Scoundrels

by Victor Cornwall

  “Yes, yes. That sounds like my boy,” said Lunk Snr, fondly.

  We both wanted to know what Scoundrels actually was, so he gave us a potted history of the club. We learned that it had been inaugurated by Charles I, so that chaps who enjoyed fine wine, fabulous women, foreign travel, fast coaches, innovative weaponry, ludicrous wagers, gourmet food, the turf, the collecting of antiquities from dangerous places, edgy erotica and ribaldry in all its forms would have a home from home when up in London. It offered fellowship and acceptance for chaps whose blood ran hot, and for whom normal life seemed unbearably tedious. This of course included Charles himself.

  Over time, Lunk Snr explained, the Crown – and later Whitehall – got used to calling on Scoundrels’ men to perform delicate duties unsuitable for standard diplomatic channels. If a highwayman wouldn’t be caught, a Scoundrel would toddle off and find him in his forest lair, dealing with him appropriately (either by lynching him, or making him a member). If you needed a chap with perfect Russian to seduce the Tsar’s mistress without being seduced himself, then Scoundrels could put someone forward. If a Martello Tower needed to burn down in a deniable way, a Scoundrel was your man. While the members of other Gentlemen’s Clubs specialised in politicking or bragging of military exploits, Scoundrels focussed on getting things done and if a little blood was left on the carpet so be it.

  An uneasy symbiosis had developed between Buckingham Palace, Whitehall and the Club over the last three hundred years. Nowadays being a Scoundrel meant a life of privilege and freedom in return for a few simple undertakings. Members only needed to sign up to three orthodoxies, set out in Charles’ own hand, on a napkin dating back to 1635 that was stained with wine, blood and some other unidentified substances.

  –Gentlemen memberes of Scoundrelles are at theire libertie in all things, and not subiecte to the laws of the lande of England, nor rulings of court nor tribunal. But they are subiecte to the laws of theire Club.

  –Gentlemen memberes of Scoundrelles are exempt from all Crown taxation, in perpetuity. But they are not exempt from the fees of theire Club.

  –Gentlemen memberes of Scoundrelles are upon their honour to accept theire duties, emissary work, and other missions, for the furtherance of the King, of England, and of Justice.

  This sounded very acceptable.

  We each swore fealty to the King and to the Club, whilst holding Charles I’s napkin. Then we shook hands with Lunk Snr, and were told to spend the rest of the day mooching about the building, chatting to members and acclimatising.

  But as we were leaving the room where our lives had changed so utterly, he voiced a casual afterthought. “Actually,” he said, “now that you are members, there is a small matter you may be able to help with.”

  “At your service, Mr Lunk,” I replied grandly.

  Well Major, this is where it all began for us, isn’t it?

  Yours sincerely,

  Major Arthur St John Trevelyan

  Hellcat Manor

  Great Trundleford

  Devon

  1st October 2016

  Dear Major,

  Not a bad effort, although I did spot an inaccuracy. The Chief Doorman in 1938 was not Aram-Atsi, but Aram-Patrel, Baron de Coubertin’s ex-butler. Aram-Atsi took Patrel’s wrestling crown in 1947, and with it the honour of keeping the Scoundrels’ door. Atsi kept the title until 1987, the year after our unjust and dispiriting house arrest.

  As I finished your chapter, Baxter brought me up a bottle of Beaujolais nouveau (a month early) and I knocked it back with half a Camembert before settling down for a nap. I dreamt about the club on a winter’s afternoon: popping in for a quick livener in the Gaye Bar only to find Marwood stoking the Blue Room fire with the cavalry sword in preparation for his lecture on exotic games of chance. Bumping into Maurice Johncocktosen, who’d like a bit of advice about a tricky undertaking for the Shah of Iran, if you’ve a moment. A spot of dinner? Of course. I’ll have the wild boar if Bernard-Bernard is in the kitchen, and the beef if he’s not. Oh dear, things are looking a little tense over there, shall we see what is going on? A ringside view of a punch-up caused by Batty Batwurst’s incomplete understanding of the phrase “your round”. Apologies to all, no harm done old chap, open a few bottles on me. Later on, Daniel Klein losing three pints of blood playing Kubb, the most exotic of all games of chance. A few late evening snifters and some excellent Moroccan black hashish by the fireside. Then the Rolls slides by to take me home to Hellcat.

  Now that the house arrest is formally over, do you suppose you’ll ever get over there for a drink? I know they still don’t mind taking the membership fees from my account, so I expect we’d still be welcome.

  Do you remember our first ever undertaking? I suppose you do.

  __________

  CHAPTER 7

  Dead Man In A Coffin

  Scoundrels Club, Piccadilly, 1938

  As over-confident seventeen year olds, Trevelyan and I were initiated into Scoundrels Club. Lunk Snr immediately handed us an undertaking, club parlance for ‘something that needs squaring away, putting right, or sweeping under the carpet’. Little did we know it would mark the start of a long and illustrious career of lying, cheating, stealing and skullduggery. Or to dignify it, espionage.

  He took us up a level into a panelled room with large windows overlooking the square. On the wall was a painting. It was of a woman who appeared to be horribly fractured. Her body had been rendered into simple geometric shapes set at irregular angles. Of course I recognised the artist immediately.

  “Can either of you tell me who painted this?”

  “A child?” Trevelyan quipped. Lunk wasn’t impressed. “Raise your game, Trevelyan.”

  I spoke up. “The Spaniard – Picasso. It looks like his Crystal Period.”

  “Well done Cornwall,” Lunk Snr said. “He calls this one Femme Assise Dans Une Fauteuil. It belongs to the club.” He walked over towards the window and gazed out onto the street, and then spoke without turning. “I need you to bring me one of his other paintings,” he said, his voice, low and grave.

  This sounded important.

  “Let me tell you about my mother.” Lunk Snr turned from the window and began to pace the room. “She is a warm-hearted and wonderful woman: kind, giving, and honest. She’s the type to believe in people, and as such, you might say, she is a little naïve. If someone asks her to do something for them, she often feels obliged to do it, because she wants to help. That’s her nature.”

  Almost imperceptibly, he was getting angrier.

  “She went on holiday recently, to France. It was a trip of a lifetime for her. Did I mention that she’d recently lost her husband, my father? Well she did. So she was vulnerable and bruised. She needed a break. So I PAID FOR HER TO GO!” Lunk shouted the last part of the sentence. For a moment I felt like I was back at Winstowe, sitting in the Headmaster’s Office, waiting to be caned. “She met a Spaniard. She met an artist. PICASSO!”

  Lunk’s hands were shaking. I could see he was struggling with this. “He took a shine, to my mother. He took a SHINE to her. To my mother. MY. MOTHER!”

  Trevelyan and I were smart enough to know when we should stay silent. Now was one of those times. “He asked if he could PAINT her. She agreed. She thought it might be interesting. Of course she did. She’s my mother. It’s in her nature.”

  Lunk kicked a wastepaper basket made from an elephant’s foot across the room. It cracked a wooden panel on the wall. It did nothing for his mood. “He asked if he could paint her naked. And she said YES! She said YES because she’s my MOTHER and she says YES to anyone asking a FAVOUR. It’s in her NATURE.” Lunk Snr’s massive, sweating face was now inches from mine.

  “That bastard painted my mother naked and I want that painting destroyed. Gentleman, hear this now because your Scoundrels’ membership depends on it. Picasso is a wor
ld-renowned artist who could throw soup on a canvas and any gallery in the world would display it as a masterpiece. My mother’s painting is currently in the hands of a London art collector, hanging in his private collection not a mile from here. He intends to sell it, and it will go public. THAT CANNOT HAPPEN. Do you understand?”

  Trevelyan and I nodded, and Lunk Snr slumped down in a chair. He looked exhausted. “Destroy it, please. I don’t care how. Just destroy it, and keep my mother’s dignity intact.”

  This was to be our first undertaking for Scoundrels. The first of many.

  __________

  In 1938, Jeremy ‘Ruff Puff’ Kanweller-Sarrascene was London’s biggest art collector. He was a large man in every sense: size, personality, lust for life. His wide girth meant that he only ever wore loose-fitting kimonos tailored for him by Ede & Ravenscroft of Chancery Lane. He was one of the best-connected men in London, and it was said that if he sponsored your work you could pretty much name your price.

  Ruff Puff was also known for his obsessive gambling. He was a huge risk taker and would often challenge people with monumental or outrageous bets. He would carry a particular coin with him at all times and liked to settle bills and disputes with it. It was rumoured he once lost a Breughel on a toss of it.

  Born in New York to a wealthy American-Iranian family, at the age of fifteen he moved to Paris to become a pastry chef. He showed a unique ability and flair, which earned him the nickname ‘Ruff Puff’ for his violent temper, flamboyant homosexuality and innovative pastry techniques.

  In the days before his gambling habit had developed, he moved to London and took up the position of pastry chef at the Dorchester. He would create perfect portraits of film stars or architecturally accurate structures made of flaky, puff, filo, shortcrust or choux. Soon he was feted by other chefs and artists alike.

  Eventually his career as a pastry chef was cut short after he lost a limb in a bet during the 1932 Summer Olympics. Ruff Puff bet his left hand that American athlete ‘Babe’ Didrikson Zaharias would scoop at least three gold medals in track and field that year, and was incandescent when she only managed two golds and a silver. Ruff Puff had watched the event from the stands and waited until the stadium had emptied before paying his dues. He walked to the middle of the running track and, using a hurdle as a brace, chopped off his left hand with a fire axe. He made Didrikson watch the whole thing.

  __________

  Of course we accepted Lunk Snr’s undertaking. It was a very exciting time, and we walked around Scoundrels like a couple of bantam roosters, swaggering with our own importance. For the next two days Trevelyan and I found out everything we could about Kanweller-Sarrascene, and came up with a credible ruse that would enable us to destroy the picture.

  I would pose as an up-and-coming artist keen for Ruff Puff’s endorsement. I would present him with my latest work, Dead Man In A Coffin and leave it in his gallery overnight. Trevelyan, the dead man in the coffin, would come alive in the night and destroy Big Lady On A Table before escaping.

  Initially, Trevelyan didn’t want to play ball, putting up resistance when I told him he would have to lie still in a box for several hours. “What will I eat?” he whined, as if that was the most important thing in the world.

  “Nothing – you’ll have to go hungry. You’ll only be in there a few hours.”

  “What if I need the loo?”

  “You won’t be in there long enough.”

  “I get claustrophobic.”

  “There’s no lid! That’s the point of the piece. Listen, you’ll only have to stay still while I show him the work. After that we’ll wheel you into his gallery, and then after he’s left for the day you’ll come alive, destroy the picture and then break out of there. Easy for a man of your calibre.” This pathetically transparent compliment went a long way and seemed to persuade him.

  “I suppose it is quite easy, come to think of it. I’ll probably be back here before the King’s Toast.”

  “Definitely…” I agreed, “…probably.”

  __________

  The following morning I was standing outside Ruff Puff’s Chelsea studio with the coffin on a cart. Trevelyan was inside the coffin, wearing nothing but a pair of tight linen trousers. This was an artistic flourish that I insisted upon although I couldn’t put my finger on why exactly. I think I just felt that a topless torso would hold more interest for an aesthete like Ruff Puff. Although fairly short, Trevelyan was built like a brick shithouse, and was, in a sort of thuggish, Neanderthal way, strangely beautiful. I’d interviewed several of Ruff Puff’s recent consorts and established that he adored brawny chaps, but I had not shared this information with Trevelyan as I thought it might worry him unnecessarily.

  I rapped twice on the enormous gallery door. Almost immediately a small, square hatch opened and a chubby face pressed against it. I took off my battered felt trilby, and nodded my head deferentially. “Oh, who are you?” Ruff Puff had obviously forgotten our appointment. He looked me up and down with disdain. I quickly gathered my thoughts.

  “Hullo Mr Kanweller-Sarrascene, my name is Rufus Groundwater, I’m a conceptual artist from St Martin’s College. I have an appointment to show you my work. I called yesterday. Do you mind if we get it inside though? I think it’s about to rain.”

  “Oh, you think tho?”

  The hatch shut and I heard several bolts being drawn back and unlocked. The gallery was very secure. The door swung open and there stood the big man in one of his trademark kimonos, a bright lime green. He was much larger than I had expected and had a thick shaggy beard. I noted his left hand, made of dark wood with a highly varnished finish.

  “Tho you think it’th gunna wain?” he asked again, looking at the sky. And then he smiled carnivorously. “Look’th fine to me.” This was my first mistake. He was right. It did look fine, and I was suspiciously over-eager to get inside. Ruff Puff pulled out a coin from his pocket. “Let’th toth for it. Hed’th you can come in. Tail’th you’ve blown your chan’thes.”

  My heart sank. This mission could be over before it had even started. Did I have a choice? For all I knew his coin was rigged, but I felt unable to refuse being drawn into this game of chance.

  “Okay, but one thing. Tails I come in. Heads I’ve blown it.”

  Ruff Puff regarded me for a moment and then smiled. “Th’poken like a true gambler. Deal.”

  He tossed the coin with a flick of the wrist. It was the practised movement of someone who had done it a thousand times. It spun perfectly and was still spinning when he caught it with his good hand and slapped it onto the back of his prosthetic. I watched every movement, looking for an indication of foul play. I’d palmed the odd coin in my time and knew the signs, but Ruff Puff wasn’t interested in cheating. He let the coin decide. He removed his hand, to reveal…

  “Tail’ths! Follow me.”

  Ruff Puff opened the door further and helped me bounce Dead Man In a Coffin up the steps and into the gallery. I’m sure I heard Trevelyan grunt once or twice during this, and coughed loudly to cover the sound. Once we were inside, Ruff Puff relaxed and we left Trevelyan alone while he took me on a tour.

  The first room was a plain, white space. In the centre, a black wooden plinth supported some kind of grey lump. “It’th whale vomit,” he said gesturing with a flamboyant wave. “It look’th dithguthting, but it holdth’s the theecret to the worldth’s most exthotic thent. Ithn’t that bwiwiant?”

  I regarded it for a moment, stroking my chin and nodding sagely. We examined the lump of whale vomit from various angles and then continued our tour. The gallery was smaller than I expected, just four cold, white rooms connected to each other. In each room there were several pieces, some sculpture, sketches and paintings. On the wall furthest away from us was a broad canvas six feet across. There, in all of her glory, was Lunk’s naked mother: Big Lady On A Table.

>   It left nothing to the imagination; I could see instantly why he wanted it destroyed. “My Afwican Queen,” he said proudly. “Ith’nt thee adorable?”

  “She’s magnificent,” I said, choking on my words.

  “Ith a Picatho. Vewy collectable. One day th’th will be pwyth-leth.”

  We talked about Picasso for a few minutes, and I noted the instinctual proto-cubist depiction of her breasts (she had four of them) while at the same time scoping out the room for weaknesses. My concern was whether Trevelyan would be able to escape. He wouldn’t be able to see the gallery’s layout until we’d left, and Ruff Puff would doubtless activate intruder alarms and goodness knows what other security measures. I only hoped he was resourceful enough to get himself out.

  __________

  We began to talk about Dead Man In A Coffin. Ruff Puff seemed intrigued at the prospect of having a real corpse as a work of art. Slowly we walked towards the coffin. There was Trevelyan lying inside, his cheeks whitened, kohl emphasising the deep eye sockets. A sleeping hero, undone by this world. He looked so serene. “I give you…” I said, building this moment for all it was worth, “Dead Man In A Coffin, 1938.”