Scoundrels

by Victor Cornwall

  In Tanzania I thought my luck had finally turned. I was introduced to one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. She led me into a mud hut, de-robed and bent over the bed. She wanted me to teach her everything I knew. Then, just as I was about to begin, my proud tumescence was punctured by the fangs of a Gaboon viper, which has the largest fangs of any snake in the world. I screamed so hard my larynx shattered.

  The tour was a total and utter catastrophe.

  Eleven months later

  The plane finally broke through the clouds and suddenly we could see again. There, down below in the distance, were the white cliffs of Dover. Home at last. Uncontrollable tears of joy rolled down my cheeks. I’d never been so pleased to see British soil.

  I was a shadow of my former self, an empty husk of a man, just trying to survive long enough to get home again. The trip was supposed to take six months. It had been eleven. I would need a further nine to recover. Physically I was broken, exhausted, weak. My face was covered in sores because my body had lost the ability to heal. I had several unknown sexually transmitted diseases that itched, stung, weeped or caused me to sweat and shake during the night. I hadn’t shaved for weeks because my skin was so brittle. My teeth were falling out, my toenails had broken off, and I’d lost half my body weight. I was even going bald. Baxter had tried to nurse me back to health every evening with hot soups and his nutrient-rich blend of oyster, wasabi root and whale placenta, but I began to doubt whether these contained any nutrients at all.

  When I saw the runway of Brize Norton appear in the distance I turned to Baxter and started to laugh hysterically, my body shaking. I think I may have even followed through. I was in no state to fly and failed to land the plane twice before crashing it into a storage shed next to the runway. It was the fourth time we’d crashed since we’d left England. Once again I somehow managed to stagger from the burning wreckage. I was in some kind of daze and blissfully unaware of what had happened. Thankfully Baxter made it out also. And moments later, when I collapsed, exhausted, on the tarmac, he cradled me in his arms as the plane finally exploded behind us.

  We were home.

  Baxter drove us back to Bluebell Manor. My arrival at Scoundrels would have to wait. When we got back to the house he put me straight to bed, and that’s where I stayed for over a week. At first my sleep was fitful, the memories of the trip haunting my dreams, but gradually, as my strength returned, I was able to sleep through the night. I remember a series of complete blood transfusions and several visits from doctors, paid in cash. Baxter was doing his best to ensure nobody knew how bad it had got for me. His loyalty, as ever, was unquestionable.

  As my health improved, so my feelings of anger increased. The trip had not gone as expected. In fact, I felt as though I’d been stitched up. Hansclapp had sold me a lie, and I had some tough questions that needed answering. Over the next few days I made several attempts to contact him, but each time I received no reply. It was obvious why the bugger was avoiding me but I wasn’t about to forget what happened. As soon as I felt strong enough to leave the house I drove straight to London to confront him.

  The Commonwealth Secretariat is on Pall Mall not far from Scoundrels, so I parked in the club’s underground car park and walked there. I’d wait in reception all day if I had to.

  Upon entering the building I passed through an arched metal detector and consented to be searched, and then I approached the main desk. The receptionist was a smartly dressed elderly woman with neat metal-rimmed glasses.

  “I’m here to see Gruber Hansclapp.” I said.

  Her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry but I’m afraid nobody of that name works here. Are you sure you have the right building?”

  “Yes. This is the Commonwealth Secretariat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I have the right building.” I said.

  “Well I’m afraid, sir, that the person you’re after doesn’t work here.” She looked at me sympathetically. I tried to stay calm but could feel myself getting agitated.

  “Listen to me. I’ve just spent the last eleven months visiting every bloody country in the Commonwealth. I’ve suffered unrelenting pain, humiliation and depravity – and all at the behest of Gruber Hansclapp.”

  “Well sir. You have my sympathy. But I have worked here for over twenty-five years. I know every single employee by name. And I’m telling you that there is not, and has never been, anyone working here under the name of Gruber Hansclapp. I’m sorry, sir, but good day.”

  __________

  I stepped out of the building and into the drizzly, grey London day. It was cold. For a moment I considered marching on to Number Ten and having it out with Atlee but thought better of it for the time being. I just couldn’t understand what had happened and needed some time to sort through the clutter in my mind. I pulled my coat tightly around myself and began to make my way back to Scoundrels.

  When I arrived at the club I knew that something was wrong. Aram-Atsi, the giant Armenian doorman, saw me approach and left his post momentarily to meet me halfway down the steps – a dereliction of duty that would normally have got him fired. But this order had come from Lunk personally and the big man whispered instructions in my ear before opening the imposing black door.

  I began ascending the grand staircase keeping my gaze low to ignore the attention of Tumps, Scoundrels’ de-facto librarian, who was coming the other way. He probably thought I was being rude but I’d been told to speak to no one. I turned the corner and continued to the top of the building, passing the Map Room and High Library until I came to the end of the corridor where stood a glass cabinet containing a stuffed grizzly bear. The bear was standing on its hind legs in a threatening pose, which was undermined by the pith helmet perched on its head and the large tumbler of scotch clasped in a front paw, as if he were about to make a toast.

  I turned to see if anybody was coming then opened the cabinet and pulled down on the arm of the bear. There was a low click and a hidden door popped open a few inches in the wall next to me. I pushed on it and walked in.

  It was a well-appointed room, in keeping with the luxurious surroundings of the club, but its existence and whereabouts was only known to those at the very top of the Scoundrels’ food chain. Lunk was sitting on a large red Chesterfield on the left side of an open fire drinking a brandy. Trevelyan was sat on the right smoking a Turkish Dancer, a spicy blend of tobacco, cumin, coffee leaf and paprika that he’d had the Scoundrels tobacconist whip up for secretive meetings.

  Framed between them, in front of the fire, stood a woman with her back to me. She was slender and elegant with bare shoulders and long obsidian-black hair falling down her back. I was intrigued. I caught Trevelyan’s eye and he offered me a grave look that I found hard to take seriously. His preposterous head of hair, comical so often, had been brushed as flat as he could manage and it sat on his head with a leaden gravitas.

  Sensing someone had entered the room, the woman turned from the fire towards me, and our eyes met. I was almost knocked to the floor by her striking beauty.

  “Good. You’re here,” Lunk boomed, his voice shattering the moment between us. “Do you know Ms. Summerville?”

  I regained my composure and extended my hand. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” I said, allowing my eyes to hold hers for a moment too long. She took my hand and as she did I felt her place something cold and metal into my palm.

  “It has your name on it Major Cornwall,” she said coolly. I opened my palm. It was a bullet.

  “Charming,” I said, inspecting its surface. Sure enough, it had my name engraved on the side of it. Lunk stood up and began to pace the floor.

  “This goes no further Cornwall, understood?” I nodded. Discretion was my middle name.

  “Stephanie’s father,” he said, gesturing towards the beautiful Ms. Summerville, “is one of my Papa’s oldest friends. He
also happens to be one of the world’s finest rifle makers, with an exclusive clientele. He was commissioned to make that bullet you’re holding.”

  “My father thought he recognised your name Major Cornwall,” Summerville added, “he thought I should come to England to speak to M.O.S. about it.”

  “There’s an identical one with my name on it,” Trevelyan said almost proudly. Ignoring him, Lunk handed me a letter. “Then this. It arrived this morning, addressed to both of you.”

  “I took the liberty of opening it in your absence,” Trevelyan said. The letter was from Hansclapp.

  Dear Gentlemen,

  I hope this letter finds you both ensconced within the warm, safe confines of your exclusive gentleman’s club. The club that you once promised I could join. Three times now, you have denied me. Once at school, when you murdered my beautiful bull Hermanus. And again, when you took my Snatch the Gander triumph as your own, excluding me from the laurels. And then a third time, on a burning plane, when you offered me Scoundrels membership in exchange for your lives.

  Despite saving you both, you betrayed me. Fun and games for a couple of privileged English schoolboys, no doubt. Well, while you’ve been drinking brandy and climbing mountains I have been having my own fun and games. Did you enjoy your Commonwealth trip Major Cornwall? I hope so. You’ll remember that because of you my beloved bull, Hermanus, was forced to make love until he died. Well I wondered if you’d enjoy the same fate. I planned it so it would take you to the very brink of destruction. And here’s the best part. The fun isn’t over.

  Both of you are the products of a self-serving system that must be destroyed. I now declare war on that system, and will stop at nothing until I have brought it to its knees, begging for mercy.

  And in the process, I shall ensure that you have a long, painful and humiliating fall from grace that lasts the rest of your lives.

  It starts here.

  GH

  “He’s crazy,” I said dismissively.

  “Probably,” said Lunk, “but we need to take this seriously. Stephanie will be in London over the next few months doing some digging for me.”

  “Well,” I said, seizing the initiative, “if you need any assistance I’m always-”

  “I don’t need any assistance thank you,” she said, cutting me off.

  “There’s something else too,” Lunk added gravely. “We may have a rat in the house…”

  “You mean Scoundrels?”

  He nodded. “Trust no-one Cornwall.”

  “I’ve built my career on it,” I said.

  Then I had a troubling thought. “The upcoming Paris to Dakar race? Is it still on?”

  “Yes,” said a pensive Lunk, looking deep into the roaring hearth. “But keep your wits about you. I’m pairing you with Trevelyan. Right now you two are the only Scoundrels I can trust.”

  My heart sank. I’d been looking forward to the race, and being saddled with Trevelyan pretty much blew any hopes I had of winning it, but I was used to making sacrifices, for Club and Country. Clearly this Hansclapp situation was even more serious than I first thought, and I spoke as someone who had just spent nearly a year scraping the sexual barrel all over the world. When I next saw Gruber Hansclapp we’d have words, that was a certainty.

  I looked over at Trevelyan to gauge his mood. He seemed unconcerned and handed me a tumbler full of something amber and tasty.

  “Cheers,” he said, “see you in Paris.”

  We both know what happened next. I still have that letter, and reading it now is difficult because I wish in hindsight that we’d taken it more seriously. You know as well as I do that this was a watershed moment, the end of an era, even if we didn’t recognise it at the time.

  Until then I think we had both waltzed through life without a care in the world. But the world was changing, and within a few years we’d bear witness to events that would affect every moment of the rest of our lives, and the lives of everyone in Great Britain.

  Yours sincerely,

  Major Victor Montgomery Cornwall

  END of

  SCOUNDRELS VOLUME ONE

  Afterword

  The Majors have asked us to note that this is not the end of their story. However, due to ongoing legal action, Scoundrels Volume One must finish at this point. The Majors, with the support of Massingberd Q.C., are confident that their next volume (to cover the years 1952-1974) will be published once R. v Cornwall & Trevelyan has concluded in their favour.

  Duncan Crowe & James Peak, February 2017.

  This edition published in 2018 by Farrago, an imprint of Prelude Books Ltd

  13 Carrington Road, Richmond, TW10 5AA, United Kingdom

  www.farragobooks.com

  In association with Black Door Press,

  2 Windmill Street, London, WIT 2HX, United Kingdom

  blackdoorpress.com

  First published by Black Door Press in 2017

  Copyright © 2017 Duncan Crowe & James Peak

  The moral right of the authors has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  ISBN: 978-1-78842-117-1

  Version 2.0