Raffles: A Perfect Wicket

by Richard Foreman

  I heard the roar of laughter – and the roar of a fire – before I even entered the room. Lord Rosebery immediately got up to address me.

  “Mister Manders, welcome.” His voice was rich and deep. His head was large and his face was round with what I can only describe as puppy fat. If I was being polite I would have called him well built. If I was being accurate however I would have said our former Prime Minister was corpulent. Two inscrutable light blue eyes were rimmed with the redness of sleeplessness. He wore a morning suit of dark serge that, although doubtless expensive, did not seem so.

  “Thank you for inviting me Lord Rosebery.”

  “I shall cut a deal with you Mister Manders. I trust you will be more amenable to negotiation and compromise than the Tories and Liberal Party. But if I am allowed to call you Bunny, then you can call me Archie, or just plain Rosebery.”

  There was a charm to his manner, but yet the request was still tantamount to a patrician order.

  “Archie it is,” I replied as we shook hands. As we did so, Rosebery gave a subtle nod of his head and I was soon in possession of a gin and tonic.

  “I hope that your walk around the grounds was as pleasant as the company you kept,” Rosebery remarked as we sat down. Raffles was ensconced in a chair by the fire, cradling a whisky and soda-water – perfectly at ease with the surroundings and auspicious company.

  “Yes. Thankfully the weather is still mild for this time of year,” I answered, boring myself as well as my host.

  “Lucy is a lovely girl. Although I fear her radicalism may turn me into more of a conservative, sooner or later. But she is both sensible and progressive for the most part – albeit one cannot and should not always marry those two words together. She is very fond of you Raffles. I’m not sure how many times I have had to slyly change the subject when she has started to yammer on about you,” Rosebery drily exclaimed, whilst slyly smiling at Raffles.

  “I would have done the very same. Even I often change the subject when someone talks about me, to me. Else I might fall asleep,” Rafflles drily responded, with his own species of a sly smile upon his face. He could not have known our host for more than an hour, but anyone might have believed that the two men had known each other for years – such was their familiarity and shared sense of humour. “I hope you had a nice afternoon too though Bunny, though doubtless you are glad to see the vista before you of a gin and tonic in your hand. How was Lucy?”

  “You can ask her herself,” a voice chimed in from behind me.

  My mouth was slightly agape from being just about to speak, but also the figure behind the voice looked jaw-droppingly beautiful. I had little time to marvel at how swiftly she had changed, for I was too busy marvelling at the black silk evening dress that she had changed into. She wore little make-up, for nature endowed her with enough beauty. Her hair was pinned up, but a few curls hung down like the myrtle in the garden. I was momentarily speechless.

  “Women’s enfranchisement would progress a lot quicker if more of the suffragettes possessed your wardrobe, as well as views,” Raffles remarked, smiling behind a haze of cigarette smoke.

  Lucy’s instant reaction was to both blush and smile, for I suspect she had changed to make a desired impression on Raffles, and she glowed with satisfaction. But then she chided Raffles by saying that that the suffragette movement was a campaign of substance, not style. My friend just merely then shrugged and turned his gaze towards the fireplace again. I however could not take my eyes of Lucy. Not that she noticed however, as she could not take her eyes off Raffles – as though he were a poem that she could not quite work out the meaning of.

  Chapter 10

  After another drink or two we had a fine dinner, accompanied by even finer wines. Finer still was the company, as I found myself sitting next to Lucy. I sensed she may have been disappointed not to be seated next to Raffles – but yet I was pleased enough for the both of us to be sat next to her. Raffles spent most of the evening deep in conversation with Rosebery. As captivated as I was by my dinner companion I could not help but be distracted on occasion by their discussions. First they spoke about literature, with both agreeing that the great novels of the century by French and Russian authors eclipsed those written by British novelists. Of Flaubert and A Sentimental Education our host remarked, whilst fixing his gaze at Raffles intently, “There is one fine moral pervading every page: the emptiness of a life of pleasure.” My friend nodded his head, albeit I am not sure how much he would have agreed with our host. What they disagreed in earnest about was the greatness of Napoleon.

  “Wellington did not win the battle of Waterloo. Rather, Napoleon lost it,” Rosebery staunchly argued.

  “If you are to argue that ultimately Napoleon defeated Napoleon, I’m content with that. The main thing is that he was defeated. He was a great tyrant, rather than great man, who turned Europe into a charnel house,” Raffles countered.

  But Napoleon was one of only a few things that the pair disagreed upon. I do not believe that Raffles needed to even play a part when he sympathised with Rosebery’s politics, taste in literature and wry sense of humour. Such was the mutual good feeling between the two of them that I even dared to hope that Raffles might desist in his plan to rob our generous host. Yet, when Lucy and Rosebery were briefly both away from the table, my hopes were dashed as quickly as a socialist can delude himself.

  “Tonight’s the night old chap. I’m worried that we may have a house full of restless revellers tomorrow evening. Stay awake. Opportunity – and I – will come knocking upon your door in a few hours.”

  Shortly afterwards Raffles excused himself, explaining that he was tired. Rosebery excused himself also, fearing that he might be left alone in the awkward and unwelcome position of staying up with this dullard. Yet Lucy and I remained chatting for some time afterwards, till she finally took pity on the staff. She spoke of another visit to London and I promised to take her to a new, critically acclaimed production of Richard II.

  “The soliloquy at the end is my favourite, from all of Shakespeare,” she enthused.

  “Love to Richard is a strange brooch in this all-hating world,” I quoted, with perhaps a little too much conviction in my performance. The drink had loosened my lips, or soul. Lucy tilted her head slightly, offered me a sympathetic smile and reached out to take me by the hand. Before she could say anything however a servant entered and asked us if we wanted anything else. I could not quite decide whether I welcomed his appearance or not.

  “I could invite Raffles also to the play,” I mentioned.

  “No, I wish to go with my new friend. But I hope that my new friend will now forgive me for abandoning him. I should go to bed. Thank you for a lovely evening Bunny,” she warmly expressed and bent down and kissed me on the cheek – in a sisterly way more than anything, I judged.

  Whether it was the lingering tingling sensation upon my cheek or the butterflies in my stomach from the imminent job with Raffles which kept sleep at bay, I was duly wide awake when I heard the knock upon my door.

  Chapter 11

  For a brief, tantalising moment I imagined that it might have been Lucy knocking upon my bedroom door - but it was Raffles. His eyes shone, akin to the look he had when he would go out to bat – sensing that there was a big score to be had. We were both in our dressing gowns, although my companion’s garment had special inside pockets sown into it to conceal loot.

  I pleaded with Raffles again to desist in his plan, arguing that we were biting the hand that fed us this evening, that Rosebery had shown us nothing but kindness, that if apprehended we might despoil Lucy’s name too.

  “Rosebery enriched me with his company this evening Bunny, I grant you. But his valuables will enrich me even more,” he replied with devilment in his expression.

  “You can be your own worst enemy sometimes,” I replied in earnest. I also thought him callous in not even addressing the predicament that our larceny could put Lucy in.

  “I know. But thankfully I have you a
s a friend old chap to compensate for my faults,” he countered, smiling and attempting to puncture my seriousness.

  Raffles had an answer, or witticism which could serve as an answer, for everything. It seems that our hushed discussion was over however as he proceeded to walk off, in pursuit of boodle. My eyes were growing accustomed to the dark, as my conscience had grown accustomed to turning a blind eye to my friend’s sins (and consequently my own).

  I duly pursued Raffles. In part, because I hoped to still dissuade him from his course of action. In part, out of loyalty and friendship. And in part selfishly, for somewhere in the crevices of my soul my adventures with Raffles made me feel alive. Was he some kind of Pied Piper or Siren? Or was I a more willing Sancho Panza to his Don Quixote? Let us not forget also that our life of crime did not just finance Raffles’ enviable lifestyle. Yet for how long could we continue to ride our luck? I continually posed this question to myself – especially during a job. I even occasionally wished for our capture, for then I would be free from the constant anxiety of dwelling upon getting caught. Yet I also fancied that, if incarcerated with Raffles, then things would not be all bad – though I feared that the food would not prove as morish as the company.

  Yet one should be careful for what one wishes for. No sooner did this train of thought idly trammel through my mind than a light came on – and I nearly blacked out from shock and terror. Was the game finally up, rather than afoot?

  Chapter 12

  “Are you having trouble sleeping too, gentlemen?”

  Rosebery seemed to briefly scrutinise why his two guests should be creeping around in the dark at such an hour but having the pleasure of our company appeared to trump any feelings of curiosity or suspicion.

  “Come, I wish to show you my home within my home, my sanctuary. It’s where I keep all my most prized treasures,” our host exclaimed, his deep voice sounding somewhat child-like for once. Rosebery led us down a corridor and grinned as he opened a door and switched on the light – to his library.

  Our eyes were stapled open and we were awestruck, more so than if canvases by Stubbs and Gainsborough – or Turner or Titian – were lining the walls. Books and manuscripts sprouted out upon shelves and tables, volumes of all differing sizes and hues. Goosebumps appeared of my skin, more from excitement than the chilled air. Not even King Solomon’s mines contained such riches. The room was the largest in the house, I warrant. Yet it was largely used by just one man. Gladstone had called Rosebery’s library one of the finest in the country. Although a number of my articles may testify to how much I disagreed with the old man on political grounds, I could not contradict him on this matter. A fire hummed in the background and a few clinks could be heard as Rosebery poured us each a glass of claret. Yet a reverent silence pervaded the air as Raffles and I reached for various books rather than our wine glasses, as we each took a tour of the chamber like children in a toy shop. Or we were worshipers in a temple, having found our Holy of Holies.

  I discovered a signed first edition of Hume’s History of England, a volume of Goethe with a personal inscription by Napoleon, signed books and letters by Hugo, Wellington, Pitt, Swift and Newton. The jewels in the crown were a First Folio and King Charles I’s copy of The Book of Common Prayer. I gazed over to my companion and watched him lovingly stroke spines and covers, more so than if he were holding a necklace or priceless cameo in his hands.

  We finally sat down with our host by the fire.

  “Cicero said that a home without books is like a body without a soul. If so, then you have quite the soulful home Archie,” Raffles remarked, shaking his head again in wonderment and lighting a Sullivan.

  “Hmm, Cicero. You have a good name for a horse there Raffles.”

  Thankfully the conversation turned towards literature, rather than the turf, given our surroundings. Rosebery came out with a statement which I shall never forget, although I am not the best judge I dare say as to how much I have heeded his advice over the years.

  “The curse of great novelists as a rule is that after their first success or successes they become inebriated with their triumph and attempt a higher flight in which they are lost in the clouds and become diffuse, or philosophical or what. In this foolish ambition, they drop their own gift, that of telling a story.”

  The conversation finally veered away from literature when Raffles asked about a small, attractive sapphire locket which Rosebery often clasped – and then placed upon the table – and then re-clasped. Our host paused and looked pensive, or pained even, before answering.

  “On the third of January, 1878, at 4.20 I used this locket to propose to Hannah, my late wife. Love – and I must confess not a little alcohol – fuelled my leap of faith. Benjamin Franklin once advised that one should keep one’s eyes wide open before marriage, and half shut afterwards. But I cannot share the cynicism of the great man. I cared for my wife and admired her every day, in an ever-increasing fashion. I have a farrier who often describes his wife as his ‘other half’. Hannah however was my better half.”

  I am ashamed to say that I dozed off shortly after this. Tiredness and the wine got the better of me. When I woke – and I cannot accurately say how long I was asleep for – the widower was still talking about his wife and was growing even more emotional. Ever one to avoid emotional or awkward scenes I pretended to still be asleep – and heard Rosebery recount one of the last conversations he had with his late wife, who had died from typhoid over half a decade ago.

  “’Do you think I shall ever pull through?’ – Hannah asked. I could not lie to her, so I replied that I hoped so. She then remarked, “How short everything is in life, when I think of how you came to Mentmore and brought me the sapphire locket. No one could have made me as happy as you. I sometimes have felt it was wrong that I thought of the children so little in comparison to you. I will try to live for you. Some years hence you may care for someone else – you may forget me. It seems so strange that I should think so much of this: what she may be like. How dreadful it would be if it were the other way.” I replied in earnest by saying that I had prayed to God that he would take me instead of her. She responded, affectionately and sincerely, “That would never do. I could never live a day after you.””

  As much as I was glad of my decision to pretend to remain asleep, such was the broken emotion in Rosebery’s tone – and my desire to witness Raffles’ reaction to this confession – that I subtly lifted one eye to take in the scene as our host gently remarked,

  “When she died our happy home was a wreck, her children were motherless and I had lost the best wife man ever had. I did not – nor do not – see the elements of consolation, except in the memory of her beautiful, unselfish life.”

  Tears ran down Rosebery’s otherwise still face, as he mournfully gazed into the fire. If this portrait did not sadden me enough, I then looked over at my dearest of friends to find tears glistening upon his cheeks too. It was the first time that I had ever witnessed Raffles cry. I thought him incapable of tears, in a similar way that I thought him incapable of ever wearing an ill-cut suit. Yet he grimly stared into the fire too, either in sympathy with our host’s grief – or in mourning for someone dear to him.

  Chapter 13

  Eventually I woke up ‘for real’, once my companions had sufficiently altered the topic of conversation. We all then retired to our rooms shortly after that. What with the servants commencing their chores, Raffles’ window in having the house to himself closed. I slept fitfully, with all manner of thoughts disturbing my rest.

  As the dawn began to pour marmalade coloured light through my window I got up to survey the scene outside. A sea of silvery mist covered the parkland, dulling the greenery but furnishing the landscape with a picturesque beauty all the same. Below me on the veranda, wreathed in the morning mist, stood an enigmatic Rosebery. He was gazing out into the distance. One could not tell whether he was dwelling upon the past, present or future – if hope or despondency was colouring his thoughts. His mood was not just
disguised by the mist. It struck me there and then that, in his unpredictability and inscrutable character, he was akin to Raffles. Raffles remarked, shortly after that weekend, that nobody could divine what Rosebery desired, because he did not know himself. Or he desired so many things as make any one thing suffer from a loss of focus. Or he ultimately desired the impossible – the love of his life back. The thought duly crossed my mind that my friend could have been referring to himself, rather than our host, in some respects.

  I went back to bed and understandably rose quite late. Whilst Raffles and Rosebery took part in a weekly football match near the stables with the staff I happily hid myself away in the library – although my happiness duly increased in being discovered, by Lucy. We chatted for a while, but then a comfortable silence passed between us as we each buried our heads in a book. I could not sometimes help however peer out from behind my copy of Milton to gaze at my companion – and bask in her prettiness.

  A constant stream of guests commenced to arrive from mid-afternoon onwards. Curiosity eventually got the better of Lucy and she disappeared to discover who would be joining us for dinner that evening. Half an hour or so later she returned, breathless yet glowing. She rattled off a list of guests, including the Asquiths, Earl Spencer, a couple of Barings, the editors of The Daily Mail and the Fortnightly Review, a close relation of Otto von Bismarck, a distant relation of our Queen and, heaven help us, the Archbishop of Canterbury. She also added that Sidney and Beatrice Webb, the founders of the new fangled Fabian movement, had just arrived. I did not share Lucy’s delight in the prospect of meeting them. I prayed, to a God that the two men were forever haranguing people not to believe in, that H.G. Wells and George Bernard Shaw – two acolytes of the Fabian religion – were not joining us also for dinner. Thankfully my prayers were answered. Raffles shared my distrust and disdain for the Webbs. Whilst having a glass of wine, before we went in to the dining room, he remarked,