‘Bedlington!’ Nicky gasped. ‘Bedlington? Oh, by Jove, if that is not too bad! I kept Bouncer beside me all the time he was at Highnoons for fear he should bite him!’
Nineteen
It was some time before Nicky could be induced to suspend his eager questions, and go upstairs to change his muddied coat and buckskin breeches for attire more suitable for the dinner-table. He was at first incredulous of Carlyon’s conjecture, but his incredulity was seen to spring more from a rooted dislike of Francis Cheviot than from any reasonable objection to it. He would have been glad to have known Francis for a traitor, and was inclined to think it a great shame if he were to be exonerated. As for Carlyon’s discovery of the memorandum in the bracket-clock, this for a time revived his sense of ill-usage, and he eyed his eldest brother with reproachful severity, and addressed him in terms of such cold civility that it was plain to everyone that much tact would be needed to win him back to his usual good humour. However, it was impossible for anyone with so sunny a temper to bear malice for long, and when Carlyon mounted the broad stairs beside him, and tucked a hand in his arm, saying: ‘Don’t freeze me quite to death, Nicky!’ he melted a little, and replied: ‘Well, I do not think it was a handsome thing to do, Ned, I must say!’
‘Most unhandsome,’ Carlyon agreed.
‘As though I could not be trusted!’
‘Absurd!’
‘In fact, I think it was excessively high-handed of you, and selfish as well, besides interfering, because it was more my adventure than yours, after all! And then you would not even let me share the most exciting part!’
‘I am altogether a shabby and mean-spirited person,’ said Carlyon meekly. ‘I do not know how you have borne with me for so long. But if I try to mend my ways, perhaps I shall win forgiveness.’
‘Ned!’ exploded Nicky wrathfully. ‘I never knew such a complete hand as you are! A regular right cool fish! And if you think I am such a green one that I don’t know when you are trying to roast me you are much mistaken!’
‘Abuse me as much as you wish, Nicky: I deserve it all! But there is a roast goose for dinner, and if you are late –’
‘No!’ exclaimed Nicky, instantly diverted. ‘Is there, indeed? Then I declare I’m sorry I thrashed poor old Bouncer, for if I had not been obliged to chase after him all this way I must have missed it!’
He hurried off to change his clothes, and made such haste over his toilet that he joined the party just as they were sitting down to table. While the servants were in the room, conversation had to be kept to such harmless subjects as presented themselves to the minds of four persons preoccupied with one burning topic of interest, and was necessarily a trifle desultory. But when the goose had been removed, and a Chantilly cake placed on the table, flanked by a dish of puits d’amour, and one of sack cream, Carlyon signed to the butler that he might withdraw, with his two minions. No sooner had the door closed behind them than John, who had been sitting in abstracted silence, said heavily that try as he would he could not decide what to do for the best.
‘Why should you?’ said Nicky cheerfully. ‘Ned will settle it!’
Mrs Cheviot could not repress a smile, but John said: ‘I own, I wish I had never heard a word of the business. I should not say so, and of course I don’t mean that I would have had the thing undiscovered, but – Well, it is the devil of a coil, and there is something to be said for Ned’s wanting us to be well out of it! If only we had not been related to Eustace!’
Nicky said that he did not see what that should signify, and this observation at once led to an argument which lasted until Carlyon, who had taken no part in it, intervened to point out that neither Nicky’s rustication nor John’s prosiness, both of which fruitful topics had crept into the discussion and threatened to monopolise it, had any bearing on the real point at issue.
‘I do not see why I must needs be called prosy merely because –’
‘Well, but, Ned, you must admit –’
The door opened. ‘My lord,’ announced the butler disinterestedly, ‘Mr Cheviot has called to see your lordship. I have ushered him into the Crimson Saloon.’
He stood waiting, holding the door, but as Carlyon rose to his feet, John also got up, saying in an urgent undervoice: ‘Wait, Ned!’
Carlyon looked at him for a moment, and then spoke over his shoulder. ‘Tell Mr Cheviot I shall be with him in a few minutes.’
The butler bowed, and went out again. Nicky, his eyes blazing with excitement, exclaimed: ‘By God, this is beyond anything! To think he should dare come smash up to us! Lord, he must have opened the clock before he reached town! Now the game’s your own, Ned! May I come with you, and see what trick he tries to play off?’
Carlyon shook his head. John said: ‘Ned, be careful! You will not meet him unarmed!’
Carlyon’s brows rose in a quizzical look. ‘My dear John! I really cannot be expected to receive my visitors with a pistol in my hand!’
‘You said yourself he was a very dangerous man!’
‘I may have done so, but I never said he was a fool. Murder me in my own house, having been admitted by my butler? I think your wits are gone wool-gathering, John!’
John reddened, and gave a reluctant laugh. ‘Well, perhaps so, but you will at least allow me to accompany you!’
Nicky instantly raised his voice in indignant protest. He was silenced by an authoritative finger. ‘No,’ said Carlyon. ‘I think he might find your presence embarrassing. Moreover, I wish you to entertain Mrs Cheviot while I am away. I’ll see him alone.’
‘But, Ned, what do you mean to do?’ John said uneasily.
‘That must depend on circumstance.’
‘Well! I own his having the effrontery to come here does make it seem as though – But I’ll have no hand in giving that memorandum to him!’
‘Then stay here,’ said Carlyon, and he left the room.
He found Francis Cheviot standing over the fire in the Crimson Saloon, one foot, in its gleaming Hessian boot, resting on the fender, one white hand gripping the edge of the mantelpiece. He still wore his fur-lined cloak, but he had cast his muffler aside. There was something rather fixed in the smile with which he met his host, but he said, with all his habitual languor: ‘My dear Carlyon, you must forgive me for intruding upon you at this hour! I feel sure you will: your sense of justice must oblige you to acknowledge its being quite your own fault. Do forgive me, but must we remain in this welter of crimson velvet? It is a colour that irritates my nerves sadly. It is also extremely chilly in here, and you know how susceptible I am to colds.’
‘I know how susceptible you say you are to colds,’ replied Carlyon, at his dryest.
‘Oh, it is perfectly true!’ Francis assured him. ‘You must not think that I always prevaricate, for I only do so when I am obliged to.’
‘Come into the library!’ Carlyon said, leading the way there.
‘Ah, this is better!’ Francis approved, looking round with a critical eye. ‘Crimson and gold – I dare say very eligible for certain occasions, but this is not one of them.’ He unfastened his cloak-strings at the throat, and flung the heavy garment off. The smile faded from his face; he came to the fire, and said: ‘You know, my dear Carlyon, I am quite tired – really quite exhausted! – with this game of hide-and-seek in the dark which I have been playing with you. I could wish that you had not so much reserve: it is a fault in you: you must own it to be a fault! If you had but taken me into your confidence I should have been spared a great deal of trouble.’
‘And Mrs Cheviot a broken head?’
Francis shuddered. ‘Pray do not remind me of anything so distasteful to one of my exquisite sensibility! What a horrible necessity! I do trust she is now recovered? I myself am still sadly shaken by the affair. You know, Carlyon, I should find myself with an easier task if you would but cultivate that excellent virtue, frankness. Of course, I perceived
at the outset that you cherished suspicions, but although I believe I am not generally accounted an obtuse person, I never could discover the extent of your knowledge, nor how you came by it.’
‘I knew from John that a certain memorandum was missing,’ Carlyon replied.
‘Ah, so that was it! The ubiquitous John, who has no business, I am sure, to know anything about the matter. How shocking it is to reflect on the indiscretion that appears to prevail in certain quarters! By the way, I do trust you have that memorandum safe?’
‘I have.’
‘Well, I must say thank God for that, at all events. You will allow me to compliment you on your quickness, my dear Edward. I had hoped that Mrs Cheviot’s reference to that clock might have passed unnoticed. I should have remembered that you had always a disagreeable trick of fixing upon the very points one would have wished to escape you.’
‘I have the memorandum safe,’ Carlyon interrupted, ‘and I collect that you are here to try whether you can induce me to hand it over to you.’
‘Quite so,’ smiled Francis. ‘I am persuaded that would be the wisest course to pursue.’
‘I shall need to be convinced of that, however.’
‘Yes, I was afraid you would, and so I shall have to convince you, in spite of all my efforts – my really painstaking and often distasteful efforts – to obviate the necessity of doing so. Ah, perhaps I should make it plain at once that even though I am susceptible to colds, and infinitely prefer cats to dogs, I have not been selling information to Bonaparte’s agents. How degrading it is to be obliged to say so! My interest in this affair is neither personal nor patriotic – you remark, I hope, the example I set you in that admirable virtue we were discussing a moment ago! And yet, am I being perfectly frank when I say my interest is not personal? Let us rather say that I am anxious to avoid a scandal. Somehow I feel reasonably certain that a man of your excellent common sense must be similarly anxious.’
‘You are right, but I can be satisfied with nothing less than the whole truth.’
Francis sighed. ‘Very well, between these four walls, then, let us lay bare the whole truth. As I fancy you have already guessed, my lamentable parent is the somewhat inexpert schemer you have been trying to unmask.’ He paused, but Carlyon only continued to regard him steadily. He sighed again. ‘One sees why, of course.’
‘Does one?’
‘Oh, I think so! His fortune was never large, you know, and he has not the least notion of management. That peerage, which affords him such satisfaction, was unfortunately unaccompanied by a grant that might have enabled him to have supported his new dignity in the style he thought proper to it. My dear Edward, have you ever seen the enlargements he saw fit to undertake at Bedlington Manor? Quite dreadful, I assure you! I have only to tell you that he had the Regent for his architectural adviser to make it unnecessary for me to say more.’ He covered his eyes with one hand, and shuddered eloquently. ‘There is even a Chinese drawing-room. You might almost fancy yourself in poor Prinny’s little summer residence at Brighton. The only consolation is that when it is put up for sale, as it assuredly must be, I have not the least doubt of its fetching a fantastic sum. It is just the thing to appeal to some city merchant with social ambitions.’
‘And does your father mean to sell it?’ enquired Carlyon politely.
‘Yes,’ said Francis. ‘Yes, dear Edward, he does. I have prevailed upon him to see the wisdom of this course. Happily I have a certain influence over him: not always as much as I could wish, but, if I exert myself, enough, I trust. He is not as young as he was, you know, and it must be acknowledged that prolonged intercourse with the Regent is rarely conducive to health or prosperity. When you add to that a turn for playing whist at Oatlands with the Duke of York, which my poor father has lately developed, I cannot think that you need seek farther for a reason why he should be endeavouring to recruit his fortunes in this very foolish fashion. He has not the head for such a dangerous game. In fact, he has not the head for meddling in public affairs either, and I am happy to be able to tell you that he has been brought to own as much. Yes, he is retiring. His gout, you know, has been very troublesome. He will retire full of years and honours, and from my knowledge of his buoyant temperament I do not doubt that the events of the past few months will rapidly fade from his memory.’
‘How came you to learn of his activities?’ Carlyon asked.
‘He told me of them himself,’ replied Francis.
‘What?’
‘Oh, yes! Upon enquiry, you know. To be sure, I had already begun to feel just a trifle uneasy about him. You see, I am on such gratifying terms of intimacy with so many of his colleagues! I am sure you may meet me everywhere in polite circles: I am very good ton, you know. Indeed, I have often wondered if I should not challenge Brummell, for there is a set which holds that my way of tying a cravat is superior to his. The younger dandies are already much inclined to follow my lead.’
‘Shall we return to the point of this discussion?’ Carlyon suggested.
‘Ah, forgive me! How very right of you to recall me to it! Yes, the point! The point is, my dear Edward, that being blessed with a large circle of acquaintances I hear quite a number of things which I expect I should not hear at all. I knew that a little pucker was being caused at the Horse Guards, for instance. Leakage of information is not, alas, quite unprecedented: one is for ever hearing of lapses, but I was induced to give this particular pucker more than passing attention. One or two circumstances, into which I need not drag you, had caused me to feel that all was not quite well with my parent. I told you that he is wholly unsuited to a life of intrigue. It had begun to prey upon his mind. A devoted son, you know, cannot be insensible of uneasiness in his father. My devotion led me to keep a filial eye upon his activities – so far as I was able. I even began to visit him with a frequency as trying to my nerves as I have no doubt it was to his. Alas, we have never agreed quite as one would wish! Our tastes, you see, are so dissimilar. But I don’t grudge my visits, however much they may have lowered my spirits. For if I had not formed the habit of calling to see how he did I might never have known of his sudden journey into Sussex. I presented myself in Brook Street to be met by the intelligence that his lordship had been called away suddenly, and the merest lift of an eyebrow elicited the further information that poor Mr Eustace had met with an accident, and was dead. That in itself did not surprise me: one had always felt that poor Mr Eustace would, sooner or later, meet with an accident. It was with only polite interest that I enquired how this news had come to his lordship. It was then that I learned of Louis De Castres’s visit to Brook Street. The butler thought that he had brought the sad tidings.’ Francis paused, and frowningly regarded the nails of his right hand. ‘Well, you know, I did find that surprising. So far as I was aware, Louis was not acquainted with my father. Of course, you may say that it was very natural in him to carry the tidings to one who had a value for Eustace. But what – I confess – I was at a loss to understand was how Louis, who had positively informed me only the previous day that he was going into Hertfordshire for a night, to visit his estimable parents, came to be in Sussex.’
‘What I am at a loss to understand,’ interrupted Carlyon, ‘is why Eustace was ever employed in the business if De Castres was aware of the identity of the man who stood behind him?’
‘My dear Edward, Louis was no fool! I dare say he guessed from the start, for who in the world but my father would have dreamt of using such a doubtful tool! Possibly he had the truth out of Eustace any time Eustace was in his cups. But Louis had such tact! Such exquisite perception! He would be the first to appreciate that my father’s little whims must be indulged. But when Eustace died so inopportunely, and he discovered Eustace’s widow in possession at Highnoons, and failed so signally to effect an unobtrusive search of the house, then it was no longer the moment to be considering poor father’s foibles. By the way, I cannot but be thankful that Nicky mi
ssed his shot. Really, the scandal that must have ensued had he not missed would have been more than either you or I could have averted.’
‘I had rather, certainly, that he met his end at your hands than at Nicky’s,’ Carlyon replied.
Francis’s eyes lifted swiftly to his face, very wide open. ‘So you know that, do you?’ he said softly. ‘Now, how do you know that, Carlyon?’
‘You told me so.’
‘Did I indeed? And how did I do so?’
‘A slip of your too-ready tongue,’ Carlyon said. ‘You informed us that De Castres had been stabbed, and his body left under a bush. But it was not so stated in the journal from which you said you had culled the tidings. I discovered it to be the precise truth.’
‘Yes, you know, this habit of yours – I have referred to it before – of fastening on trivial points is scarcely endearing,’ said Francis, with a slight edge to his voice. ‘How glad I am that at least you had the good taste not to introduce a third person into this interview! It is quite true, of course: I did dispose of poor Louis. I regretted the necessity; indeed, the whole episode was most painful, but what else was to be done? One could not permit an enemy agent to continue his vocation; one had no means of ascertaining how much that was in that memorandum he already knew; and one shrank from laying information against a dear friend. Indeed, it would be unthinkable to do so! Every feeling must be offended by such a notion!’
‘Indeed!’ Carlyon raised his brows. ‘I collect that the notion of persuading De Castres, by what false message I know not, to present himself in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, so that he might there be murdered, awoke no revulsion in your breast?’
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