On top was his blue pelisse. The spare one, the good one. He thought for a moment one of the sleeves was damaged, watermarked—then he moved and saw it was only his own shadow and that the cloth, the fur collar, the silver braiding, were almost as new. He could wear it in front of the colonel tomorrow. A light brushing perhaps, nothing more.

He started to dig. Under the pelisse was a boat cloak (that, God knows, he could have used) and beneath the cloak a pair of grey overalls, a flannel waistcoat, two of Nell’s shirts. He found a mirror (broken), a pair of bronze spurs, a bar of Windsor soap still in its wrapping. He found the painted fans he had bought in Lisbon for his sisters, views of the Tagus. Then his fingers caught on a solid edge, a smooth right-angle of wood, and he took hold of it and dragged it out as if through the weeds of a pond. This, he had forgotten and he sat on the bed with it, a wooden box the size of a backgammon set, the lid and base bound with blue Russian leather. It was the writing case he had bought at the auction of a dead officer’s effects (when they still had the luxury of such occasions). Two brass hooks kept the box closed. He slid them back and lifted the lid. A silver ink bottle, two patent pens, two quills, a dozen sheets of common notepaper. Also, folded flat, a pair of green solar glasses put there at the end of the summer for safe keeping, though one of the lenses had shaken loose and would need to be fitted again.

On the inside of the lid, in gothic lettering, was the dead officer’s name. Osbert George Lovall.

Lovall!

He had died of frenzy fever before they even left Portugal. Sick one day, worse the next, dead the third. Twenty-two or -three, pale features. His father had made a fortune in brewing. The writing case might have been a farewell gift. He could not remember what he had paid for it at the auction; more, he thought, than it was worth. Lieutenant Ward bought Lovall’s saddle for a very low price and it had to be explained to him later that finding bargains was not the intention of such auctions.

He put the case on the bed and went back to the trunk. Dress gloves, a barrel sash, a forage cap, a copy of Sime’s Military Guide for Young Officers, the margins of many pages busy with his own handwriting. At the very bottom of the trunk, the fragrant dust of a cigar. As far as he could tell the only items missing were an embroidered sword belt, his DuBois and Wheeler watch (which had, anyway, ceased to work), and the spyglass with its leather case. So, a discerning thief or a careless one. Certainly a thief in a hurry.