Read Online Shadows in Scarlet by Lillian Stewart Carl - Free Book Online
Authors: Lillian Stewart Carl
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days if your wound didn't kill you and the doctors didn't kill you, the infection almost certainly would."
"Manner of death,” Hewitt went on. “Homicide."
"Homicide?” repeated Amanda. “Oh, because he was shot by someone. Well, there was a war going on. The battle of Greensprings Farm was just up the road from Melrose."
"I can't tell whether the bullet is from a musket, a rifle, or a pistol,” said Hewitt. “But yes, it's probable he was killed in battle. Carrie, take a look at these.... “He turned toward the smaller table.
Amanda stared into the eye sockets of the skull. Shot through the heart. Killed instantly. He probably never knew what hit him. That quick a switch from life to death would sure leave you disoriented—in more ways than forgetting which dialect to speak to a waitress. Have you seen my sword? he'd asked. Maybe the last thing he'd done in life was draw it and—well, lead a charge. Inspire his troops. Something appropriately macho.
The eye sockets were empty. Nobody home. Amanda did an about-face and joined the others beside a counter spread with flattened swatches of decayed cloth, something that looked like a moth eaten fur muff, and a tidy display of metal bits, some partially-cleaned and gleaming dully, some still tarnished into charcoal. Again Amanda thought how a man's stuff outlived him.
"...red jacket with embroidered buttonholes, and wool material in a tartan pattern,” the archaeologist was saying. With a dental pick he lifted a scrap of cloth. The pattern was mottled and dark but discernible—green and blue squares overlaid with a red stripe. “He was not only British but a Highlander."
"The 71st Regiment of Foot,” said Carrie, with half a glance at Amanda. “They were at Williamsburg in July of 1781. Some of them were billeted at Melrose."
"And this particular officer left his calling card.” Hewitt pointed to several small discs.
Carrie groped in her purse for her glasses. “Pewter buttons, each with an incised ‘71.’ Most obliging of the man. And that's—a buckle?"
"From a shoulder belt, I'd say."
Carrie and Amanda bumped heads over the buckle. It was crisply cast, a thistle and a crown over a disk engraved with another ‘71.’ Along the bottom bar of the buckle ran the words, Nemo me impune lacessit. “The motto on the arms of Scotland,” said Carrie. “'No one pushes me around and gets away with it,’ more or less."
"Or, informally, ‘Wha daur meddle wi’ me.'” Amanda hadn't been digging around in Scottish history for nothing, although she probably didn't have the accent right. She pointed to the letters carved along the top bar of the buckle. “And that?"
"Quicquid aut facere aut pati," read Hewitt. “The regimental motto."
"Something about everyone either performing or suffering,” Carrie translated with a frown of uncertainty. “Between ‘do or die’ and ‘all for one and one for all,’ I guess. I'll look it up. Oddly enough, Amanda was already researching the 71st Highlanders."
Amanda opened her mouth and shut it again—nothing she could say was going to bail her out now. The lackluster sheen of the metal fittings was no way like the subtle shine that had illuminated James Grant's ghost, but it was bright enough.
"And this.” Hewitt lifted a long cardboard box from the end of the cabinet and opened it. Inside, on a bed of cotton wool, lay the scabbard. It gleamed a dull gray, its surface pocked with corrosion, its length bent into an obtuse angle. “Thirty-five inches long. Steel, not leather, fortunately, or it wouldn't be in this good a shape. It was excellent quality in its day. Presumably the sword was, too, but we didn't find that. It could have been lost or looted in the battle."
"A wealthy man, to carry such a weapon.... “Again Carrie glanced at Amanda, and murmured, “Naw."
The faint chemical smell of the lab was mingling uneasily with the chocolate in the back of Amanda's throat. She remembered to breathe through her
"Manner of death,” Hewitt went on. “Homicide."
"Homicide?” repeated Amanda. “Oh, because he was shot by someone. Well, there was a war going on. The battle of Greensprings Farm was just up the road from Melrose."
"I can't tell whether the bullet is from a musket, a rifle, or a pistol,” said Hewitt. “But yes, it's probable he was killed in battle. Carrie, take a look at these.... “He turned toward the smaller table.
Amanda stared into the eye sockets of the skull. Shot through the heart. Killed instantly. He probably never knew what hit him. That quick a switch from life to death would sure leave you disoriented—in more ways than forgetting which dialect to speak to a waitress. Have you seen my sword? he'd asked. Maybe the last thing he'd done in life was draw it and—well, lead a charge. Inspire his troops. Something appropriately macho.
The eye sockets were empty. Nobody home. Amanda did an about-face and joined the others beside a counter spread with flattened swatches of decayed cloth, something that looked like a moth eaten fur muff, and a tidy display of metal bits, some partially-cleaned and gleaming dully, some still tarnished into charcoal. Again Amanda thought how a man's stuff outlived him.
"...red jacket with embroidered buttonholes, and wool material in a tartan pattern,” the archaeologist was saying. With a dental pick he lifted a scrap of cloth. The pattern was mottled and dark but discernible—green and blue squares overlaid with a red stripe. “He was not only British but a Highlander."
"The 71st Regiment of Foot,” said Carrie, with half a glance at Amanda. “They were at Williamsburg in July of 1781. Some of them were billeted at Melrose."
"And this particular officer left his calling card.” Hewitt pointed to several small discs.
Carrie groped in her purse for her glasses. “Pewter buttons, each with an incised ‘71.’ Most obliging of the man. And that's—a buckle?"
"From a shoulder belt, I'd say."
Carrie and Amanda bumped heads over the buckle. It was crisply cast, a thistle and a crown over a disk engraved with another ‘71.’ Along the bottom bar of the buckle ran the words, Nemo me impune lacessit. “The motto on the arms of Scotland,” said Carrie. “'No one pushes me around and gets away with it,’ more or less."
"Or, informally, ‘Wha daur meddle wi’ me.'” Amanda hadn't been digging around in Scottish history for nothing, although she probably didn't have the accent right. She pointed to the letters carved along the top bar of the buckle. “And that?"
"Quicquid aut facere aut pati," read Hewitt. “The regimental motto."
"Something about everyone either performing or suffering,” Carrie translated with a frown of uncertainty. “Between ‘do or die’ and ‘all for one and one for all,’ I guess. I'll look it up. Oddly enough, Amanda was already researching the 71st Highlanders."
Amanda opened her mouth and shut it again—nothing she could say was going to bail her out now. The lackluster sheen of the metal fittings was no way like the subtle shine that had illuminated James Grant's ghost, but it was bright enough.
"And this.” Hewitt lifted a long cardboard box from the end of the cabinet and opened it. Inside, on a bed of cotton wool, lay the scabbard. It gleamed a dull gray, its surface pocked with corrosion, its length bent into an obtuse angle. “Thirty-five inches long. Steel, not leather, fortunately, or it wouldn't be in this good a shape. It was excellent quality in its day. Presumably the sword was, too, but we didn't find that. It could have been lost or looted in the battle."
"A wealthy man, to carry such a weapon.... “Again Carrie glanced at Amanda, and murmured, “Naw."
The faint chemical smell of the lab was mingling uneasily with the chocolate in the back of Amanda's throat. She remembered to breathe through her
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