“And there’s always the Irish troubles. Rifles and sharp implements not unknown over the western sea . . . I reckon that narrows his identity down to about a million men.” The doctor gave a hopeless shrug. “No trace of that regimental badge he might have been wearing? Did your blokes turn anything up? No? Pity. But there are pinholes on the left lapel. There was a badge of some sort at some time in there. Dislodged when the body was being dragged about? You’re sure the men haven’t found something in the grass? Perhaps over the fence, then. Old soldiers sometimes throw away their medals in a fit of belated regret, but they always hold on to the symbol of their regiment. Their soldierly family.”

“Indeed. If they lose that sentimental tie, they are surely cut adrift.”

With an apologetic smile, Redfyre fished in the pocket of his own tweed jacket and held out his hand, a small, shining object visible in his palm.

“Ah! Silver for an officer, wreath of laurel encircling a cross. The upper ends linked by a tablet saying ‘Waterloo.’ Now, there’s a giveaway! Rifle Brigade,” the doctor identified confidently. “Greenjackets. Sharpshooters. Among other things. Darlings of the Duke of Wellington in their heyday. A distinguished history.” He gave Redfyre a keen look. “Am I to infer that you are one of those cases where a bloke’s name influences his career or character?”

The inspector was puzzled for a moment, then, “Oh, I see! No, no! Never occurred to me. Being a country child, I was always good with a gun. I won the shooting cup at school. When the last lot broke out I had no family military tradition to follow, none of that ‘I’ll be following my father into the Guards,’ stuff, so I went where my skills, if not my inclination, took me. The recruiting officers agreed, and I was accepted. Only four years of my life were spent in the army, but I understand the loyalty, the pride a soldier feels in his own regiment.”

“And if you should be discovered dead in a back alley one night without your ID in your pocket, your old regiment would be able to identify and claim you before even your mother was aware. But our search reveals nothing of the sort on this old bugger.”

“Sadly, no. The regiments keep strict and full records. If we could place him with one of them, they’d tell us where and why he was discharged, good and bad conduct, and what he had for breakfast. And, Beaufort—speaking of food—you were going to tell me about his last supper?”