The Soldier's Dark Secret

The food was very good, and very much to Jack’s taste, with roasted squab, game pie and a dish of celery. He made a better fist of it than Finlay, he was surprised to notice. His friend was distinctly out of sorts. Were they all, Wellington’s men, changed utterly?

‘So, to business.’ Finlay pushed his half-empty plate aside. ‘This ring that you asked me to investigate. I have to tell you, the ownership of it caused quite a stramash.’ He placed Celeste’s signet ring on the table. ‘As you suspected, it’s a regimental crest, though the dragon is misleading. Not Welsh, but the Buffs, from Kent.’

‘The Third Foot.’ Jack frowned. ‘Do you happen to know where they were while the French were slaughtering each other in the Terror?’

Finlay pulled out a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘Here you are,’ he said, ‘the official deployment records, though you won’t be needing them.’

‘You’ve found something of interest,’ Jack said, recognising the familiar gleam in his friend’s eye.

‘Ach, did you expect any less of me?’ Finlay picked up the signet ring. ‘You see here, what looks like part of the marking of the dragon’s wing? Take a closer look.’

Jack went over to the window, but the light had faded. ‘No, I can’t make it out.’

Finlay shook his head, grinning. ‘Tut tut, Wellington’s favourite code-breaker, and you’ve overlooked something vital. You should be ashamed of yourself, laddie.’

‘Haud your wheesht, as my own Scots mother would say, and don’t talk to your superior officer like that or I’ll have you up on a charge.’

‘Aye, you would an’ all, if it weren’t for the fact that you’re not actually wearing the colours any more. Give it here.’ Finlay lit a candle and held the ring close to the flame. ‘See here,’ he said, pointing to the tip of the dragon’s wing. ‘You have to know what to look for, but once you do, it’s obvious. It looks a wee bit like that Egyptian writing we saw on the pharaoh’s tombs, remember?’

Jack frowned, screwing up his eyes to examine the ring more closely. ‘You’re right. I see it now. What does it signify?’

‘Aye, well, here’s the thing.’ Finlay put the candle down and took a sip of wine. ‘I had to do quite a bit of digging on that one, and pull in a good few favours. Your man here,’ he said, tapping the ring, ‘was assigned to the Buffs as a cover. He wasn’t your run-of-the-mill infantry man at all. He was a spy. A real spy, not your kind, that works out what to do with the secrets that are uncovered, but the kind that uncovers the secrets. An infiltrator, if you like.’

‘Hell and damnation!’ Jack stared at his friend in disbelief. ‘Are you sure?’

Finlay nodded. ‘Certain. If I wasn’t a persistent bugger, I’d have hit a brick wall. Honestly, it’s a whole other world that these boys inhabit. Makes yours look like an open book.’

‘I had a bad feeling about this,’ Jack said, picking up the ring and turning it over in his hand. ‘How the devil did it end up hidden away at the back of a painting in the south of France?’

Finlay whistled. ‘Is that where she found it, this wee painter lassie of yours?’

‘She’s not my wee painter lassie, she’s my brother’s landscape artist.’

‘Mmm-hmm. You’re going to an awful lot of bother for her.’

It was Jack’s turn to look uncomfortable. ‘You know me. I can’t resist a mystery.’

‘I do know you, a mite too well for your own comfort, I reckon.’

Jack snorted. ‘I could say the exact same thing to you, Finlay Urquhart.’

Finlay lifted his glass. ‘Well, here’s to the bonds of friendship keeping both our traps shut.’

‘I’ll gladly drink to that.’ Jack sipped his wine, then picked up the signet ring once again. ‘Another dead end. I’m almost relieved. I’ll just have to hope that Rundell and Bridge turn up something on the locket.’

‘It’s not quite a dead end, actually, though if you would rather...’

‘Finlay, you devil, what else...?’

His friend grinned. ‘Did I not say I’m a persistent bugger, and are you not the oldest friend I have in the world! Each ring issued to this elite squad was unique. The hieroglyph denotes a serial number assigned to each man. I’ve established that this ring belonged to one Arthur Derwent. Born 1773 to Lord and Lady Derwent, youngest of four sons. Commissioned aged sixteen. Served two years with the Buffs. And then, in 1791, his military record becomes a complete blank. Other than to record his death.’

‘How did he die?’

‘That, I can’t tell you, Jack. There’s nothing. Well, no, that’s not true, the full story will be there, but I couldn’t get at it. That’s the strangest thing. Any time I tried to find out more, the door was slammed in my face. It’s as if this chap never existed and the army wants to make sure it stays that way. All I know is that he died on active service. Don’t know where, but I take it the date means something.’