Words of Command (Hervey 12) (Matthew Hervey)

by Allan Mallinson

  ‘Shall I inform the sar’nt-major, Colonel, or will you?’

  ‘I’ll speak with him myself. And then, as you say, we shall let hounds sleep.’

  Malet rose.

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘Colonel?’

  ‘Oh … it’s nothing. Only that I’ve just recalled Lord Hill’s summons today week.’

  ‘You have another appointment?’

  ‘One that I had wished to avoid … But no matter; I must think of something else.’

  ‘There is one more thing, Colonel. Captain Tyrwhitt’s attorney will pay a call tomorrow. I shall then be able to apprise you of the situation … Unless you yourself wish to hear him directly.’

  Hervey shook his head. ‘I have no great fondness for lawyers, Malet. You may see him yourself,’ he replied, before adding, a trifle pained, ‘unless that seems unduly unsympathetic to Tyrwhitt.’

  Malet’s look suggested that sympathy for Tyrwhitt should be measured.

  ‘Very well. I’ll await your report … And now, would you dine with me this evening? I’ve sent a note to Worsley asking the same – with his wife, also. It is a very short notice, but I hope it will serve.’

  ‘I should be delighted, Colonel. Thank you. At what hour?’

  ‘Eight. I shouldn’t wish it too late for Worsley to get back to Richmond.’

  Meanwhile there was yet more paper to attend to.

  But Fairbrother evidently dined elsewhere – as the day previous. He had the acquaintance of two of the Theatre Royal’s company – female company – whom he had met at supper a year before with one of the Covent Garden entrepreneuses, a pretty, Italian-looking flower girl who had intercepted him and Hervey when they were making their way to a gunsmith in Leicester Street prior to leaving for the Levant, and with whom he had lost no time in reacquainting himself on return.

  The flower girl had liked ‘the Captain’, who treated her well and demanded nothing untoward by return, and the actresses were of the same opinion, not least because Fairbrother, as they, had the complexion of warmer climes and the easy manners that went with them – and an air that was somehow protective, like a brother or a cousin, perhaps. They had arranged a box for him last evening, and when the play was over he had taken them to supper; and after a couple of hours’ conviviality had engaged a hackney to take them home across the river, before making his own way to the Strand for the night coach to Hounslow.

  But as he turned into Bull Inn Court, darker-lit than the streets about, there was a scream.

  He at once put his back to the wall and reached in a pocket for his Deringer pistol.

  ‘Help! Help! Murder!’

  He could see but a few yards – a split second to decide: a lure or a female in distress?

  He took off his hat and held it out as a foil, edging down the passage.

  A dozen yards from the Strand – outside the Nell Gwyn tavern, darkened and barred – was a woman crying, kneeling by a man who lay on his side.

  ‘What’s to do? What’s to do?’

  He could get no answer.

  ‘What’s to do, woman?’ he demanded, stepping past to see if there was anyone skulking.

  ‘They’ve killed him,’ she sobbed. ‘Murder.’

  Fairbrother knelt to see if the man were indeed dead.

  There was a groan as he tried to move him, and blood.

  ‘What has happened?’ he asked again.

  ‘They stabbed him, stabbed him … without a word.’

  ‘With a knife? A sword?’

  She just sobbed, shaking her head.

  ‘Didn’t you see?’

  Still no answer.

  ‘I must get a cab, get a surgeon.’

  ‘No,’ she howled. ‘They’ll murder me when you’re gone.’

  ‘Who will?’

  No answer.

  ‘There’s nothing for it but to get him out of this alley. Here,’ he said, giving her his hat and struggling to lift the man so as to drag him the dozen yards into the gaslight of the Strand.

  There were no groans this time – or if there were, he didn’t hear them, the effort to move the dead-weight prodigious.

  The safety of the gaslight quieted the woman, who he now saw was both handsome and young – younger than her gentleman-friend – and dressed as quality. He found the wound, not without difficulty, for the shirt was blood-soaked, took off his necktie and began to staunch the flow as best he could.

  None of the pedestrians showed the instincts of the Samaritan.

  ‘Hail a cab,’ he barked at one of them. ‘A man here’s sorely wounded.’

  It took a compliant passer-by several attempts, for cabmen were not fond of inebriates, as they fancied the fare to be, but after some minutes a hackney did pull up, driven by a man in an old military greatcoat.

  He was inclined to be helpful. ‘There’s the infirm’ry in Vill’ers Street, but they don’t take the likes of this as a rule. Guy’s is the place, I reckon – London Bridge.’

  Fairbrother and the hesitant Samaritan got the man into the cab, but only with difficulty, the door not being wide. Then he handed up the woman, thanked the passer-by, waved to the driver and closed the door behind them.

  The woman had stopped sobbing, but pressed herself into the corner of her seat, with a handkerchief to her mouth, and gazed out of the window fearfully.

  ‘The gentleman was escorting you to a carriage, ma’am, I fancy,’ said Fairbrother, himself sitting back, there being nothing more he could do for the insensible figure at his feet.

  She looked at him as if to ask what or how he knew, then nodded.

  ‘Did you have far to travel?’

  She shook her head.

  There was no knowing whether the man intended travelling with her. Nor did he feel it proper to enquire. ‘We must inform the police,’ he said after a little way more. ‘They will wish to hear your account – and mine.’

  She nodded again, as if resigned.

  ‘Did they rob him of anything?’

  She shook her head.

  Her unwillingness to speak was perhaps understandable, but frustrating too.

  ‘I am Captain Edward Fairbrother, ma’am.’ He gave his rank to reassure, though he did not use it, as a rule.

  She nodded appreciatively, but nothing more.

  ‘You are not, I am to suppose then, the wife of the gentleman?’

  She looked at him anxiously, but said nothing.

  ‘I recognize the gentleman, ma’am. It is General Gifford, is it not?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I’m afraid a coroner’s court, if it comes to that, will demand more answers than I. Why was he attacked?’

  She shook her head again. ‘I don’t know. I saw just the one, but I think there were more. I believe they may have mistaken him for another. The man I saw said, “Laidlaw, you have ruined me”, and then he thrust with a knife – or some such.’

  ‘Forgive me, ma’am, you are a married woman?’

  She looked away.

  ‘And this, therefore, will ruin you.’

  She nodded again.

  Fairbrother fell silent. And then, as the carriage turned for Southwark Bridge, he decided on their course of action. ‘I shall have to give evidence on oath, perhaps, so it is better that I know nothing more. If you were to slip away when we reach the hospital, might your identity remain concealed?’

  ‘It would, sir.’

  ‘And you would take the risk of doing so – the streets unknown to you?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Then it is resolved.’

  His dinner guests gone an hour and more, Hervey put a late shovel of coal on the fire, and poured another glass of claret for his friend. ‘What an extraordinary affair. And she merely disappeared into the night like … like Eurydice.’

  ‘Aye. I wondered if it were right to let her, on that account, for it was a beastly place, all turnings and windings, but she showed no terror. And it was not so very far from the bridge, which was well lit.’ />
  ‘And it was most definitely Gifford?’

  ‘Unquestionably. I saw him so many times in the United Service that I could scarce mistake his features.’

  ‘No, indeed. And what did you do next?’

  ‘When the orderlies at the hospital – which, I must say, is not like any that I have seen; an admirably efficient place – when they had taken him in and I’d given such details as I could, I went to Bow Street by the same carriage – whose driver I took details of, that I could call him as witness if need be – and there I made a deposition to a serjeant of police. After that, being almost three o’clock, I set off to walk to the United Service to see if they would admit me, by way of the new market, where I found a cup or two of very serviceable coffee, and brandy, the market-men most hospitable. And then at about four o’clock I thought better of the United Service and went instead to Piccadilly and got a bed at Hatchett’s, where I slept long … And then I rose and breakfasted in the afternoon before going thence to see a notary to transact a little business, and thence to the hospital for word of the general – and he was by no means dead. So you see, it is not at all amiss that I should return so late, though I am very sorry to have missed evidently so convivial an evening.’

  Hervey shook his head, discomfited by the apology. ‘No, not at all amiss. You are on the half-pay; your time is your own.’

  ‘I meant that I ought to have sent word.’

  ‘It seems to me that you scarce had opportunity. It has indeed been a most convivial evening, though. Mrs Worsley is the most excellent of her sex, and the two are plainly the happiest of couples. Worsley’s quite transformed in her presence.’

  Fairbrother sipped at his wine with unusual moderation. ‘Perhaps I would have intruded.’

  ‘Intruded? How so?’

  ‘Alligator lay egg, but him no fowl,’ he replied, in the accent of the plantation.

  Hervey grimaced. ‘I do wish you’d put that nonsense from your mind.’

  ‘I have no true place here. There’s nothing I can be about in the barracks, and – strange as you may think it – I am now afeard of being idle.’

  ‘Then this is progress indeed! Here, have a little more claret.’

  Fairbrother took the point, and the wine. ‘You know, those market-men were a decidedly rough sort, some of them. The sort you found in the Royal Africans. Yet tractable.’

  ‘You tipped them well, no doubt.’

  ‘I did. And to scour the passageway when it was light for any sign of the affair. I’ll meet with them again in a day or two.’

  Hervey nodded approvingly … ‘And Eurydice’s identity shall be protected.’

  ‘I trust so.’

  He nodded approvingly again. ‘You are the most gallant of fellows, Fairbrother. I count myself the most fortunate of men to have your acquaintance. And Gifford shall, too, if he recovers.’

  ‘If he doesn’t go the way of Eurydice’s lover.’

  Hervey smiled. ‘Yes, indeed. The comparison was more apt than I’d supposed. But Gifford, I should think, is made of sterner stuff.’

  VIII

  NO FOOT, NO HORSE

  Next day

  There was a formula to an inspection of stables, one that Hervey was well acquainted with from many years of inspecting and being inspected – though never before had he entered the stables of a troop other than his own to that end. It was something of a stately dance, indeed, for its purpose was not so much to discover the state of affairs in the horse lines – that much would largely be known by the daily returns and the appearance of the horses on parade – but to assist in the maintaining of that state of affairs by exhibiting to the dragoons the standards that were required; and in the case of the commanding officer inspecting a troop, to hold its captain to those standards, which in turn assisted him in his own scrutiny. (And, indeed, the same principle was applied in the annual inspection of a regiment by the general officer.) There must therefore be occasion to praise, to encourage and to warn, but not, in the case of a commanding officer’s inspection (or indeed a general’s), of finding material fault, for that was to reflect ill on the routine within the troop as a whole – on the non-commissioned officers, the farriers, and the troop officers, and in the case of a general’s inspection of the regiment, on the commanding officer and his staff. And so in this game of questing acknowledgement of efficiency, it was usual that the NCOs’ horses were placed at the nearest and furthest ends of the stable, making the best impression on the inspecting officer as he entered and left. New straw would be laid immediately before he arrived, and the smell of Stockholum tar would pleasantly fill his nostrils instead of ammonia. But it was also necessary for there to be opportunity for the display of displeasure that might ensue from the discovery of actual, though trivial, neglect (however theoretically impossible that neglect might be). A lantern, or some such, a part of which had escaped ferocious burnishing, usually served.

  The purpose of Hervey’s inspection was different, however. He was not intent on playing the admirable game of show so much as making a covert inquiry into the business of casting. He had no idea what he was looking for, only a sense that if there were truly something amiss with the practice and procedure of the regiment it would be manifest in the stable. Tyrwhitt’s troop could have no idea of this purpose, of course, and they had therefore made all the customary preparations. The lieutenant, Mordaunt, on whom command had devolved these past two months, was a capable man, exchanged from the Thirteenth in India when the climate there had begun to make depredations on his constitution, but whose taciturnity had not so far allowed him to become endeared to the mess. The serjeant-major, Prickett, was newly made up, but a sound enough NCO who had risen by the principle of seniority tempered by rejection. Hervey had never served in the same troop as he, but had always known of his solid reputation. The three cornets were the not unusual mixture of idleness, variable competence and unlimited charm.

  At two minutes to ten by the barracks clock, Hervey, the adjutant and the regimental serjeant-major stepped from the orderly room. Waiting outside were the veterinary surgeon and farrier-major, and two orderly corporals. They marched off briskly, past (this being a Friday) the assembled trumpeters on the parade ground, who sounded the ‘Flourish of trumpets’ when the clock struck ten, just as the inspecting party reached the doors of D Troop stables.

  ‘Att-e-en-shun!’

  The stamp of boots and the ringing of spurs echoed impressively in the confined space of the stables, accompanied by whinnying and grunting from those troop horses not yet accustomed to the disturbance of formal inspections.

  Hervey returned the lieutenant’s salute. ‘Good morning, Mr Mordaunt.’

  ‘Good morning, Colonel. Four officers, fifty-two dragoons and forty-seven horses on parade. Fourteen dragoons and horses on detachment.’

  One of the orderly corporals made note.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hervey, taking the whip from under his arm into his right hand, and acknowledging the troop serjeant-major’s salute in turn. ‘At ease, please.’

  Serjeant-Major Prickett barked the words of command, to a repeat of the whinnying and grunting.

  Hervey took a pleasing breath of Stockholum tar as he entered, the NCO closest to the doors coming to attention again as he approached.

  ‘Good morning, Corp’l Farmar.’

  ‘Good morning, Colonel.’

  With his own troop Hervey would have been able to exchange some pleasantry – or, if he were feeling grave, ask some appropriate question – but with another, even though he knew of Corporal Farmar as one of the best rough-riders in the regiment, he was not yet able to do so. He had yet to establish his ‘proprietary position’ rather than mere authority. Besides, on such a mission as today’s he did not wish to be distracted by banter.

  He studied Farmar’s horse, a sleek chestnut mare, from beside the stall-end. Somehow Lord Holderness, doubtless by the expenditure of a good deal of his own money, had been able to maintain the old custom o
f troop colours – to revive it, even, for in India it had been impossible. So that A Troop was once more wholly bay, B was entirely black, as was C; D had light chestnuts, E was meant to be brown (though E, his former troop, returning now from the Cape, had left their troopers behind), and F – when it began to muster – would have blacks too. And, disdaining the regulations still, all the trumpeters’ mounts were grey.

  ‘How long has she been yours, Corp’l Farmar?’

  ‘A year just gone, Colonel.’

  ‘And gone well?’

  ‘Very well, Colonel.’

  ‘“Four white feet, go well without her”?’ (He relaxed his guard – he knew – but it was good to be back in the world of the troop: One white foot, buy him; Two white feet, try him; Three white feet, look well about him; Four white feet, go well without him.)

  ‘Me, I wouldn’t go without ’er, Colonel; never a day lame,’ replied Farmar, smiling.

  Hervey bent to pick up the off-hind.

  ‘Why is it oiled? Since when is a hoof oiled for inspection?’

  The disposition of the stable changed in an instant.

  Farmar could answer only awkwardly, ‘Orders, Colonel.’

  Hervey turned to Lieutenant Mordaunt.

  ‘I … understood …’

  ‘With permission, Colonel,’ said the veterinary surgeon.

  Hervey looked at him, but said nothing.

  ‘In this fierce weather, Colonel, I have advised it is best to protect the foot with an application of oil to the enamel, and of Stockholum tar to the horn.’

  Even the horses were silent.

  Hervey angered, yet to disparage his veterinarian – whose authority with the farriers was always precarious (and with the officers even more so) – in front of such an assemblage as this would be to the detriment …

  ‘I do not question that advice, Mr Gaskoin,’ (though in truth he would) ‘but it has ever been the practice in the regiment that for inspection the foot should be perfectly clean. How else is it to be examined?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Colonel,’ replied Gaskoin, judging it prudent to offer no other answer.