“Come now! You could be watching Robin Hood with Douglas Fairbanks in the matinée performance at the Alhambra as we speak if it’s thrills you’re seeking. What sort of response do you expect from a grizzled old soldier who’s just been asked to drone on about a stale old war that no one remembers? We could repair to the pub down the road if it’s company you yearn for and let a pint or two of bitter take the edge off the tales of derring-do. But if it’s tedious and exact detail you require, officer, you must remove these handcuffs and provide me with a pencil and a large piece of paper, sketching quality, of course.”

The suspect tugged at the single restraint chaining him to the special interviewee’s chair, which in turn was bolted to the floor. It was clearly irritating him both psychologically and physically, the inspector noted with satisfaction.

“I’ll change the subject when this one bores me.”

“I gave up fighting a lifetime ago. My helmet is a hive for bees these days, I’m afraid. Abandoned, disused . . . dangerous! More like a wasps’ nest, perhaps. Wiser to leave it undisturbed. But as you seem determined to poke at it with a stick . . .”

“On my head be it? Agreed. Off you go.”

“Very well. It’s twenty-five years since I took part in ‘one of the longest and fiercest battles ever fought in the annals of war,’” he said in a mock-portentous tone, smiling as the inspector flicked away an imaginary bee from his ear. “Not my description! Oh no. That was our experience as thoughtfully put into words for us (and for posterity!) by our general, Lord Methuen. A good man, Methuen—brave and dogged. He meant well and was speaking in the flush of a third consecutive victory, you understand. Victories not due to inspired strategy, but the ferocity and determination of his troops, troops stiffened not a little by the presence of a brigade of Guards, a bristling pack of the Ninth Lancers and a naval squadron of English seaman gunners and marines. The best in the business with a cannon, full of skill and heart!”

For the first time during this interview, Redfyre sensed he had been treated to an honest comment devoid of sarcasm or scheming. That was surely a genuine glow of admiration in the old feller’s eyes. But it swiftly faded.

“The old man was rallying us for the next onslaught. My own summary of the enterprise would be less gallant, more unprintably demotic. I would risk adding a charge of public profanity and antigovernment rhetoric to my charge sheet.” He leaned across the desk to the farthest extent his shackle would permit and added with a bitter smile: “You might even accuse me of being an agitator!”