'I hope so. I'd like the village to . . . to do well - as well as it's been doing for a few hundred years, anyway.' He hesitated. 'There's something I want to do, Geoffrey, and I'm not sure how. I'd like to give something to the village. Nothing that anyone would know about, you understand, although it would have to involve money. You know those old parish registers and books and rolls and things - all the documents in the vestry, the records? I want to make sure they're safe, for all time - I want them copied and bound, every darned page, and either the copies or the originals deposited somewhere safe. Maybe if the originals could go to a museum - unless you and the vicar thought it fitting they stay where they've always been, in which case I'd want proper cabinets to store them in at the church - and the copies could go somewhere like your old college at Cambridge ...'
'Bloody marvellous!' cried Thornhill, and took a deep swig at his beer. `Now that is common sense. Yes - yes, most decidedly, that is an excellent idea!'
'You'd have to oversee the whole thing, of course. No one else could do it. But I'd leave money for all expenses, with the bank in Thetford - I guess maybe a thousand pounds would cover it, and anything over could be used for the church fabric, and the graves, and so on - '
'Don't give money to me, for God's sake!' cried Thornhill in genuine alarm. 'I'd lose it, or throw it out with the rubbish, or have a sudden mad fit and put it on a horse for the Grand National! Do you know,' he added meditatively, `I've never backed a horse in my life, or even seen a race? Strange . . .
`I'll leave it with the bank manager, and you can just send him the bills for copying and printing and the rest of it,' Mr Franklin promised him, and once reassured Thornhill waxed enthusiastic, and gloated at the thought of researches catalogued and indexed and published, and all neatly stored and preserved. Mr Franklin mentally decided to make it two thousand, and after a little more talk stood up to take his leave.
'Thanks for everything,' he said, as they shook hands. `For old Matthew and Jezebel, as well as myself.'
'My dear chap! It's I who thank' you! What a splendid idea! Yes, the old college would be the place for the copy, I think, and the originals here. .. properly bound and impregnated against death-watch beetle and careless louts like me. I'll see it done, don't you fret. And you'll drop us a line, to let me know where you are, and how you're faring? Excellent! You're not saying good-bye in the village? Quite, quite, I'll let the vicar and curate know that you'll be writing to them; in the meantime I'll hint that you've decamped with a gypsy woman to Barbados, or somewhere. Mind how you go, now ...'
Mr Franklin walked quickly down the little path, and into the lane, and was almost out of sight when Thornhill's window crashed open and his bald head and spectacles appeared.
`And a copy to the Library of Congress!' he roared, waving, and then Mr Franklin was round the corner.
It was now late August, and while he had been much occupied with his own affairs, Mr Franklin had been following closely the news of the war which dominated the papers collected from Mrs Laker's each lunchtime. Even the illustrated journals were heavy with photographs and artists' impressions from France - British and French troops fraternising self-consciously outside Estaminets, a Lowland regiment landing in France, German military police patrolling the streets of Liege with mastiffs on leads, diagrams showing how the blast of zeppelin bombs could be expected to spread, and how to reinforce houses against it, sketches of refugees with handcarts and farm animals crowding the roads of Belgium, photographs of the correct way to wind bandages or adjust splints - even the women's pages carried 'war fashions' and the `military look'.
The hard news was not good. Everywhere the Germans seemed to be making headway. They had taken Liege on August the tenth and Brussels by the twentieth; `gallant little Belgium' was beyond protection if not beyond rescue - and Mr Franklin remembered with misgivings Sir Harry's prediction. On the day that he said goodbye to Thornhill, news came in of a decisive German victory in the east, where the Russians were beaten at Tannenberg, and an ominous name was beginning to occupy the headlines from the Western Front - Mons. Then the Germans were over the Meuse, taking Lille and threatening Amiens, the French and British were falling back after heavy fighting at Namur, and Lord Kitchener was predicting a war that would last three years at least. Mr Franklin put aside the papers, and turned to his desk to perform the task that he had been shirking for a fortnight, the writing of a letter to Peggy.
It was easier than he had expected. Following the precedent that she had set, he said he would not be coming to Scotland for the grouse-shooting, and added that he was leaving England. He was instructing his lawyers and bankers, and ensuring that ample funds were left whose interest would not only maintain her (he did not say 'in the style to which you are accustomed,' although that was what he meant) but also their establishment in Wilton Crescent, which was on an annual rent, and at Castle Lancing, which would remain in his name for the time being, although she would have its use. There was a capital sum which would cover the development at Oxton Hall, which he assumed would be showing a profit in a few years anyway, if it continued to be competently handled. In short, neither she nor Sir Charles would notice any difference financially.
Mr Franklin laid down his pen and read over what he had written.
What he was doing, in effect, was simply getting up and going, leaving behind the three-quarters of his fortune whose interest would be necessary to keep up those things to which he had committed himself in England - those things which depended on him, even though he was leaving them and would not see them again. Provision for Peggy, for her father, for the houses and the land. He had no heart for accountings or settlements; he was leaving what was needful to maintain things as they were; what remained, including the bulk of the fifty thousand in Mr Evans's safe deposit, he would transfer back to the United States in due course. It was more than enough for him; he wanted as little trouble as could be in making his break with England, which was one reason why he had not yet put Lancing Manor on the market; another reason, he admitted to himself, was that he still found it hard to bear the thought of parting from it.
He picked up his pen again, and sat for a good two hours staring at the paper while he considered how to phrase the last sentence - something that would be goodbye without saying good bye. In the end he simply wrote: 'Take care. All my love. Mark.' He read it through, sealed it in an envelope addressed to her, and put it in his pocket to leave at Wilton Crescent before he sailed. Eventually he would write also to Sir Charles, but that would be a more difficult letter, only to be composed at careful leisure.
There remained Samson, to whose future he had already devoted some thought, and whom he summoned to his study on the last day of that fateful August, the day on which the news arrived of the fall of Amiens, and of the German preparations for an assault across a river of which few in England had ever heard - the Marne. Mr Franklin folded up his paper and stood before the fireplace.
'I'm leaving England, Thomas,' he said. 'Going away for good. To the United States, at first, I think - after that, I'm not sure. I'm sorry I haven't been able to give you more advance warning, but that won't make any difference to your situation.' He paused, watching the square figure and the steady, expressionless face. Finally Samson spoke, and his words, to Mr Franklin, were about what he had expected.
'I'm sorry to hear that, sir. When will you be going?'
'To London, in the next couple of days - as soon as we can get cleared up here. I'd like you to pack up all my clothing here, and then go ahead to Wilton Crescent and do the same there. A couple of trunks should do it, and you can send them up to Liverpool by rail for the Aquitania - I'll catch her weekend sailing. I'll follow you up to town, and go north myself on Friday.'
'I see, sir.' Samson considered this, and then asked: 'Will Mrs Franklin be meeting you at Liverpool, sir?'
'No, Thomas. I'll be going alone.'
'Very good, sir.' Samson's face reflected no more concern than if he had been t
old that Mrs Franklin would not be going to the theatre that evening. 'And do you wish me to accompany you?'
It was said in precisely the same tone of polite inquiry as his previous questions, and it took Mr Franklin by surprise. But he replied evenly:
'No, thank you, Thomas. As I said, I'll be going on my own.'
Samson nodded. 'Very good, sir. I take it you have not yet reserved a berth on the ship, sir? Then I shall telegraph this afternoon; perhaps I had better reserve a compartment on the train also, and a room at the Adelphi on Friday night. With the war, the trains tend to be rather crowded. I shall start packing now, sir.'
'Thank you, Thomas,' said Mr Franklin, and so accustomed was he to their normal formality that the servant was half-way to the door before the unreality of the situation came home to him.
'What the hell!' exclaimed Mr Franklin. 'Dammit, Thomas, where are you going? Hold on - there are things I want to tell you....' Samson stopped, and Mr Franklin stared at him helplessly for a moment and then said: 'Don't stand there looking like ... like a valet. Sit down, for God's sake!'
Samson said nothing, but obediently sat on the nearest chair, and waited.
'Tell you the truth,' confessed Mr Franklin, 'I don't quite know what I have to tell you - except that I'm going, and that means - well, it means that I shan't need ... but Mrs Franklin will be delighted to have you stay on at Wilton Crescent, I'm certain of that - if you wish it.' He was by no means sure that either Peggy or Samson would want it, but he had to make the offer.
'I think not, sir, thank you,' said Samson quietly. 'May I ask, sir, if your departure has anything to do with the discovery of the man Curry's body?'
'No, not a thing - not in any way that affects the police. We're clear there, as I told you. No, I'm just ... going. That's all. And whether you stay at Wilton Crescent or not, I'm writing to Mr Pride - I'll give you a copy of the letter, and you'll see it's the most glowing testimonial anyone could wish for.' He hesitated. 'At that, it can't say a tenth of the things I want to say, or express the ... the gratitude and sense of obligation I feel to you. Nothing can ever do that.'
He stopped, not in embarrassment, but because he had said what he wanted, and he knew that with Samson there was no need to say more.
`That's very kind of you, sir,' said Samson. 'The feeling is entirely mutual, I assure you. I have enjoyed the last five years more than any I've spent in service; I'm just sorry it has to end.'
'So am I.'
After a moment Samson said: 'However, it is not entirely unexpected, sir. I have been wondering in the past few weeks if you were contemplating a return to the United States. What with that, and the war, I have been thinking about my own position - '
`You don't miss a damned thing, do you?' Mr Franklin smiled and shook his head. `What have you been thinking?'
'That, with the war, I might return to the services, sir.'
'The Army?' Mr Franklin looked doubtful. 'Will they take you back? I mean. ..' he hesitated tactfully. 'Isn't there an age difficulty? Would they - ?'
'Not in the regular forces, sir, no. But I had a letter only last week, sir - from an old friend from Africa. A gentleman called Selous - we were in Mashonaland together, sir, and the Matabele war. He's over sixty, but he tells me he has approached the authorities - he's rather well-thought of in official circles, you see - suggesting that they might consider forming a corps of older men, sir, who wouldn't be acceptable for the Army, but might be of some use in the field by virtue of... of experience. He was kind enough to think of me. I'm just fifty-five, you see, and the kind of person he's looking for.'
Mr Franklin was intrigued. 'What's his idea, exactly?'
'Well, sir, he's an elephant hunter to trade - what they call a white hunter. In fact, he's the best. I imagine you know a book called King Solomon's Mines, sir?'
'Sure. By Rider Haggard.'
'Yes, sir. Well, Mr Selous is Allan Quatermain - Mr Haggard based that character on him. He's the best shot and scout in Africa, I should think. And his notion is that when the campaign begins between ourselves in Kenya and the enemy in German East, it might be useful to have an irregular force of people who know the country and are used to roughing it - the Legion of Frontiersmen, he's thinking of calling it. He thought it might suit someone like me - and he's written to some other friends, hunters mostly. One or two people from your own country, as well - former Rough Riders, and that sort of person. He thinks we might cause the Germans some embarrassment, sir.'
'Embarrassment,' said Mr Franklin. 'I see.' Recalling the embarrassment of Kid Curry, he considered the potential of a group of veterans like Samson, ex-service for the most part, versed in the ways of bush and frontier, too old for regular military duty, but infinitely wise in the arts of living off hard country, trekking, foraging, scouting, back-tracking and dry-gulching, irregular adventurers and soldiers of fortune who knew the wild ways of the earth - the Empire must be full of them, eager for one last fling on the frontiers of danger, one last chance of active service. How Cassidy would have jumped at it ... for that matter Mr Selous could have enlisted the whole Wild Bunch, with mutual satisfaction and no questions asked. Yes, he thought, such a Legion might very probably embarrass the Germans.
'So I think I shall accept his invitation, sir,' said Samson.
'Well, I wish you luck,' said Mr Franklin. `And I think Selous can count himself a very fortunate man to get you. I'm sure he does, too. However, the war'll be over one of these days, so I'll send my letter to Mr Pride just the same.'
'Thank you very much, sir.'
'There's another thing.' Mr Franklin paused. 'You may object to this, but frankly, Thomas, I don't care whether you do or not. There's an account in your name at Drummond's Bank, with five thousand- '
'That's quite unnecessary, sir.'
‘-with five thousand pounds in it, whether you want it or not. And it would be there,' Mr Franklin added, 'even if the events which took place out on that staircase at Christmas five years ago had never happened. I want you to understand that, and I don't want any protests or discussion. The money's there, and it'll stay there. It's the only tangible way I can express my appreciation for years of help and friendship. So I don't want to hear any more about it. Now,' he said briskly, making for his desk, 'you'd better start the packing. Thank you, Thomas.'
However, it occurred to Mr Franklin two days later, when Samson was leaving to catch the train at Thetford with the bulk of his master's luggage, that there was another gift which might, in the not-too-distant future, prove infinitely more useful than money. The trunks had gone out to the carrier's cart, and Samson, bowler-hatted and with his coat over his arm, was crossing the hall when Mr Franklin called him into the study again.
'I don't know what kind of hardware the Legion of Frontiersmen are going to carry, but something tells me this won't be out of place.' He opened his desk drawer and brought out one of the Remingtons, with a box of cartridges, and held it out.
Samson for once was taken aback. 'I couldn't take that, sir – it would never do to break the pair. And they were your father's, weren't they?'
'He'd be glad for you to have one of them. I know that,' said Mr Franklin. 'I'd like to keep the other, though.'
'Well,' said Samson, and hesitated again, and then he took the Remington, and weighed it thoughtfully into his hand.
'That was quite a night, wasn't it?' said Mr Franklin quietly. 'Yes,' said Samson. 'It was.'
'There's twenty rounds in the packet - but you'll be able to get others easily enough.'
'Yes, sir, I expect so.' Samson looked at him. 'I appreciate this, sir, very much indeed. It's a beautiful weapon.'
'For somebody who knows how to use it.' He watched while Samson stowed the Remington carefully in his attache case. 'Oh, and put this with it.' He handed Samson a letter. 'It's a copy of what I've written to Mr Pride - you'll probably just get plain embarrassed reading it - professional excellence, trustworthiness, loyalty ... all the usual things, but they h
appen to be true. I'd like to be able to add a post-script stating that ". . . in addition to carrying out his duties to complete satisfaction, the bearer also went up against Kid Curry in the dark, gun against gun, and came out on his feet." One or two of your future employers might appreciate it, but then again, it might fall into the wrong hands.'
Mr. American Page 71