“He would’ve been hung at the fort,” Sam said. “Rape and murder. His court-martial would’ve been very short.”
MacDonald had been a nasty piece of work. He and another soldier named Brown had looted a French settler’s cabin, raping and killing the settler’s wife when she surprised them. Unfortunately for MacDonald and his companion, the French settler’s wife had turned out to be an Englishwoman—and the sister of a British colonel. Looting and rape were hanging offenses, but ones that some officers might turn a blind eye to, as long as they weren’t wholesale. The rape and murder of an Englishwoman was a crime that couldn’t be swept under the rug. There had been a hunt within the British army, and soon soldiers had come forward with the information that Brown had drunkenly boasted of the crime. Once under arrest, Brown had soon betrayed MacDonald, and both men had been marching in chains when the 28th Regiment of Foot had been attacked.
That thought made Sam grimace. “Brown might also be the traitor.”
Vale nodded. “MacDonald seemed to be the leader of that little gang, but you’re right; Brown had just as much reason to stop the march as MacDonald.”
“Or they might’ve been in it together.” Sam shook his head. “But in either case, how would they have known the route we’d take?”
Vale shrugged. “Wasn’t Brown friends with Allen?”
“Yes. They often shared their fire with Ned Allen.”
“And as an officer, Allen would’ve known the route.”
“He might’ve carried a message, if they’d bribed him.”
“Surely not to a Frenchie?” Vale’s eyebrows had shot up.
“No. But all they needed was an intermediary who could take a message to a neutral Indian, and as you know, there were plenty who either switched sides or dealt with both French and English.”
“If Allen talked to someone about the route the regiment took, it would certainly be a motive to kill him.”
Sam thought of the pathetic bag of bones they’d just found, and grimaced. “Yes, it would.”
Vale shook his head. “There’re holes to that theory, but in any case, we need to talk to Thornton again and determine what he remembers.”
Sam frowned. Thornton had made him uneasy from the first. “Do you think that’s wise? Bringing Thornton in on this? For all we know, he’s the traitor.”
“All the more reason to confide in him. If he thinks we trust him, he’s more likely to slip.” Vale touched his lips with a long, bony finger. Then he smiled, almost sweetly. “Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.”
EMELINE PAUSED JUST inside Samuel’s town house garden. What was Rebecca doing with Mr. Thornton—alone?
“You may go now,” she said absently to the butler who had shown her the way through the town house and into the garden.
She’d come calling in the hopes of finding Rebecca better. Perhaps they could go hunting for a pair of dancing slippers. New slippers always cheered Emeline up, and she felt the poor girl might need some reviving after the events of last night.
It seemed Rebecca was already revived.
Emeline squared her shoulders. “Good afternoon.”
Rebecca jumped back from Mr. Thornton and turned a woefully guilty face toward Emeline.
Mr. Thornton, in contrast, pivoted smoothly. “Lady Emeline, how pleasant to meet you again.”
Emeline narrowed her eyes. It was a point in the man’s favor that he’d been properly introduced to Rebecca, but it still didn’t excuse his tête-à-tête with an unattended maiden. And in any case, it seemed odd to find Mr. Thornton in the garden with Rebecca so soon after talking about him with Samuel and Jasper. Very odd.
“Mr. Thornton.” Emeline inclined her head. “How...unexpected to meet you here. Do you have business with Mr. Hartley?”
He smiled wider at her pointed question. “Yes, but it seems Mr. Hartley isn’t at home. I was waiting here in the garden when Miss Hartley joined me and made my wait so much easier.” He finished his pretty speech with a courtly little bow in Rebecca’s direction.
Humph. Emeline linked her arm with Rebecca and began to stroll. “I believe you said you were in trade, Mr. Thornton.”
The garden path was narrow, and the man was forced to trail behind the ladies. “Yes, I make boots.”
“Boots. Ah, I see.” Emeline didn’t bother looking around. The town house garden was mediocre, but she kept her pace slow as if she might actually be interested in dying foliage.
“Boots are very important, I’m sure,” Rebecca said, coming to Mr. Thornton’s defense, which was not at all what Emeline had intended.
“I supply them to His Majesty’s army,” Mr. Thornton called from in back.
“Quite.” It occurred to Emeline that Mr. Thornton might very well be rich. She had so little knowledge of the workings of the army, but she could imagine the piles of boots that would be ordered from Mr. Thornton.
“Are they made here in London?” Rebecca asked. She craned her neck a little to try to see him.
“Oh, yes. I have a workshop on Dover Street and employ thirty-two fellows there.”
“Then you do not make the boots yourself?” Emeline inquired sweetly.
Rebecca gasped, but Mr. Thornton replied cheerfully enough, “No, my lady. I’m afraid I wouldn’t even know where to start. Father used to, of course, when he began the business, but before long he’d hired other fellows to do the work for him. I might’ve learned when I was young, but I had a falling-out with Pater—”
“Is that why you joined the army?” Rebecca interrupted. She stopped and turned to face Mr. Thornton, and Emeline was forced to halt as well.
Mr. Thornton smiled, and Emeline realized that he was rather handsome in a bland sort of way. He wasn’t the type of man one would notice in a crowd, but perhaps that made him all the more dangerous.
“Yes, I’m afraid I took the king’s shilling in a fit of callow pique. Left Pater and my wife—”
“You’re married?” Emeline cut in.
“No.” Mr. Thornton’s expression sobered. “Poor Marie died not long after I returned home.”
“Oh! I am so sorry,” Rebecca murmured.
Emeline looked back down the path. Someone was coming.
“It was a terrible blow,” Mr. Thornton said. “She—”
“Emmie! Ah, there you are.” Jasper was striding up the path, his long, horsey face beaming.