"Bryant! That damned toad!"
"Please, Harry, do not thunder! He was the cleverest conjurer, you remember—"
"He was a low, conniving blackguard! D’you know he once laid a plant on me, made me out a cheat and swindler in front of Bentinck and D’Israeli and half the bloody country …" A dreadful suspicion struck me: had the loathsome Bryant been another of her fancy-men? "When the blue blazes did you know him?"
"Oh, how can I remember? ’Twas years and years since, about the Crimea time, I think, when we were acquainted with Lord Cardigan, and O’Brien or Brand was one of his officers, and showed me ever so many diverting tricks—surely you mind how I used to amuse Havvy and wee Selina with them? No, well, you must have been from home … At all events," says she reasonably, "if O’Bryant once embarrassed you with his jiggery-pokery … would that be the time Papa sent you away to Africa? My, he was a dour man when he wanted to be … well, you can see it was not hard for me to do the like by Billy Cumming, was it?"
There is a tide in the affairs of men when you simply have to chuck it—as, for example, when you learn that the wife of your unsuspecting bosom is a practised thimblerigger who has used her flash arts to ruin an innocent man. For it must all be true: she could never have invented anything so wild—and it fitted the facts and solved the mystery. And while no normal being would even have thought of such a thing, or had the audacity to attempt it, Elspeth has always been that alarming mixture of an idiot and a bearcat for nerve. Being a poltroon myself, I blurted out the first thing that came into my head.
"But, dear God—suppose you’d been caught?"
"Fiddlesticks! Have I not just shown you? And who," she looked droll, "would ever suspect dear old Lady Flashman? Once, perhaps, I was a wee bit gallus, when he was playing with his pencil, and I took his hand as though to write something between us … and pushed a counter over the line. And the silly gommerils all swore in court that he had done it! Why, I was as safe as Coutts' !"
D’you know, looking at that angelic smile, and contemplating what she’d done, I was almost scared of her, for the first time in fifty years. My Elspeth, whose kindly, feckless good nature I’d taken for granted, had confessed with shameless satisfaction to a crime that would have shocked Delilah. If she’d burned Cumming at the stake she couldn’t have done worse by him … and suddenly I found myself thinking of Sonsee-Array and Narreeman and the Dragon Empress and the Amazons and Ranavalona (I’ve known some fragile little blossoms in my time) and their genius for finding a man’s tenderest spot and twisting till he squeals … and realising that my gentle helpmeet was their sister under her cream and roses skin. Well, ex Elspetho semper aliquid novi, thinks I, who’d have believed it, and thank God she’s on my side. But what, in the name of all that was wonderful, could Cumming have done to drive her to such a monstrous revenge?
"I don’t care to' say!" was her astonishing reply when I demanded to be told (not for the first time, you’ll note). Her smile had vanished. "It was too … too outré for words!"
Her vocabulary being what it is, that might mean anything from farting to high treason. I felt an icy clutch at my innards, of rage against Cumming for whatever atrocious offence he might have given her, and of fear that I might be expected to do something dangerous about it, like offering to shoot the swine. But I couldn’t leave it there. Having told her appalling tale with happy abandon, she was now plainly uneasy at my question, frowning and looking askance. "Please do not ask me," says she.
I knew roaring and pounding the table wouldn’t serve, so I waited, pushed back my chair, and patted my knee. "Here, old lady," says I, and after a moment she came round and seated herself on my creaking thigh. "Now then, you’re bound to tell me, you know, and I shan’t be a bit angry either, honest Injun. You can kick twenty Cummings into the gutter, and I’ll lose no sleep, ’cos I know my girl wouldn’t do such a … such a thing without good cause. But I must know why you paid him out—and why you didn’t tell me all about it that night at Tranby." I gave her a squeeze and a kiss and my quizziest Flashy smile. "We’ve never had any secrets from each other, have we?" I’ll fry in Hell, no doubt about it.
"I couldn’t tell you then," says she, nestling against my shoulder. "I feared you would be angry, and might … might tell people … no, no, you would not do that, but you might have done something, I don’t know what, to … to interfere, and spoil it, and prevent him meeting his just deserts, the dirty beast!" Only Elspeth can talk like that with a straight face; comes of Paisley and reading novels. Her mouth was drooping, and there were absolute tears in her eyes. "You see, I knew what I had done was dreadful and … and dishonourable—and you are the very soul of honour!" She said it, God help me. "The chevalier sans peur et sans reproche, that’s what the Queen called you, I heard her—"
"Bless me, did she?"
"—and if I had told you at Tranby, why, you would have been in such a fix, on the horns of Tantalus, whether to speak out, which I knew you wouldn’t ever do, for my sake, or else be an … an accomplice in my dishonourable deed! And that would not have done!" She dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. "So I had to be silent, and deceive you, and I’m so sorry for that, dearest, I truly am—but not for what I did to Billy Cumming, and if you blame me, I can’t help it! Oh, Harry, I have so wanted to confess it all to you, so many, many times, but I was bound to wait until the trial was over, you see, for then it would be too late!" She had her arms round my neck, eyes piteous in entreaty. "Oh, Harry, my jo, can you forgive me? If you don’t, I think I’ll die … for I only did it for love of you and … and your honour!"
You understand now why I said that Elspeth must be allowed to babble to a conclusion if you’re to reach sense at last. Well, we were getting on.
"Dear lass," says I, trying not to wince with my leg cracking under the strain, "whatever does my honour have to do with it? And for heaven’s sake, what did Gordon Cumming do—to make you hate him so, and serve him such a ghastly turn?"
At last it came, in a whisper, her head bowed.
"He … he called you a coward."
I dam' near let her fall on the floor. "What was that?"
"A coward!" Her head came up, and suddenly she was fairly blazing with rage. "He said it to my face! He did! Oh, I burn with shame to think of it, the vile falsehood! The evil, wicked story-teller! He said you had run away from the Seekhs or the Zulus or someone at that place in Africa, Isal-something-or-other—"
"Isan’lwana? God love us, who didn’t?" But she was too angry to hear me, raging on in full spate about how the brazen rascal had dared to say that I had fled headlong, and escaped in a cart while my comrades perished, and had skulked in the hospital at Rorke’s Drift (all true, except the bit about the hospital—a fat chance anyone had to skulk with the roof on fire and those fearsome black buggers coming through the wall), and she had been so distraught by his slanders that she had removed from his presence, nigh weeping, and if she had been a man she would have slain him on the spot.
"To hear him lying in his jealous teeth, the toad, defaming you, the bravest, gallantest, best soldier in all the world, as everyone knows, that have won the V.C. and done ever so many heroic deeds, the Hector of Afghanistan and the Bayard of Balaclava it said in the papers, and I cut them out every one, and keep them, and didn’t I see you fight like a lion against those disagreeable folk in Madagascar, and you brought me away safe and sound, and had followed to the ends of the earth all for my sake, and rescued me, that didn’t deserve it, and you the dearest, kindest valiant knight, so you are …" At which point she buried her face in my neck and howled for a spell, while I moved her fine poundage on to a convenient chair and massaged my numbed limb, marvel-ling at the mysterious workings of the female mind. She continued to cling to me, uttering muffled anathemas against Cumming, and at last came to the surface, moist and pink.
"I would not have told you if you had not pressed me," gulps she, "for it soils my lips to have to repeat his sinful lies. He tried to dishonour you, a
nd I was resolved to dishonour him by hook or crook, if it took a lifetime, and if what I did was dishonourable, too, and underhand and sly, I don’t care a docken! He’s a cur, and that’s what he is, and now every dog on the midden kens what he is!"
It ain’t easy for a sonsy matron with blonde curls to look like the wrath of God, but she was managing uncommon well. She sniffed, defiant and soulful together.
"Now you know the kind of woman you married. And if you spurn me it will break my heart—but I would do it again, a thousand times!" I’ll swear she gritted her teeth. "No one—no one!—speaks ill of my hero, and that’s the size of it!"
And that, dear reader, is why William Gordon-Cumming was cast into outer darkness: because he’d blown on Flashy’s honour. Ironic, wouldn’t you say? It had been his bad luck that where an ordinary wife would have treated his insults with icy disdain, or at most urged her husband to call on the cad with a horsewhip, my eccentric lady had nursed her vengeance for years before ruining him with a stratagem so dangerous (never mind its warped lunacy) that my blood still runs cold to think of it, twenty years on. Social ruin aside, the crazy bitch could have gone to gaol for criminal conspiracy—not that that would enter her empty head, or deter her if it had. The only qualm she’d felt was that if I learned the truth of the disgraceful way she’d engineered Cumming’s downfall, I might recoil from her in virtuous disgust—which only goes to show that after fifty years she knew no more of my true character than I, apparently, did of hers.
And she’d done it all for a mere word: coward (a true word, if she’d only known it). Aye … and for the love of Harry. Well, I ain’t the most sentimental chap, as you know, but as I thought about that, and considered her while she dried her tears … dammit, I was touched. Not many husbands are given such proof of loyalty, and fidelity, and devotion carried to the point of insanity—not that I’m saying she’s mad, mind, but … well, you’re bound to agree there’s something loose up yonder. Still, barmy or not, the little darling deserved every comfort I could give her, and I was about to embrace her with cries of reassurance … when a thought crossed my mind.
She was watching me with pink-nosed anxiety. "Oh, Harry, can you forgive me? Oh, why do you look so stern? Do you despise me?"
"Eh? Oh, lord, no! What, despise you? Good God, girl, I’m proud of you!" And I hugged her, slightly preoccupied.
"Are you sure? Oh, my darling, when I see you frown … and I know that what I did was ignoble and … and unladylike, and not at all the thing, and how could you be proud of me—oh, I fear that you disdain me! Please, dear one, tell me it’s not so!" She put her hands either side of my face, imploring at point-blank, which ain’t helpful when you’re trying to think. I forced myself to sound sincere and hearty.
"Of course I don’t disdain you, you little goose! What, for snookering Gordon-Cumming so cleverly? I should say not! It was the smartest stunt since Tones Vedras, and—"
"Tones who?"
"—and nothing ignoble about it, so don’t fret your bonny head. He’s well served." Damned right; nothing’s too bad for the man who tells truth about Flashy. But that was by the way …
"Oh, Harry!" She was all over me, arms round my neck, fairly squeaking with joy. "Then you are not angry, and I’m truly for-given? Oh, you are the best, the kindest of husbands …" She kissed me for all she was worth. "And all is truly well?"
"Absolutely! Couldn’t be better. So you mustn’t cry any more—make your pretty nose red if you do. Now, what about that tea you were going to ring for?"
She kissed me again and fled from the room, calling for Jane, but in fact to make repairs to her appearance—as I’d known she would when I mentioned her nose. I wanted a moment to reflect.
Cumming was down the drain: excellent. Elspeth was none the worse for her idiotic behaviour; indeed, she’d done me proud in her misguided way, championing my "honour", as she conceived it: excellent again. She’s solved the Tranby mystery, too, albeit her explanation was as staggering as it was undoubtedly true. On only one little point had she been reticent, and it was exercising me rather.
The whole world knew I was one of the few who’d escaped the Isan’lwana massacre in ’79, but that was no disgrace since there were no living witnesses to my terrified flight, and if Cumming chose to make the worst out of it, much good it would do him, with my heroic reputation. But that was by the way, since I’d gathered that he’d confided his opinion to Elspeth alone: the point was, when precisely had he done so, and in what circumstances? I didn’t doubt he’d called me a coward, you understand, but it ain’t the kind of thing a fellow says by way of social chat over the tea-cups, is it? "Ah, Lady Flashman, delightful weather, is it not? And did you enjoy The Gondoliers? Such jolly tunes! No, I fear the dear Bishop’s health is not what it was … by the by, did I never tell you, your husband’s a bloody poltroon who ran screaming from Isan’lwana? Oh, you hadn’t heard … ?" No, hardly.
In my experience, which is considerable, observations like "coward" are usually made fortissimo at the climax of a first-rate turn-up between a lady and gentleman most intimately acquainted … a lover’s quarrel, perhaps? You’ll recall that Cumming was among those I’d suspected of dancing the honeymoon hornpipe with my dear one in days gone by; it had been no more than my normal suspicion of her, and had gone clean out of my head during the Tranby scandal, but now it was back with a vengeance. Yes …’twould be about ten years since she’d dropped Cumming’s acquaintance abruptly, and my lurid imagination could conjure up the scene in some silken nest of sin around South Audley Street, circa 1880, Cumming all moustachioed and masterful in his long combinations and my adulterous angel bursting proudly out of her corset as they slanged each other across the crumpled sheets of shame. God knows I’ve been there often enough myself, when passion has staled to moody discontent, sullen exchanges wax into recrimination, the errant wife makes odious comparisons to the lover’s disadvantage—and that’s the moment when Lothario, cut to the quick, speaks his mind of the cuckolded husband. "Your precious Harry’s not so much of a man, I can tell you …" followed by a shriek of indignation and the crash of a hurled utensil … aye, that’s how it would have been, devil a doubt; try as I might, I couldn’t picture it any different: Cumming must have been the little trollop’s lover, to call me a coward to her face. If this wasn’t proof, nothing was.
I sat brooding darkly, remembering the straw sticking to the back of her dress after she’d been in the woods with that randy redskin Spotted Tail; Cardigan with his pants round his ankles and her in bare buff when I blundered boozily out of the cupboard where I’d been asleep; the shiny black boots that had betrayed her assignation with that smirking swine Watkins or Watney or what-ever the hell his name was; her preening herself in her sarong before that oily pirate Usman who’d diddled me at cricket … and heaven knew how many others of whom I’d feared the worst. Time and again I’d been torn by jealous unproven suspicion, and resolved to have it out with her … and shirked at the last ’cos I’d rather not know. Well, not this time, bigod; I felt my anger rising as I remembered her protestations that she’d only done the dirty on Cumming to avenge my "honour"—ha! Like as not her true reason for wreaking vengeance on him was because he’d kicked her out of bed … But if that were so, she’d never have said a word to me about laying a plant on him, would she? Oh, lord, were my foul imaginings getting the better of me yet again; was I judging her by my own murky lights? So many times I’d faced this same hideous question: Elspeth, true or false? It was high time I had an answer, and I was going red in the face and growling as she came tripping back into the room, plump and radiant, no sign at all of her recent distress.
"Jane is bringing fresh tea, and some of those little German biscuits, and oh, you’re not angry with me, dearest, and all is --She stopped short in dismay. "Why, Harry, whatever is the matter? Why are you scowling so? Oh, my love, what is it?"
I had risen in my jealous wrath. Now I sat down again, marshalling my words, while she viewe
d me in pretty alarm.
"Elspeth!" says I … and stopped short in turn. "Ah … what’s that? Bringing tea, is she? Well, now … ah, what about a pot of coffee for the old man, eh? Scowling? No, no, just this leg o' mine giving me a twinge … the old wound, you know … Here, you come and sit on t’other one, and give us a kiss!"
As the black chap said in Shakespeare’s play, ’tis better as it is.
Appendix
It hardly seemed worth while to give footnotes to Flashman' s account of the Tranby Croft affair, since almost all of them would have led the reader to the same authority, W. Teignmouth Shore’s The Baccarat Case: Gordon-Cumming v. Wilson and Others, 1932, in the Notable British Trials Series. It contains a full transcript of the trial, with notes and comments, and is the best and fullest work on the subject. Other books which touch on the case and related matters include Margaret Blunden, The Countess of Warwick, 1967; Piers Compton, Victorian Vortex, 1977; Philippe Julian, Edward and the Edwardians; and an anonymous work, The Private Life of the King, 1901.
Teignmouth Shore published his book "to win justice for the memory of a man much wronged", and nailed his colours to the mast with his opening quotation from Truth, which asserted after the trial that a dog would not have been hanged on the evidence that convicted Gordon-Cumming. It was an opinion shared by many, and if Flashman is to be believed, they were right.
His view of the verdict aside, Mr Shore makes several points of interest. He describes the outcry against the Prince of Wales as outrageous, and one has to agree that whatever the faults of the future King Edward VII, he hardly deserved the storm which burst over his hapless head from a press which knew a ripe scandal when it saw one, and was only too glad of a royal scapegoat. Mr Shore wondered if any newspaper "of high standing" in 1932 would have been so censorious. Perhaps not; he did not live to see the 1990s. At the same time, the Prince showed lamentable judgment when the cheating allegation was first brought to his notice, and Mr Shore is plainly right when he suggests that the sensible thing would have been to insist on accused and accusers thrashing the matter out on the spot. There was indeed a remarkable lack of common sense in the way the affair was handled, and in the pathetic belief that it could be kept quiet. Obviously (as Flashman confirms) panic struck not only the Prince and his advisers, but Gordon-Cumming also, or he would never have signed the damning document.
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