Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [138]
I could see the two stiff fingers of Jamie’s right hand twitch once against the skirt of his coat, the only outward sign of his feelings. He tilted his head back an inch and raised his brows, considering the Sergeant with an air of dispassionate interest.
“And which one are you, sir? I beg pardon for my imperfect recollection, but I confess that I cannot tell you from your brother.”
The Sergeant stopped as though he had been shot, frozen in the act of fastening his stock.
“Damn you!” he said, choking on the words. His face had gone an unhealthy shade of plum, and I thought that he ought really to mind his blood pressure. I didn’t say so, though.
At this point, the Sergeant seemed to notice that everyone in the taproom was staring at him with great interest. He glared ferociously around him, snatched up his hat, and stamped toward the door, pushing past me as he went, so that I staggered back a pace.
Jamie grabbed my arm to steady me, then ducked beneath the lintel himself. I followed, in time to see him call after the Sergeant.
“Murchison! A word with you!”
The soldier whirled on his heel, hands fisted against the skirts of his scarlet coat. He was a good-sized man, thick through torso and shoulder, and the uniform became him. His eyes glittered with menace, but he had gained possession of himself again.
“A word, is it?” he said. “And what might you have to say to me, Mister Fraser?”
“A word in your professional capacity, Sergeant,” Jamie said coolly. He nodded toward the wagon, which we had left beneath a nearby tree. “We’ve brought ye a corpse.”
For the second time, the Sergeant’s face went blank. He glanced at the wagon; flies and gnats had begun to gather in small clouds, circling lazily over the open bed.
“Indeed.” He was a professional; while the hostility of his manner was undiminished, the hot blood faded from his face, and the clenched fists relaxed.
“A corpse? Whose?”
“I have no idea, sir. It was my hope that you might be able to tell us. Will ye look?” He nodded toward the wagon, and after a moment’s hesitation, the Sergeant nodded briefly back, and strode toward the wagon.
I hurried after Jamie, and was in time to see the Sergeant’s face as he drew back the corner of the makeshift shroud. He had no skill at all in hiding his feelings—perhaps in his profession it wasn’t necessary. Shock flickered over his face like summer lightning.
Jamie could see the Sergeant’s face as well as I.
“Ye’ll know her, then?” he said.
“I—she—that is … yes, I know her.” The Sergeant’s mouth snapped shut abruptly, as though he was afraid to let any more words out. He continued to stare at the girl’s dead face, his own tightening, freezing out all feeling.
A few men had followed us out of the tavern. While they stayed at a discreet distance, two or three were craning their necks with curiosity. It wasn’t going to be long before the whole district knew what had happened at the mill. I hoped Duncan and Ian were well on their way.
“What has happened to her?” the Sergeant asked, staring down at the fixed white face. His own was nearly as pale.
Jamie was watching him intently, and making no pretense otherwise.
“You’ll know her, then?” he said again.
“She is—she was—a laundress. Lissa—Lissa Garver is her name.” The Sergeant spoke mechanically, still looking down into the wagon as though unable to tear his eyes away. His face was expressionless but his lips were white, and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides. “What happened?”
“Has she people in the town? A husband, maybe?”
It was a reasonable question, but Murchison’s head jerked up as though Jamie had stabbed him with it.
“None of your concern, is it?” he said. He stared at Jamie, a thin rim of white visible around the iris of his eye. He bared his teeth in what might have been politeness, but wasn’t. “Tell me what happened to her.”
Jamie’s eyes met the Sergeant’s without blinking.
“She meant to slip a bairn, and it went wrong,” he said quietly. “If she has a husband, he must be told. If not—if she has no people—I will see her decently buried.”
Murchison