by Parry, Owen
“Oh, but must you rush off?”
I failed to anticipate him. “You . . . but you have dinner guests, I believe? Don’t you—”
He waved such cares away with a jovial gesture and sat back down. “Mrs. Disraeli provides more than adequate compensation for my absence. No, Major Jones, now that you have ‘bagged your game,’ you must let me profit from your experience.”
I sat me down again, with a feeling grown uneasy.
“Really, Major Jones! I have underestimated you frightfully! You must forgive me, I beg you.” He leaned forward in that slight way of his. “I’m unspeakably relieved to know that those letters are in trustworthy hands at last. They’ve been a terrible burden to me. But . . .” He underscored the question with a tightening of his eyebrows. “ . . . why do you think it is that Reggie Pomeroy’s wife sold those letters in the first place? What benefit could she possibly have expected that might outweigh the risk to her worried husband? How much money do you think she asked?”
“Such a suggestion,” I replied, “is abominable, sir.”
“Ah,” Mr. Disraeli said happily, “that is one point upon which your views and mine coincide. I have often found the truth abominable. Insistent, as well.”
“She would not . . . no lady could have done such a thing!”
“But there we disagree, Major Jones. I have always found the fairer sex remarkably capable. Have you, by the way, ever met Mrs. Pomeroy? Young Reginald’s wife? In whom you have taken so great an interest?”
“I have not, sir, but—”
“Another word that has changed the course of nations! Indeed, a sometimes deadly word, infernal: ‘But.’ You have not met her, then? What a terrible pity.”
“I believe she is ill and incommoded. And . . . if she did sell . . . if . . . perhaps . . . her health . . . perhaps she was in need . . .”
“I must plead ignorance,” Mr. Disraeli said, as he emptied the final drop from his glass of sherry. “I had no idea Mrs. Pomeroy was in poor health.”
“She has been terribly ill, sir. A child was lost.”
At that, his smile grew unmistakably genuine. And cruel. “We do not speak, I take it, of young Pomeroy himself?”
“Sir . . .” Oh, there was a dreadful twisting at the bottom of my stomach, and not only from an abundance of Spanish oranges. “ . . . if you please . . . the lady has a secret she must protect.”
“What lady doesn’t?”
“You must be mistaken . . .”
Mr. Disraeli assumed the expression of a benevolent elder, bent on imparting knowledge to a boy. “Major Jones, I have, at certain times in the past, occupied myself with the composition of novels, an endeavor evocative of the political field in that a man must condition himself to the keenest observation of manners and character. And it has never failed to be an inspiration to me how a young man, captivated by his passion for a particular woman, will believe whatever she may see fit to tell him, no matter its absurdity. Such young men demonstrate a magnificent faith in the veracity of the beloved, one that routinely strains credulity. But, then, I never have understood faith in any of its profounder forms. I take life as I find it, you see. And I cannot say I feel any the poorer for my deficiency.”
“You expect me to believe that Mr. Pomeroy’s wife betrayed him? And sold the letters he wrote to her? Knowing the danger in which her husband might find himself? And jeopardizing all their private matters?”
“Major Jones, I don’t ‘expect’ you to believe anything. That is your affair entirely. I merely offer friendly observations.”
“Friendly, is it?”
“You do seem to have some difficulty in sorting your friends from your enemies. Indeed, I’ve been holding out the hand of friendship to you with uninterrupted consistency. But you display a certain reluctance to embrace my offer.”
What might I have said?
With a regretful wave of his head, Mr. Disraeli continued, “I recognized your value from the first, Major Jones. And let us be frank: Isn’t mutual value the basis of all friendships? Although we like to paint them in finer colors? Haven’t I entrusted you with those letters?” He pointed to the missives in my hand. “Would I entrust so delicate a matter to a man I did not believe I could trust without reservation? How do you Americans define friendship, if I may ask?”
I thought of Mick Tyrone, and of Jimmy Molloy. But let that bide.
Mr. Disraeli rose again, with a brief tut-tutting. He was the quietest man afoot that ever I did know this side of the Khyber. Save perhaps an American-Indian fellow, Broke Stick, who had crept through Mississippi—but that is another story. Mr. Disraeli seemed to glide across the carpet, and you heard naught but the hiss of his gleaming leather pumps.
“I believe,” my host resumed, “there is another American expression, to the effect that ‘seeing is believing.’ I suppose I shall have to offer further proof of my consideration toward you, Major Jones. Just as you were so kind in your suggestion that my reputation wanted preservation from the public’s misapprehensions. Indeed, circumstances have afforded me the ability to offer an identical service to you.”
I did not know what on earth he meant. But I did not think I would like it.
“You are, sir,” he continued, “a man of remarkable and varied accomplishments. I’m told you even served in the ranks, in India?”
“I did, sir,” I said cautiously. “In a John Company regiment.”
“And you served quite handsomely, I’m given to understand. Almost heroically, one might say?”
“That is not for me to judge.”
“No,” he said, in a thoughtful voice. “No, indeed not. Finally, it has been suggested—by a well-intentioned gentleman in the Indian Records Office—that you suffered a certain misfortune. As things were sorting themselves out in the wake of the Mutiny. The result of which was a medical declaration to the effect that you were no longer fit for duty. ‘Mad of a fever,’ I believe the examining officer put it.” He had come quite close to me, until he almost hovered over my chair. “I must say, you don’t look the least bit mad to me. Sitting there so pleasantly in a Morocco armchair. In mufti for the evening, but currently serving as an officer in the military arm of the United States.”
“I am not mad,” I said slowly. “Nor was I then.” Although the truth is that I did not know what my condition might have been properly called. I only know the day arrived when I found myself helpless. I could not kill another unarmed man, which had become our vengeful occupation. I do not pretend to virtue in that regard. Twas only that I found myself unable. And I never had thought to raise my hand in the sin of war thereafter. America it was that called me back to service. Sweet America, and the sight of those helpless boys drilling.
“I was never mad,” I concluded.
“Ah,” Mr. Disraeli said, backing away as if to fetch more sherry. “I do find that a considerable relief! I will take you at your word and we shall declare the charge of madness an odious calumny. Really, it’s an enormous relief! I had supposed myself in a dilemma, you see, but now there’s no question of a madman let loose upon us. With the imprimatur of the Government of the United States. We need not fear embarrassment—or danger—on that count.” He paused before the decanter, but did not touch it. Twas as if he were acting upon a stage. “And so I find my concerns reduced to one: If you are not and were not ‘mad,’ and I am myself confident of your sanity, Major Jones, then the sole liability we face is a charge of desertion.”
He smiled and leaned his coat-tails against the front of his desk. “Might it not embarrass Mr. Adams, and your government—and, not least, yourself, sir—if someone of a malevolent nature were to misconstrue your actions? Imagining that you had perpetrated a hoax to avoid fulfilling your term of service? That you had made a wicked charade of madness out of cowardice in the face of the enemy?” He shuddered for my benefit. “With the best will in the world, I could hardly defend anyone against such a charge. Consider how your odyssey might appear to unfriendly eye
s: Five years ago, you were a sergeant in an Indian regiment, who suddenly refused to do his duty. Who was deemed ‘mad of a fever,’ perhaps in lieu of hanging. Think of it, sir: Such a man returns to England, supposedly an invalid, only to leave, within months, for America. It might look like a case of flight, Major Jones. And now, astonishingly, our innocent returns to Britain’s shores commissioned as a field officer in a foreign army. One whose interests are not entirely coincident with those of Her Majesty.”
Dolefully, he regarded the curlicues in the carpet. “For the present, let us set aside selfish considerations, such as the prospect of your seizure and imprisonment. Let us consider only the public effects. I fail to see what I might do to help, were your history to reach the ears of those who might be anxious to misconstrue it. Lindsay, perhaps. Our ‘Scourge from Sunderland.’ I fear we would hear a speech about the matter in Her Majesty’s House of Commons. Doubtless, from the Lords as well.” He raised his cobra’s eyes. “What might that mean to your cause, sir? And to you?”
“I can explain,” I said quietly.
“I am confident that you can, Major Jones. But, in my experience, explanations are as ineffectual as they are abundant. It is the accusations that interest the general run of mankind. Why, I myself have been the victim of calumnies, years ago, which will not be laid to rest. Although I am certain my explanations are every bit as worthy as your own.” He smiled in a mocking display of sympathy. “No, sir. Our strategy must be designed to avoid such accusations in the first instance.”
“What do you want?”
“Why, your friendship. What else might I desire?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean by ‘nothing’?”
“Why, the same thing poor Cordelia meant: Nothing at all. We, too, must see that ‘nothing shall come of nothing,’ as her royal and dreary father liked to put it. Let us say, ‘Nothing that would inconvenience a friend.’ ”
“Do you know who killed the Reverend Mr. Campbell?” I begged. “And the others?”
“No.” He lifted himself from his perch on the edge of the desk. “Nor do I wish to know. I withdraw myself from any connection to this affair.” He opened his palms toward me. His hands were long and shaped like flames. “I must be certain that no misunderstanding will associate my name with this sordid business. Not so much as a whisper. As my friend, you doubtless will attach the greatest importance to protecting my interests. As I shall protect yours.”
“What do you know?” I fear my voice was not as brave as my intent. For I was shaken, there is true, and I will not deny it. For no man likes to bear a public shame, whether or not his shame may be deserved. And I thought of my wife and son, whose hearts would be broken. Oh, I felt empty as a leaky canteen at the end of a long day’s march. “Can you tell me anything, sir?”
“I know,” Mr. Disraeli said with refreshed aplomb, “that it will take the luckiest of men to emerge from this matter unscathed. And luck is an inconstant companion.”
“Can’t you . . . tell me anything else?”
He faced his bookshelves. I saw his narrow shoulders, the hoodlike rise of his collar, and the shine of scalp through his hair. “I find,” he said, “that I know more than I wish, but not enough to be of any value.”
“Please,” I asked, with a craven tone in my words that left me shamed, “will you just answer one question, sir?”
He turned toward me again. Somber now, his expression said: “Ask, and I shall see.”
“Did you get those letters from the Earl of Thretford?”
He appeared surprised. “From Arthur Langley? Absolutely not. No, not from the Earl.” He canted his head in frank curiosity. “You’re acquainted with Lord Arthur?”
“No, sir. Not acquainted. I only saw him once. He was up to mischief.”
Disraeli returned to his customary smile, part amused and part bemused. “Lord Arthur’s always up to mischief. I’d stay away from him, if I could.”
“But isn’t he a member of your party? A Tory? Like you?”
“Arthur Langley is not in the least ‘like’ me. Major Jones, there is an abundance of members of both parties whose company is infelicitous. Political majorities are not built by an excess of particularity. One must appeal for votes, but we need not find the voters themselves appealing.” Then he thought another step along. “You suspect the Earl’s involved in this matter?”
“He may be,” I said, for I was no longer certain of anything much. “I believe he has a tie with young Mr. Pomeroy. At least, the lad believes he has a tie to the Earl.”
I wondered if I had said too much. But I dared not say too little. Far removed from my earlier confidence, I did not wish to be caught out by my host. I feared him in that hour, for I imagined he might ruin the life I had rebuilt so painfully, and that I might shame the country that had given me a chance to live in decency. Had Mr. Disraeli been less adoring of himself, he might have had of me intelligence I did not yet realize I possessed. I did not know the contents of my own pockets, see. But he failed to press me where he should have done.
“That,” Mr. Disraeli said, “is a matter of some interest. I shall need to pay attention. Do you expect to remain in London a great deal longer, Major Jones?”
“In fact, sir, I hope to go to Glasgow. If not tomorrow, then on Tuesday.” Oh, I was humble as a beaten dog. It shames me still to think on it.
“Glasgow,” he repeated. Then he straightened his posture and declared, “You must have countless things to do. You mustn’t let me detain you any longer.”
He did not offer to shake my hand, or to open the door, but let me find my own way.
Just as I was set to step into the hallway, clutching the packets of letters, he spoke again.
“As your friend,” he said, calling my attention back into the study, “I must say I’m surprised at your interest in the Earl of Thretford.” He wore a smile now that I could not read clearly. It did suggest friendship, seen in one light. But when he shifted he looked like the very Devil. “I would have thought your interest would run more to his half-brother.”
“His half-brother, sir?”
“Yes,” Mr. Disraeli said, still smiling. “I believe he served in India, as well. Perhaps you know of him. A wild sort, I’m told, who rode with a unit of irregular cavalry.” His serpent’s eyes met mine. “Did you ever encounter Lieutenant Ralph Culpeper?”
“The man’s dead.” My voice wavered as I spoke.
“Is he?” Mr. Disraeli asked. “How odd. Someone told me he’d just been seen in Lambeth.”
WHAT WAS I TO THINK? And worse to ponder, what was I to do? What sort of city was this, in which the dead walked and wives were said to sell their husband’s letters? In which children were butchered and men sneaked about in red masks, where elaborate hoaxes dissolved into riddles more complicated still? Where the Confederate cause was advanced by everyone but the Rebels themselves, and a parson dead in a basket of eels had begun to seem as normal as butter biscuits?
Was I, indeed, mad?
I would not believe that. No, of that I would not be persuaded, although I will admit to a great confusion. I took myself along those unclean streets, with darkness pushing me forward like a broom. Were Thuggee assassins waiting in the next alley? Was a peer of the realm involved in a pawn-broker’s death? Did I want to go to Glasgow to do my duty, or only to flee from London?
I had to speak to Mr. Adams, to tell him everything I could remember. And then I would need to talk with Inspector Wilkie again. And to pay another call, one which I dreaded out of all reason. Glasgow must wait until Tuesday, twas clear. For London would keep me chained for another day.
I felt so glum I walked all the way to the hotel, despite my leg’s complaints. I went past men drunk on a Sunday night and past women offering more than I could bear hearing. I only wished that I were home in Pottsville, with my sweet wife and son. Safe. And far from the regard of the world. What had I to do w
ith the contest of nations? I was a clerk, and wanted no higher calling. Let me have the honesty of numbers, the clarity of black ink on white paper! I would have liked to shout out my desire, and my grief. And my fear. But that would never have done.
I worried that I would be unable to write my daily letter to my wife, given my haunted thoughts. And the bitter love-letters stretching out my pocket. I wished me home beside my Mary Myfanwy, in the precious, mortal safety of her love. I wanted to read my Testament, and to pray.
A blind man tapped along as I turned into Baker Street. Leaning on my own cane, I felt as dull and visionless as him.
For all my years, what did I know of life? I would believe the best of men and women. But I do find it hard. And am oft mistaken.
Well, we must have faith, and go through.
The hotel porter had glared at me of late, grumpy at the very sight of me. But this time, when I come in, he gave me a little smile and the strangest wink.
Upstairs I went, full weary, and grown anxious to visit the sanitary appliance at the end of the hall. I fear I had consumed too many oranges after all, for I had eaten the last on my walk home, and my digestion was confounded. But first I went to my room to shed my coat. For modern plumbing does not ask formality.
The first thing I saw when I opened the door was a red petticoat draped over a chair. The second thing was Miss Polly Perkins herself, gone under the sheets of my bed in the guise of Eve.
NINE
WHY, THERE YOU ARE, SWEETIE,” THE WHITE LILY OF Kent laughed. “It ain’t polite to keep a lady waiting, you know.”
“Miss Perkins!” I said, in abundant alarm, “I am going back into the hallway and I will close this door behind me. I will leave you alone for five minutes.” I tossed my coat onto the dresser, far from that brazen petticoat and the scandalous array of nether-garments surrounding the bed. “For Heaven’s sake, young woman, compose yourself!”
I fled back into the corridor, as shaken as a young soldier surprised in his slumbers by the enemy. The first thought—well, perhaps the second—that raced through my mind was that my wife was bound to hear of this somehow. Now, you will say, “That is a nonsense. How would she hear of goings-on in London? Anyway, you were innocent, according to your story.” But I will tell you: All wives have a genius for discovery. My own beloved wife has a generous nature and an understanding temperament. She is the very milk of human kindness. But there is steel in her, too. In the end, she might believe in my innocence. But I could not relish the ordeal of persuasion. Even the best wife does not like to hear that her husband has shared his bedchamber with a kicking dancer from a music hall. And certainly not with one so out of costume.