The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [140]
“No, I thought I’d let you do it,” Grey said. He reached for the brandy decanter and poured some into his teacup. He was so tired that his hand shook, splashing a little into the saucer.
“I’ll talk to Mr. Beasley,” Hal said thoughtfully. “I believe he knows where those O’Higgins rascals are; they might be of use.”
“They are Irish,” Grey pointed out. The O’Higgins brother, Rafe and Mick, were soldiers—when it suited them. When it didn’t, they disappeared like will-o’-the-wisps. They did, however, know everyone in the Rookery, that raucous, uncivilized bit of London where the Irish émigrés congregated. And if there was a job to be done involving things that weren’t strictly legal, the O’Higginses were your men.
“Being Irish doesn’t necessarily imply treasonous proclivities,” Hal said reprovingly. “They were certainly helpful with regard to Bernard Adams.”
“All right.” Grey leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, feeling fatigue flow through his body like sand through an hourglass. “On your head be it.”
Minnie cleared her throat. She’d been sitting quietly, stitching something, while the men conversed.
“What about Major Siverly?” she asked.
Grey opened his eyes, regarding her blearily.
“He’s dead,” he said. “Were you not listening, Minerva?”
She gave him a cold look. “And doubtless he deserved it. But did you not begin this hegira with the intent of bringing him to justice and making him account publicly for his crimes?”
“Can you court-martial a dead man?”
She cleared her throat again and looked pleased.
“Actually,” she said, “I rather think you can.”
Hal stopped chewing fruitcake.
“I collected any number of records of general courts-martial, you know,” she said, with a quick glance at Grey. “When … when poor Percy …” She coughed, and looked away. “But the point is, you can have a posthumous court-martial. A man’s deeds live after him and all that, apparently—though I think it’s mostly intended to provide a record of truly stunning peccability, for the edification of the troops and to enable the wicked officer’s superiors to indicate that they weren’t actually asleep or conniving while all the dirty dealings were going on.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Grey said. From the corner of his eye, he could see Jamie Fraser examining a crumpet as though he’d never seen one before, lips tight. Jamie Fraser was the only person in the world—besides Percy—who knew the truth of Grey’s relationship with his stepbrother.
“How often has it been done?” Hal asked, fascinated.
“Well, once that I know about,” Minnie admitted. “But once is enough, isn’t it?”
Hal pursed his lips and nodded, eyes narrowed as he envisioned the possibilities. It would have to be a general court-martial, rather than a regimental one; they’d known that to begin with. Siverly’s regiment might wish to prefer charges against him, given the scale of his crimes, but the records of a regimental court-martial were not public, whereas those of a general court-martial necessarily were, involving the judge advocate’s office and its tediously detailed records.
“And it does give you a public arena, should you want one,” Minnie added delicately, “in which to explore Major Siverly’s relations with Edward Twelvetrees. Or anyone else you like.” She nodded at the singed paper lying next to the teapot.
Hal began to laugh. It was a low, joyous sound, and one Grey hadn’t heard in some time.
“Minnie, my dear,” he said affectionately. “You are a pearl of great price.”
“Well, yes,” she said modestly. “I am. Captain Fraser, would you care for more tea?”
THOMAS, COMTE DE LALLY, Baron de Tollendal, was lodged in a small private house near Spitalfields. So much Jamie had discovered from the duchess, who didn’t ask him why he required the information; nor did he ask her why she wanted to know whether he had spoken with Edward Twelvetrees and, if so, whether Twelvetrees had mentioned the name Raphael Wattiswade.
He wondered briefly who Wattiswade