Chapter Twenty-Eight
“We’ll give Bristol one more day,” Icarus said, when they’d finished dining. “If we don’t find Houghton tomorrow, we’ll head down to Exeter.” Which he didn’t want to do. Exeter was so damned far from London.
“You said you don’t think it was Houghton.”
“No,” Icarus admitted, fiddling with his napkin. “Houghton was a good soldier. I liked him.” He folded the napkin in half, and then in half again. “I didn’t like Cuthbertson.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” Icarus shoved the napkin aside. Cuthbertson had been like a b***h in heat, always swaggering past on the way to a s****l liaison or just back from one—and ready to boast of it. On my way to take a flourish, he’d say with a wink. Or, Just had myself a buttered bun. “He, ah . . . was rather too much given to gallantry for my
