raising his drink in salute. “Ye have to admit, it keeps things interesting.”
“If we have finished philosophizing, perhaps we could go have a look at my erstwhile assailant.” Saybrook scraped back his chair. “The body is being kept down near the kitchens—in the game room, aptly enough, though the chef is apparently not happy about it sharing the space with his dead birds and skinned rabbits.”
“Why?” quipped the surgeon. “The room’s sole purpose is to hang carcasses until the flesh is ripe enough to peel off the bone.”
“Thank you for the graphic explanation, Baz,” said Saybrook, leading the way into the servant stairwell.
“No point in mincing words, laddie.”
Arianna winced at the word “mince.”
As they descended in the gloom, Henning checked that the small chamois bag of surgical instruments was well hidden in his coat pocket. “We’ll just have a little poke around before the formal inquest begins.”
“Nothing overt,” cautioned Saybrook, as he peeked out from the landing to check that the corridor was clear. “I’ve enough to worry about without being accused of tampering with the evidence.”
“Don’t worry, laddie. I’m very good at what I do.”
Moving quietly, the three of them slipped past the pantries and entered a dark, stone-floored chamber, taking care to close the heavy oaken door behind them.
“Light the lanthorn,” whispered Henning.
Flint scraped against steel and a curl of smoke rose through the shadows. Arianna shivered as her husband shuffled forward and shone the beam on the dead man’s face. Though bronzed by the sun, the skin had turned yellowish-white. A dull sheen made it look as if the death-softened features were carved out of candle wax.
“Big fellow, eh?” grunted the surgeon. The man laid out on the slab of granite was over six feet tall. “Bring the light closer.” The surgeon leaned in and plucked up the corpse’s eyelid.
“Hmmph.” Next he drew back the dead man’s lips and examined his teeth. Seemingly satisfied, he brushed his fingers on the front of his coat. “Lady S, would ye take charge of the lanthorn while Sandro gives me a hand in looking at the wound.”
Swallowing hard, she watched as he and Saybrook gingerly peeled back the cloth hiding the slashed throat. Perhaps breakfast hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
“Hmmph.” After poking and prodding at the ghastly wound, the surgeon’s only remark was a curt grunt.
Setting aside his scalpel, he took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. “Help me remove his upper garments, laddie, and let us see what else we can learn about him.”
Arianna closed her eyes for a moment, finding the soft whisper of cloth against the lifeless flesh faintly obscene.
“Well, well, well. What have we here?” Henning sounded a little surprised.
Her lids flew open.
“A tattoo,” confirmed Saybrook. Like Henning, he was peering intently at the dead man’s bicep. “A rather distinctive one. An eagle and a crown . . .”
“It’s the mark of Les Grognards —the Grumblers,” announced the surgeon after a closer inspection.
Saybrook swore under his breath.
Looking up at Arianna, Henning quickly explained. “That’s the nickname of the First Foot Grenadiers Regiment. Along with the Second Foot Regiment, they made up the Old Guard, the most elite unit of Napoleon’s Grenadier Guards.”
“The Guards were Napoleon’s personal favorites,” added Saybrook. “A man had to have served in the army for ten years and distinguished himself in battle to win a place in their ranks.”
“Aye. And every detail of their service was personally approved by Boney—their pay, their uniforms, their insignias,” said Henning, slanting a meaningful look at the tattoo. “They were bloody good soldiers. Tough, disciplined, and fiercely loyal to their leader.”
“Dio Madre.” Saybrook peered more closely at the intricate design. “Are you sure about this?”
“At the Battle
“If we have finished philosophizing, perhaps we could go have a look at my erstwhile assailant.” Saybrook scraped back his chair. “The body is being kept down near the kitchens—in the game room, aptly enough, though the chef is apparently not happy about it sharing the space with his dead birds and skinned rabbits.”
“Why?” quipped the surgeon. “The room’s sole purpose is to hang carcasses until the flesh is ripe enough to peel off the bone.”
“Thank you for the graphic explanation, Baz,” said Saybrook, leading the way into the servant stairwell.
“No point in mincing words, laddie.”
Arianna winced at the word “mince.”
As they descended in the gloom, Henning checked that the small chamois bag of surgical instruments was well hidden in his coat pocket. “We’ll just have a little poke around before the formal inquest begins.”
“Nothing overt,” cautioned Saybrook, as he peeked out from the landing to check that the corridor was clear. “I’ve enough to worry about without being accused of tampering with the evidence.”
“Don’t worry, laddie. I’m very good at what I do.”
Moving quietly, the three of them slipped past the pantries and entered a dark, stone-floored chamber, taking care to close the heavy oaken door behind them.
“Light the lanthorn,” whispered Henning.
Flint scraped against steel and a curl of smoke rose through the shadows. Arianna shivered as her husband shuffled forward and shone the beam on the dead man’s face. Though bronzed by the sun, the skin had turned yellowish-white. A dull sheen made it look as if the death-softened features were carved out of candle wax.
“Big fellow, eh?” grunted the surgeon. The man laid out on the slab of granite was over six feet tall. “Bring the light closer.” The surgeon leaned in and plucked up the corpse’s eyelid.
“Hmmph.” Next he drew back the dead man’s lips and examined his teeth. Seemingly satisfied, he brushed his fingers on the front of his coat. “Lady S, would ye take charge of the lanthorn while Sandro gives me a hand in looking at the wound.”
Swallowing hard, she watched as he and Saybrook gingerly peeled back the cloth hiding the slashed throat. Perhaps breakfast hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
“Hmmph.” After poking and prodding at the ghastly wound, the surgeon’s only remark was a curt grunt.
Setting aside his scalpel, he took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. “Help me remove his upper garments, laddie, and let us see what else we can learn about him.”
Arianna closed her eyes for a moment, finding the soft whisper of cloth against the lifeless flesh faintly obscene.
“Well, well, well. What have we here?” Henning sounded a little surprised.
Her lids flew open.
“A tattoo,” confirmed Saybrook. Like Henning, he was peering intently at the dead man’s bicep. “A rather distinctive one. An eagle and a crown . . .”
“It’s the mark of Les Grognards —the Grumblers,” announced the surgeon after a closer inspection.
Saybrook swore under his breath.
Looking up at Arianna, Henning quickly explained. “That’s the nickname of the First Foot Grenadiers Regiment. Along with the Second Foot Regiment, they made up the Old Guard, the most elite unit of Napoleon’s Grenadier Guards.”
“The Guards were Napoleon’s personal favorites,” added Saybrook. “A man had to have served in the army for ten years and distinguished himself in battle to win a place in their ranks.”
“Aye. And every detail of their service was personally approved by Boney—their pay, their uniforms, their insignias,” said Henning, slanting a meaningful look at the tattoo. “They were bloody good soldiers. Tough, disciplined, and fiercely loyal to their leader.”
“Dio Madre.” Saybrook peered more closely at the intricate design. “Are you sure about this?”
“At the Battle
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