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 didsee 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 wouldbe 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 doyou propose to do?” Quarry asked, giving him a narrow look.