Icarus had blood on his gloves. Cuthbertson’s blood. He stripped them off and balled them up and climbed into the carriage. He didn’t speak. Neither did Miss Trentham. He sat, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, his eyes squeezed shut. Thoughts lurched in his head, disjointed and fragmented. He felt almost drunk, felt almost like vomiting. Cuthbertson had betrayed them for the sake of a five-minute fuck?
The trembling stopped after the first mile. His thoughts became less fragmented. Icarus lifted his head and looked at Letty Trentham, seated in the opposite corner.
“I apologize. My behavior was unpardonable. My language—”
“Under the circumstances, I think that your behavior and language were perfectly pardonable.” She looked at him for a long moment, her face pale and grave. “Icarus, what did you mean about Lieutenant Pereira? What did you mean when you said he’d broken?”
The question stung like a slap. He felt the muscles in his face tighten, felt himself flinch.
He looked away from her and clenched his hands together. Outside, Dartmoor stretched, bare and bleak.
Letty Trentham didn’t repeat her question, but it hung in the air between them. Finally, Icarus forced himself to answer. “I meant that he was so desperate for them to stop that he would have told them anything. He would have given up his own mother.”
“Did he tell them that ridge was undefended?”
Icarus looked down at his clenched hands. He didn’t hear the clatter of the carriage jolting over the rough lane; he heard Pereira struggling to breathe, water rattling in his throat. “Yes.”
“Before or after you told them?”
“Before.”
“I don’t understand. If Maria had told them, and Lieutenant Pereira had told them, why did they make you tell them, too?”
“I was a British major. My word held more weight.”
He saw Lieutenant Pereira in his mind’s eye, little more than a boy despite the flourishing mustachios, eager and idealistic, willing to give his life for his country.
Well, he had. But not heroically in battle. His life had been choked out of him over agonizing hours.
Pereira hadn’t deserved to be broken, and having been broken, he certainly hadn’t deserved to die.
And Cuthbertson had dared to mock him?
Black rage swept through him again, and—as at Cuthbertson’s—grief was inescapably mixed with it. His throat tightened. His nose stung. His eyes burned. God, I’m going to cry.
Icarus leaned his elbows on his knees, lowered his head into his hands, and squeezed his eyes shut.
Letty Trentham moved, coming to sit beside him. She didn’t hug him, didn’t kiss his cheek or murmur soothing words; she just rested one hand on his back.
Her silent comfort, her hand on his back, made his throat choke even tighter, made his eyes burn even more fiercely. It took every scrap of willpower Icarus possessed to force back the tears. “I want to kill him.” His voice was low, thick, hoarse.
“I know.”
They traveled the rest of the way to Okehampton in silence, side by side, her hand resting on his back. Icarus’s thoughts were fixed on Vimeiro. He saw each scout die again, heard Pereira begging, saw his sodden corpse.
It had been no grand plot, no treason for the sake of idealism or money, for love or fear. The scouts and Pereira had died because of Cuthbertson’s insatiable itch for sex.
For weeks he’d been focused on this moment—on finding the traitor, on forcing a confession—and now that he had, there was no sense of triumph. He felt weary and deflated. And sick. Sick with the sordid, venal stupidity of it all.
The road became smoother. The carriage picked up its pace. Five minutes later, they trotted into Okehampton. Icarus lifted his head and watched the Sleeping Mallard come into view. The sign above the entrance swayed in the breeze liked a hanged man on the gallows. His eyes focused on the movement.
For Pereira’s sake, and for the three scouts, Cuthbertson would hang.
Reid paid off the coachman and requested his services again later that day. Everything about him was grim—his manner, his expression, his voice. Sergeant Houghton looked at his face and forbore to ask questions, but he touched Letty’s elbow and drew her aside. “It was Cuthbertson?”
Letty nodded.
Houghton shook his head in bafflement. “Why?”
“To impress a woman.”
“Huh. That sounds like the colonel.” Houghton’s gaze slid to Reid, still talking to the coachman. “He doesn’t look pleased about it.”
“He’s not. Cuthbertson was . . .” She searched for the correct word. “Offensive. Extremely offensive. Icarus lost his temper.”
Houghton glanced at her. “The major never loses his temper.”
“He did today. He hit Cuthbertson a number of times.”
Houghton’s eyebrows rose. “Reid did?”
Letty nodded.
“In front of you?”
Letty nodded again. And he cried. “Will you please go with him when he collects the colonel? I dislike the thought of them being alone together. Icarus could be provoked into something he might regret.”
“Of course I’ll go with him.”
“Thank you.”
They ate a silent luncheon in the private parlor. Reid didn’t put any food on his plate; he looked at the goose and turkey pie as if he didn’t recognize it for what it was. Letty opened her mouth to urge him to eat, and then closed it again. Reid had retreated somewhere beyond reach.
Houghton must have come to the same conclusion. He kept glancing at Reid, glancing at the empty plate, but he said nothing. When he’d finished eating, he looked at Letty, his thoughts clear to read on his face: What do we do?
Letty shook her head. I don’t know.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed one o’clock. Reid came out of his bleak reverie. He pushed back his chair and stood. “Excuse me. I must find the constable.”
Houghton pushed back his chair, too, and stood. “I’ll find the constable. You need to eat.”
Reid blinked, and looked blankly down at his plate. “I’m not hungry.”
“I’ll find the constable,” Houghton said again, even more firmly. “An army marches on its stomach. You know that, sir.”
Reid’s gaze jerked to the sergeant. He clearly recognized the aphorism. For a moment, it looked as if he’d choose to ignore Houghton’s words, and then he gave a nod, and resumed his seat. “Tell him I’ll be bringing a guest for his lock-up this afternoon. Four-ish.”
“Yes, sir.”
Letty met Houghton’s eyes, and gave a grateful nod. Thank you, Sergeant.
Houghton nodded back, and left.
Letty returned her attention to Reid. He was regarding the pie with marked lack of interest.
“Would you prefer something plainer? I’ll ask for bread-and-butter, shall I?”
Reid had eaten one slice of bread-and-butter when Houghton returned. The sergeant was almost running. He shut the door with something close to a slam, caught his breath, and blurted: “Cuthbertson’s dead!