what I've been told.'
'The River Neckar!' echoed Welbeck. 'Are we going that far south? What's Corporal John playing at, Dan? Does he mean to march us all the way to Italy?'
'No, Henry,' said Daniel. 'He means to win a pitched battle against the French that will leave them in tatters. Where it will be, I can't tell you but there'll be a huge butcher's bill to pay.'
'There always is. We only lost a handful of men today. Thousands more will be killed or maimed before we're done.'
'That's why you should be grateful when people like Will Curtis volunteer to join us. We need every last soldier that we can get.'
Edward Marston
Soldier of Fortune
Private Will Curtis, meanwhile, had found himself a quiet spot under a tree where he could draw a diagram of part of the camp with a pencil. Each tent was a tiny square that he numbered carefully so that no mistake would be made. Beside one tent, he put a large cross. Slipping the diagram into his pocket, he went to the corner of the camp that he had just sketched and paced out the distance from the first tent he had drawn and the one with the cross. He made a mental note of the number of paces. Charles Catto was content. He could find his way there in the dark.
As a result of the ambush, additional pickets were posted around the camp but the evening passed without incident. Knowing that they would be up again at dawn, most of the men took to their beds early but Daniel Rawson stayed up late to give Richard Hopwood a chance of retrieving some money at backgammon. They played in Daniel's tent by the light of two candles. Hopwood was a fresh-face young man who had recently bought a commission in the regiment and who — in spite of his enthusiasm — had almost no experience of battle. While Daniel liked him immensely, it did not stop him from making an assault on the lieutenant's purse.
That night, however, it was Daniel's turn to lose. Though he was by far the more skilful player, his mind was filled with the image of Abigail Piper, struggling to reach him. Wondering what had happened to her, and feeling guilty that he had unwittingly prompted her to follow him, he had several lapses of concentration. Hopwood was quick to seize the advantage, earning back some of the money he had lost in previous games. No matter how hard Daniel tried to oust Abigail from his thoughts, she kept coming back to trouble him. He knew that he would never forgive himself if any harm came to her.
'Another game?' asked Hopwood, winning yet again.
'It's late, Richard.'
'One more — your luck may change this time.'
'Very well,' agreed Daniel, 'but you'll have to excuse me for a minute while I answer the call of nature.'
Daniel stood up, the sudden movement creating a draught that made both of the flames dance crazily. He went out of the tent and made his way to the latrines that had been dug some distance away. A fire was burning to give him some guidance. When he had relieved himself, he chatted for a few moments to some of the guards who were patrolling the camp, then he returned to his tent. As he pulled back the flap, he was surprised to see that both candles had been blown out, leaving a haunting smell of smoke.
Assuming that Hopwood had decided against playing again and had instead gone back to his own tent, Daniel moved forward in the dark. Before he could stop himself, he tripped over something and fell to the ground. He got up quickly, groped his way to a candle and managed to light it after a few attempts. The sight that it illumined made him gape in horror. Richard Hopwood had not only been killed.
Someone had removed his head.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The alarm was raised at once. Captain Daniel Rawson gathered his men together and formed them into search parties to scour the camp. With flaming torches to guide them, they went off quickly in different directions. Sergeant Henry Welbeck added a few barked expletives to help them on their way.
'What exactly happened, Dan?' he asked, turning to his friend.
'I wish I knew,' replied Daniel, heaving a sigh. 'Richard Hopwood and I were playing backgammon. I went off to the latrines. By the time I got back, he was dead.'
'How was he killed?'
'Stabbed then decapitated.'
'Jesus!'
'The head has disappeared. What kind of monster wants that as a trophy? And why pick on someone as harmless as Richard?'
'Can I see him?'
'Yes, of course — come in, Henry.'
Daniel pulled back the flap of the tent and went inside.
Welbeck followed him. The second candle had been lit now and the combined light of two flames showed the body of Richard Hopwood, lying on his back with a pool of blood where his head had once been. The rear of the tent had been slit open from top to bottom. Welbeck was aghast. He was accustomed to gruesome sights in battle but not in the safety of the British camp. Such a brutal murder was unprecedented.
'Poor devil!' he murmured.
'I think that the killer came in through the front,' said Daniel, trying to reconstruct the crime. 'Richard was at the table with his back to the flap. Thinking it was me, he wouldn't have turned round when he heard someone entering the tent. If he saw someone cutting his way in through the canvas, however, he would certainly have defended himself. The noise alone would have alerted him. He'd have been on his feet in a flash. Instead of which,' he went on, indicating a stool, 'he sat there without the slightest fear of danger.'
'So he was stabbed from behind then his head was cut off.'
'That's the way it looks, Henry. The stool was on the floor as if it had been knocked over. Once he'd got what he wanted, the killer made his escape through that slit in the canvas.'
'How long were you away, Dan?'
'Too long, I'm afraid.'
'It's so unfair,' said Welbeck lugubriously. 'Lieutenant Hopwood had only been in the army five minutes. Until that ambush today, he'd never seen action. I pity him.'
'I feel sorry for the Duke as well,' said Daniel. 'He'll have to explain to Richard's family what happened. It won't be an easy letter to write. The Duke hates losing men in combat even though that's inevitable. To lose an officer this way will really upset him.'
'It's upset me as well, Dan.'
'We'll find the bastard who did this.'
'Who on earth can it be?'
'There are only two possibilities in my view, Henry. It's either one of our own, someone from inside this camp, or it's someone from outside who was helped by a British soldier.'
'I find that hard to believe.'
'Look at the facts,' reasoned Daniel. 'The killer had to know the precise location of this tent. No outsider would have that information. Nor would he know where the pickets were posted. And there's another thing,' he went on, crossing to open the slit in the canvas. 'This escape route was planned. There are no tents behind this one but hundreds in front of it. Anyone leaving here could be in the trees within seconds.' He looked at his friend. 'We have a traitor in our midst, Henry.'
'Give him to me,' said Welbeck. 'I'll cut off more than his head.'
'We have to find him first.'
'I'll soon sniff the bugger out, Dan.'
'You may be too late to do that, I fear,' said Daniel, looking down sorrowfully at the corpse. 'After a murder like this, the villain would never risk staying in camp. I think the bird will have flown.'
Edward Marston
