“That"s a dashing uniform, Francis. I didn"t realize they"d changed them this late in the game,” Booth quipped to Tumblety as they shook hands in the National Hotel"s lobby. He cut the handshake short; Tumblety"s fingers were limp, his palm clammy. Booth said a silent prayer of thanks: But for the grace of God could I be one of his patients.
“It"s not an official uniform. I like to wear it to stand out in the crowd.” Tumblety flicked out a handkerchief and buffed one of several medals pinned to his gold-braided jacket.
“What army is it from?”
“No army in particular. It"s a melding of several uniforms, from Germany, Italy, Turkey. I made it myself with scraps I"d scavenged.”
“But you"re not in the military. And you haven"t earned any medals.” Booth was amused, but not exactly comfortabl
