“Aye, sir,” Jack said, nodding agreement. “I thought it wasn’t but a ruse to get more, and wouldn’t have paid, but Tom said as how we must. I hope that was all right?”
“Yes, of course.” Grey waved that aside. “The man—did the pawnbroker remember him?”
“Oh, yes, me lord,” Tom said. His hair was nearly standing on end with excitement at what he had to impart. “He remembered him well enough. Said it was a man what always wore a mask—a black silk mask.”
Grey felt a surge of excitement equal to the Byrds’.
“Christ!” he said. “Fanshawe!”
Tom nodded.
“I thought it must be, me lord. Is he looking for Miss Thackeray, too, d’ye suppose?”
“I can’t think what else he might intend—though surely he is not pursuing her with any great determination, if he has not yet discovered her lodgings.”
“Perhaps he has,” Jack Byrd suggested, “but he’s not got up his nerve to see her, what with the face an’ all—Tom told me what happened to him.” Jack shuddered reflexively at the thought.
Grey glanced at the window, black night showing through the half-drawn curtains.
“Well, we can do little about it tonight. I will write a note, though—if you will take it in the morning, Jack?”
“What, to Sussex?” Jack looked slightly nonplussed. “Well, of course, my lord, if you like, but—”
“No, I think we needn’t go that far,” Grey assured him. “Plainly, Captain Fanshawe visits London regularly. He is a member at White’s; leave the note there, to be delivered upon his arrival.”
The two Byrds bowed, for an instant looking absurdly alike, though they did not really resemble each other closely.
“Very good, me lord,” Tom said. “Will you have a bit of supper, then?”
Grey nodded and sat down to compose his note. He had just trimmed his quill when he became aware that neither Byrd had departed; both were standing on the opposite side of the room, viewing him with approval.
“What?” he said.
“Nothing, me lord,” Tom said, smiling beneficently. “I was just telling Jack, you aren’t looking quite so hag-rid as you was.”
“You mean haggard?”
“That, neither.”
Grey had finally fallen into an uneasy sleep, in which he hurried endlessly through stubbled fields with crows cawing overhead, sure that he must reach a distant red-brick building in order to prevent some unspeakable disaster, but never drawing closer.
One crow dived low, shrieking, and he ducked, covering his head, then sat up abruptly, realizing that the crow had said, “Wake up, me lord.”
“What?” he said blankly. He could not focus eyes or mind, but the terrible sense of urgency from his dream had not left him. “Who … what?”
“There’s a soldier come, me lord. I’d not have waked you, but he says it’s a man’s life.”
His eyes finally consenting to operate, he saw Tom Byrd, round face worried but alight with interest, shaking out his banyan before a hastily poked-up fire.
“Yes. Of course. He … did he …” He groped simultaneously for words and bedclothes. “Name?”
“Yes, me lord. Captain Jones, he says.”
Scrambling out of bed, Grey thrust his arms into the sleeves of his banyan, but did not wait for Tom to find his slippers, padding quick and barefoot through the cold to the darkened sitting room.
Jones was stirring up the fire, a black and burly demon whose silhouette was limned by sparks. He turned at Grey’s entrance, dropping the poker with a crash upon the hearth.
“Where is he?” He reached as though to seize Grey’s arm, but Grey stepped aside.
“Where is who?”
“Herbert Gormley, of course! What have you done with him?”
“Gormless?” Grey was so startled that the name popped out of him. “What’s happened to him?”
Jones’s clenched-fist expression, just visible by the glow of the fire, relaxed a trifle at that.
“Gormless? You call him that, too, do you?”
“Not to his face, certainly. Thank you, Tom.” Byrd, hurrying in, had placed his slippers on the floor, eyeing Jones with marked wariness.
“What has happened?” Grey repeated, thrusting his cold feet into the slippers and noting absently that they were warm; Tom had taken time to hold them over the bedroom fire.
“He’s disappeared, Major—and so has Tom Pilchard. And I want to know what you have to do with the matter.”
He stared at Jones, unable for a moment to take this in. Still half in the grip of nightmare, his brain produced a vision of Herbert Gormley absconding by night, the remains of a massive cannon tucked tidily under one arm. He shook his head to clear it of this nonsense, and gestured Jones to the sofa.
“Sit. I assure you, sir, I have nothing ‘to do’ with the matter—but I certainly wish to know who does. Tell me what you know.”
Jones’s face worked briefly—Grey had the notion that he was grinding his teeth—but he nodded shortly and sat down, though he remained poised upon the edge of the sofa, hands on his knees, ready to leap up at a moment’s notice.
“He’s gone—Herbert. When I found the cannon gone, I went to find him, ask what—but he was nowhere to be found. I’ve been searching for him since the day before yesterday. Do you know where he is?”
Tom had been building up the fire; the flame was high enough now to show Jones’s heavy face, hollowed by worry and pouched with fatigue.
“No. You know where he lives?” Grey sat down himself, and scrubbed a hand over his face in an effort to rouse himself completely.
Jones nodded, massive fists clenching and unclenching unconsciously upon his thighs.
“He’s not been home in two days. The last anyone saw of him was Wednesday evening, when he left the laboratory. You’re quite sure he’s not been here?” Dark eyes flicked suspiciously at Grey.
“You are entirely welcome to search the place.” Grey waved a hand toward the room and the door through which Tom Byrd had disappeared, presumably toward the barracks kitchen in search of refreshment. “Why the devil would he come here?”
“For that bit of shrapnel.”
For a moment, Grey looked blank; then memory returned. His hand rose involuntarily toward his chest, but he altered the motion, pretending instead to stifle a yawn.
“The bit of iron from Tom Pilchard? The leopard’s head? What on earth would he—or you—want it for?”
Jones measured him for a long moment before replying, but answered at last, reluctant.
“With the cannon gone, that may be the only evidence.”
“Evidence of what, for God’s sake? And what do you mean, the cannon’s gone?” he added, belatedly realizing that he had overlooked the other bit of Jones’s statement. “Who in Christ’s name would steal a burst cannon?”
“It wasn’t stolen,” Jones answered shortly. “The foundrymen took it—and the others. It’s been melted down.”
This seemed an entirely reasonable thing to do, and Grey said as much, causing Jones’s face to work again. He was grinding his teeth; Grey could hear it.
Jones abruptly shut his eyes, upper lip folded under his lower teeth in a way that reminded Grey of his cousin Olivia’s bulldog, Alfred. It was an amiable animal, but remarkably stubborn.
The chiming clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour: two o’clock. The captain was likely telling the truth about searching everywhere else before coming to Grey’s door.
Jones at length opened his eyes—they were bloodshot, enhancing the resemblance to Alfred—though the teeth remained fixed in his lip. At last he shook his head in resignation and sighed.
“I’ll have to trust you, I suppose,” he said.
“I am distinctly honored,” Grey said, with an edge. “Thank you, Tom.”
Byrd had reappeared with a tray hastily furnished with two cups of tea. The tea was stewed and black, undoubtedly from the urn kept for the night watch, but served in Grey’s decent vine-patterned china. He took a cup gratefully, adding a substantial dollop of brandy from the decanter.
Jones stared at the cup of tea in his own hand, as though wondering where it had come from, but essayed a cautious sip, then coughed and rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth.
“The cannon. Herbert said he thought you knew nothing about the process of gun-founding; is that true?”
“Nothing more than he told me himself.” The hot tea and brandy were both comfort and stimulant; Grey began to feel more alert. “Why?”
Jones blew out his breath, making a small cloud of steam; the air in the sitting room was still chilly.
“Without describing the entire process to you—you do know that the bronze of a cannon is an alloy, produced by—”
“Yes, I do know that.” Grey was sufficiently awake by now as to be annoyed. “What does that—”
“I am sure that the burst cannon—all of them—had been cast from an inferior alloy, one lacking the proper proportion of copper.” He stared meaningfully at Grey, obviously expecting him to drop his tea, clutch his head, or otherwise exhibit signs of horrified comprehension.
“Oh?” Grey said, and reached for the brandy again.
Jones heaved a sigh that went all the way to his feet, and put out a hand for the decanter in turn.
“Not to put too fine a point upon the matter, Major,” he said, eyes on the amber stream splashing into his tea, “I am a spy.”
Grey narrowly prevented himself saying, “Oh?” again, and instead said, “For the French? Or the Austrians?” Tom Byrd, who had been loitering respectfully in the background, stiffened, then bent casually to pick up the poker from the hearth.
“Neither, for God’s sake,” Jones said crossly. “I am in the employ of His Majesty’s government.”
“Well, who the bloody hell are you spying on, then?” Grey said, losing patience.
“The Arsenal,” Jones replied, looking surprised, as though this should be obvious. “Or rather, the foundry.”
There ensued a tedious ten minutes of extraction which brought Grey to the point of wishing to gnash his own teeth. At the end of it, though, he had managed to get Jones to admit—with extreme reluctance—that he was not in fact employed by the Arsenal, as Grey had assumed. He was a genuine captain in the Royal Artillery Regiment, though, and as such had been sent to nose unofficially about the Arsenal and see what he could discover regarding the matter of the exploding cannons—the Royal Artillery having an interest, as Grey might suppose.
“Couldn’t be official, d’ye see,” Jones said, becoming more confidential. “The Royal Commission had already been appointed, and it’s their show, so to speak.”
Grey nodded, curious. Twelvetrees, who was a member of the Commission of Inquiry, belonged to the Royal Artillery; why ought the regiment be sending Jones to do surreptitiously what Twelvetrees was doing so overtly? Unless … unless someone suspected Twelvetrees of something?
“To whom do you report your findings?” Grey asked. Jones began again to look shifty, and a small premonitory prickle ran suddenly down Grey’s spine.
Jones’s lips worked in and out in indecision, but at last he bit the bullet and blurted, “A man named Bowles.”
As though cued by an invisible prompter, the teacup began to rattle gently in its saucer. Grey felt a monstrous sense of irritation; was he never going to be allowed to drink a full cup of tea in peace, for God’s sake? Very carefully, he set down the cup and saucer, and wiped his hands upon the skirts of his dressing gown.
“Oh, you know him, do you?” Jones’s red-rimmed eyes fixed on Grey, suddenly alert.
“I know of him.” Grey did not wish to admit to his relations with Bowles, let alone discuss them. He had met the mysterious Mr. Bowles once, and had no wish to repeat the experience.
“So you had no official standing at the laboratory?”
“No, that’s why I needed Gormley.”
Herbert Gormley had no great authority within the hierarchy of the Ordnance Office, but he had the necessary knowledge to locate the remains of the exploded cannon, and sufficient administrative skill to have them quietly brought to the guns’ graveyard near the proving grounds and sequestered there for autopsy.
“There are hundreds of broken guns there; they should have been safe!” Jones’s teeth were clenched in frustration; in hopes of preventing further damage to the man’s molars, Grey poured more brandy into his empty cup.
Jones gulped it and set down the cup, eyes watering.
“But they weren’t,” he said hoarsely. “They’re gone. There were eight of them under my investigation—all gone. But only those eight—the ones Gormley found for me. Everything else is still there. And now Gormley’s gone, too. You can’t tell me that’s coincidence, Major!”
Grey had no intention of doing so.
“You do not suppose that Gormless—Gormley—had anything to do with the removal of the exploded cannon?”
Jones shook his head violently.
“Not a chance. No, he’s onto me. Has to be.”
“He? Whom do you mean?”
“I don’t fucking know!” Jones’s hands clenched together in an unconscious pantomime of neck-wringing. “Not for sure. But I’ll get him,” he added, giving Grey a fierce look, with a glimpse of clenched, bared fang. “If he’s harmed poor little Herbert, I’ll—I’ll—”