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protecting a stiff ankle.
    â€œNot much use when you can’t fly any longer. Even the Army wouldn’t take me. Hardly surprising, if you can’t climb the ladder when the whistle blows,” he went on. “Or race across No Man’s Land. There’s a splinter of something nasty lodged near my heart as well. No one would operate. And there you have it.”
    I thought perhaps he’d explained his presence out of a sense of guilt for not being in France. There were uniforms for the wounded who couldn’t be returned to duty. He was wearing worn corduroy trousers and a cotton shirt to work in. “It’s very dangerous to try,” I said. “But you can still build your boats. There’s something to be said for that.” Then I realized how neatly he’d changed the subject so that he hadn’t had to talk about the explosion.
    â€œThis is a perfect place for such a mill,” I went on. “I don’t see why they decided not to rebuild on this same site.” Two could play at this game of misdirection.
    â€œIt would cost more and take longer to clear the land before putting up another building. They’ve moved on. Besides, it’s a grave now, isn’t it?” He pointed to the line of warehouses. “It was rumored they might turn these into a new factory. But the town protested, and I think it finally dawned on London that where there had been one catastrophe, there could very well be another, and this time, the town—­or a large part of it, at any rate—­might go up with the buildings. They were damn—­very lucky, the last time.”
    â€œBut why was it suspicious, this blast?”
    He answered grudgingly, “Ashton Powder had had a very good record. The mill had been here since the Napoleonic Wars, if not before, and there had never been any trouble. That’s rare, dealing with gunpowder.”
    â€œThen what went wrong two years ago?” I persisted.
    Â­â€œPeople got careless. Or nervous. One mistake is all it takes to level such a place. And there was the pressure to produce more and more powder. The munitions factories were running flat out. Collier did his best to keep them busy. God, if you were in France, you’ve heard the guns, you know how many they lob over in a single hour. All those shells have got to come from somewhere. And the powder to fill them.”
    I knew, all too well. The ground shook, the very air seemed to vibrate as the big guns pounded a sector. Men lost their hearing, as Mark had done, or had such severe headaches they couldn’t function. Some developed such a shock to the nervous system that they couldn’t stand.
    All those shells have got to come from somewhere . . .
    I turned back to the ruins. “You don’t think about that, do you? Where the shells come from. It just seems there’s an endless supply.” Changing the subject, I said, “Does everyone in Cranbourne believe that Mr. Ashton started that fire?”
    â€œThere are two camps. The survivors of those lost in the explosion needed someone to blame. A casual spark seems a very dubious source for such tragedy. After all, as I said, it had never happened before. And Ashton was there. As it began.”
    â€œAnd the other camp?”
    â€œThey’ve lost their livelihood, haven’t they? And they too want to blame someone.”
    â€œAre you among those last?”
    He shrugged. “I’d like to hold someone responsible too. I knew many of the men who were killed. It’s comforting, you know, to find someone to blame. It says that God isn’t cruel, it’s Man who caused such pain and loss. You can rage at a man. It’s harder to rage at God.”
    He hadn’t really answered my question, but I let it go. I was starting to walk on, when he said, “Let me close these doors. I’ll walk back with you.”
    I could see his limp as he shut the long, heavy