplexy, the quack says. Can’t walk, can’t talk, can’t view bodies.” Quarry pointed his spoon briefly at Grey’s chest. “You’re it.”
Grey opened his mouth to expostulate further, but finding no good argument to hand, inserted a bite of pie instead, chewing moodily.
With fate’s usual turn for irony, the scandal that had sent him to Ardsmuir in disgrace had now placed him beyond suspicion, as the only functioning senior officer of the regiment who could not possibly have had anything to do with the disappearance of the Calais requisitions. He had returned from his Scottish exile by the time of the disappearance, true—but had probably been in London, having not formally rejoined his regiment until a month ago.
Harry had a genius for avoiding unpleasant jobs, but in the present situation, Grey was forced to admit it wasn’t entirely Harry’s doing.
Kettrick’s was crowded, as usual, but they had found a bench in a secluded corner, and their uniforms kept the other diners at a safe distance. The clatter of spoons and pie tins, the crash and scrape of shifting benches, and the raucous conversation bouncing from the low wooden rafters provided more than sufficient cover for a private conversation. Nonetheless, Grey leaned closer and lowered his voice.
“Does the Cornish gentleman of whom we were speaking earlier know that his servant is incommunicabilis?” Grey asked circumspectly.
Quarry nodded, champing eel pie industriously. He coughed to clear a bit of pastry from his throat, and took a deep pull at his tankard of stout.
“Oh, yes. We thought the servant in question might have been scared off by whatever it was that happened to the sergeant—in which case, the natural thing would be for him to scuttle off back to . . . his place of employment.” Quarry beetled his brows at Grey, indicating that naturally he understood the necessity for discretion—did Grey think him dense? “Sent Stubbs round to ask—no sign of him. Our Cornish friend is disturbed.”
Grey nodded, and conversation was temporarily suspended while both men concentrated on their meal. Grey was scraping a bit of bread round his empty pannikin, unwilling to let a drop of the savory broth escape, when Quarry, having polished off two pies and three pints, belched amiably and chose to resume in a more social vein.
“Speakin’ of Cornishmen, what have you done about your putative cousin-in-law? Arranged to take him to a brothel yet?”
“He says he doesn’t go to brothels,” Grey replied tersely, recalled unwillingly to the matter of his cousin’s marriage. Christ, weren’t spies and suspected murder enough?
“And you’re letting him marry your cousin?” Quarry’s thick brows drew down. “How d’ye know he’s not impotent, or a sodomite, let alone diseased?”
“I am reasonably sure,” Lord John said, repressing the sudden insane urge to remark that, after all, the Honorable Mr. Trevelyan had not been watching himat the chamber pot.
He had called on Trevelyan earlier in the day, with an invitation to supper and various libidinous “amusements” to bid a proper farewell to Trevelyan’s bachelorhood. Trevelyan had agreed with thanks to a cordial supper, but claimed to have promised his mother upon her deathbed to have nothing to do with prostitutes.
Quarry’s shaggy brows shot up.
“What sort of mother talks about whores on her deathbed? Your mother wouldn’t do that, would she?”
“I have no idea,” Grey said. “The situation has fortunately not arisen. But I suppose,” he said, attempting to divert the conversation, “that surely there aremen who do not seek such recreation. . . .”
Quarry gave him a look of jaundiced doubt. “Damn few,” he said. “And Trevelyan ain’t one of ’em.”
“You seem sure of it,” Grey said, slightly piqued.
“I am.” Quarry settled back, looking pleased with himself. “Asked around a bit—no, no, I was quite discreet, no need to fret. Trevelyan goes to a house in Meacham Street. Good taste; been there meself.”
“Oh?” Grey set aside his empty pie pan, and raised a brow in interest. “Why would he not wish to go with me, I wonder?”
“Maybe afraid you’ll blab to Olivia, disillusion the girl.” Quarry lifted a massive shoulder in dismissal of Trevelyan’s possible motives. “Be that as it may—why not go round and speak to the whores there? Chap I talked to says he’s seen Trevelyan there at least twice a month—good chance whichever girl he took last can tell you if he’s poxed or not.”
“Yes, perhaps,” Grey said slowly. Quarry took this for immediate agreement, and tossed back the remains of his final pint, belching slightly as he set it down.