by P. N. Elrod
“Worry yersel’ not over ’im, sir,” he said by way of assurance. “ ’E does his job ’onest or ’e gets to wear ’is smile down low.” To illustrate, he tilted his head back and drew his finger slowly across his throat. The show was obviously for Percy’s entertainment. The boy shuddered appreciatively, eyes bright.
Shellhorse bellowed a laugh. “If that be yer usual man, then ye best ride on the cart with ’im an’ not shut eyes the whole trip.”
“Tha’s my brother yer talkin’ idle about. You don’t know nuffin’ on ’im!” said Keech, going red in the face.
“Oh, so you can talk of cuttin’ ’is throat, but no one else is ’lowed a word ag’in ’im?”
“Tha’s right, Bob Shellhorse, so you keep yer dirty mouth shut!”
“ ’Ere now, stifle that,” put in Talmadge, coming between them. “We don’t want the drawer to be throwin’ us out.”
But a scuffle followed, with much grunting and cursing, but strangely quiet, as each tried to assert himself but not in a way that would bring down the wrath of the hotel’s owner. Deveau, alert to trouble, plucked Percy easily from harm’s way as the trio staggered into the lad’s chair, knocking it over. Shellhorse fell, dragging the others with him. There followed a spiritedly distracting show as the small mob rolled around the floor of the coffee room.
It was at that moment when Oliver chose to return. His long face went longer with astonishment, and he nimbly avoided getting caught up by the juggernaut with a quick, wide leap.
“I say!” he crowed, delighted. “What’s all this about?”
I spread my hands wide, shaking my head and laughing.
“Perhaps we should stop them,” Deveau suggested. “This is a respectable hotel, not a bear-baiting pit. If Captain Keech is in gaol. . .”
That was enough to induce me to enter the fray. I grabbed a coat collar at random and hauled back, Deveau and Oliver stepped forward, each making a successful catch. The combatants were winded, but we still had our hands full keeping them apart.
“Git yer dirty ’ands off me, ye damned Frenchy!” cried Keech, trying to shake off Deveau’s grip, which was apparently very strong. “If you were a gennelman, I’d call you out!”
Deveau released his man in the direction of the door, somewhat forcefully. Keech, who wore a cutlass like his fellows and now drew it, waving it at Deveau. That man, in turn, darted smoothly to one side of the door where a line of pegs held a collection of coats, cloaks, and hats belonging to guests. In a tall container next to them were a number of walking sticks. He seized one as though it was a sword, rounded on the captain, and, in a move so fast that I could scarce follow, sent the cutlass flying across the room. It struck a wall with a startling pot-metal sound.
Keech was in a red-faced fury, eyes blazing, then suddenly seemed to realize his hand was empty. He had been neatly disarmed, not by a sword but with a simple length of wood wielded by an obvious expert.
Deveau smiled gently, “Sir, if you have a quarrel about my ancestry, I shall be pleased to offer you satisfaction at any time of your choosing.”
With a remarkable effort of will, Keech collected himself. “Tha’ is to say. . . I mean . . .”
Deveau was generous. “Perhaps the captain was caught up in the heat of battle. It is my understanding that the English are born warriors and how difficult it must be to curb so great a predisposition.”
The speech might have been delivered in an insulting manner, but Deveau was at once conciliatory and showing admiration. I was unsure if Keech grasped the words so much as the tone of voice. It worked, though. Perhaps he comprehended that it was poor business to quarrel with customers.
“Come, sir,” said Deveau. “Let us toast this excellent trait with some fine English ale. You would honor me greatly if you allowed me to stand you a pint.”
While the rest of us—including the other captains—fairly gaped, Deveau and Keech left to seek out the hotel’s tavern, arm-in-arm like the best of friends.
“That was smooth as goose grease,” declared Oliver in a hushed voice.
“Aye,” said Shellhorse, also impressed by the performance.
Captain Talmadge shrugged free of my grip and nodded. “That be old Deveau’s get an’ no doubt of it.”
“You know his father?” I asked.
“Father an’ son both, the lad’s the dead spit of ’is sire. I ain’t clapped eyes on either of ’em in years, but there’s some men as ye cants ferget. What’s the boy doin’ playing fancy to the gentry, I wonders?”
Master Percy stepped forward. “Captain, sir, M. Deveau is my tutor in French, Latin, dancing, and the sword, among other things.”
Talmadge nodded. “Well. Young sir, you pay mind to ’is sword work an’ no one’ll ’ave the better of you in a duel when the time comes. If ’e’s that dab with naught but a stick, what might ’e do with a real blade? I’d pay good money to see!”
* * *
The remainder of the evening was less exciting. The storm lashed the town with more rain than was rightly necessary, and thunder boomed like siege cannons. The three captains took rooms and departed each to his own, and by the devil’s own luck the hotel owner remained ignorant of their altercation. We later learned that Miss Pross kept him fully engaged upstairs with complaints and suggestions of how to better run his trade. The only evidence of the occurrence was a red flower left on the coffee-room floor, fallen from one of the captains’ hats. Percy took it as a memento of the grand occasion. M. Deveau wisely cautioned him that mentioning the incident to his father might add to his existing distress, thus obtaining a poignantly solemn promise of silence.
Oliver and I retired to our room, each pleased with the success of our trip. He was in particular happy with the bargain that Deveau struck in his stead. “What a square fellow he is. I daresay he must be more English than French. Let’s invite him to our Christmas celebration. Think you that Sir Algernon can spare him?”
“I’ve no idea, Coz.” I left my coat and waistcoat over a chair, removed my traveling boots, and dropped into bed. “Ask him in the morning.”
“Ask who—Deveau or Sir Algernon?”
“Both, Either. Sir Algernon, I suppose.”
“One hates to bother the poor fellow. I heard stories about his sad plight. Married a beauty and two years later she slipped into hopeless madness. Not raving, mind you, but the quiet kind. The family’s been living on the Continent all that time. He’s looked after her, best doctors and all that. She’s recently died, as you might have guessed.”
I grunted, staring at the bed canopy. The story was eerily similar to my own father’s plight. He’d married a beauty as well, and she had also slipped into a kind of madness, but not the sort for which one is locked away. Hers was a willfully cruel and controlling agitation that she was careful to reveal only to her immediate family. We few, we unhappy few.
“For all that,” Oliver continued, “it’s left Sir Algernon quite brokenhearted, for he loved her dearly, I hear. Saw him in the hall during that business with Miss Manette. Looked half-distracted himself over her distress. Good thing he’s got a solid sort like Deveau looking after the boy.”
“Is the lady all right?”
“Oh, she’ll be fine, an ordinary fainting spell. I don’t know what brought it on, but gathered that the Pross won’t allow it to happen again.”
“Excellent. I want no more rows, only a good night’s rest.”
“We’ll get that here, my lad. You won’t be kept awake by bedbugs in these sheets, I’ll warrant.”
“Good. My God, look at the hour, half-past nine if it’s a minute. No wonder I’m tired.”
Oliver dropped down onto his side, and we had a small contest for the lion’s share of the covers before finally settling with equal halves. To my annoyance he closed his eyes and almost at once began snoring. I preferred to be the first to fall asleep, for then his nasal dissonance would go unmarked. I prodded him to turn over, hoping to curtail the noise, then turned mysel
f, seeking sweet slumber.
It was not to be. A most dreadful shriek jolted me wide awake, and it seemed to come from beneath our very window. What terrible mischief was that?
Staggering from bed, I rushed over and pushed the shutters wide, staring into the blackest of nights, rain and wind cutting my face. With an awful thrill I saw that devilry was indeed afoot. Exactly below me two men—shadows thrashing about among thicker shadows—were engaged in desperate struggle. One had already come the worst of it, for he was seemed the weaker and no match for the other. He hung on to his foe to prevent the man’s escape, but once more there came from him a second unearthly cry of pain that turned my bones to jelly.
I roared out something, I’m not sure what, and that had an instant effect on the attacker, who wrested violently away. His lesser opponent clutched at him, but was brutally struck down. I heard the sickening crack of wood striking bone. One shadow collapsed to the ground; the other stumbled, regained his balance, and hurtled away as though caught by the wind.
I became aware of Oliver dragging me clear for a look himself. “Dear God, but it’s murder!” he shouted.
We were not the only ones aware of the row. The screams without had roused this wing of the hotel, and we found the passage full of people in various stages of dress, clutching blankets and shawls to their bodies, their white faces full of fear and questions. I pulled my boots on, grabbed my smallsword, and pelted downstairs. Oliver was ahead of me, bringing his doctor’s bag along with his own blade.
A crowd was knotted by the front doors, but the landlord refused to open them. Oliver and I were not to be thwarted, though.
“There’s a man dying outside, sir!” Oliver cried, indignant.
“Aye, an’ he might have more company,” came the chill response.
“Bother that!” Oliver pushed past, turned the key, and in a moment we were out and blinking in the storm. “This way!”
We raced ’round the corner. Several more men were at our heels, grooms, waiters, guests and the like, one of them thought to bring a lantern. We quickly found the victim of the attack. He was sprawled on his face in the mud, and when the light shone on him, there was a collective gasp at the dreadful wounding on his head. Blood was everywhere, and the poor man’s skull looked to be caved in. Oliver felt for a pulse, but there was no doubt that this patient was quite dead. With a grimace we turned over the body. The far-seeing, yet empty eyes of Captain Keech stared past us as though searching for his swiftly-fled soul.
* * *
The storm grew more violent, matching the foul and unsettled mood of everyone sheltering under the Royal George’s roof. One and all, guests, host, and servants, gathered in the great coffee-room. The body of Captain Keech, shrouded by a tablecloth, lay in improvised state in one of the small parlors, and his brutal demise was much discussed.
Several times I was subjected to close questioning to ascertain who I had seen below my window. To their unanimous chagrin, I refused to divulge a single word of what I’d seen and heard. Not that there was much I could say, but I insisted it was best to wait until the authorities were sent for and then give my rather thin witness to them.
For all I knew anyone in this hotel—saving myself, Oliver, and Percy, who was too small—could have murdered the man. I could not discount the females, for Miss Pross was a tall woman whose temper was belligerent to the task of doing violence if provoked. It was easy to imagine her attacking anyone who gave insult to her friend, Miss Manette.
I was thankful for Oliver’s presence, not only for his support, but his good sense, for he brought me a large brandy that helped steady my thoroughly shaken disposition. It is not every day that one sees—and hears—murder. No matter whether you know the victim or not, a fellow creature has fallen before his natural time, and the sheer horror of the act inflicts a profound devastation upon the spirit. I stood close to the huge fire, yet felt no warmth.
The owner of the hotel was also in something of a state, doubtless fearing the crime would either drive away custom or attract the wrong sort of guest. He many times stated that such a thing had never before happened in his house, and when it came to the truth of the matter, the violence occurred outside the hotel, and therefore had nothing to do with his establishment.
The banker from Tellson’s, Mr. Lorry, quietly reminded him that Captain Keech was a guest, and therefore. . .but he was not allowed to finish. Miss Pross cut in and confidently asserted we would be murdered in our beds if the miscreant was not immediately caught and gaoled. Lorry looked fearful, but of Miss Pross, not the prospect of being bludgeoned in the night by some deranged assailant.
At this point Captain Talmadge revealed that a duel had almost taken place between Keech and Deveau, and that the latter had used a walking stick as a weapon. Such a stick was found only yards from the body. Instant silence followed this disclosure, and all eyes turned to Deveau, who was still fully dressed, unlike the majority of the company.
“What of it?” he asked. “We did not actually fight, and afterward I shared an ale with the man to mend things. The innkeeper will bear witness for me that we were amiable the whole time, and when the captain left I came here to enjoy the fire and a pipe.”
“Alone?” asked Mr. Lorry.
“Yes.” Deveau was obviously aware this admission was not in his favor.
“Then you mayn’t be telling us ever’think.’ said Talmadge. “We don’t knows if that be the truth. Easy enough to get Keech drunk as a tinker, for all Dover knows ’ow fond he were of ’is own wares. Then you takes ’im outside an’ whack! ’E’s done in like a bullock at the butchers.”
Deveau went red in the face at this, not from guilt, but rather suppressed fury. “Captain” —he spoke quietly despite his ire— “I will draw your attention to the fact that I not only had no reason to inflict harm upon Captain Keech, who was otherwise a stranger to me, but also that I am quite dry from top to toe, a state I would not be in had I been out in this Noah’s deluge. You, however, are quite soaked.”
“As are a dozen other men who went outside,” said Mr. Lorry. “Based on that, I am cautiously inclined to believe M. Deveau, but we require the authorities here to sort this in a proper and legal process.”
“There’s no need fer sortin’!” put in Shellhorse. “It were the dirty Frenchie what dun fer ’im! ’E changed ’is clothes, is all!”
As a man raised with a wide ocean between himself and ancestral grudges, I was unprepared for the vehemence of ill feeling between the English and the French in this otherwise civilized setting. It was as though their ancient quarrels down through the centuries had take place only that afternoon, so strong was the wave of animosity that rushed through the room to break squarely upon M. Deveau. I called for reason, but was unable to make myself heard above the others. Catching Oliver’s attention, he hurried to my side, and we took up posts next to Deveau, prepared to defend him from what promised to turn into a mob.
Then, unexpectedly, Sir Algernon took charge. He had been somber and silent through the arguments and accusations, but now he stood—an imposing figure he was with his great height. In his black mourning he reminded me of a hangman.
He possessed a most piercing gaze, and it touched on everyone present. “Good folk, I agree with Mr. Lorry that this matter must be looked into by the proper authorities. Someone will guide the way for me, and I will fetch them myself. Until then, I require that everyone retire to their several rooms and compose themselves to cooperation, not vituperation. I would also most strongly suggest that prayers be said for the departed soul of the poor man. As to the guilty who committed this violence, his sins may find him out, you may be sure of it.”
Sir Algernon did not look at any one man for long, perhaps wary that it might inspire riot, but I did notice who he paid special attention to: the remaining captains, M. Deveau, Oliver, and myself. I felt a flush creep into my cheeks at this scrutiny, along with the fear that I might also be unfairly and unreasonably accused. Sir Algerno
n then took the arm of the hotel owner and moved him purposefully toward the door.
Master Percy, who stood on a chair to view the madness of the adults, dropped down and rushed to his father, drawing him to one side for a whispered conference. The boy looked agitated and earnest, but Sir Algernon clearly had other matters on his mind. He patted his son’s shoulder in an absent way and departed on his errand. Percy stared after him, then went next to M. Deveau.
“Sir! I must show you something important!” he cried.
“What might that be?” Deveau bent slightly to see.
Then Percy launched into very rapid French, which was possibly the worst thing he could have done in that restive crowd.
“Frenchie spy!” shouted Talmadge. “ ’E’s leadin’ even the lad astray!”
A few others took up this chorus, rounding on Deveau. Had he been the devil himself they could not have been more outraged.
“He’s no spy!” I roared. This time I was loud enough to make an impression, halting them. They were still on the edge, though; I had but a moment to turn them back to common sense again. “and I know he is not the murderer!”
This was met with derision from the two captains, their opinions backed up by a few other men demanding proof of my declaration. For the first time I noticed that a number of rough-looking fellows had gathered close to them. Shipmates, I thought. A chill of unease ran up my spine that had naught to do with my wet clothes. The men were likewise soaked from the rain for having been outside not a quarter hour ago. Might one of them have been out longer than the rest of us to do his evil work, then join our party as we rushed to aid his victim? I tried not to shiver.
“Who did it, then?” demanded Miss Pross, her voice cutting across the length of the room.
I felt a tug on my shirt and glanced down. Master Percy’s bright gaze fairly burned through me. He held one hand to his chest, closed into a fist. He moved his hand, opening it so only I could see. I stared at what lay there, not comprehending its import.