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away, Blackstone thought – because there are just a few nuances in it that pin you down to Billingsgate, and if that’s where you’re from, it would be a bloody miracle if somebody in your family didn’t work in what’s possibly the biggest fish market in the world.
    â€˜Having been given the right to sew two stripes on your sleeve doesn’t cut you off from the lads you grew up with – not unless you let it,’ he said.
    But Johnson had stopped listening to him, and was clearly turning over in his mind something he’d heard – but not fully understood – earlier.
    â€˜Hang on,’ he said finally. ‘If you think they want to pin the murder on one of the enlisted men, then that means that you don’t think it was an enlisted man that did it.’
    â€˜I knew you’d get there in the end,’ Blackstone said.
    Johnson’s brow furrowed again, as if so much thinking was starting to hurt his brain.
    â€˜But if it wasn’t one of the men who killed Lieutenant Fortesque, then it has to be  . . . it has to be  . . .’
    â€˜There’s a good chance it was one of the officers,’ Blackstone supplied.
    â€˜But it can’t be!’ Johnson protested.
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜Because  . . . because they’re all gentlemen.’
    It was terribly sad when a man chose to betray his own class in return for a few scraps from his master’s table, Blackstone thought.
    But it was more than sad when the man accepted the mythology that the master used to justify his own privilege.
    In fact, it was bloody tragic.
    â€˜I’d like you to show me to my billet,’ he said.
    â€˜It’s this way,’ Johnson said sullenly, turning to cross the square.
    â€˜My bag, man!’ Blackstone barked in his best sergeant’s voice. ‘Pick up my bag!’
    Johnson turned again, confused.
    â€˜Uh  . . . sorry, sir,’ he said, bending down to pick up the bag.
    And that made Blackstone feel sadder still – but at least it seemed to have amused the man strapped to the wheel.
    They passed a smithy – its forge stone-cold, its anvil silent – and a dress shop inhabited solely by lonely naked mannequins.
    They turned a corner, and saw at least two dozen soldiers lined up impatiently outside an otherwise nondescript house.
    â€˜That’s the local knocking shop,’ Johnson said.
    Blackstone smiled. ‘Really?’ he asked. ‘If you hadn’t told me, I’d never have guessed.’
    â€˜Three pox-ridden whores servicing the whole bloody army,’ Johnson continued. ‘None of them ever last more than a couple of weeks, and they must have insides like an infantryman’s boot to be there for even that long, because sometimes they work round the clock.’
    â€˜Have you ever taken the opportunity to visit the place yourself?’ Blackstone asked casually.
    â€˜Me? Go in there? No!’ Johnson said vehemently. ‘Like I told you, I’m a non-commissioned officer.’
    And once more, he could not resist the temptation to touch his stripes.
    â€˜Never been there yourself,’ Blackstone mused. ‘Yet you still know there are three prostitutes inside. I suppose that’s because you’ve inspected the place as part of your official duties.’
    â€˜That’s right,’ Johnson agreed – far too eagerly.
    â€˜Or could it be that when there’s a troop rotation going on – when you know there’s no chance there’ll be any enlisted men there – you take the opportunity to slip in yourself?’
    Johnson sniffed. ‘Most of them are pox-ridden whores,’ he said, ‘but there’s just a few – now and again – who are very nice girls.’
    The house in which Blackstone had been assigned his billet was at the end of a steep cobbled street, almost at the point at which the village petered out.