The death of Captain Spencer had been originally attributed to the rioting-Spencer had simply gotten in the way of soldiers too drunk to tolerate an officer trying to stop their entertainment. His son, John Spencer, wanting to determine "the actual man who pulled the trigger on my father," had searched letters and papers of those who had been at Badajoz, and had questioned many eyewitnesses in search of the answer.

What he had discovered was that a group of officers from the Forty-Third Light Dragoons, Westin included, had gone in, like me, to help restore order. They had apparently gotten caught up in the madness themselves and had turned on Captain Spencer, who had tried to stop them. During the fiasco, Spencer and another officer of their party, one Colonel David Spinnet, had died.

Colonel Brandon, I'd learned, had been asked to lend his testimony; he had supped with Westin the evening before Westin had gone out and committed the deed, and Brandon was prepared to swear that Westin was already drunk before he even reached the town.

But now none of that would come to pass. I had recently read in the newspapers of Westin's death not a week before from a fall down a staircase.

Westin's wife stood now in my front room, head lifted, eyes glittering. Brandon had supposed her my lover.

"You have the advantage of me, sir," she said. "You know who I am and doubtless all that my name means. I still do not know who you are."

I opened the writing table drawer and extracted one of my own cards from my careful hoard. I held it out to her, which forced her to leave the doorway and venture to me.

She took it from my outstretched fingers, turned it around, and read aloud: "Captain Gabriel Lacey." She lowered it, her eyes quiet. "I thought you might be he."