He gave Owen a wary look. “You know some tried before.”
“Lord Finch?”
Thompson’s silence answered.
Owen leaned forward. “Tell me what you know.”
“What I know is that knowing has never profited anyone.” Thompson looked toward the door, though no one had approached it. “Some were paid to forget. Some were frightened. Some were offered favors. There are many ways to purchase silence.”
“And Carter?”
“Carter would not take money.”
Owen’s pulse sharpened.
Thompson looked down again. “He was always stubborn. Principled, if you prefer the prettier word. He said he would not swear to what was false. He would not promise silence either, not in the way they wanted. But neither did he come forward.”
“Why?”
“Because he wasn’t a fool.” Thompson’s voice lowered. “He had seen what happened to men with less to tell. A stalled promotion here, a disgrace there, a family made suddenly friendless. Carter had no title to shield him, no fortune, no influence. Only the truth, and truth alone is poor armor.”
Owen thought of Aurelia’s mother, of her father’s papers.
“Where did he go?”
“Out of the army first. Too quietly, considering the career he might have had. After that, here and there. I heard Deptford once. Woolwich another time. But most recently …” Thompson hesitated.
“Greenwich,” Owen supplied.
Thompson looked at him sharply. “So you have heard it, too.”
“I have heard enough to think it likely.”
“It may be. There have been sightings. Near the hospital. Near the market. Men who served drift there. No one asks too many questions if a man limps, drinks alone, and dislikes his own name.”
“Can you give me an address?”
“No.”
“Cannot or will not?”
Thompson’s face hardened, though fear still lived beneath it. “Cannot. If I knew, I am not certain what I would do, but I don’t know. I only know you’re on the right track.”
“That is not enough.”
“It may be all you get.”
Owen held his gaze. “The official report was altered.”
Thompson swallowed. “Yes.”
The word was so quiet it might almost have been lost beneath the noise from below. Thomas shifted by the door. Owen felt the room narrow around that single syllable.
“By whose order?”
Thompson’s jaw worked once. “You know whose command governed the operation.”
“Langley.”
