“Go down to Sussex and see Edgar DeVane,” Grey replied. “He ought at least to know that his name is being put forward as a suspected saboteur. And if there should be anything whatever to the matter…”

“Well, that will at least get you out of Town and out of sight for a bit,” Quarry agreed dubiously. “Can’t hurt. And you could be back within two or three days, should anything—you will pardon my choice of words, I trust—blow up.”

Grey’s departure for Sussex was delayed, however, by receipt of a note in the morning post.

“What is it, me lord?” Tom, attracted by Grey’s muttered blasphemies, stuck his head out of the pantry, where he had been cleaning boots.

“A Mr. Lister, from Sussex, is in Town. He wishes to call upon me, should I find that convenient.”

Tom shrugged. “You might have found it convenient to be already gone, me lord,” he suggested.

“I would, but I can’t. He’s the father of Lieutenant Lister, the officer who was killed at Crefeld. He’s heard that I have his son’s sword, and while he’s much too polite to say he wants it back, that is his obvious desire.”

Grey reached for ink and paper with a sigh.

“I’ll tell him to come this afternoon. We’ll leave tomorrow.”

Mr. Lister had a slight stammer, made worse by emotion, and a small, pale face, overwhelmed by a very new and full-bottomed wig, from whose depths he peeped out like a wary field mouse.

“Lord John G-Grey? I intrude intolerably, sir, but I—Colonel Quarry said…that is, I do hope I am not…”

“Not in the slightest,” Grey said firmly. “And it is I who must beg pardon of you, sir. You should not have put yourself to the trouble of coming; I should have been most pleased to wait upon you.” Lord John bowed him to a chair, flicking a glance at Tom, who promptly vanished in search of refreshment.

“Oh, no, n-not at all, my lord. I—it is most gracious in you to receive me so s-suddenly. I know I am…” He waved a small, neat hand in a gesture that encompassed social doubt, self-effacement, and abject apology—and conveyed such a sense of helplessness that Grey felt himself obliged to take Mr. Lister’s arm and lead him physically to a seat.

“I must apologize, sir,” he said, having seen his guest settled. “I ought to have made an effort to inquire for Lieutenant Lister’s family long before this.”

A faint approximation of a smile touched Mr. Lister’s face.

“That is kind in you to say, sir. But there is no reason, really, why you should. Philip”—his lips twitched at speaking his dead son’s name—“Philip was not of your regiment, nor in any way under your command.”

“He was a fellow officer,” Grey assured him. “And thus has claim to both my duty and respect—as does his family.” Having been drenched to the skin in Philip Lister’s blood seemed an even more immediate claim upon his interest, but he thought he would not mention the fact.

“Oh.” Mr. Lister drew a deep breath, and seemed a little easier. “I—Thank you.”

“Will you take something, sir? A little wine, perhaps?” Tom had appeared, manfully lugging an enormous tray equipped with a rattling array of bottles, decanters, glasses, and an immense seed cake. Where had he got that? Grey wondered.

“Oh! No, I thank you, my lord. I d-do not take spirits. We are Methodist, you understand.”

“Of course,” Grey said. “We’ll have tea, Tom, if you please.”

Tom gave Mr. Lister a disapproving look, but decanted the cake onto the table, hoisted the tray, and rattled off into the recesses of the apartment.

There was an awkward pause, which a little port or Madeira would have covered admirably. Not for the first time, Grey wondered at a religion which rejected so many of the things that made life tolerable. Perhaps it sprang from an intent to make heaven seem that much more desirable by contrast to a life from which pleasure had been largely removed.

But he must admit that his own attitudes toward Methodists perhaps lacked justice, having been badly colored by—He choked off that line of thought before it could reach its natural conclusion, and picking up the knife Tom had brought, waved it inquiringly in the direction of the seed cake.

Mr. Lister accepted the offer with alacrity, but obviously more in order to have something to do than from appetite, for he merely poked at his allotted portion, breaking off small bits and mashing them randomly with his fork.

Grey did his best to conduct a conversation, making courteous inquiries regarding Mr. Lister’s wife and other family, but it was hard going, with the shade of Philip Lister perched like a vulture over the seed cake on the table between them.

At last, Grey put down his cup and glanced at Tom, hovering discreetly near the door.

“Tom, do you have Lieutenant Lister’s sword convenient?”

“Oh, yes, me lord,” Tom assured him, with an air of relief. Mr. Lister was getting on his nerves, too. “Cleaned and polished, kept quite proper!”

It was. Grey doubted that the sword had ever achieved such a blinding state of propriety while in the care of its original owner.

Grey felt an unexpected pang as he took the sheathed sword from Tom and presented it to Mr. Lister. He had no thought of keeping it, of course, and in fact had barely thought of it in the days since his return to England. Seeing it, though, and holding it, brought back in a sudden rush the events surrounding the battle at Crefeld.

The fog of misery and terror he had felt on that day enveloped him again, miasmalike—and then, cutting through all that, the weight of the sword in his hand, the same as the feeling in him when he had seized it from Lister’s body. In that moment, he had thrown all emotion and any sense of self-preservation to the wind, and flung himself howling on the deserting gun crew, shouting and beating them with the flat of the sword, forcing them back to their duty by the power of his will.

He had not realized it until much later, but that moment of abnegation had had the paradoxical effect of making him whole, as though the heat of battle had melted all the shattered bits of mind and heart and forged him anew—into something hard and adamant, incapable of being hurt.

Then, of course, Tom Pilchard had blown up.

His hand had grown damp on the leather of the scabbard, and it took an actual effort of will to relinquish it.

Mr. Lister looked at the sword for some time, holding it upon the palms of his hands as though it might be some holy relic. Finally, very gently, he set it upon his knees, and coughed.

“I th-thank you, Lord John,” he said. His face worked for a moment, formulating words with such effort as to suggest that each one must be individually molded of clay.

“I—that is, my wife. His m-mother. I d-do not wish to…cause offense. Certainly. Or—or discomfort. B-but it would be perhaps some s-solace, were she to know what…what…” He stopped abruptly, eyes closed. He sat thus for some moments, absolutely still, seeming not even to breathe, and Grey exchanged an uneasy look with Tom, not sure whether his guest was merely overcome with emotion, or suffering a fit of some kind.

At last, Mr. Lister drew breath, though he did not open his eyes.

“Did he speak?” he asked hoarsely. “Did you talk…talk to him? His last—his last w-words…” Tears had begun to course down Mr. Lister’s pale face.

Methodist be damned, Grey thought. Prayer doubtless had its place, but when you were right up against it, there was no substitute for alcohol.

“Brandy, please, Tom,” he said, but it was there already, Tom nearly spilling the glass in his haste.