Lord John and the Private Matter by Diana Gabaldon Read Free Book Online Page B

nothing whatever, including a reason for his own existence.
    “His back,” Grey amended. “
Dorsum
is the Latin word for back.”
    “Oh, aye,” Byrd said, intelligence returning. “I see it plain, me lord.”
    “That means that he lay upon his back for some time after death. I have seen men taken up from a battlefield for burial; the portions that have lain bottom-most are always discolored in that way.”
    Byrd nodded, looking faintly ill.
    “But you found him upon his face in the water, is that correct?” Grey turned to the constable.
    “Yes, my lord. The coroner’s seen him,” the man added helpfully. “Death by violence.”
    “Quite,” Grey said. “There was no grievous wound upon the front of his body that might have caused his death, and I see no such wound here, do you, Byrd? Not stabbed, not shot, not choked with a garrote . . .”
    Byrd swayed slightly, but caught himself, and was heard to mutter something about “. . . head, mebbe?”
    “Perhaps. Here, take this.” Grey shoved the handkerchief into Byrd’s clammy hand, then turned and, holding his breath, gingerly began to feel about in O’Connell’s hair. He was interested to see that an inexpert attempt had been made to do up the corpse’s hair in a proper military queue, wrapped round a pad of lamb’s wool and bound with a leather lacing, though whoever had done it had lacked the rice powder for a finishing touch. Someone who cared had laid the body out—not Mrs. O’Connell, he thought, but someone.
    The scalp had begun to loosen, and shifted unpleasantly under his probing fingers. There were assorted lumps, presumably left by kicks or blows . . . yes, there. And there. In two places, the bone of the skull gave inward in a sickening manner, and a slight ooze moistened Grey’s fingertips.
    Byrd made a small choking sound as Grey withdrew his hand, and blundered out, handkerchief still clasped to his face.
    “Was he wearing his uniform when he was found?” Grey asked the constable. Deprived of his handkerchief, he wiped his fingers fastidiously on the shroud as he nodded to the two prisoners to restore the corpse to its original state.
    “Nah, sir.” The constable shook his head. “Stripped to his shirt. We knew as he was one of yours, though, from his hair, and askin’ about a bit, we found someone as knew his name and regiment.”
    Grey’s ears pricked up at that.
    “Do you mean to say that he was known in the neighborhood where he was found?”
    The constable frowned.
    “I s’pose so,” he said, rubbing at his chin to assist thought. “Let me think . . . yes, sir, I’m sure as that’s right. When we pulled him out o’ the water, and I saw as how he was a soldier, I went round to the Oak and Oyster to inquire, that bein’ the nearest place where the soldiers mostly go. Brought a few of the folk in there along to have a look at him; as I recall, ’twas the barmaid from the Oyster what knew him.”
    The body had been turned over, and one of the prisoners, lips pressed tight against the smell, was drawing up the shroud again, when Grey stopped him with a motion. He bent over the coffin, frowning, and traced the mark on O’Connell’s forehead. It was indeed a heelprint, distinctly indented on the livid flesh. He could count the nailheads.
    He nodded to himself and straightened up. The body had been moved, so much was plain. But from where? If the Sergeant had been killed in a brawl, as appeared to be the case, perhaps there would have been a report of such an occurrence.
    “Might I have a word with your superior, sir?”
    “That’d be Constable Magruder, sir—round the front, room on the left. Will you be done with the corpse, sir?” He was already motioning for the two sullen prisoners to restore O’Connell’s wrappings and nail down the coffin lid.
    “Oh . . . yes. I think so.” Grey paused, considering. Ought he perhaps to make some ceremonial gesture of farewell to a comrade in arms? There was nothing in that