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“What can you tell me of Captain Harry Haslett, who was killed at Balaclava? I ask because his widow has recently met a most tragic death. I am acquainted with her mother; indeed I have been nursing her through her time of bereavement, and am presently nursing her uncle, a retired officer.” If he asked her Septimus’s name she would affect not to know the circumstances of his “retirement.”
Major Tallis’s face clouded over immediately.
“An excellent officer, and one of the nicest men I ever knew. He was a fine commander of men. It came to him naturally because he had courage and a sense of justice that men admired. There was humor in him, and some love of adventure, but not bravado. He never took unnecessary chances.” He smiled with great sadness. “I think more than most men, he wanted to live. He had a great love for his wife—in fact the army was not the career he would have chosen; he entered it only to earn himself the means to support his wife in the manner he wished and to make some peace with his father-in-law, Sir Basil Moidore—who paid for his commission as a wedding gift, I believe, and watched over his career with keen interest. What an ironic tragedy.”
“Ironic?” she said quickly.
His face creased with pain and his voice lowered instinctively, but his words were perfectly clear.
“It was Sir Basil who arranged his promotion, and thus his transfer from the regiment in which he was to Lord Cardigan’s Light Brigade, and of course they led the charge at Balaclava. If he had remained a lieutenant as he was, he would very probably be alive today.”
“What happened?” An awful possibility was opening up in front of her, so ugly she could not bear to look at it, nor yet could she look away. “Do you know of whom Sir Basil asked his favor? A great deal of honor depends upon it,” she pressed with all the gravity she could. “And, I am beginning to think, the truth of Octavia Haslett’s death. Please, Major Tallis, tell me about Captain Haslett’s promotion?”
He hesitated only a moment longer. The debt he owed her, their common memories, and his admiration and grief over Haslett’s death prevailed.
“Sir Basil is a man of great power and influence, perhaps you are not aware quite how much. He has far more wealth than he displays, although that is considerable, but he also had obligations owed him, debts both of assistance and of finance from the past, and I think a great deal of knowledge—” He left the uses of that unspoken. “He would not find it difficult to accomplish the transfer of an officer from one regiment to another in order to achieve his promotion, if he wished it. A letter—sufficient money to purchase the new commission—”
“But how would Sir Basil know whom to approach in the new regiment?” she pressed, the idea taking firmer shape in her mind all the time.
“Oh—because he is quite well acquainted with Lord Cardigan, who would naturally be aware of all the possible vacancies in command.”
“And of the nature of the regiment,” she added.
“Of course.” He looked puzzled.
“And their likely dispositions?”
“Lord Cardigan would—naturally. But Sir Basil hardly—”
“You mean Sir Basil was unaware of the course of the campaign and the personalities of the commanders?” She allowed the heavy doubt through her expression for him to see.
“Well—” He frowned, beginning to glimpse what he also found too ugly to contemplate. “Of course I am not privy to his communication with Lord Cardigan. Letters to and from the Crimea take a considerable time; even on the fastest packet boats it would not be less than ten or fourteen days. Things can change greatly in that time. Battles can be won or lost and a great deal of ground altered between opposing forces.”
“But regiments do not change their natures, Major.” She forced him to realism. “A competent commander knows which regiments he would choose to lead a charge, the more desperate the charge the more certain would he be to pick exactly the right man—and the right captain, who had courage, flair, and the absolute loyalty of his men. He would also choose someone tried in the field, yet uninjured so far, and not weary from defeat, or failure, or so scarred in spirit as to be uncertain of his mettle.”
He stared at her without speaking.
“In fact once raised to captain, Harry Haslett would be ideal, would he not?”
“He would,” he said almost under his breath.
“And Sir Basil saw to his promotion and his change of posting to Lord Cardigan’s Light Brigade. Do you suppose any of the correspondence on the subject is still extant?”
“Why, Miss Latterly? What is it you are seeking?”
To lie to him would be contemptible—and also alienate his sympathies.
“The truth about Octavia Haslett’s death,” she answered.
He sighed heavily. “Was she not murdered by some servant or other? I seem to recollect seeing it in the newspapers. The man was just hanged, was he not?”
“Yes,” she agreed with a heavy weariness of failure inside her. “But the day she died she learned something which shook her so deeply she told her uncle it was the most dreadful truth, and she wanted only one more piece of evidence to prove it. I am beginning to believe that it may have concerned the death of her husband. She was thinking of it the day of her own death. We had previously assumed that what she discovered concerned her family still living, but perhaps it did not. Major Tallis, would it be possible to learn if she came here that day—if she saw someone?”
Now he looked very troubled.
“What day was it?”
She told him.
