“Certain enough. The first accounts describe confusion in the orders and intelligence ignored or unresolved before the advance. The official report removes Carter’s observations entirely and places fault lower down the chain.”
Owen paused, then continued through a sigh, as he drew another page from beneath the pile. “I thought at first it wasMorley. His initials appear on two copies, and he had every opportunity to smooth an inconvenient report before it reached London. But the dates do not hold. Morley had already been sent north by the time the final version was prepared.”
Thomas frowned. “So he was a dead end.”
“A very plausible one,” Owen nodded. “Which is often worse.”
Thomas came to stand beside him, scanning the documents. “Who handled the dispatches?”
“Several men. But you mentioned one name before.”
“Thompson.”
Lieutenant Thompson had once been attached to the staff responsible for carrying and sorting campaign dispatches. He had been too junior to command, too useful to be ignorant, and too obscure to attract much notice afterward. Men like Thompson were often overlooked by history, which made them valuable. They saw what passed from hand to hand.
Thomas nodded slowly. “He is in town. I can find out where.”
“Do so.”
By evening, they had arranged it. The meeting took place in a private room above a coffee house off the Strand, chosen less for comfort than for anonymity. Thompson was already there when Owen arrived, seated by the window with a cup untouched before him.
He was thinner than Owen remembered, with receding hair and a coat worn at the cuffs. There was a nervous precision in the way he rose and bowed, as though old habits of military deference had survived ambition, youth, and perhaps peace itself.
“My lord.”
“Lieutenant Thompson.”
“Not lieutenant any longer,” the man corrected.
“No. Forgive me.”
Thompson gave a small, humorless smile. “There are worse things to be called by mistake.”
Thomas remained near the door, easy in posture but watchful. Owen took the chair opposite Thompson.
“I appreciate your agreeing to meet.”
“I had little choice, once Captain Harrow found me,” Thompson admitted, glancing toward him.
Thomas grinned. “I was charm itself.”
“You were persistent.”
“A family trait, though not my family’s.”
Owen did not allow the exchange to continue.
“I am looking for Sergeant William Carter.”
Thompson’s face changed. It was slight, but enough. There was a tightening around the mouth. Fear, recognition, and resignation all passed across him before he looked down at his cup.
“I thought as much.”
“Then you know why.”
“I know what men mean when they begin asking after Carter after all these years.” Thompson’s fingers moved once against the saucer. “I wondered when it would surface again.”
“Again?”
