by Parry, Owen
“We are given our opportunities on this earth, and it is up to us what we make of them. The Lord grants us every—”
“That’s rot,” he said. “Pure cant.”
“—chance to better our souls.”
“Our souls? Really, Jones. You seem such an intelligent man, in so many ways. I wish you had been allowed the privilege of a thorough education. You might have been a wonder of the age. But when you speak of ‘immortal souls,’ I rather think you must believe in ghoulies and ghosties.” He paused before a handsome shelf of books. “I wish that I could see this soul of yours. Just once. Isn’t it just a stick to beat the miserable into accepting their misery? What a cruel thing it seems to me, to promise a fellow eternal bliss, if only he’ll throw away all chance of happiness in the only life he’s got. Or ever will have. Even if there were a god, I shouldn’t want any part of the heartless creature.”
“Every logic in the world is nothing compared to faith.”
“No, Jones. I won’t accept platitudes. Really, I won’t. If faith is all, and logic is meaningless, why did your god give us the mind and its logical abilities?”
“Logic is the devil’s temptation.”
“But you yourself use logic, don’t you? In this detective work of yours? Would you be able to push these matters to a conclusion solely through faith?”
“I could not do it without faith.”
“In God? Or faith in yourself?”
“If I have faith in myself as a Christian, then I have faith in God.”
“That’s doctrinally incorrect. In fact, it’s a nonsense.”
“Better men than you have argued against belief. Still, men believe.”
“Doubtless. In regard to both points. But is the world a better place because of it? Or does it only crush our joys with fear?”
“This world is not the point.”
“No, Jones. This world is exactly the point. If you have so great a disregard for the sufferings of this world, why should you bother finding a home for a girl you picked off the streets?”
“She does not figure in this. And I will not be threatened.”
“Oh, bugger the Devil himself! I’m not threatening you. I have no interest in your little songbird.”
“You have spied on me.”
“And what are you? If not a spy?”
“You will not harm the girl.”
He made a face so disgusted it crippled his gentlemanly demeanor. “I have no interest in harming the girl. I wish you pleasure of the little thing. Although I should not want my half-brother to hear of her. Cullie has rather a different sort of affection for children.”
“And he killed that boy in London?”
“What do you think?”
“I do not even know if your brother exists. Or if he is long dead, and only a spook raised up to create confusion.”
“Oh, Cullie’s real. I assure you. He’s deathly real.”
“And would that be a threat?”
“No, Jones. It’s a warning. And better meant than you will credit.”
For a ferocious moment, we glared at one another. But manners will tell. He softened himself and said, “I beg your pardon. I fear I take the metaphysical as a personal affront. The very notion of “god” insults my intelligence. And I’ve always been impatient with insults. Please sit down. Your leg must be uncomfortable.”
“My leg is of no concern,” I said, in a tone still surly.
“Please. Forgive me. Sit down. I quite respect you, you know. One rarely encounters such a challenging opponent.”
“And are we opponents?”
“You never tire of the Socratic method, do you?” That smile again. “Of course, you know the fellow had rather a soft spot for young boys himself?”
Well, I have always thought those Greeks a bad lot. And I always suspected some monkey business between that Achilles and Patroclus.
We sat down. And to be honest, I did not mind it. For my leg is strong, but cranky.
“I will tell you something you may not choose to credit,” the Earl said. “I’m going to win this match. You won in New York. But I shall carry off the cup this time round. And I shall do my best to protect you, although my means are limited in certain regards.” His smile seemed especially cat-like as he spoke. “I should be disappointed by your death. I’d like to keep the game alive between us.”
“A game, is it? When people are murdered? And lives are ruined? And still more fuel is thrown on the fire of war?”
“Of course, it’s a game. It’s the only game worth playing.” He gave a barely perceptible quiver. “I suppose you would rather I joined a set and rode a hunter over hill and dale for the sole purpose of seeing a tiny animal ripped to death by dogs. No church here or in America would frown upon that sort of sport.”
I looked around me, wounded in a way I could not explain. “For the love of God, why do it? You do not need the money. You have your pleasures, and no one to lay a hand on you for taking them. Why do such harm?”
“I told you. But you choose not to listen. Don’t you understand, really? I dearly want you to be the opponent I require. I have great hopes for you.” He gave a slight and gentlemanly shrug. “As for money, yes. I expect I have enough. Nor does power particularly attract me. Except in the most personal sphere.” He leaned toward me, as if genuinely eager to persuade me to his view of the world. “Don’t you see? It’s the only game worth playing on this earth. The fear in the eyes of a fox is a travesty. But fear in the eyes of a man . . . doesn’t that confirm the act of living?”
“Living is not an act.”
“It’s nothing but an act.” He sighed. “I haven’t offered you anything to drink, because I know you would not accept it. Not only because I’ve ‘spied’ on you. But because you and I have the same pride, the same rigor, despite the disguises we wear to deceive the world. The truth is that you’re a furiously proud man.”
“Then I am a sinner.”
“Yes. By your standards. But by mine, you’re only sensible.” He waved the world away with a trick of his hand. “Without pride, we accomplish nothing.”
“Humility is a virtue.”
“Humility is a waste. Humility, Jones . . . is an excuse for letting the world do as it pleases to us. And I don’t think you should like that very much.”
“Some things are not to be understood.”
He laughed out loud. “Oh, you don’t believe that for a minute! I know you, you see. Your every waking hour is a struggle to understand things. To believe in things you cannot ever quite believe in. You speak of faith, but you desperately want to see through things. If it weren’t so touching, I’d have to call it hypocrisy.”
“All men are hypocrites.”
“Yes,” he said, happily. “On that we can agree. Well, I did not offer you my customary hospitality, because I knew you wouldn’t accept it. But I should like to offer you something else. And I hope it will please you. Would you like to ride out with me tomorrow morning? To have a look at that great wooden pavilion that supposedly hides a dreadful, secret warship? I should like to spare you further waste of time.”
“Why?”
“Because the game isn’t any fun, if you’re looking in the wrong direction. I should only like to get the game on track again.”
“It isn’t a game.”
“Oh, but it is. It’s a very great game, indeed. Will you ride out with me tomorrow? You may even bring your pet inspector, if you still doubt my intentions.”
I wondered where the trap lay. For I was certain there had to be one laid.
“I will go out with you. But look you. Is there only one wooden tent? Or is there a second, built just to deceive me?”
He flicked the possibility from his fingertips. “That would be rather too shallow a device, don’t you think? Shall we say nine o’clock? This time, I shall come in the carriage with Hargreaves. We’ll go directly.”
What could I do but agree?
“Have you any other quest
ions, Jones? Any at all?”
I had at least a hundred. But he knew I could not ask them. Above all, I wanted to inquire about those letters. But that was a trap I did not mean to fall into. Young Mr. Adams would come on the train at ten-thirty o’clock. And then we would see where we stood, and where we did not.
“There is only one thing,” I told him.
“Yes?”
“I do not want any harm to come to the girl. There is no reason for it.”
“I have no interest in harming her. I give you my word. But others . . .”
“I will blame you.”
“Then you will be unjust.” He rose. “By the way.” He nodded toward my cane, which rested beside me. “Since you’ve made such splendid use of that small gift of mine, I’ve taken the liberty of sending you another present.”
He caught me in the act of rising myself. Of course, he read the surprise upon my face.
“But who did you think it was from?” he asked, as if honestly surprised himself.
“Your half-brother. Lieutenant Culpeper.”
“Good Lord! Why on earth would he do a thing like that? He wants to kill you, Jones. I rather get the feeling he’s wanted to kill you for a very long time. What ever did you do to him?”
“I thought . . .”
He tightened his face, in disappointment and wonder. “You really haven’t thought things through at all. Have you? I hope you won’t be a terrible disappointment.”
“I do not need gifts from you,” I said. Ready I was to give him back the sword-cane, too.
“Oh, but you do,” he told me. “Don’t be a fool. There is a point where even pride must stop.” He turned away in an artful manner, so that I would have had to pursue him to give him back the stick. Or hurl it at him. “As I began to say—I’ve taken the liberty of sending a little gift to your room. If your pride disqualifies the giver, then I must insist you consider it an exigent loan. To be returned when the need has passed.”
I did not say a word, but stepped toward the door. The truth is that I was afraid to make a greater fool of myself. I sensed that the Earl had had the best of me, from start to finish. And he was right—all too right—about my pride.
In the instant before my hand could touch the doorknob, the Earl rang a little bell. And the door opened before me.
I looked back at him. Perhaps because he wanted me to, and I could not resist. Or mayhaps it was the anger that I felt, for anger likes to look upon its object.
“Careful with my half-brother,” he called after me. In that soft voice fortune conjures. “He’s utterly mad.”
SIXTEEN
I FOUND A BRACE OF PISTOLS ON MY BED, IN A BOX OF the sort reserved for duelling pieces. But these were Colt revolvers, perhaps a souvenir of the Earl’s American visit. Nor did the guns lack powder, cap, and ball.
But I must not go too quickly.
I left the Earl’s study and found no sign of Inspector McLeod in the entry hall. Outside he was, stalking up and down the pavement, with a cat-killing look on his face. He would not be persuaded to enter the Earl’s carriage again, so I walked down the hill beside him. I understood. A man has his pride, and there is true. You must go very low in Mankind’s order to find a level where pride does not exist. A fellow may as well be proud of a small thing as a great one. And the inspector was proud of his profession, and of the respect to be earned from duty well done. He did not think himself the Earl’s equal, that I do not mean. But he would not be dismissed like a tinker girl come begging.
A great engine of a man, he fumed and he steamed, and he grunted and he smoked, so that the children at play in the park stepped out of his way and the ladies stared at him with indefinite tremblings.
“We’ll see what tha’ laddie has coming,” was all he said to me in the course of our walk.
We parted in front of my hotel, and he still looked grim as a long march without water, but he added, “I’ll hae a look into matters,” and said no more, but roiled off. Half as tall the fellow looked as the statue of Mr. Scott out in the square.
Twas then I went upstairs and found the pistols. I loaded them. For a small fool is one thing, and a great fool another.
I thought that I might sit and search the Good Book, to find the refutations that I needed to cancel every one of the Earl’s impingements. For he was wrong, and I knew he was wrong. But I could not find the words to make it right. Worse, the Holy Word lay flat upon the page, and would not live, not even when read aloud. That should have made me feel still lower, but I took it as a message plain and simple: My answer to the Earl could not be put into words, for words are open to challenge by the clever. At times I think that language is Satan’s tool, though that is a painful thought to any Welshman. No, I saw that faith must be my answer, for you cannot fight riddles with riddles. And riddles were all that young man had to offer. Puzzles, with nothing at the end of them. We must believe, and go through. And that is that.
I closed the Bible and took me off to find my wife a gift. To give my mind a time for clearing, see. My sweetheart long had wanted a Paisley shawl. Which might be gotten cheaper in Glasgow than after it had journeyed to America.
I did not go to Buchanan Street, for I had seen enough to know its fancy shops were not for me and mine. I turned me north, up the incline, and studied the merchant offerings of Sauchiehall Street and environs.
I met naught but dismay. The loveliest shawls were priced above all reason, and the shawls of congenial price were less than lovely. Twas a great day for discouragements.
Now you will say: “We should not stint on gifts for those we love.” But I will tell you: Love that does not stint itself need not rely upon gifts.
Still, I felt a bit of guilt at not making a purchase. And I wondered what the wicked Earl would have said, had he observed me. Perhaps that love is the cheapest thing in the world, and shoddy goods.
I felt so glum. Whatever I did and wherever I turned, I seemed to run into a mirror that reflected back the smallest man on earth.
By that time, I was hungry, and wanted a proper dinner before the hour arrived to meet the London train. But I did not go directly to my feed. Instead, I marched back to Sauchiehall Street and bought a scarf the price of which would have fed a hundred orphans for a week. And more. Twas green and gold, which I thought would suit my Mary, for her hair is that true Welsh black from up the valleys, and her eyes are green as the sea the day after a storm.
That made me feel better, and I dined upon a filet in thick blood gravy.
JUST ABOUT READY to leave for the station I was, when the porter delivered a letter to my room.
“Police laddie said it maun gae to ye quick and ready,” the fellow told me. Fortunately, he was accustomed to dealing with his fellow Scots and did not elaborate his expectation of a gratuity.
The note come from Inspector McLeod. Sealed close it was, and strange. Enjoining me to secrecy, perhaps because he meant to exceed official bounds, and asking me to meet him at one o’clock after midnight, in the Necropolis, at the foot of the statue of John Knox.
Now I will tell you of John Knox, for he had a great hand in making Presbyterians, who are the Hindoo variety of Christians. They believe that everything is made up in advance, see. I suppose he was more good than bad, for he stood opposed to Rome and gave a nasty time to that Scottish Mary, who seems a bit of a tart in the history books. But he also sounds as if he had a mean streak. And there is hardness a-plenty in this world, without our rendering Jesus into a tyrant.
But let that bide.
Of course, I was suspicious of the note. I realized it might be but a lure to lead me to a desolate place and work some mischief. With all the wickedness I had seen in Her Majesty’s domains, I would not even rule out the chance that Inspector McLeod was in service to my enemies, and that his snub by the Earl was but a charade. The note might be an invitation to die.
But I would go, though not without a pistol and my sword-cane. For a soldier must always march to the sound of
the guns. Ready I was to cooperate with the inspector, should he prove honest. Or to fight, if he was not.
No matter who wished to greet me in that graveyard, I would not disappoint them through reluctance. The truth was that I wished to put an end to things. The Earl had unsettled me, beyond reason. And weary I was of murders, threats, and lies. When I loaded those revolvers, their heft had seemed all too comfortable in my hands.
I am a soldier. Perhaps that is what I am damned to be. No matter how hard I wish to turn away from such affairs. And patience is a rare thing in a soldier. A soldier is trained to action, and he believes that action will carry the day. I fear I was not steady in my judgement. Had I been invited to Hell that night, I think I would have gone, convinced that I should have a go at the Devil.
Whether I had business with a policeman who feared losing his position, or with a whole battalion of men in red masks, I had another duty that wanted completing first. I got me up Buchanan Street to the station, through the Thursday-evening wanderers and a singing drunkard or two. I bought my ticket to go onto the platform, and there I was when the London train chugged in and squealed to a stop on clouds of steam.
I did not see young Mr. Adams at once. For the first thing that I saw was Polly Perkins. Fair burst out of her compartment she did, and come strutting along the platform in a great huff. Twas then that Henry Adams appeared behind her. Juggling a fair tumult of luggage he was, and calling to a porter to fetch still more from the roof of the car.
Didn’t Miss Perkins smile when she caught sight of me? Although she quickly re-attached her frown.