by Peter Watt
The group was only about ten paces away, but Ian had passed without really looking at them. He did not realise that his appearance had brought a look of shock to one private soldier.
‘What is it, Paddy?’ Owen asked when he noticed the stricken expression on the Irish soldier’s face. ‘You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.’
‘Owen, boyo, look at that man with the two officers,’ Edwin said. ‘That’s the man we robbed of his property. The one that must be a doctor.’
Owen looked away from Conan Curry to see the man his brother had identified, realising that Edwin was right.
‘God blind me!’ he swore under his breath, but also realised that the man who had been their victim was not likely to recognise a couple of soldiers amongst so many.
‘You think the doctor is trouble,’ Conan muttered. ‘The real trouble is the captain with him.’
Both brothers glanced at Conan.
‘What do you mean?’ Owen asked.
‘On your feet,’ the voice of the drill sergeant roared, and the platoon of men immediately obeyed, cutting short for the moment any explanation by Conan of why he feared the captain who had come to the regiment. Conan tried to tell himself that he could be wrong, but something nagged him as his comrades drilling with rifles carried out the precise movements of shouldering arms, grounding arms and many other drill movements. As much as he tried, Conan knew he had just seen Ian Steele, former blacksmith and now a colonial officer in Her Majesty’s army.
Eleven
That evening, Ian and Herbert were welcomed into the officers’ mess by the president of the mess committee, and the commanding officer – a kindly older man in his late sixties, who also held considerable estates in the country.
Ian remembered all that Samuel had briefed him in mess etiquette, and easily passed the test that evening, passing the port and standing for the royal toast with his port raised to Queen Victoria.
When the dinner was over, Ian felt at home amongst his brother officers milling in the cigar smoke-filled anteroom. There was drunkenness and laughter as the various ranks of officers of the regiment mingled, and Ian was singled out by a fellow captain to recount his experience fighting in New Zealand. This was the only time that evening Ian felt uncomfortable as he recounted the skirmish from what he had been told by Samuel. He felt like a braggart but knew his identity must remain a secret at all costs. He wondered briefly if he was foolish to disclose to Jane that he was an imposter. But she had bewitched him, and since the kiss in the copse of trees, he had not been able to get her out of his mind.
‘I say, old chap, I think we may be seeing more mischief from those Maori savages in the future,’ said the fellow captain who had introduced himself as Miles Sinclair. He was well into his forties but had a professional air about him. His family were not as wealthy as those of his fellow officers, and had not been able to advance the captain’s rank to major, but Ian sensed he was an officer who had seen much active service fighting in the small and almost forgotten campaigns overseas for the Queen and Empire.
‘I have not had the pleasure of being posted to New Zealand,’ he continued. ‘But from what I have heard of the Maori, he is an intelligent and fierce warrior to be reckoned with. Mark my words, you may encounter him again one day. But first, we have to face the Muscovites from the way things are going over in the Crimea.’
The conversation was interrupted when Lieutenant Herbert Forbes joined them with a glass of port and glazed eyes. It was obvious the sixteen-year-old boy was having a hard time handling the consumption of alcohol. Ian excused himself and led Herbert aside.
‘Tomorrow, you will be introduced to your men,’ Ian said. ‘You will need to have a clear head, so I suggest that you seek permission to leave the mess.’
‘Who do I ask permission from?’
‘The PMC,’ Ian replied, remembering the protocol he had learned from Samuel. ‘If he denies permission to leave, you go to the billiard room and find a quiet corner to kip in.’
‘Thank you, Sam,’ Herbert slurred. The foggy room was already spinning.
Ian decided to forget the PMC and assisted the young officer into the relatively quiet billiard room, sat him down in a big cane chair and let him doze off. Ian stepped back to gaze at the young man and experienced a pang of fraternal concern. It was obvious from all the rumours that in a short time, they might be at war with Russia, and Ian suspected this would not be like any of the small campaigns his regiment had fought. Memories of his father’s stories about Waterloo echoed in Ian’s thoughts, and he wondered if he could truly protect the boy sleeping in the cane chair.
*
He never tired of seeing Jane naked. Charles Forbes lay back against the clean, soft eiderdown pillows and watched her running the brush through her raven hair with her back to him.
‘You’re awake,’ Jane said, watching his reflection in the big mirror she sat before.
Charles slid from the bed, naked, and padded across to her, standing with his hands on her bare shoulders.
‘I must return to London tomorrow, so we should not waste time tonight,’ he said. Jane pulled away from him.
‘You’re going back to your wife,’ she said with a subtle tone of relief.
‘Of course,’ Charles said.
‘I remember when we were young and played together. You said that you would one day wed me, and take me for your wife,’ Jane said, staring at her reflection in the mirror.
‘You know that was a preposterous promise,’ Charles snorted. ‘You have not the breeding for one of my station.’
‘But enough breeding to take me to your bed whenever you wish,’ Jane countered, turning to face him. ‘Do you still sleep with your highborn wife?’
Charles walked back to the big double bed and slumped onto it. ‘That is not your concern,’ Charles replied.
‘I had the good fortune of meeting Samuel when you were here last time,’ Jane said. ‘Your father sent away a timid boy, and a fine, strong and handsome man has returned.’
‘When did you meet my brother?’ Charles asked, sitting up straight on the bed.
‘Oh, we met in the woods on farmer Clinton’s place the morning after Samuel taught our village bully a lesson. I saw Samuel thrash John Melton outside the Goose & Gander. It was thrilling.’
‘You are to stay away from Samuel,’ Charles said menacingly, rising again. ‘He is not what he seems.’
‘I have no doubt about that,’ Jane said. ‘I remember you used to bully him when we played together as children. I do not think you will bully your brother ever again. Samuel has grown up.’
‘Do I hear a certain amount of admiration for my brother?’ Charles asked angrily. ‘If you admire my brother, I can assure you he will not be around to see much of you in the future.’
‘I am not your wife, so I see whoever I wish,’ Jane said and was stunned by the back-handed blow to the side of her face, forcing her off the stool she was sitting on.
‘I pay for you, and that makes you my property,’ Charles said, standing over Jane. ‘Now, get up and return to the bed.’
Jane slowly rose, holding her hand to her cheek stinging from the blow. She refused to let Charles see her pain and humiliation. Jane stood defiantly before him.
‘You will one day come to regret that,’ she said.
‘You need the generous payment I give you for your services,’ Charles scoffed, laying back on the bed. ‘I know you, woman, and I know how much you dream of a life of wealth and recognition from those above you. No, it is not I who will ever regret what I do, but Samuel, and you if you ever cross me. Never forget that.’
Still smarting from the assault, Jane went to the bed, knowing that this cold and brutal man was her master. Her mind was divorced from her body in a place where a ring of stones had the magical power of the old gods who lived in the time before the Romans came to t
he English countryside. That night, when she had left the Forbes manor, she would go to the copse of trees and the ancient circle of stones. There, she would call on the gods of the past, to give her power over Charles – and the man who called himself Samuel Forbes.
*
The colonel sat astride his horse, the squares of brightly uniformed soldiers stood to attention in their ranks with rifles at the shoulder. Ian stood in front of his company with his sword held vertically before him. The parade had been scheduled for the morning after the officers’ mess night, and Ian’s head throbbed. He prayed that he would remember the sequence of orders, and his own role for the inspection by the commanding officer. Behind him, in a similar stance, was Lieutenant Herbert Forbes, standing at attention before his platoon of troops.
The regimental sergeant major was in his element as he bawled out orders. A spatter of raindrops fell on the men awaiting the regimental parade to be dismissed.
Eventually, it was Ian’s turn to accompany the crusty regimental commander on an inspection of his company, with which Ian had not yet had the opportunity to acquaint himself. The regimental sergeant major followed a pace behind.
He strode along the ranks with the colonel, the senior officer occasionally halting, and talking to a soldier about his bearing and dress.
They came to Herbert’s platoon, smartly turned out, and began the inspection. Ian hardly took any notice but when they came near the end file he glanced at a tall, well-built soldier, and their eyes met in mutual recognition. Ian felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach by a horse, and saw absolute fear in Conan Curry’s eyes.
The colonel said something and Ian instinctively replied, ‘Yes, sir.’
The colonel turned to Ian. ‘Fine body of men, Captain Forbes,’ he said, and Ian saluted his commanding officer by raising the hilt of his sword to his face, and then sweeping down the blade beside him to finish the salute. The colonel returned the salute and marched away with the RSM to join the next company commander. Ian was still reeling. He knew that, for the moment, he must concentrate on his parade drills until the order was given to be dismissed to their daily duties.
The order eventually came, and the rain began to fall as cold sheets gusting across the parade ground. Autumn was upon them and soon, it would be the vicious bite of winter.
Ian immediately went to his tiny office off the parade ground perimeter and was met by his corporal clerk with a smart salute.
‘Corporal, we have not yet met, and I wish to know your name.’
The junior non-commissioned officer stood to attention whilst he was being addressed.
‘Corporal Bingham, sir,’ he smartly replied.
‘Corporal Bingham, I wish to view the company roll,’ Ian said, shaking off the rain from his uniform.
The corporal quickly retrieved the roll book and took it into Ian’s small office, placing it on the desk before him. He stood back to throw a salute before Ian spoke. ‘Once a day will do, corporal, when I arrive at my office.’
‘Yes, sah!’ Bingham replied, and exited the office.
Ian commenced turning over the pages, running his finger down the rows marked in ink of attendance. He was pleased to see that not many of his men were on sick parade or had gone absent from their place of parade.
Then his finger stopped moving when it rested on a very familiar name, Private Conan Curry. So it really was him. Ian sat back in his chair, staring at the name. His mind was in turmoil. Before him was the name of the man who was suspected of killing his mother in New South Wales, was now a soldier of the Queen. And yet, here he was, posing as Captain Samuel Forbes. Ian knew that he could not expose Conan Curry for his past crimes, as there was a good chance he would retaliate, informing the colonel that Ian was in fact a colonial imposter. It was a standoff, like two men duelling with pistols facing each other. Neither could shoot, lest they missed.
Ian sighed and closed the book. He stared at the wall opposite him with the portrait of a young Queen Victoria staring back at him.
*
Private Conan Curry was like a man in a daze. The odds of fleeing across the Indian Ocean to England, only to confront the son of the woman Conan’s brother had killed, were almost beyond belief. At least Conan considered the fact that Captain Samuel Forbes was, in reality, Ian Steele, colonial blacksmith, and no doubt did not want to be exposed for the imposter he was. But Conan also knew there would be an eventual reckoning between them. How, where and when were the questions.
‘Hey, Paddy!’ Owen called across the barracks. ‘It’s official, we have a day’s leave.’
‘Good,’ Conan replied without much enthusiasm. Owen joined him by his bed.
‘I thought the news would be welcomed,’ Owen said with a frown. ‘You have been like a man sentenced to death since we came off parade. What’s up?’
‘Nothing of any great importance,’ Conan replied, the recognition still haunting him and weighing like a haversack of iron cannonballs on his shoulders.
‘I have come to know you, Paddy,’ Owen said. ‘Something has been troubling you since we returned to the barracks.’
Conan turned to his Welsh comrade. ‘The company commander, Captain Forbes, is not what he seems,’ he confided. ‘And I will leave it at that.’
‘I heard that he served in the colonies, and saw his first action in a battle against the Maoris in New Zealand with another regiment. A few of the lads say he is more colonial than English.’
‘You could be right,’ Conan said and fell silent as the dread slowly settled on him like a dark cloud. Somehow, he knew that one of them must die or the other would never be free.
Twelve
Charles Forbes was haunted by the last conversation he’d had with Jane Wilberforce. There was something in her manner that made him feel that she was attracted to his brother. He left a meeting of the bank board to travel back to the luxurious house in London, thankful that his wife, Louise, was on holidays in France. It made it easier for him to visit Jane when she was absent.
Charles was met at the front door by the butler who took his hat and coat. After ordering a stiff drink, Charles made his way to the large living room where he found his father, Sir Archibald, already present in a chair, reading the newspaper with a drink at hand.
‘Good afternoon, Father,’ Charles greeted him. His father looked up from his newspaper.
‘Your dark expression tells me that you have something bothering you,’ Sir Archibald said. ‘Did things go well at your board meeting?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Charles replied, slumping down into a comfortable leather chair opposite his father to wait for his port.
‘Well, what is it?’ his father asked.
‘It is Samuel,’ Charles said when a servant delivered his goblet of port wine. ‘We paid a substantial amount for his commission, and that of Herbert. It bothers me that he suddenly appeared in our lives and cost us money from the family accounts. It would have been better if he had stayed with Uncle George in the colonies. At least then his inheritance would have been forfeit.’
‘As I have intimated before, it is in your hands to ensure that never happens,’ Archibald said. ‘I do not trust the army to shorten his life. Samuel is the living reminder of treachery by your mother,’ Sir Archibald said bitterly. ‘He should have been strangled at birth. Not only is he not my son, but he is a blot on our good name. A blot to be eradicated.’
Charles stared at his father. There was no doubt that he meant that Samuel should die.
‘It would be difficult to have his death arranged,’ Charles mused. ‘It would have to look like an accident.’
‘I am sure the intelligent and cunning son that I have in you could think of something,’ Sir Archibald said. ‘Our country estate provides venues for many possible accidents – a fall from a horse and broken neck, accidental shooting whilst on a game hunt – it goes on. We would be be
yond suspicion as he is a beloved member of our family. The police would not question any malice from us.’
Charles listened to his father’s words but was not convinced. To arrange such an accident would require meticulous planning. There were easier ways with more certain outcomes. In some places of London’s slums, life was cheap, and Charles remembered how Dr Peter Campbell had fallen victim to an armed robbery. It had been fortunate for the Canadian doctor that he survived the dangerous encounter.
‘I have not seen Dr Campbell calling upon us lately,’ Charles said causing his father to look at him sharply.
‘You made the right decision, discouraging him calling on Alice,’ Sir Archibald said.
‘I have an idea to solve our problem of both Dr Campbell and Samuel,’ Charles said. ‘But you will have to trust me and allow Alice to continue seeing the Canadian.’
Sir Archibald frowned but could see the cunning in his favoured son’s face. He was proud of the son who was so much like himself, and a worthy inheritor of the family estates. Charles was the epitome of what a Forbes man should be; ruthless, ambitious and without the constraints of morality. He was born to continue the family fortunes, and the existence of Samuel bothered Sir Archibald, who held the grain of concern that, somehow, it might be he who eventually came to rule the family. Whatever Charles was scheming, he had faith in it.
‘I will send a message inviting Dr Campbell to dine with us,’ Sir Archibald said. ‘I am sure he will accept, if it means being in your sister’s company.’
Charles smiled grimly, the plot to eliminate two unwanted people from the Forbes family set in motion.
*
Ian took a hansom cab into the centre of London, to the south of Pall Mall, where it stopped in front of a magnificent three-storey stone building. It was the Reform Club, open only to private members. The architects were inspired by the Palazzo Farnese in Rome, and when Ian entered, wearing the best of his civilian suits, he was immediately impressed by the airy spaciousness of the building. He informed one of the well-dressed doormen that he was a guest of Dr Campbell, who was also a resident of the club suites. Ian passed the man his card, and one of the doormen disappeared to fetch Peter, who appeared a couple of minutes later.