“Perhaps it was his first statement that was the lie,” Hartley said softly.
“What d’you mean?” Vale asked.
“When he told Munroe that the traitor’s mother was French, Reynaud was still thought dead. Hasselthorpe risked nothing by throwing suspicion on him. Further, he knew that there was a good chance that Munroe would never reveal his information—the news would be too harrowing for Vale to take. Why stir up trouble when the man who might be the traitor is dead?”
Munroe nodded. “That’s true. I nearly never told Vale. But I began to think that the truth, even if bitter, was better than lies.”
“And a good thing you did, too,” Hartley said. “Because when Reynaud returned, Hasselthorpe was then backed into a corner. Should he continue his lie and implicate a now-live man? Or should he call Munroe the liar? Either way, he needed to draw suspicion away from himself fast.”
“Then you think Hasselthorpe is the true traitor,” Reynaud said quietly. “Why?”
“Think of it.” Hartley leaned forward. “When Vale went to question Hasselthorpe, the man was shot—but not fatally. A glancing wound, as I understand it. He then left London altogether and sequestered himself at his estate near Portsmouth. When Munroe questioned him, he told a lie that prevented further interrogation. And remember this: Hasselthorpe’s older brother was Thomas Maddock—Lieutenant Maddock of the Twenty-eighth of Foot.”
“You think he killed so many to get the title?” Vale frowned.
Hartley shrugged. “It’s certainly a reason to betray the regiment. Isn’t that something we’ve been searching for all along—a motive to betray the Twenty-eighth? I asked around—Hasselthorpe was the younger brother. He came into the title shortly after Maddock’s death. In fact, Maddock died after their father had passed away, but he seemed to’ve never heard the news that his father was dead. He was killed at Spinner’s Falls before it could reach him.”
“This is all well and good,” Munroe cut in, his broken voice grating. “We’ve established why Hasselthorpe might’ve betrayed the regiment, but I still don’t see how he could’ve done the deed. Only the officers who marched with the Twenty-eighth knew our destination. It was kept secret precisely so we wouldn’t be ambushed.”
Reynaud stirred. “Only the officers of the Twenty-eighth—and the superiors who ordered them on their route.”
“What are you thinking?” Vale turned to him eagerly.
“Hasselthorpe was an aide-de-camp to General Elmsworth at Quebec,” Reynaud said. “If Maddock didn’t tell him the route—they were brothers, after all—then it wouldn’t have been very hard to discover it. Elmsworth may’ve made him privy to it himself.”
“He would’ve had to get the information to the French,” Munroe pointed out.
Reynaud shrugged, pushing away his tankard of ale altogether. “He was in Quebec. Do you remember? It was swarming with the French troops we’d captured, French citizens, and Indians who’d supported both sides. It was chaos.”
“He could’ve done it easily,” Hartley said. “The question now is did he indeed do it? We have supposition and conjecture but no real facts.”
“Then we’ll have to find the facts,” Reynaud said grimly. “Agreed?”
The other men nodded. “Agreed,” they said in unison.
“To discovering the truth,” Vale said, and raised his tankard.
They all raised their tankards and knocked them together, solemnizing the toast.
Reynaud toasted the sentiment with the rest. He drained his tankard and slammed it down on the table. “And to seeing the traitor swing, goddamn his eyes.”
“Hear, hear!”
“Another round on me,” Reynaud called.
Vale leaned close, blasting Reynaud with the ale on his breath. “Shouldn’t a newly wedded man such as yourself go home?”
Reynaud scowled. “I’ll go home soon.”
Vale wagged his shaggy eyebrows. “Had a falling-out with the missus?”
“None of your goddamned business!” Reynaud hid his face in his tankard of ale, but when he lowered it, Vale was still staring at him rather blearily. And had it not been for the ale, Reynaud probably wouldn’t have said, “She thinks I don’t know how to care, if you must know.”
“Doesn’t she know you care for her?” Hartley asked from across the table.
Wonderful. Both he and Munroe had been listening in like a pair of gossiping biddies.
Munroe stirred. “She needs to know, man.”