The Stag

Wake me up before you go-go

Don't leave me hanging on like a yo-yo... 

(Wham!) 

August was approaching and Richard's thoughts began to turn to Scotland, where he hoped to spend part of his leave starting from the twelfth of August, shooting grouse.Although he was reasonably well-off, Richard was not in the grouse-moor league. There was no question of his renting a moor and a lodge, not even sharing the cost as a member of a syndicate. He relied on his reputation as a very good shot and his personal charm to secure him an invitation. Usually he received one or two. That particular year, however, it looked as though he might be  not be lucky. Then Fate delivered Richard an unexpected bonus.  

“It is the damnedest bad luck,” wrote one of his friends, who was both rich and currently serving with the SAS, “and I am still fizzing about it. I was all set up to go shooting in the Highlands with three of my brother officers. We had booked the shoot for just over four weeks. Now we are under orders to proceed to an unknown destination for God knows how long. I would not be allowed to tell you where, even if I knew, it is that secret. There are to be two weeks of intensive training prior to our deployment. That means that we shall be able to use the house for at most the first two out of the four weeks of August and September that we had booked it for. The Muldoan estate office have made it clear that days lost through late cancellation or early departure are not reimbursable. So, would you like to take the place for about a fortnight? If so, let me know and it can be yours from 2 to 18 September. The rent is astronomical, albeit all-inclusive, but I would not expect you to reimburse me in full; just  pay what you think that you and any chums you may decide to invite can afford; it would be better than wasting the lease altogether for that period,Let me know ASAP, please!”  

It amounted to a generous offer.Richard telephoned some of his friends, did some sums on the back of an envelope and worked out what he and they could realistically afford to pay. The SAS Officer  immediately accepted his proposal.However none of Richard's friends were free for the whole period of his sub-lease; Richard would be in solitary possession for five days.That did not worry Richard; although he could be the life and soul of the party, he also enjoyed his own company. 

There was only one small cloud on the horizon. The Muldoan estate was in Sutherland, near the county-boundary with Ross-shire. It followed that it was not very far as the crow flew from Kildonan, where Richard and Mike had spent Mike's long Stag Weekend.  A nagging doubt that was exercising Richard's mind was: could he avoid meeting Rufus Finlayson, the dishy and over-sexed junior Kildonan gamekeeper?  

When Richard said goodbye to Rufus after their sexual joust at Oran's Pools, he had not expected to see or hear from him again. But one day it became clear that he had made a deeper impression on the young keeper than he had realised. A padded envelope was delivered to Richard at Chelsea Barracks. By the grace of God, Security had not seen fit to open it, or they had simply x-rayed it and noticed nothing of interest. Richard however found plenty to concern him inside, when he opened it.  The first thing that he found was a copy of Wild Sports of the Scottish Highlands, a Victorian book about hunting and shooting in Scotland. That was fine. The letter that accompanied it was not fine, because it referred explicitly to his merry, alfresco three-man orgy with Rufus and Mike. Worse still, Rufus had enclosed a photo of himself wearing only a big grin and an erection: his naked,muscular, marmoreal body was displayed against a romantic Highland backdrop. He looked like a Playgirl centre-spread. On the back he had written “Richard, I want to fuck you!”  

Rufus was a dangerous man; he plainly had no common-sense or discretion! The idea of that parcel falling into the hands of his extremely conventional and humourless Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Colonel Stewart Stockwell, caused Richard's blood to run cold.  He acted fast. Firstly, he shredded the letter and the photo, although he kept the book. An instinct made him check the volume carefully and, sure enough, Rufus had also donated a bookmark; another nude picture of himself leaning against a tree.That too got shredded. Secondly, that very lunchtime,  Richard rented a mailbox at a poste restante agency near Victoria Station.Thirdly, Richard wrote to Rufus, explaining that he should write to the PO Box address in future. Richard's letter to Rufus was a masterpiece of evasive drafting which, had it been intercepted, would have given nothing away. At the same time it had to be reassuring to Rufus and not alienate him:    

Hello Rufus! 

Thank you very much  for “Wild Sports”. It will be an interesting and useful addition to my sporting library.  The illustrations are beautiful. I envy you your afternoon's browse in that old bookshop in Inverness. It sounds like my sort of shop. [Rufus had in  reality said very little about the bookshop.] 

Please do not write to me at Chelsea Barracks. You could not have known it, but that address is only supposed to be used for official correspondence. I could  be rightly reprimanded if I were found to be using it for anything else. I have a private address for personal letters: PO Box No 7822, Westminster SW1V 3FL. Please use that; letters sent there will always find me,wherever I am.  

It would be great to meet up again and go shooting in Ross-shire, but I don't at the moment know whether or when I shall next be able do so. Life is very fraught at present.You too must be very busy with preparations for the Glorious Twelfth. Let me know how the grouse are flighting. Wish I were there! 

Yours aye,

Richard   

Rufus had not made any suggestion of blackmail, although that was always a potential danger if he should ever turn nasty.  At present, however, he seemed to be seriously in lust, love, or possibly both, with Richard, which could be awkward,if flattering to Richard's ego. It was a ticklish situation, although Richard had more relevant experience than most of us. In the course of his exciting and eventful life Richard had very rarely been in love, but people quite often fell in love with him. 

“It can be a real pain in the neck!” he once told me. 

“It's a pain that a lot of men would like to have!” I responded.  

“Hah!” said Richard, moodily, “Don't you believe it!” 

He went on to say that, while he was good at friendship, loyalty  and kameradschaft – which was true - the wilder shores of love were somewhere that he did not often venture. To my knowledge he had done so only twice, with momentous consequences for all concerned. 

When he thought further about it, Richard concluded that Rufus must definitely be smitten. After all,he had gone to the trouble of ascertaining from the estate office -perhaps clandestinely - who Richard was, what he did for a living,where and how he could be contacted. He had bought the book specially in Inverness. It might well have been expensive; anyway, it looked expensive. Richard started to feel ever-so-slightly stalked. Oh fuck. 

Richard's life was already complicated enough, without Rufus's involvement. Richard was engaged in a necessarily discreet affair with Mark Stainer, a brother officer, who might not be understanding about Rufus or indeed about Mike. That was another reason to use the mailbox service. In the meantime Richard was continuing his light-hearted fling with Jeremy Dowson of the RAF Regiment. He had not told Mark about Jeremy, either. He'd have to persuade Rufus to cool it. In Richard's experience absence did not make the heart grow fonder, so he would avoid meeting Rufus, even in Scotland. Meanwhile he answered his letters politely and evasively.   

Richard's shooting party at Muldoan was a success. Although the weather was mixed, he and his guests achieved respectable bags. For the last five days, from 13 to 18 September,Richard was  alone in the shooting lodge, apart from two women, the Misses MacDonald, who came every morning, except Sundays, from the village to clean the house, wash and iron Richard's shirts and prepare his meals if he needed them to. Much as he liked them, it was in some respects a relief not to have his Army friends around him anymore. Ten days or so had been sufficient. Now Richard could relax, stop being the perfect host and become his real self. He need not pretend to be straight. He need not pretend not to be intellectual. He could listen to classical music on his cassette-player or the radio and read serious books, including his Ancient Greek and Latin texts, to his heart's content. He could get up as early or as late as he liked,miss meals, go wherever he wanted and do whatever he chose. He might even have a discreet gay fuck if a suitable man turned up, although that seemed unlikely in such a remote and depopulated area.  There was a lot to be said for being alone and his own master.  

Richard, who had shot enough red grouse, decided to devote his last few days to seeking out more unusual and challenging game. He would do it without beaters or other assistants; it would be a  rough-shoot. A few ptarmigan still clung to the highest mountain-tops. On the moorlands there were snipe, as well as grouse. In thickets near the shore he had put up woodcock and black grouse. There was the faint possibility of bagging a capercaillzie in one of the small fragments of Caledonian Forest that survived in the area. They had definitely been present before the war, although none of the locals to whom Richard had spoken had seen any recently.  None of these game-birds was an easy shot; to have bagged any of them would be an achievement worth recording in his game-book and bragging discreetly about afterwards. 

Although not a nervous man, Richard thought that the house, which had so recently echoed to the shouts,banter and laughter of active, boisterous young men, seemed suddenly very silent and slightly spooky after the last of them had driven away. For a day or so thereafter that Richard sometimes fancied that they were still there and would forgetfully call out “Gerald!” or“Harry!”, then remember that Gerald or Harry was not in the next room but hundreds of miles away, his memories of  Sutherland already beginning to fade.  

That's how it will be in my old age,I suppose, if I live that long, thought Richard. Absent-mindedly calling to long-departed people,and probably dogs too, who have gone into the darkness ahead of me. 

He shuddered slightly. A  melancholy air  had descended over the valley. This was not only due to the departure of Richard's friends. The days were perceptibly starting to draw in. The sun still shone, but there was now a chill in the air in the early mornings and evenings. One night Richard heard wild geese flighting  overhead. 

They're early this year! What does that mean, I wonder? A hard  winter? 

Richard told himself to snap out of these gloomy thoughts. He'd go after ptarmigan first. There was one place where he was sure of finding some; an isolated  mountain called An Sgurr.  Although it was by no means as high as the Cairngorms or even the mountains of Wester Ross – there are few high peaks in Sutherland -  it was high enough, very steep and would definitely offer him a challenging scramble; maybe even a challenging shot.  

Richard set off towards An Sgurr across the moorland. He carried a shotgun. There was no-one to hold him back, so he set a cracking pace. Now well into his twenties,Richard was fitter than he had ever been in his life; he was proud of this. As a boxer, rugby-player and occasional wrestler, he spent a lot of time training and working on his physique. For Richard, as for many sportsmen, it had become something of an obsession; an end in itself. He hated the thought of becoming old, unfit and losing his looks; especially becoming unfit.  On his way he found a small moorland lochan glimmering in the sunlight. A  few white water-lilies starred its surface. It was too inviting to pass by, so he stripped and had a swim. He did this whenever he got the chance. The water was cold,  peaty and invigorating.  It left his skin feeling silken-smooth. Afterwards Richard dried himself with the small friction-towel that he always carried in his shooting-bag. He stood naked by the lochan for a long while, letting the breeze caress him. The surface, which he had disturbed by diving in and swimming, went back to being mirror-calm. He stooped and looked at his reflection in the water.  

I look bloody good when I'm bollock-naked , so I don't care who sees me. 

No visible person was around, either to admire or be offended by Richard's muscular nakedness. Yet, as sometimes happened in the mountains, he had the inexplicable sense of another watchful presence.  Meanwhile Richard's cock had taken control; he suddenly found that he had a hard erection. There was no obvious reason for this; he had not been having specially impure thoughts. It was probably just a side-effect of his present level of fitness. He recalled Joe Ennis, one of his former boxing instructors, who had once coached the British Olympic Boxing Team, telling him:

 “They was all so fit and keyed-up that, just lay a hand on them - and they'd bloody-well come!” 

I must have reached Olympic-standard fitness!

Richard contemplated giving himself relief on the spot, but then decided not to; there might be a more interesting opportunity to spend his spunk. The landscape seemed empty, but, who knew? There could be another willing man out there; a hunky climber, a shepherd  or something else... Hope springs eternal in the human breast! 

“And did you bag any ptarmigan?” I wanted to know, when he told me about this adventure a few years later in Paris.    

Richard shook his head. “No,I didn't, although I saw some. An Sgurr has two rocky summits. I put up a small covey on one and they flew across to the other. Although I'd seen pictures, I hadn't realised until then how beautiful ptarmigan are. I couldn't bring myself to shoot any of them.”     

There were however limits to Richard's sentimentality; other species were not safe. He subsequently managed to bag a brace of woodcock – a difficult shot- and proudly recorded this in his game book. Later, he ate them. 

It was on the evening of his expedition to  An Sgurr that Richard thought that he spotted the stranger. The lodge, which had recently been whitewashed, was visible from a long distance away  Anyone standing in front of it would be silhouetted against the white facade by the evening sun. As he approached it across the rough moorland, Richard seemed to see such a silhouette. At first he was not concerned about  it: he assumed that it was the postman or a delivery, although he was not in fact expecting any mail or deliveries. Equally, it might be someone from the estate office.  Richard had an impressive  parade-ground voice. When he was still some distance away, he shouted “Hi!” and waved his stick. At that moment the westering sun was hidden behind a cloud; the light faded momentarily and Richard lost sight of the figure. By the time that he got home there was no sign of the person at all. It could have been an optical illusion but if there really had been an intruder, he could now be hiding anywhere in one of the hollows of the twilit moor. There was no lack of “dead ground”. 

Back in the lodge, Richard, now armed with a handgun, conducted a thorough search of the house and outbuildings. He even looked in the attic, in case someone should be concealed up there. No-one was present; it did not seem that anyone had entered the house. There was no damage that might indicate an attempted break-in. But then, he had appeared on the scene unexpectedly. Perhaps the unexplained visitor had not had enough time to do whatever he had planned to do? In which case, he  might come back.  Richard, forewarned, was now forearmed. He reduced the possibilities to the following:  

A) The IRA: The four original tenants, who would normally still have been there in September, were all serving SAS Officers. Could the IRA have found out about this and were they now planning to attack or “booby trap” the house? While not impossible, this seemed less likely than; 

B) Good old-fashioned burglary: A shooting party of presumably rich Englishmen had taken the lodge for a month.They would have expensive firearms with them. They might not always remember to lock them up when not in use, although the lodge possessed two secure gun cabinets, cunningly concealed inside large Reproduction-Victorian grandfather clocks. The laid-back Englishmen might well leave other valuable items lying around, including cash, watches, hunting-knives and fishing-rods. Against this, Richard believed that people in Sutherland were usually extremely honest, although tinkers and other travellers, who might or might not be, were known to be in the area. Tourists, of whom there were few that year, were an unknown quantity.   

The afternoon or early evening were in theory good times to investigate the lodge, as the tenants should be out shooting and the cleaners would have gone home. Except that there was now only one tenant – Richard – whose movements were a good deal less predictable than those of either party that had been there previously. What other possibilities could there be, apart from an optical illusion or his imagination playing tricks? 

Richard slept lightly; he'd hear anything that happened. Unless he was on an Army exercise or camping, Richard invariably slept naked. He hated wearing  pyjamas. In extremely chilly weather he sometimes wore a rugby-shirt in bed, but was always naked below the waist. He saw no reason to change his rule now, but put out near his bed a Kekoi - an East African cotton sarong -  which could be draped round his hips if he needed to go and investigate any sound. It covered Richard from waist to just above the knee and was brightly-striped; yellow, black and scarlet. 

“You know me, James,”said Richard. “I always sleep with one eye and both ears open.Well, soon after midnight I became aware that somebody had got into the house. How they got in, I still do not know.” 

“Perhaps they had a key?”I suggested. 

“That is possible,” Richard agreed. “The locks were ancient and had not been changed for many years; probably since the house was built. I had no idea how many people might have keys. They were changed later, at my suggestion.” He continued: “I got up and quickly tied the sarong round me. I knotted it at the waist on my left-hand side. That left that leg bare and allowed greater freedom of  movement.   I cocked my revolver.Then I went out onto the landing and shouted 'Halt! Who goes there?' The calm and firm answer, surprisingly enough, was 'Friend'. I said 'Advance one and be recognised'. A young man walked slowly up the stairs towards me, his hands raised.”

“What did he look like?” I wanted to know.

“Very good-looking indeed. A bit like a blond version of Mark Stainer, with the same high parting in his fair hair. His hair was short and very neat. Unlike Mark, he had blue eyes, not brown.” 

“You used to say that Mark Stainer had a '1914 face'. I know what you meant. The regular features, the high parting and Mark's taste in off-duty plain clothes had something to do with it. And what was the man wearing?” 

“That was the funny part.He looked incredibly respectable; even smart. Not like a hiker at all, although that is evidently what he was; he had a knapsack and what might have been a bed-roll on his back. However he was clean-shaven. His shoes were expensive-looking brown brogues, hobnailed and lovingly polished. He wore flannel trousers and a tweed hacking-jacket. His checked shirt was open at the neck. No tie, but he wore a red bandanna handkerchief knotted at his throat. He even had  a little sprig of flowers in his buttonhole; you know, those small, white wild roses that you see growing at the roadside in Northern Scotland. Local people call them Jacobite Roses. I don't know the scientific name. Now, who nowadays goes hiking dressed like that?”  

“Surprisingly enough, some people still do. I picked one up in Worcestershire recently. He explained that it was far easier to get lifts if you looked respectable and un-threatening.”

“Ah,” said Richard, “What a shame that the message has not got through to the other hikers. They mostly look like bandits or unmade beds.”

“And what did he say?” I persisted. 

“Nothing, at first. He just looked at me for a few minutes. Then he smiled. It was the most delightful smile I ever saw; you could warm your hands at it! Then he came to the point. He nodded at me. He said 'Very nice indeed. I want to make love to you.' 'Make love', please note; not 'fuck' and not 'have sex'.”    

“Blimey! A stalker?” 

“It might seem so. But I wasn't objecting. As I said, he was a real looker and I suddenly realised that once more I had a raging hard-on. I heard myself replying 'Why not? Step this way'.

“He followed me into the bedroom. I sat and watched while he stripped, which took a few minutes, because of what he was wearing. His shoes and socks (thick Argyle pattern ones) came off first. He flexed his toes, as one does.  He hung his shirt, jacket and flannels neatly over a chair. Then there was a further surprise: he was wearing a white union suit under his clothes!” 

“What's that?”

“Very old-fashioned men's underwear.  If you've ever seen the film of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, you'll get the idea, except that the seven brothers' union suits were brightly-coloured. It is a skin-tight  suit of underwear, all in one piece, covering you from the throat to your elbows and ankles. There was a button-fly at the front for pissing and a button-flap at the back for shitting. Again, who in their right mind would wear that?” 

“I know the things; for starters, among others, mountaineers in places like the Himalayas and Polar explorers wear them. Lieutenant Scamp told me that he'd had to wear them in Antarctica. Apparently they're very warm and practical.” 

“Nevertheless they look ridiculous. You would not catch me wearing one. Even a man with a figure like a Greek god, which this guy had, could never appear to advantage in that kit. And you can imagine what an unfit Edwardian gentleman – or horror of horrors, King Edward VII himself - must have looked like. Anything less-sexy it would be hard to imagine. I actually laughed. He didn't seem to mind. He just smiled and said: 'Don't worry, it's coming off!' Finally he was naked and he looked superb. He was very well-proportioned and his pale skin was flawless. Any sculptor would have wanted him as a model. He stretched and flexed his arms and smiled at me. Pointing to my sarong he said 'Take that off!' I loosened the knot and let it fall to the floor. He then walked towards me, took me in his arms and kissed me.”  

“A cool customer!” 

“Very cool. He said: 'I don't have much time here, so let's use it to the full', which was okay by me! He was a magnificent lover, skilful and gentle; at least to begin with. He was also capable of being rough. And he taught me a new trick!  Towards the end of our fuck-session, which seemed to last for several hours – and he seemed both insatiable and endlessly versatile - I was lying bent backwards, with a pile of pillows under my ass; my head, hands and feet braced against the floor, thrusting upwards, and this guy was riding my cock for all he was worth.  If I showed any sign of flagging, he would shove his finger up my ass, hit my G-spot, and I immediately got hard again. There was a wardrobe with a mirror in the door. Although I was upside-down, I could see us in the reflection. I vividly remember watching his handsome face while he was riding my cock: the eyes closed, the face intent and very serious, the mouth slightly open; a study in sexual concentration.  Occasionally he would gasp or mutter some word or other. I don't know which was best: that, or when he finally fucked me as the last act." 

“And what happened after that?”

"Not a lot. He murmured 'You don't know how much this means to me', which was mysterious, given that we had never met before and didn't even know each other's names. We hardly spoke at all during our sexual marathon, although he once quoted a line of erotic Latin poetry; Catullus, I think. I was completely knackered by the time he'd finished with me. We fell asleep in each other's arms, totally exhausted; at least I was. But when I woke up, he had gone. Nothing was missing and there was no trace of his passage, apart from the state of the bed-linen and my exhaustion.  He had not left me a note, but he had left a souvenir; his buttonhole of Jacobite Roses was lying on the dressing-table. I put the roses in a glass of water but they withered and shed their petals in less than 24 hours, so I threw them away.”  

“Some old-fashioned roses are like that; especially the scented ones. They don't last if you pick them. Better to leave them growing outside,” I remarked. “Did he ever get in touch again? Was there any kind of sequel?” 

Richard did not answer immediately. “I'm not sure. I'll show you something back at the hotel. There is a good and affordable book-binder near the Place de l'Odeon. I have an old book with me that I want re-bound. It might or might not have some bearing on my story." 

Back at the hotel, Richard first showed me two letters. One was very recent, from Sir Simon MacLean of Muldoan, the owner of the shooting lodge where Richard had had his adventure. 

Dear Richard,

The Misses MacDonald decided to have a thorough spring-clean of the Lodge after you left, as it was near the end of the season. They even mucked out the attic, which had not been cleaned or tidied for many years. Among other things they found this manuscript book hidden away up there. It appears to have been presented to my grandfather, James MacLean, by one of his friends. However it is entirely in Latin and Greek, which I cannot read, but I thought that it might be of interest to you, given that someone told me that you had read Classics at Cambridge. Anyway, here it is. I hope that it proves to be interesting. See you again soon. 

Yours ever, 

Simon

The second letter was dated 16 September 1917 and seemed to be from an RAMC Officer in a military hospital that no longer existed, near Aldershot. 

Dear Captain MacLean, 

It is with regret that I write to inform you that your friend Captain Robert Hanbury of the Middlesex Regiment died here from his wounds on the evening of 14 September.  He was cheerful and stoical to the last. More than one nurse has shed a tear for him; his great charm, good looks and good manners will be very much missed. 

His personal effects and uniforms are to go to his next-of-kin, who are his parents. He was, however, most insistent that the enclosed small personal anthology of poems should be sent to you, in memory of your friendship, which meant a great deal to him. He even humorously threatened to come back and haunt me if I failed him in this! I have naturally complied with his last wish. I hope that you are able to read Latin and Greek; there does not seem not be a single poem in English in the book. 

I would be grateful if you would kindly acknowledge safe receipt of the book. 

I remain,

Yours Sincerely, 

B G Gyles (Major, RAMC) 

“And here is the book” said Richard. “Look at the fly-leaf. There is no dedication but there is something else.”

There was a dull rusty-red stain. 

“It's his blood. He must have been carrying it in his pocket when he was shot, blown up or whatever inflicted  his ultimately fatal injury.” 

“I am afraid that, like Shakespeare, I have little Latin and less Greek,” I said.  “Just tell me what is in it.” 

“Only poems”, said Richard. “No prose. Some are by well-known classical poets. Others are by obscure ones and yet others are in Mediaeval Latin. But there are quite a number which cannot be attributed to any known poet. Robert Hanbury was the author of these; he was no mean classicist and he wrote pretty good Greek and Latin verse. The poems that I attribute to him all celebrate an intense and clearly non-Platonic friendship  with another young man, whom he had met at university.  Some of them are very erotic indeed. The other young man has to have been James MacLean. In all likelihood they enjoyed some of their best moments of intimacy in the lodge, far from prying eyes. It was not very long after Oscar Wilde's death and they had to be extremely careful, as the poems make clear. Oh, and - like me - they both loved swimming, always naked, of course,  in that lochan. He called it "lacus nymphearum" i.e. "the lake of the water-lilies", which still grow there to this day. There are a lot of references to that, and remarks about his friend's rugged macho beauty when naked. And it's interesting; 14 September, the date of my fling with the unknown hiker, was the anniversary of Hanbury's death." 

"Richard, that is just a coincidence." 

"That's what I prefer to think, but it is rather a lot of coincidences, when you add them all up," said Richard. "The absurd thought has occurred to me that just maybe on that date he gets a 24-hour leave-pass from Valhalla - or possibly from the Elysian Fields, since he was a Grecian and a Latinist - and comes back to the place where he was happiest..."   

"With a view to having sex with any willing young chap who happens along? That is not how I imagine ghosts behaving! Come on, Richard, you can't believe that!" 

"But,  James, you are not a Greek scholar; I am. If you had been, you'd know that, according to the Ancient Greek poets, the fierce joy of sex is the thing that the dead miss most of all: sex, not love!"   

“Do you know anything else about Captain Hanbury?” I asked, hastily changing the subject. 

Richard paused for a moment's reflection. “He won a posthumous award for bravery; I forget which one. His parents collected it at the Palace in 1918.” 

“But do you know what he looked like? Have you located his Army file, his portrait or photograph? His former regiment's museum might be able to help.” 

“All I know is that he was said to be very handsome," replied Richard. He makes a joke about it in one of his poems: "Flatterers call me formosus", i.e. very handsome indeed. He goes on to say that, while that is all very fine, there is only one man whose approval and admiration matter to him." Again Richard paused. "You are right: no doubt the Middlesex Regimental Museum could help.  But I would rather not know for sure what he looked like. I'm sure you can work out why."