“There’s no need—”
James cut across him, and the life had returned to his eyes. “There is, brother. That feeling was entirely absent. There was nothing. We were like two old friends exchanging a chaste kiss. She felt it too. I could tell. Whatever passion we had has cooled if not evaporated.” James’s voice had risen to a near shout. “I am about to face a man across a pistol for a woman I no longer care about because I lack the courage to ignore this ridiculous convention! How can I possibly kill him?”
They were thirty strong, on edge, talking amongst themselves and casting anxious glaces in all directions. They didn’t cease to be wary when Pender was sighted, trotting along from the edge of the town on horseback. If anything their anxiety increased as he approached. He dismounted early, to ease the tension of the assembled group.
“So we’re here, mate,” said one of the men, less patient than his fellows. He was a hardcase, with all the evidence in the scars on his swarthy face.
“Tell me your name,” said Pender.
“Flowers,” the man replied.
It was so inappropriate that Pender nearly laughed. “Well, Flowers, you done the first part an’ now it’s time to do the second.”
“Which is?”
“A walk, friend. Quite a long one. At the end of it you’ll be fed and housed, and get a chance to talk to men who served with the captain before. Then you can decide if you want to stay or go.”
“What captain?” called a voice from the back.
“In time, lads,” said Pender, glancing towards the round walls of Sandown Castle. “If you want to eat you follow, if not, you’ll stay. But I suggest we get on our way, for if anyone spies a crowd like this from them castle walls they’ll think we’re likely Jacobins talking sedition.”
Pender remounted his horse and hauled its head round with difficulty, for he was not yet a competent rider, even on a peaceable mare. He looked down at the assembled sailors.
“There’s no more words to say. Either you come or you don’t.”
“If we don’t?” asked Flowers.
“Then I look elsewhere, friend, and leave you to hear them boast in the taverns of how much money they’ve pocketed.”
Pender knew it wasn’t words that decided these things. It was an indefinable mixture of his personality and their curiosity and greed.
“Nowt to lose, I reckon,” said Flowers, surprising Pender, who had marked him out as a potential troublemaker.
“No, mate,” said another man. “We only stand to gain.”
“Gain what?” said Flowers suspiciously.
“Sore fuckin’ feet, mate, that’s what. I ’ates walkin’.”
That made them all laugh, and overbore any doubts that they had about following Pender.
Harry was losing steadily, watching his pile of gold diminish as it made its way from his side of the table to the other. He was far from dismayed. He wasn’t losing any more than normal to everyone at the table, only to the man he wanted to. Lord Farrar, his purple, drink-sodden face alight with pleasure, scooped the coins towards him, fixing Harry with a black-toothed grin.
“Mere luck, sir. I do assure you,” he said, for the last thing he wanted was for this “mark” to lose heart and take his wealth elsewhere. If he’d smoked the physical likeness to his wife’s lover in this man across the table as Harry sat down to play, it hadn’t shown. Not that Harry had made it easy. For one of the few times in his life he was wearing a wig. He’d also powdered his face to hide his ruddy sailor’s cheeks.
Farrar kept talking, intent on reassurance. “Most uncommon, why I am more often in your shoes than my own. My companions know me as a loser.”
“Hear him, hear him.” The chorus of agreement was added by Lord Farrar’s friends, a dozen of whom had gathered to witness this uncommon good fortune.
Again Farrar had missed what he sought, which was the right expression to ensnare his fellow gamester, for the word “loser” was out of place. He sought to cover it, as a gambler does, by doubling it.
“Though it is one, sir. Winning and losing, as any man of sensibility knows.”
Harry looked at Farrar, now refilling his crystal goblet with claret. If ever any man lacked that vital ingredient of the age, it was he, for Lord Farrar had a quite singular grossness of character. You could see he’d been handsome once, but now his puffy flesh allowed only the remains to show. He’d been drinking all the time they’d been playing cards, never sipping once. Any glass presented to his lips was immediately drained. Harry replied with a foppish giggle, having allotted himself the role of the country fellow up in London for some sport who aped town manners. “How I agree, sir, for only a poltroon would care one way or the other.”
The watery, red-rimmed eyes narrowed slightly, but Farrar added an insincere laugh in a bid to cover his patent curiosity. “Thank God you’re the type to lose with good heart. I trust, as well, that you are copper-bottomed enough to withstand the loss.”
Harry shrugged. “Oh, easily.”
“It is the very thing to play cards with a man of parts, sir.”
Harry effortlessly matched the insincerity, measure for measure. “As you are yourself, my lord, I am sure. A loss at the table would not embarrass a stout fellow like you.”
Farrar let out a booming laugh and drained his glass. “Well spotted, sir. But here we are, near boon companions, and you’ve not yet furnished me with a name.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE WHOLE conversation, up till now, had been carried out in the loudest tones. But now Harry dropped his voice. Though he rarely visited London, let alone the St James’s Street gaming clubs, there was always the chance that someone might know him.
“I did not presume, sir, but I will do so now if you request me.”
“Indeed I do.”
“The name is Temple, sir. Jahleel Temple.”
Farrar, already more than a little drunk, had a blank look on his face, for he’d asked the question without even considering the nature of his response. And being a name that meant nothing to him, it left him beached. Harry, to stop the feeling of bonhomie diminishing, raised his voice again to its previous booming tone. He also raised his glass of claret, which he’d managed to empty once in the same time as Farrar had cleared a bottle.
“This is a thin brew, sir,” he cried. “Can I call upon you to join me in a man’s drink?”
Farrar had raised his glass with Harry, but it hadn’t stopped in midair. He gagged slightly, caught between a swallow and a response.
“Brandy,” cried Harry, loud enough to make a great number of heads turn. “Lord Farrar wants brandy, and so do I.”
“Please, Mr Temple,” said one of his companions, who Harry knew to be Viscount Trafford. He was a tall fellow, so thin and powdered he looked like a taper. “Lord Farrar has a meeting in the morning, one that requires a clear head.”
The allusion was obvious and Trafford emphasised the word “meeting” to ensure complete understanding.
“Then he will need to stay warm, sir, and there is nothing guaranteed to warm the blood more than French brandy.”
“We must return to our game, sir,” said Farrar, indicating the scattered cards.
Harry adopted a slightly petulant tone, pushing against the table as though about to depart. “I must have some brandy first, my lord, for I know it immeasurably improves my game. However if you do choose not to join me …”
These last words were delivered in a throw-away fashion, but left no one in any doubt that if there was no spirit to drink, there would be no cards either.
“I’ll stand a glass with you, sir,” replied Farrar, his eyes dropping to the pile of coins that lay in front of Harry.
“Farrar,” said Trafford, leaning forward.
Farrar’s purple face took on a deeper hue, as he rounded on his friend. “Do not dictate to me, sir. You do not have the right.”
“I am your second.”
Farrar positively spat in his companion’s
face, so great was his anger. “You are second, sir. Not a second. It is the tale of your life to forever be at the back of better men.”
Trafford’s cheeks, not full to start with, seemed to retreat further, as he sucked on the insult, leaving his face skeletal. “I have undertaken a duty, Farrar, which I shall conclude. My honour demands it.”
“Honour, Trafford!” spat Farrar. “You speak to me of honour, a man who crawls nightly into a Jewess’s bed so that he can dun her father for the price of a drink!”
The timely bottle arrived at the table, as the two men looked as if they were about to exchange blows. Harry picked it up and pushed it between them.
“Come, gentlemen, a drink, then some cards.”
Farrar’s anger was like a snuffed candle. The mention of cards reminded him of his main purpose. He turned back to Harry, thrusting his goblet forward, giving him a full view of every bad tooth in his head as he smiled. “A capital notion, sir. Fill me a bumper and let’s drink to lady luck.”
Harry obliged, taking care to fill Trafford’s glass next. By the time he’d filled his own, Farrar had already emptied his and held it out for a refill, accompanying the gesture with braying laugh. “Never could wait for a toast, sir.”
Harry raised his glass with one hand, as he filled Farrar’s with the other. “Then let’s have it now, my lord.”
Harry kept his voice loud, to maintain the impression of being drunk, and the way he was forever picking up the third bottle backed up his claim to be overfond of brandy. But an acute eye, one that was not taken with the money changing hands on the table, would have observed that he sipped little and added less, so on those occasions when he did extravagantly drain his goblet, there was little to consume. Farrar, matching him glass for glass, showed a quite astonishing capacity for drink. But Harry knew he was being sustained by the continued excitement of winning. The change registered very quickly, when Harry won his first hand for an age.
“There we are, sir,” he cried. “Luck has turned at last, as it ever must.”
“It is near two o’clock, George,” said Trafford. “We must get you to your rest.”
“Nonsense,” cried Harry, showing his first trace of spirit. “I win one hand and you call adieu.”
His words had the desired effect. Not even this disreputable crew could gainsay that remark. Farrar drained his goblet again. Harry filled it up immediately. The cards flowed across the green baize of the table and the game continued. The steady tide of Harry’s gold now ebbed, heading back across the table to him, as he won hand after hand. Farrar drank more on a losing streak than he did when he was winning, not deigning now to wait until his brew was poured. Harry kept a steady supply near the man’s elbow, watching as the few muscles left in the face slackened through drunkenness. By the time he called a halt it was past four o’clock and all the good humour had gone out of his hosts, for most of the gold now stood piled in front of him.
“Well, I thank you, Lord Farrar,” he said.
“What for?” slurred the other man.
“Why, for that toast, sir, to Lady Fortune. I don’t doubt, but for that, I’d have been going home a pauper.”
Farrar was rocking slightly, unable to sit upright. Nor did he have much luck with his sentences. “You take cog … you take cog … You believe such things, sir.”
“Why after tonight, my lord, only a man bent on destruction could deny it.”
Harry didn’t wait for a reply, which given Farrar’s state could have taken an age. He swung round and called for the man who’d been serving the table all night. “Two more bottles, my man, if you please. For I shall take one to bed, and I’m sure Lord Farrar will too.”
He might have been careful, but even Harry knew, as soon as he hit the fresh air, that he’d had more than was good for him. He had to grab at the railings to remain upright. The club, knowing he was carrying a goodly sum, and guessing at his probable condition, had offered him an escort. He had declined since his destination would identify him. But he was not about to walk, or more likely stagger, even at this time in the morning. He decided to take a chance, called for a carriage, and had himself driven the few streets to James’s studio. One thing he could do was to take off his damned wig; he hated wearing them with a passion. It afforded him great pleasure to send it spinning out of the coach window.
“Are you drunk, Harry?” asked James.
Harry pulled himself upright, for James could never be allowed to guess what he’d been about. “I have had a drink or two certainly, brother.”
James walked up to him and peered into his face. If he wondered at the powder on Harry’s cheeks, he didn’t say. But he did gently ease the brandy bottle from under his arm. “And you’re not finished, by the look of it. It is customary, brother, to conduct a wake after someone is dead, not before.”
“Not much fun for the corpse,” said Harry, slumping into the chair that James had guided him towards.
“No,” James replied coldly, for the first time taking in Harry’s clothes. “Whatever are you wearing, brother? You’re clad like a rake.”
Harry, drunk, was no more immune to sudden truculence than Lord Farrar. He positively snapped at his brother. “Can a man not go out on the town once in a while?”
James, in a less depressed state, would have made much of that, but his voice was sad, devoid of the languor he normally used to such devastating effect. “He can go to the devil four times over, Harry. But I do reserve the right to comment when you behave out of character.”
“What time have you called the coach?”
“Five of the clock, which by my reckoning leaves you fifteen minutes to sober up and get that powder off your cheeks.”
“You don’t think I suit it?” asked Harry.
There was just a little flash of the old James now, which lifted Harry’s spirits. “What I think is of no account. But it does render you ghoulish in the light of a lantern. We can’t have you alarming the horses, can we?”
“Wake up, Harry,” said James, gently nudging his snoring brother. The effect was instant, for after a life at sea Harry could pack what looked like a night’s sleep into half an hour, and be completely awake as soon as he was roused. But he had a head that reminded him of what he’d been up to as soon as he moved. If that hadn’t done so, the raging thirst and thick foul-tasting tongue would have sufficed.
The coach bounced along the hard, rutted land towards the high pond, with the horses slithering on the ice. The other party was already there, along with the doctor, huddled in their coaches, round lanterns, to try and keep some warmth in their bodies. Harry was grateful for the extreme cold. It allowed him to don a thick muffler again, which, with his hat, made him virtually unrecognizable.
It would be an early dawn. The sky was devoid of cloud, so the first hint of sun would suffice for their business. Again this suited Harry, for full daylight could render him recognizable. If he saved James’s life but in the process totally destroyed his brother’s reputation he doubted he would be in receipt of much gratitude. James might claim that he didn’t care about honour, but he could not live with the accusation of cowardice, of the idea that he’d used subterfuge to extend his chance of life.
Farrar looked ghastly. He stood, shivering under his cloak, with the hunched shape of a man who could barely remain erect. His eyes watered copiously in the chill air and he had a line of thick white saliva drying on the bottom of his lip. Being unshaven added to his air of destitution, which contrasted with James, who would have given everything to be elsewhere, but at least looked every inch the determined duellist.
Harry spoke with the doctor, forcing the man to lean closely to hear what he had to say through the thick muffler. There was a tense moment when Harry approached Trafford, offering the ritual right of withdrawal. The tall viscount looked at him keenly and Harry waited for comprehension to arrive. But what interest the man had faded quickly and he turned to look at Farrar. A wiser, or perhaps a less wounded, second, looking at h
is principal, might have accepted the offer on his behalf. But Trafford let the opportunity pass, and as the sky grew grey enough to allow them to see, the two opponents took up their positions.
They stood back to back, listened to the litany as the doctor explained the rules, marched their ten paces, and turned on the command. The edge of the world had gone blue now, lit by a sun still well below the horizon. Farrar stood, feet splayed apart, swaying back and forth, with his pistol barely raised. James lifted his gun, aiming down the barrel at his enemy. Harry watched as the finger started to squeeze on the trigger, his heart in his mouth. It seemed, at that moment, for all that James had said, all that he had believed, his brother had it in mind to kill Farrar. All Harry’s subterfuge was a waste. Worse, he’d multiplied the odds for a man who might have won anyway. The drop of the wrist was so imperceptible that Harry missed it. But the ball sent a great spurt of dust rising out of the frozen ground between Farrar’s legs.
That, and the sound that accompanied the passing ball, seemed to aid his concentration. He raised his own weapon, steadied his body and fixed his eyes. James stood, looking at a point above his opponent’s head. So he did not see that Farrar’s pistol was moving in arc, as the drunken nobleman failed to control his hand. The pressure was showing on his face, as his remaining black teeth bit into his whitened lower lip. The point of the pistol swayed still further. Farrar jerked it back. It was again over-corrected. No one could interfere. James had fired. His opponent had all the time he needed.
Harry was watching his eyes, for that would tell him the moment he intended to fire. His whole being was concentrated on the one spot. Everything else had faded to nothing, the scenery, the sounds of the horses shaking their harness did not intrude. He saw the twin trickles of fluid running over the wrinkled bags under Farrar’s eyes, spreading out on the tops of his cheeks.
The moment came as the pistol swayed again. Harry had stopped breathing as he prayed for the shot to miss James, for even a drunk could be lucky. Farrar jerked his hand to bring his aim back to true, over-compensating massively just as he squeezed the trigger. Harry’s hat flew off his head and he felt the searing pain as the ball removed a layer of tender skin. He spun round and retrieved his hat in what looked like a show of insouciance. The other men by that Hampstead pond would never know how close their drunken principal had come to exposing him.
Hanging Matter Page 29