No moonlight entered through cracks around the shutters; all was bolted tight.
Hugh closed the door behind him and heard Amelia delving into her bag, so he blindly felt his way forward until his thigh knocked into what was likely a desk. There he burrowed into his pocket for his tinderbox.
As a young man, he’d practised this over and over with a blindfold so he placed the box to the desk, flipped it open and took out the damper and splints, placing them to the left. He then felt for the flint and steel striker, held them close to the box with its tinder contents and struck them together.
First strike and sparks ignited the scorched linen inside and he quickly lit the splint, handing it to Amelia who’d brought that curious shuttered lantern from her bag.
He damped the flaming tinder and returned everything to the box, snapped shut the lid and slipped it to his pocket.
“Neatly done,” whispered Amelia, her face lit by the lantern’s glow.
A smile and he stalked to the first cabinet against the wall to open its door.
Surely no man could entirely wash themselves of their pasts.
“Let’s see what we can find on Roberts.”
With true military spruceness, the files were sorted by rank, which was fortunate as with some five hundred men in the regiment, it would have taken all night to sift through.
First Major, Captain and then…
“The bloody Lieutenants are missing,” he growled. “It skips straight to Ensigns.” Had someone removed them? Or was there some innocent bureaucratic reason for their absence?
He tried other cabinets but they contained naught but regiment deployments and dates. Hell, were they never to–
“Hugh,” came a hiss, and he twisted to see Amelia running a gloved finger along a row of vast leather-bound volumes upon stout shelves. “These look to be the pay ledgers. They might have something.”
Together, they tugged out one of the more recent volumes, its spine etched with the gold numerals 1814–1816, and laid it upon the desk, placing the lantern to one side.
It was indeed a written record of payments, sorted by month and rank.
“Let’s try March 1815, just before Waterloo,” murmured Hugh.
First came Majors, then Captains and then…
He turned the crisp page.
Lieutenants.
Amelia lifted the lantern, held it close and tilted it for best light while he drew a finger down the list, now sorted by date of enlistment.
“James Robinson. Henry Brooks… Edward Stephens. Theobald Butler.” He sighed. “Samuel Lawrence. George Barr. John…”
He frowned.
Swallowed.
Closed his eyes. Oh no…
Bloody, bloody hell.
“What is it?” Amelia’s hand pulled at his sleeve, peering over the lantern.
He pointed to the page and lifted his head.
“We have him, Amelia. We damn well have him.”
