Dire Shenanigans (The Making of a Man Series, Book 2)

by Andrew Wareham

  Fortescue spent his last evening in Washington in the company of an acquaintance who worked as a junior to the United States Secretary of State, Mr Seward. Wagner was no more than a clerk in Seward’s office, but was yet able to speak occasionally to the great man. Fortescue told Wagner of the events in Kansas City and of the background to them, of the English organising killings on American soil; of their own, admittedly, but still an insult to the United States. He named names.

  The Ambassador was summoned on the following afternoon and was subjected to an unpleasant half an hour of interrogation about the precise function of Lord Robert Kuyper and of the exact nature of Major Richard Burke. He denied everything, admitted nothing, but was forced to state that he had heard rumours of some plot hatched in Mayfair by particularly foolish members of the British Upper Classes. He also said that he was quite certain the affair had come to nothing.

  “Buried deep in the Kansas dirt, Your Excellency?”

  “I understand that information was received too late to be acted upon in London and that the gentlemen were missed in Canada.”

  “But Major Burke, the renowned shootist, did not miss, I presume, my lord!”

  The Ambassador really did not know about that, he said; in fact he knew very little at all when it came down to hard facts.

  Lord Robert accompanied Dick out of Washington next day, taking the fastest train to New York and then on to Boston where tickets awaited them on a liner bound for Glasgow and sailing on the next tide. They were on the high seas before any action could be taken against them.

  “I have diplomatic immunity of course, Major Burke. You do not and your arrest was possible, however unlikely. We shall, by the way, arrive in Scotland some two days before Mr Fortescue reaches Liverpool – he does not sail till tomorrow in a slower ship. He will be taken up at dockside, I doubt not.”

  “What will happen to him, my lord?”

  “Nothing, except that he will be taken to London in manacles and will, on request, be released into the custody of his father while matters of treason are investigated. His family will not be best pleased with him, I believe. He will be seen in the First-Class carriages of the London train and someone will spread the word, possibly – well, certainly, actually - even to reach a speculative column in a newspaper. He will regret ever opening his mouth, that I can assure you, sir!”

  They dined in the first-class saloon, as was only to be expected. To his great amusement, Dick found he was a known personage while Lord Robert was merely a minor figure in his train. He made the acquaintance of a number of young ladies of Boston families, making the crossing in company of their mothers, rarely both parents, to visit acquaintances in London and perhaps secure a desirable and titled husband; all were rich and two were indiscreet and provided him with an amount of entertainment and exercise in an otherwise uneventful voyage.

  They took the night train south to London, sole passengers in a comfortable compartment in which they were able to doze stretched out on the seats for most of the hours of darkness. A good breakfast served to waken them so that they left the train at Euston in reasonably human condition, unlike the passengers from the cheaper classes who had sat upright all night.

  They were three days under interrogation by the Foreign Office and various functionaries from the War Department. In the end it was agreed that young Mr Fortescue was the villain of the piece, as they had maintained from the very beginning.

  “The Tarletons and the Fellowes have received word of their sad losses, Major Burke. They have also been given word that Whitehall is displeased, in the extreme, that the young gentlemen had lent themselves to a scheme of murder against allies of Her Majesty’s Government. There had been a probability that the Marquis would be admitted to the Order of the Garter at the next vacancy; that will not now occur. The Fellowes will not be invited to visit at Balmoral with Her Majesty this year. It will become known in Society that the families are not in good odour. The finger of blame will be pointed at the Fortescues, of course.”

  “I have been away in the States for some time, sir. I am not certain of the exact significance of all this.”

  “Socially, Major Burke, they will be frowned upon. Daughters making their come-out will find it far harder to make a good match as a result. Where a girl with a portion of ten thousand might have been considered a good choice because of her family, she will now be shunned; effectively, Major Burke, she will have to come with forty or fifty thousands to be so desirable, which will irritate the fathers no end! As well, two of the younger sons of the Tarletons have political ambitions; they will not become Ministers of the Crown this decade because of their family’s indiscretion. The Fortescues, who were rising in the world, will find themselves slapped down again, will probably discover themselves unwelcome in the drawing rooms of the aristocracy, cold-shouldered by the Upper Ten Thousand. They will join the ranks of the rich merchants and the County, from which they have taken twenty years to rise. They have, I believe, a sheep farm in Australia, inland from what was the old Botany Bay; the young man will, I expect, be sent there, not even accorded the comfort of a tea plantation in India.”

  “He named names, Major Burke!”

  Lord Robert shook his head – there was only one unforgivable sin, and young Fortescue had committed it; his whole family would regret that into the next century.

  “Might I enquire how this affects me, sir? Mine was one of those names, after all.”

  “You must not return to America for two years, Major Burke. All will be officially forgotten after that. It would be better for you to stay out of London for the same time. Other than that? I do not believe you will discover any ill effects.”

  “Fellowes, before he died, claimed that the Marquis would seek revenge on me. Should I not carry a pistol on my person?”

  “No, sir. I can assure you that no such action will occur. Government – Whitehall, at least – will make it very clear to the family that more than disgrace would follow such unwisdom.”

  “Then I shall take myself off to Liverpool, sir.”

  “You should not, Major Burke. I am informed, of this morning, that your father, Sir Godby Burke, is unwell. You should, sir, use the afternoon service from Waterloo to Poole. You have two hours in hand, sir, will be easily able to catch the train. You have my commiserations, sir.”

  It was plain that the Old Man was on his deathbed. A pity, but to what extent was it a grief?

  ‘Not much’ was his conclusion as he sat back in his train, standing out in his American clothes – their cut and style superficially English, but not quite to the educated eye. He must make his way to Dorchester, if he had the time; there was an acceptable tailor there.

  He had forgiven his father, had accepted that his abuse had been partially mistaken but almost inevitable bearing in mind how different they were. He still wondered about his mother, but he had been unable to find any local person with a recollection of her – and that roused suspicions in itself.

  Forgiveness did not equate to affection, however – he might no longer regard his father as an enemy, but he could not see him as a dear friend. He made a vow to himself that, if he should ever marry and produce a son, then he would do better. Then he shrugged and forgot the whole matter.

  At Poole he changed to the local that took him out into the sticks, sitting almost in isolation in the First-Class compartments. It was not done for passengers to speak to each other unless they were already introduced, so he sat an hour in silence observing the low hills slowly passing by. It occurred to him that it was a poor countryside – the few farms he saw beaten down and ill-maintained. There was very little money here, less of wealth even than could be seen in the eastern states in America.

  Once in Blandford he hired a coach and pair and, still in silence, completed his journey to Burkes. It had taken him longer from Poole to the house than from Waterloo down the main line.

  The great door opened and Briggs bowed him inside, welcoming him with a degree of rel
ief.

  “Mr Richard! We did not know whether you were to be found in England, sir. Sir Godby will be very pleased to see you, sir.”

  The butler did not add ‘for the last time’, but his manner made it clear.

  “Where is my father, Briggs?”

  “In his bed, sir. He has been there these last four days.”

  That spoke for itself. The Old Man drove himself unmercifully – if he was abed then he was categorically unable to rise, and almost certainly never would do so again.

  “Compos mentis?”

  “Wholly, sir.”

  “Then I shall go up to him. Is Sergeant Bill in the house?”

  “He has been here for two days, Mr Richard.”

  “Good. My father will value his presence.”

  “And yours, sir.”

  “As you say. By the way, Briggs, for the benefit of any outsiders and not of overwhelming significance in the house, I am now commissioned as a regular Major of Engineers in England, so must bear that title. I have permission to use my American decoration in Britain.”

  Briggs thanked him – correct address was a matter of importance. When, for example, the death notice was placed in the columns of the Times then the heir must be referred to as ‘Major Sir Richard Burke, CMH, RE’. It was a butler’s function to know such things, and to ensure that everyone else who mattered did as well.

  “Uniforms, sir? Have you been measured for Dress?”

  The tailor in Dorchester was accustomed to the demands of the military and would be able to supply his needs, certainly with a cut sufficient for an Engineer officer. A guardee might demand the services of Savile Row, but a lowly Engineer could make do with the provinces.

  “Tomorrow, Briggs?”

  “It should be possible, sir. The doctor expects a few days yet.”

  Upstairs and a weak handshake from the tiny figure in the big bed. The Old Man had shrunk, or perhaps it was only that the imposing presence had dissipated – he was simply less.

  “I am glad to see you again, Richard. I hoped I might. Can you stay for a few days?”

  The weak voice tailed off and he stayed mute a minute or two, regaining the energy to say more.

  “It won’t be long, I think, my son.”

  “It seems not, sir.” There was no gain to insulting the Old Man by claiming that he would soon feel better. “Would you wish for the presence of a, what do you call ‘em, a rabbi, is it not?”

  “I’ve lived half a century without one and have not felt the loss, my son. I do not need a priest of any sort now. But, it was a kind thought, even so. Tell me, what have you been doing in America to win this great medal of yours?”

  Sergeant Bill entered the room as Dick spoke, telling the whole tale, unadorned but uncensored as well – if one could not speak truth to a dying man, there was something wrong with the world.

  The Old Man smiled and reached out a hand.

  “I thought I was a hard man, my son. I pale in your shadow, sir! Well done!”

  Sergeant Bill added his congratulations, ungrudgingly.

  The Old Man dropped off and the medical attendant recommended by the doctor came to sit at his side against sudden need. The two men left the room, walked downstairs shoulder by shoulder.

  “He will sleep till morning, Major. We will not see him again tonight. The doctor expects him to fade over the week, to sleep more and wake less until finally he slips into coma. It is an easy way to go, at least.”

  “Then I can seek the services of the tailor in the morning, and beg that he equips me fully for the funeral and the days thereafter.”

  “The coach first thing, Major. I will see to it.”

  They dined together, talking business and idly laying plans for the future.

  “What of Miss Parsons, Major?”

  “You know, that is a very good question, Sergeant Bill. I must not return to America for at least two years, for being blown upon there. For all I know, government may demand that I travel elsewhere on its service, and they have me trapped to an extent with this commission which I did not seek but cannot easily resign. I need their protection, I discover, having shot the sons of two of our great families – I might find myself vulnerable indeed was I to reject their sheltering hand.”

  Sergeant Bill showed his understanding; he was not in fact too distressed by the discovery that he must continue to play an important part in the business.

  “And Miss Parsons, Major?”

  “I suspect that she knows the answer to that question, you know. She would be a very sensible wife, but I am damned if I know if that is what I want!

  Book Two: The Making

  of a Man Series

  Chapter Eight

  The uniform was delivered just in time for Dick to wear it for his father to see. The Old Man was pathetically gratified, weak enough that all of his façade was gone and he was vulnerable to the world.

  “From shtetl to an estate of my own… Born a Yid and dying with a son in the uniform of an English officer… I may burn in Hell, but I have done one thing… Sod them all…”

  He spoke no more.

  “I am tempted to put that on his gravestone, Sergeant Bill. As good a set of last words as ever I have heard.”

  “I agree, Sir Richard. He was a hard man and died well and bravely. One can do no more. Mr Peckham is here and would wish to discuss Sir Godby’s Will, I believe.”

  “The Last Will and Testament of Sir Godby Burke, first baronet, attested in my presence some five months ago, gentlemen. Do either of you know of a more recent document? It is always possible that a man on his deathbed may wish to alter or amend a Will, or add a codicil to it.”

  “I have no knowledge of any other Will, sir.”

  “Nor I,” Sergeant Bill added. “We might wish to consult Josh Painter and Briggs the butler, Mr Peckham.”

  The two who had been closest to Sir Godby in his last months said they were sure he had written no other document.

  “With your permission, Sir Richard, the two gentlemen should remain, having been mentioned in the Will.”

  “Of course, Mr Peckham.”

  “Let us then read the document. Ignoring the preliminary legal formulae, gentlemen, the meat, as it were, of the Will is as follows:

  ‘To Briggs, in token of the debt of gratitude I have to him, a lump sum of one thousand pounds and a pension of two hundred pounds per annum, payable in advance at Mr Peckham’s office. That cottage belonging previously to the second groom and now empty to be his rent-free till his death.’

  “That is generous indeed, Mr Peckham.”

  ‘To Mr Painter, the sum of two hundred pounds in cash and I commend him to my son’s service.’

  “Can you manage a factory, Mr Painter?”

  “Why, I do not know, Sir Richard. I saw the new places Sir Godby had caused to be built travelling with him and think I could do so, but I cannot guarantee so.”

  “There will be one way of finding out. We will discuss the matter later.”

  Briggs and Painter left the room, Briggs seeming anxious and begging the privilege of a word later.

  ‘To Mr William Williams, the sum of twenty thousand pounds and my thanks and hopes for a prosperous future. Farewell, sir!’

  “God bless you, Sir Godby! I will wish to remain in your employment, Sir Richard, unless you desire otherwise?”

  “For all the years you wish, Mr Williams!”

  “Then I will leave you as well, sir – for the rest of the Will is none of an employee’s business!”

  “The Will is a long document, Mr Peckham, and I believe you are not one half of the way through it yet, sir.”

  Peckham demurred; it was essentially a simple document, the length caused by the sole exception.

  “There are provisions made for the sums to be paid out to the two children now officially the offspring of one Jonathan Carter, Gent, of Ilfracombe in Devon.”

  “Who?”

  “The father of the two children born to Mrs
Richard Burke but sired in adultery and adopted by order of the High Court of Justice and now known in law as Richard and Helen Carter. The details were a little complicated but involve anonymous and quite small Trust Funds, Sir Richard. The main clause of the Will is relatively short, Sir Richard.”

  ‘To my son first my apologies and then my respect for his attainments. He is truly a man and I was wrong to doubt him. The house Burkes and the Home Farm to Sir Richard in entail in the male line, thus ensuring a proper family home for the Burkes.’

  “The entail is written, Sir Richard, and is properly attested. Details are in my files, if ever they should be necessary to you, sir. To return to the Will.”

  ‘The sum of fifty thousand pounds currently invested in Consols to be placed to the credit of Sir Richard Burke in the bank of his choice.’

  “Consols cannot be transferred, Sir Richard, except in a Trust Fund, and must be sold and the cash passed across to you. That was put in hand the instant I heard of Sir Godby’s death. Probate will be a formality and I shall assume it to be granted, as is normal practice when it is inconceivable that there can be another heir of the body.”

  ‘Two factories producing Mrs Bowell’s tonics and eight chemists shops to descend to Sir Richard in fee simple.’

  "They are yours to retain or dispose of as you wish, sir."

  ‘The remainder of the estate, amounting to some one hundred and forty thousand pounds held in stocks and shares, to be placed in Trust, the income to accrue annually to Sir Richard and the capital to be placed in his hands on the birth of his legitimate son. Except, that if that birth shall not occur within ten years, then the whole sum shall become the property of the Lord Lieutenant of Dorsetshire and to be used by him for charitable purposes.’

  “Sir Godby felt that you should be encouraged to settle to an early domesticity, Sir Richard, and should not make the mistake that he did in later age. He also said that it would pay you back for his two thousands and his horse.”