Paths of Glory

by Jeffrey Archer

  George strode into the main block trying to look confident and relaxed, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. As he opened the common room door, he could hear his heart thumping. But what if Andrew wasn’t there? He didn’t think he could go through another lesson with the lower fifth until at least some of his questions had been answered.

  Andrew was sitting in his usual place by the window, reading the morning paper. He smiled when he saw George, who poured himself a cup of tea and strolled across to join him. He was annoyed to find that a colleague had just taken the chair next to Andrew, and was busily discussing the iniquities of the school timetable.

  George perched himself on the radiator between them. He tried to remember his first question. Ah, yes…

  “Good show last night,” said Andrew as he folded his newspaper and turned his attention to George.

  “Yes, good show,” George repeated lamely, even though it wasn’t in his script.

  “You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

  “Had a splendid time,” said George. “Turner’s quite a character.”

  “He obviously took a shine to you.”

  “Oh, do you think so?”

  “Certain of it. I’ve never seen him so animated.”

  “Then you’ve known him for some time?” ventured George.

  “No, I’ve only been to Westbrook a couple of times, and he hardly opened his mouth.”

  “Oh, really?” said George, his first question answered.

  “So what did you think of the girls?” asked Andrew.

  “The girls?” repeated George, annoyed that Andrew seemed to be asking him all his own questions.

  “Yes. Did you take a fancy to any of them? Marjorie clearly couldn’t take her eyes off you.”

  “I didn’t notice,” said George. “What about you?”

  “Well, it all came as a bit of a surprise, to be frank with you, old chap,” admitted Andrew.

  “A bit of a surprise?” said George, hoping he didn’t sound desperate.

  “Yes. You see, I didn’t think she had the slightest interest in me.”

  “She?”

  “Ruth.”

  “Ruth?”

  “Yes. On my two previous visits, she didn’t give me a second look, but last night she never stopped chatting. I think I might be in with a chance.”

  “In with a chance?” George bobbed up.

  “Are you all right, Mallory?”

  “Of course I am. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, it’s just that you keep repeating everything I say.”

  “Everything you say? Do I?” said George, sitting back down on the radiator. “Then you’ll be hoping to see Ruth again, will you?” he ventured, at last getting in one of his questions.

  “Well, that’s the funny thing,” said Andrew. “Just after dinner, the old man took me to one side and invited me to join the family in Venice over Easter.”

  “And did you accept?” asked George, horrified by the very idea.

  “Well, I’d like to, but there’s a slight complication.”

  “A slight complication?”

  “You’re at it again,” said Andrew.

  “Sorry,” replied George. “What’s the complication?”

  “I’ve already committed myself to a hockey tour of the West Country at Easter, and as I’m the only goalkeeper available, I don’t feel I can let the team down.”

  “Certainly not,” said George, having to jump up again. “That would be damn bad form.”

  “Quite,” said Andrew. “But I think I may have come up with a compromise.”

  “A compromise?”

  “Yes. If I were to miss the last match, I could take the boat train from Southampton on the Friday evening and be in Venice by Sunday morning, which would mean I could still spend a whole week with the Turners.”

  “A whole week?” said George.

  “I put the idea to the old man, and he seemed quite agreeable, so I’ll be joining them during the last week of March.”

  That was all George needed to know. He jumped off the radiator, the seat of his trousers scorched.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Mallory? You seem quite distracted this morning.”

  “Blame it on Wainwright,” said George, glad of the chance to change the subject.

  “Wainwright?” said Andrew.

  “I nearly lost my temper with him this morning when he suggested that it was the Earl of Essex who defeated the Spanish Armada, and Drake wasn’t even there.”

  “Playing bowls on Plymouth Hoe, no doubt.”

  “No, Wainwright has a theory that Drake was at Hampton Court at the time, having a protracted affair with Elizabeth, and that he’d sent Essex off to Devon to keep him out of the way.”

  “I thought it was meant to be the other way round,” said Andrew.

  “Let’s hope so,” said George.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  TUESDAY, MARCH 24TH, 1914

  THE FIRST COUPLE of days’ climbing had gone well, even if Finch seemed a little preoccupied and not his usual forthright self. It wasn’t until the third day, when they were both stuck on a ledge halfway up the Zmutt Ridge, that George found out why.

  “Do you begin to understand women?” asked Finch, as if this was something they discussed every day.

  “Can’t say I have a great deal of experience in that particular field,” admitted George, his thoughts turning to Ruth.

  “Join the club,” responded Finch.

  “But I always thought you were considered to be a bit of an authority on the subject?”

  “Women don’t allow any man to be an authority on the subject,” said Finch bitterly.

  “Fallen in love with someone, have you?” asked George, wondering if Finch was suffering from the same problem as he was.

  “Out of love,” said Finch. “Which is far more complicated.”

  “I feel sure it won’t be too long before you find a replacement.”

  “It’s not a replacement I’m worried about,” said Finch. “I’ve just found out that she’s pregnant.”

  “Then you’ll have to marry her,” said George matter-of-factly.

  “That’s the problem,” Finch said. “We’re already married.”

  That was the nearest George had come to falling off a mountain since the avalanche on Mont Blanc.

  A head appeared over the ledge. “Let’s keep moving,” said Young. “Or can’t you two see a way out of the problem?”

  As neither of them replied, Young simply said, “Follow me.”

  For the next hour, all three men struggled gamely up the last thousand feet, and it wasn’t until George had joined Young and Finch at the top of the mountain that Finch spoke again.

  “Is there any news about the one mountain we all want to stand on top of?” he asked Young.

  Although George didn’t approve of Finch’s blunt approach, he hoped that Young would answer the question, as one thing was certain: No one was going to overhear them at 14,686 feet on the summit of the Matterhorn.

  Young looked out across the valley, wondering how much information he should divulge. “Anything I have to say on this subject must remain between the three of us,” he said eventually. “I’m not expecting an official announcement from the Foreign Office for at least another couple of months.” He didn’t speak again for a few moments, and for once even Finch remained silent. “However, I can tell you,” he continued at last, “that the Alpine Club has come to a provisional agreement with the Royal Geographical Society to set up a joint body, which will be known as the Everest Committee.”

  “And who will be sitting on that committee?” asked Finch.

  Once again Young took his time before responding. “Sir Francis Younghusband will be chairman, I will be deputy chairman, and Mr. Hinks will be secretary.”

  “No one can object to Younghusband as chairman,” said George, choosing his words carefully. “After all, he was instrumental in getting an Everest expedition off the grou
nd.”

  “But that doesn’t apply to Hinks,” responded Finch, not choosing his words carefully. “There’s a man who’s managed to turn snobbery into an art form.”

  “Isn’t that a little rough, old boy?” suggested George, who had thought he could no longer be shocked by anything Finch came out with.

  “Perhaps you failed to notice that at Scott’s RGS lecture the women, including Hinks’s and Scott’s wives, were relegated to the gallery like cattle on a goods train.”

  “Traditions die hard in such institutions,” suggested Young calmly.

  “Don’t let’s excuse snobbery by passing it off as tradition,” said Finch. “Mind you, George,” he added, “Hinks will be delighted if you’re chosen as one of the climbing party. After all, you went to Winchester and Cambridge.”

  “That was uncalled for,” said Young sharply.

  “We’ll find out if I’m right soon enough,” said Finch, standing his ground.

  “You need have no fear on that front,” said Young. “I can assure you that it will be the Alpine Club that selects the climbing team, not Hinks.”

  “That may be,” said Finch, unwilling to let go of his bone, “but what really matters is who sits on that committee.”

  “It will have seven members,” said Young. “Three of them will be from the Alpine Club. Before you ask, I shall be inviting Somervell and Herford to join me.”

  “Couldn’t say fairer than that,” said George.

  “Possibly,” said Finch. “But who are the RGS’s candidates?”

  “Hinks, a fellow called Raeburn, and a General Bruce, so our numbers will be equal.”

  “That leaves Younghusband with the casting vote.”

  “I have no problem with that,” said Young. “Younghusband’s been an excellent president of the RGS, and his integrity has never been in question.”

  “How very British of you,” remarked Finch.

  Young pursed his lips before adding, “Perhaps I should point out that the RGS will only be selecting those members of the party who will be responsible for drawing up detailed maps of the outlying district and collecting geological specimens, as well as flora and fauna that are unique to the Himalaya. It will be up to the Alpine Club to choose the climbing party, and it will also be our task to identify a route to the summit of Everest.”

  “And who’s likely to lead the expedition?” asked Finch, still not giving an inch.

  “I expect it will be General Bruce. He’s served in India for years, and is one of the few Englishmen who is familiar with the Himalaya as well as being a personal friend of the Dalai Lama’s. He would be the ideal choice to take us across the border into Tibet. Once we reach the foothills of Everest and have established base camp, I will take over as climbing leader, with the sole responsibility of ensuring that it’s an Englishman who is the first man to stand on the roof of the world.”

  “I’m an Australian,” Finch reminded him.

  “How appropriate that another member of the Commonwealth will be standing by my side,” said Young with a smile, before adding, “Perhaps it might be wise for us to begin our descent, gentlemen. Unless you were planning to spend the night on top of this mountain?”

  George put his goggles back on, excited by Young’s news, although he suspected that Finch had provoked him to reveal far more than he had originally intended.

  Young placed a sovereign on the highest point of the Matterhorn, bowed, and said, “His Majesty pays his compliments, ma’am, and hopes you will allow his subjects a safe journey home.”

  “One more question,” said Finch.

  “And only one,” said Young.

  “Do you have any idea when this expedition plans to leave for Tibet?”

  “Yes,” replied Young. “It can’t leave any later than February next year. We’ll have to establish base camp by May if we’re to have time to reach the summit before the monsoon season sets in.”

  Finch seemed satisfied with this reply, but George could only wonder how Mr. Fletcher, the newly appointed headmaster of Charterhouse, would react to one of his staff requesting a six-month leave of absence.

  Young led them slowly back down the mountain, not wasting any words on small talk until they were on safer ground. When their hotel came into sight, he uttered his last words on the subject. “I would be obliged, gentlemen, if this matter was not referred to again, even between ourselves, until the Foreign Office has made an official announcement.”

  Both men nodded. “However,” Young added, “I hope you don’t have anything else planned for 1915.”

  Finch was on his way down to dinner, dressed in an open-necked shirt, flannel trousers, and a sports jacket, when he spotted Mallory at the reception desk writing out a check.

  “Off on another little adventure, are we?” inquired Finch, looking down at the suitcase by Mallory’s feet.

  Mallory smiled. “Yes. I have to admit that you’re not the only man I’m trying to stay a yard ahead of.”

  Finch glanced at the label attached to the suitcase. “As there are no mountains that I’m aware of in Venice, I can only assume that another woman must be involved.”

  George didn’t reply as he handed his check to the clerk standing behind the counter.

  “Just as I thought,” said Finch. “And as you’ve already implied that I’m something of an expert when it comes to the fairer sex, allow me to warn you that trying to juggle two women at once, even if they do live on different continents, is never easy.”

  George grinned as he folded his receipt and placed it in an inside pocket. “My dear Finch,” he said, “allow me to point out that there has to be a first woman before there can be a second.” Without another word he picked up his suitcase, gave Finch a thin smile, and headed toward the front door.

  “I wouldn’t repeat that when you come face to face with Chomolungma for the first time,” said Finch quietly. “I have a feeling that particular lady might well turn out to be an unforgiving mistress.”

  George didn’t look back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THURSDAY, MARCH 26TH, 1914

  EVER SINCE HE had set eyes on her at Westbrook, George hadn’t been able to get Ruth out of his mind, even when he was climbing. Was that the reason Finch had reached the top of the Matterhorn before him, and Young had chosen Somervell and Herford to join him on the Everest Committee? Was Finch right when he had suggested that at some time George would have to decide between them? No choice was necessary at the moment, thought George, as both the ladies in question were studiously ignoring him.

  George had slipped away from Zermatt on Tuesday night, leaving his colleagues to settle their differences with one or two of the lesser peaks. He boarded the train for Lausanne, changing at Visp, where he spent most of his time planning how they might casually bump into each other—that was, assuming he managed to find her.

  As the train rattled along, George couldn’t help thinking that although mountains were not to be depended on, at least they remained in one place. Wouldn’t it be all too obvious that he’d traveled from Switzerland to Italy specially to see her? He knew one person who would work it out immediately.

  When George disembarked at Lausanne, he purchased a third-class ticket on the Cisalpino to Verona, from where he would join the express for Venice. There was no need to waste money on a more expensive ticket when all he intended to do was sleep. And he would have slept if he hadn’t been seated next to a Frenchman who clearly felt that every dish he ate should be liberally laced with garlic, and whose snoring rivaled the engine for noise.

  George was able to grab only a few moments’ sleep before the train reached its destination. He had never visited Venice before, but Baedeker’s guide had been his constant companion for the past month, so by the time he stepped out onto the platform at Santa Lucia, he knew the exact location of every five-star hotel in the city. He even knew that the Firenze was the first hotel in Europe to offer what they described as an en-suite bathroom.

&nbs
p; Once the waterbus had dropped him off at the Piazza San Marco, George went in search of the one hotel he could afford that wasn’t miles from the city center. He checked into the smallest room on the top floor, a proper place for a mountaineer, and settled down, desperate for a good night’s sleep. He would, like all well-prepared climbers, have to rise before the sun if he hoped to carry out his little subterfuge. He was confident that the Turners wouldn’t be setting foot outside whichever hotel they were staying at much before ten o’clock.

  George spent another sleepless night, and this time he couldn’t blame garlic or a rattling train, but rather a mattress with no springs and a pillow that had never been introduced to more than a handful of feathers; even his young charges at Charterhouse would have complained.

  He rose before six, and was crossing the Rialto Bridge half an hour later, accompanied by late revelers and a few early morning workers. He took a list of hotels from the inside pocket of his jacket, and set about his quest methodically.

  The first establishment he entered was the Hotel Bauer, where he asked at the reception desk if the Turner family—one elderly gentleman and his three daughters—were guests. The night porter ran a finger down a long list before shaking his head. At the nearby Hotel Europa e Regina, George received the same response. The Hotel Baglione had a Thompson and a Taylor, but no Turner, while the night manager of the Gritti Palace waited for a tip before he even considered answering George’s question, but then gave him the same response. The next hotel refused to divulge the names of its guests, even after George claimed to be a close friend of the family.

  He was beginning to wonder if the Turners had changed their holiday plans until the head porter of the San Clemente, an Englishman, gave a smile of recognition when he heard the name, although he didn’t smile again until George had passed over a large-denomination note. The Turner party, he told him, were not staying at the San Clemente, but they occasionally dined there, and he had once been asked to book a vaporetto to take them back to…He didn’t finish the sentence until a second note of the same denomination had joined the first…back to their hotel. A third note secured the hotel’s name, the Cipriani, as well as the dock where its private water taxi always dropped off its guests.