“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 their potential 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.”