Honor's Kingdom (23 page)

Dolefully, he regarded the curlicues in the carpet. “For the present, let us set aside selfish considerations, such as the prospect of your seizure and imprisonment. Let us consider only the public effects. I fail to see what I might do to help, were your history to reach the ears of those who might be anxious to misconstrue it. Lindsay, perhaps. Our ‘Scourge from Sunderland.’ I fear we would hear a speech about the matter in Her Majesty’s House of Commons. Doubtless, from the Lords as well.” He raised his cobra’s eyes. “What might that mean to your cause, sir? And to you?”

“I can explain,” I said quietly.

“I am confident that you can, Major Jones. But, in my experience, explanations are as ineffectual as they are abundant. It is the accusations that interest the general run of mankind. Why, I myself have been the victim of calumnies, years ago, which will not be laid to rest. Although I am certain my explanations are every bit as worthy as your own.” He smiled in a mocking display of sympathy. “No, sir. Our strategy must be designed to avoid such accusations in the first instance.”

“What do you want?”

“Why, your friendship. What else might I desire?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean by ‘nothing’?”

“Why, the same thing poor Cordelia meant: Nothing at all. We, too, must see that ‘nothing shall come of nothing,’ as her royal and dreary father liked to put it. Let us say, ‘Nothing that would inconvenience a friend.’ ”

“Do you know who killed the Reverend Mr. Campbell?” I begged. “And the others?”

“No.” He lifted himself from his perch on the edge of the desk. “Nor do I wish to know. I withdraw myself from any connection to this affair.” He opened his palms toward me. His hands were long and shaped like flames. “I must be certain that no misunderstanding will associate my name with this sordid business. Not so much as a whisper. As my friend, you doubtless will attach the greatest importance to protecting my interests. As I shall protect yours.”

“What do you know?” I fear my voice was not as brave as my intent. For I was shaken, there is true, and I will not deny it. For no man likes to bear a public shame, whether or not his shame may be deserved. And I thought of my wife and son, whose hearts would be broken. Oh, I felt empty as a leaky canteen at the end of a long day’s march. “Can you tell me anything, sir?”

“I know,” Mr. Disraeli said with refreshed aplomb, “that it will take the luckiest of men to emerge from this matter unscathed. And luck is an inconstant companion.”

“Can’t you . . . tell me anything else?”

He faced his bookshelves. I saw his narrow shoulders, the hoodlike rise of his collar, and the shine of scalp through his hair. “I find,” he said, “that I know more than I wish, but not enough to be of any value.”

“Please,” I asked, with a craven tone in my words that left me shamed, “will you just answer one question, sir?”

He turned toward me again. Somber now, his expression said: “Ask, and I shall see.”

“Did you get those letters from the Earl of Thretford?”

He appeared surprised. “From Arthur Langley? Absolutely not. No, not from the Earl.” He canted his head in frank curiosity. “You’re acquainted with Lord Arthur?”

“No, sir. Not acquainted. I only saw him once. He was up to mischief.”

Disraeli returned to his customary smile, part amused and part bemused. “Lord Arthur’s always up to mischief. I’d stay away from him, if I could.”

“But isn’t he a member of your party? A Tory? Like you?”

“Arthur Langley is not in the least ‘like’ me. Major Jones, there is an abundance of members of both parties whose company is infelicitous. Political majorities are not built by an excess of particularity. One must appeal for votes, but we need not find the voters themselves appealing.” Then he thought another step along. “You suspect the Earl’s involved in this matter?”

“He may be,” I said, for I was no longer certain of anything much. “I believe he has a tie with young Mr. Pomeroy. At least, the lad believes he has a tie to the Earl.”

I wondered if I had said too much. But I dared not say too little. Far removed from my earlier confidence, I did not wish to be caught out by my host. I feared him in that hour, for I imagined he might ruin the life I had rebuilt so painfully, and that I might shame the country that had given me a chance to live in decency. Had Mr. Disraeli been less adoring of himself, he might have had of me intelligence I did not yet realize I possessed. I did not know the contents of my own pockets, see. But he failed to press me where he should have done.

“That,” Mr. Disraeli said, “is a matter of some interest. I shall need to pay attention. Do you expect to remain in London a great deal longer, Major Jones?”

“In fact, sir, I hope to go to Glasgow. If not tomorrow, then on Tuesday.” Oh, I was humble as a beaten dog. It shames me still to think on it.

“Glasgow,” he repeated. Then he straightened his posture and declared, “You must have countless things to do. You mustn’t let me detain you any longer.”

He did not offer to shake my hand, or to open the door, but let me find my own way.

Just as I was set to step into the hallway, clutching the packets of letters, he spoke again.

“As your friend,” he said, calling my attention back into the study, “I must say I’m surprised at your interest in the Earl of Thretford.” He wore a smile now that I could not read clearly. It did suggest friendship, seen in one light. But when he shifted he looked like the very Devil. “I would have thought your interest would run more to his half-brother.”

“His half-brother, sir?”

“Yes,” Mr. Disraeli said, still smiling. “I believe he served in India, as well. Perhaps you know of him. A wild sort, I’m told, who rode with a unit of irregular cavalry.” His serpent’s eyes met mine. “Did you ever encounter Lieutenant Ralph Culpeper?”

“The man’s dead.” My voice wavered as I spoke.

“Is he?” Mr. Disraeli asked. “How odd. Someone told me he’d just been seen in Lambeth.”

WHAT WAS I TO THINK? And worse to ponder, what was I to do? What sort of city was this, in which the dead walked and wives were said to sell their husband’s letters? In which children were butchered and men sneaked about in red masks, where elaborate hoaxes dissolved into riddles more complicated still? Where the Confederate cause was advanced by everyone but the Rebels themselves, and a parson dead in a basket of eels had begun to seem as normal as butter biscuits?

Was I, indeed, mad?

I would not believe that. No, of that I would not be persuaded, although I will admit to a great confusion. I took myself along those unclean streets, with darkness pushing me forward like a broom. Were
Thuggee
assassins waiting in the next alley? Was a peer of the realm involved in a pawn-broker’s death? Did I want to go to Glasgow to do my duty, or only to flee from London?

I had to speak to Mr. Adams, to tell him everything I could remember. And then I would need to talk with Inspector Wilkie
again. And to pay another call, one which I dreaded out of all reason. Glasgow must wait until Tuesday, twas clear. For London would keep me chained for another day.

I felt so glum I walked all the way to the hotel, despite my leg’s complaints. I went past men drunk on a Sunday night and past women offering more than I could bear hearing. I only wished that I were home in Pottsville, with my sweet wife and son. Safe. And far from the regard of the world. What had I to do with the contest of nations? I was a clerk, and wanted no higher calling. Let me have the honesty of numbers, the clarity of black ink on white paper! I would have liked to shout out my desire, and my grief. And my fear. But that would never have done.

I worried that I would be unable to write my daily letter to my wife, given my haunted thoughts. And the bitter love-letters stretching out my pocket. I wished me home beside my Mary Myfanwy, in the precious, mortal safety of her love. I wanted to read my Testament, and to pray.

A blind man tapped along as I turned into Baker Street. Leaning on my own cane, I felt as dull and visionless as him.

For all my years, what did I know of life? I would believe the best of men and women. But I do find it hard. And am oft mistaken.

Well, we must have faith, and go through.

The hotel porter had glared at me of late, grumpy at the very sight of me. But this time, when I come in, he gave me a little smile and the strangest wink.

Upstairs I went, full weary, and grown anxious to visit the sanitary appliance at the end of the hall. I fear I had consumed too many oranges after all, for I had eaten the last on my walk home, and my digestion was confounded. But first I went to my room to shed my coat. For modern plumbing does not ask formality.

The first thing I saw when I opened the door was a red petticoat draped over a chair. The second thing was Miss Polly Perkins herself, gone under the sheets of my bed in the guise of Eve.

NINE

WHY, THERE YOU ARE, SWEETIE,” THE WHITE LILY OF Kent laughed. “It ain’t polite to keep a lady waiting, you know.”

“Miss Perkins!” I said, in abundant alarm, “I am going back into the hallway and I will close this door behind me. I will leave you alone for five minutes.” I tossed my coat onto the dresser, far from that brazen petticoat and the scandalous array of nether-garments surrounding the bed. “For Heaven’s sake, young woman, compose yourself!”

I fled back into the corridor, as shaken as a young soldier surprised in his slumbers by the enemy. The first thought—well, perhaps the second—that raced through my mind was that my wife was bound to hear of this somehow. Now, you will say, “That is a nonsense. How would she hear of goings-on in London? Anyway, you were innocent, according to your story.” But I will tell you: All wives have a genius for discovery. My own beloved wife has a generous nature and an understanding temperament. She is the very milk of human kindness. But there is steel in her, too. In the end, she might believe in my innocence. But I could not relish the ordeal of persuasion. Even the best wife does not like to hear that her husband has shared his bedchamber with a kicking dancer from a music hall. And certainly not with one so out of costume.

I closeted myself in the sanitary room and found the experience calming. I began to formulate my questions. For the White Lily’s presence wanted some explanation.

Then the queerest thing happened.

I felt a prickling on the back of my neck, and the hair went up on my forearms. The way it did on frontier campaigns, when you sensed an enemy not yet to be seen. I hastened to conclude my private endeavors and stepped back into the hallway. Ready with my cane.

There was nothing. Gaslights mottled the veteran paint. Cheaply framed pictures of coaches and huntsmen with hounds adorned the walls. The long parade of carpet, not immaculate, marched stairward.

Of course, I had reasons in plenty to feel disturbed, what with all that had happened since Friday and now the appearance of a guest so unexpected. Yet, the feeling that had come over me in that cabinet was different. I knew it. And, though it passed in a moment, of a sudden I feared for Miss Perkins. I wanted to find her clothed. But I did not wish to find her dead.

I rushed back to my room, practically vaulting over my cane. After fumbling a bit with the key again, I burst in breathless.

“Anxious now, is he?” Miss Perkins said.

She stood in the queerest posture before the dressing mirror. I fear she had not followed my instructions. Her condition of person remained what might, most charitably, be described as classical in form.

How pale she was!

I turned my back upon her with the requisite promptitude, but shut the door and locked it. Not to keep her in, you understand. But to keep danger out.

With my entirety faced away from her, I struggled to find words for my dismay.

“What’s the matter with you, then?” she asked in a baffled tone. Under other circumstances, I might have described it as the voice of a little girl. “Ain’t you the one told me to get up and pose myself?”

“Miss Perkins, I asked you to
compose
yourself. To dress, madame!”

“Why ever should I do that?” Then she answered herself, with a knowing laugh. “Oh, that’s it, then? You’re one of them gents as likes to do his own unpacking. Well, I got all the time in the world, so we’ll do what makes you happy. Do you want me to put everything back on, or just my knickers?”