Death at Daisy's Folly (32 page)

Charles grinned. “You're certainly right there, Andrew. I am not fond of blasting birds out of the sky.” He liked the young man, who reminded him of himself a decade or so ago, full of ideals and anxious to get on in the world. He considered for a moment, then added, “I assume that discretion is one of the prerequisites of your position.”

“I suppose that's true.” Kirk-Smythe's eyes twinkled. “His Highness certainly gives me plenty of practice. The stories I could tell—but I don't, of course. If you're asking whether I can keep a confidence, the answer is yes, sir.”

“Well, then.” Charles clasped his hands behind his head and relaxed in the chair. “When I was about your age, I was in the Royal Engineers.”

“You, sir? I had no idea you were in the military.”

Charles nodded. “My brother stood to inherit our father's title and the family estates, and I had to choose a life for myself. I wasn't particularly keen on a military career, but I preferred technical studies, and I wanted a practical education. After Eton I took two years at Woolwich.”

“Ah, you're a product of The Shop,” Kirk-Smythe said.

Charles smiled. “I enjoyed my technical studies—chemistry, landscape drawing, military surveying—and the French and German have been helpful. Even the mathematics proves useful from time to time. It wasn't a gentleman's education, but it has served my interests well. Since I was in the upper rank of the class, I read engineering in the second year, then went to the School of Engineering at Chatham for two more.”

“And after that?”

“I had my pick of postings. I had always wanted to study ancient monuments, so I decided on Egypt. Shortly thereafter I found myself a staff officer in the Sudan, in a God-forsaken desert near Abu Fahr.”

Kirk-Smythe's eyes opened wide. “Where the Sudanese broke the square?”

Charles nodded. The square was a standard tactical formation made up of four lines of armed infantry, arranged at right angles to each other, forming a hollow square. At the time of his story, modern rapid-fire breech-loading weapons had made it almost impregnable. Almost.

“I was in command of a small survey team on a map-making mission,” Charles said. “We had been out mapping a wadi, when we happened to join up with a foraging expedition which was attached to a regiment bivouacked in the bush nearby. As we neared the camp, we heard the sound of fighting.”

As he spoke, the sights and sounds, so long repressed from his memory, began to come back to him, and he shivered. It was not a story he relished, and he wasn't sure why he had begun. But now that he was into it, he might as well go on.

“We came over the hill to discover that the regiment was under attack by a hoard of Sudanese, a virtual wall of howling humanity, armed with swords and spears and a few modern firearms captured from us.”

“Fuzzies, my commander called them,” Kirk-Symthe put in. “He was in the Sudan for a time. He said those heathen had heads like hayricks, the hair sticking out everywhere. But he greatly admired their courage. Played cat and banjo with our forces, he said. Knocked us hollow.”

“They were fighting for Islam,” Charles said, “for the same God we believe in, ironically, but whose words are spoken through a different prophet. They had nothing but iron spears and swords, against a foreign invader armed with Martini-Henrys. Yes, they were courageous. They were also first-class fighting men, with nothing to lose.”

Kirk-Smythe gave him a horrified look. “You're calling us a foreign invader? Don't know that I'd quite put it that way, sir. After all, we did defeat them. That says something for the justice of our cause.”

Charles grunted. “If it had been merely a matter of virtue, our bones would be bleaching somewhere in the Sudan. The question was decided by firepower.” He gave Kirk-Smythe a sidewise look. “You've never shot a man, have you, Andrew?”

“No, sir.”

“When you point a gun at a man's head and squeeze the trigger, what he believes and how deeply and why, his values, his desires—all become totally irrelevant. It's a simple matter of mechanics, physics, and biology.” He settled deeper into his chair. “Anyway, the regiment had formed into a square and were desperately attempting to hold their own. Captain Blake, who was in command of the foraging expedition, was about to send us down in a diversionary assault when he was struck and killed by a stray bullet—one of our own, most likely. I looked down at the camp and saw that the Sudanese attack had been so savage that the warriors had broken the square, and the troops were engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Something had to be done, so I took command in Blake's place.” He smiled a little, now, at his own young folly, born of the arrogance of his place in the world, his sense of duty—and the belief that he had nothing to lose. “We charged down the hill, shrieking at the top of our lungs, and created a diversion that allowed the regiment enough time to regroup and fight off the attack. The next day, our forces routed the Sudanese and established a stronghold at Abu Fahr.”

Kirk-Smythe was shaking his head. “Hold on a minute. I've heard that tale. But the way it was told to me, it was Captain Blake who led the charge down that hill, knowing that he and his detachment would be slaughtered. He was a hero. He was even awarded a posthumous Victoria Cross.” He gave Charles a quizzical look. “He did all that after he was already dead?”

“As far as the world at large is concerned.”

“I don't understand.”

“Of all the men who charged down that hill, I was the only survivor. In the heat of battle, you know, one officer looks rather much like another, and the regimental commander, a Colonel Wentworth, believed at first that Blake had led the assault. Only when they found his body on the hill, and me barely alive at the bottom, did they sort it all out. The next thing I knew, Wentworth was barging around, wanting to make me a bloody hero. He intended to see that I got a promotion and a transfer from the Engineers to his regiment. The damn fool was even starting the paperwork on the Victoria Cross. That's where I drew the line.”

The other was incredulous. “You refused the V.C.?”

Charles raised his shoulders in a shrug and let them drop. “After that bloodbath, the V.C. seemed like heroic nonsense. I told Wentworth I didn't want a promotion and that my only real interest was in terminating my military career. Confronted with an uncooperative hero, he substituted a dead one.”

“And you didn't care?”

“It was all the same to me. Blake would have gone down that hill to his death if he hadn't been shot first. So he got the V.C. and I received my discharge.”

“A strange story.” Kirk-Smythe raised his eyebrows. “But your valor did not go entirely unrewarded, I should think. Am I to suppose that it had something to do with your eventual knighthood—granted, I believe I heard, for that famous photograph you took of the Queen on her Jubilee?”

“You might,” Charles said with a small smile. “The Queen has always been keen where her army is concerned, you know. But still, I was a little surprised when I was summoned to photograph her. I didn't get the whole story until I learned that Wentworth had gone on from Abu Fahr to become the prime minister's aide-de-camp.”

“The Queen is a rare woman,” Kirk-Smythe said with sentiment. “God bless her.”

Charles smiled again, reflectively. “Yes. I suppose it was her way of saying thank you, without having to say why.” He stretched. “And now, if you don't mind, I think I'll get some sleep.”

“Good idea, sir. You get a wink or two, and I'll keep watch. The sun will be up in a short while, anyway, and the servants will soon be about.”

A few moments later, Charles was dozing. Studying him, Kirk-Smythe removed a cigar from his coat pocket—not as good as the Prince's cigars, of course, but all he could afford for the time being. He turned it in his fingers regretfully, wishing he could light it. Then he returned to his appraisal of Charles, whose story had answered some of his questions, but raised many others.

An extraordinary man, Kirk-Smythe thought. Really most remarkable.

The laundress washes her own smock first.

 

 

I
n the third-floor room of the servants' wing where she slept, Winnie Wospottle habitually rose with the sun that streamed through her eastward-facing window and across her narrow bed. Sunday was normally a leisurely day, beginning with staff prayers in the servants' hall, then breakfast with sausages and perhaps even haddock from upstairs and fried apples, followed by the walk across the park to church, after which she and the other upper servants took a half-holiday, Winnie often going to visit her sister Hannah at Little Easton.

It was Hannah, the wife of a cooper, who was responsible for Winnie's leaving Brighton and coming to the Warwicks at Easton Lodge. Hannah, whose cottage was one of the fortunate few with its own well, took in washing in the village. When she learned from a customer that the Lodge laundress had been dismissed (on account of a scandalous affair with an under-gardener), she had written to Winnie and begged her to apply. Winnie had journeyed to Easton, impressed the house steward with her experience, competence, and moral probity, and been granted the post. While she often longed for the gaiety of Brighton and the great gray swell of the Channel, with all of France lying just over the horizon, she was glad to be at Easton, with Hannah so near and the Warwicks quite reasonable of compensation—generous, actually, having given each of the Uppers a quite remarkable five-pound note on Boxing Day. As to moral probity, Winnie had no difficulty assuring Buffle that
her
laundry maids would never be allowed to turn the laundry into a brothel. Where she was concerned, she felt confident that, having once installed herself, she would be free to behave as she liked, more or less. And, more or less, that was the way it had turned out.

Yes, all considered, Sundays were Winnie's favorite day of the week. House-party Sundays were not, however, for all half-holidays were canceled and there was the hot-water boiler to be fired and linens to be washed and dried, even on the Sabbath, the prospect of which did not please her.

Winnie's disposition was not sweetened when she rose from her bed and peered at her image in the small sliver of mirror that hung over her washbasin. Heavy pouches hung under her eyes, relics of the evening's entertainment, and a black temper lurked in her heart. Watching the fireworks display from a corner of the garden last night, she had made one last effort to dislodge Lawrence from the clutches of the grasping young Amelia and had failed. Not even the flirtatious attentions of Lord Rochdale's coachman (a burly, bearded Irishman who wore his hat at a rakish tilt) had eased her frustration.

The sight of her puffy face in the mirror reminded Winnie that she had been supplanted in Lawrence's affections by someone much younger and (truth be told) far prettier than she, and the bitter knowledge caused her to slam her door and sent her stumping heavily down the back stairs.

The hour was still early. The cooks were already at work in the cold and cavernous kitchen, but the corridor that led to the laundry was empty. Winnie noticed, however, that the heavy wooden door that led to the drying-yard was ajar, and she went out of her way to shut it hard, muttering to herself at the infernal carelessness of stableboys and such.

Opening the door to the main laundry, Winnie went in, intending to fire the boiler so that the water would be hot when the laundry maids began the washing. As she entered, she caught the slight but distinct odor of cigar smoke, and scowled. She raised her head and sniffed again.

Yes, cigar smoke, without a doubt, and not the best, at that. A smelly, cheap cigar, such as might be smoked in a stable. Winnie knew cigars, for her father had worked for a Brighton tobacconist and she had early in her life developed a taste for the things—but fine ones, when she could get them. She narrowed her eyes. A cigar meant only one thing: that her laundry had been invaded by some unauthorized person—persons, most likely, male and female. And Winnie, who had by this time wrought herself into a black dudgeon, knew exactly what profligacy had brought them there. Hands on her hips, arms akimbo, she turned to survey the room, hoping to find evidence that would reveal the identities of the guilty parties. When she got her hands on—

That was when she saw him, through the open doorway to the ironing room, which also housed the boiler. Marsh, it was, one of the Easton Lodge footmen. He was seated on a crate at the table in the corner, his head pillowed on one arm on the table, the other dangling. An empty whiskey bottle stood on the table beside him. He was dead drunk.

Winnie checked her angry impulse. She rather liked the black-haired young man, who was the sweetheart of one of her maids and something of a rebel. Since his father died, he had turned surly and resentful, particularly toward Lady Warwick, who had accidentally fired the gun that had injured his father. It was a foolish, even a dangerous attitude and Winnie had told him so, thinking that a word or two from someone who had seen the world might compel the boy to moderate his behavior.

Now that she knew it was Marsh who had made free with her laundry, Winnie was a little less angry. It would be best to let him sleep, at least until breakfast, when a cup of hot coffee would restore him. She went to the boiler, went down on her knees for a vigorous shaking of the grate, then stoked the firebox with coal from the scuttle. When Meg appeared, the girl could carry out the ashtray and bring more coal. The fire blazing merrily, she went out of the room and shut the door on the sleeping Marsh.

Winnie was sorting a mound of soiled towels when Meg came in, settling her cap on her head. Winnie glanced at her, then looked again. Meg's eyes were red and even puffier than Winnie's, and her hair was untidy. She had been weeping.