Loose Head (4 page)

My benefactor bent down and studied my battered face critically; then he broke into a radiant grin. “No permanent damage. I say – I like your style! Ever think of coming out for rugger?”

That was the first time I met Ian Chalmers.

IV

“D’you remember that night in Melbourne?” cried Richard Devilliers, our dapper, silver-haired fullback, raising his voice to be heard over the noisy throng near the bar. He had been Ian’s best mate on the team, and the Chalmers memorial was especially hard on him. “The Aussie Rules football match? It was Ian’s turn to buy the beer, and as he staggered toward the aisle, he caught the eye of a buxom sheila the next row up. She whispered something to her husband, who suddenly bellowed....”

“Hey, mate! If you drop your pants, she’ll bite your ass!’” laughed Dr. Vince Maitland, chief of oral surgery at the Royal College of Medicine and my counterpart at flanker on the Hastewicke Gentlemen.

“Don’t interrupt, Vince! Ian thought about it for a moment, then fwp! Down came his trousers and he assumed the position. He was expecting a friendly nip; instead, she lunged at him like a snake from a drainpipe and sank her teeth into his right buttock. He let out a bloodcurdling falsetto scream – ‘Eeeyaaaagh!’– that echoed from one end of the stadium to the other. Everyone in the bloody place turned to look, even the players on the field! Mums were covering their kids’ eyes... absolute bedlam! Ian pulled up his pants and tried to lose himself in the throng, but when security arrived, what were we chanting?”

“Throw ‘im out! Thrown ‘im out! Throw ‘im out!” we all roared delightedly.

The evening had reached the stage of mellow hilarity, the better to mask the essential melancholy of the occasion. John’s magnificent hospitality – oceans of drink, a groaning sideboard and the classical opulence of Penhurst House itself – had worked its annual magic.

The big room held a motley throng of players, wives, girlfriends, club officials and hangers-on; the ancient rafters rang with laughter, animated conversation, and, from one corner, the sweet strains of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” These were men I had known almost all my life – men I had grown up with, spilled blood with, traveled to the far corners of the earth with, drunk far too much with, shared triumph, despair and imbecility with, in equal measures. Many were men I admired, for their skill on the pitch, their wit and intelligence, their companionship. A few I held in lower esteem – the braggarts and the cheats, the cheap-shotters, the stuck-up bastards. Some had always regarded me fondly; others, with supercilious distaste. But tonight, clashing egos and past injustices were forgotten. We were everything a rugby team should be.

Off to one side, near the French doors, sat Sir Percival Henry St. John Barlowe, our burly, bearded tight-head prop, sipping soda and lime under the watchful eye of his wife Sarah, a formidable raven-haired woman in scarlet silk. A year or two older than I, Harry had promised his wife that he would quit drinking; she had allowed him to join the Vegas tour, his first in two years, only on the condition that he stay on the wagon. To the best of my knowledge, he had manfully stuck to his pledge. He was talking to Roger Seagrave, the slim, elegant winger, nearly 55 now, who stood with his arm encircling the newly-svelte waist of his wife, Catherine. Over the past two years, Catherine had shed almost 15 stone – over 200 pounds -- a triumph of self-discipline that had left her glowing with pride and good health.

I saw Bernie Plantagenet over by the gigantic fireplace; he was talking animatedly to Sir Chester Atkinson, “Jester” to his mates, the towering and eccentric electronics entrepreneur who had replaced Ian as our number 8. Evidently Bernie hadn’t let our earlier conversation spoil his evening. My traitorous thoughts turned naturally to Jane, and when I turned, there she was at my elbow, as if summoned by telepathy.

“You miss Ian terribly, don’t you?” she asked sympathetically. “You look done in.”

I replied truthfully. “He was unfailingly kind and generous. He didn’t have to be. He was a happy soul, and he wanted everyone he cared about to be happy too. And one day he was there, and the next he was gone. So yeah, I miss him.”

“Buy a girl a drink?” she asked, taking my arm.

I walked with her to the bar, ordered her a Bellini. Since she appeared to be in no hurry to be rid of me, we strolled out onto the terrace; we leant on the stone balustrade and looked out over the swath of landscaped common that separated the two rows of houses, bathing in the ravishing fragrance of roses. The sounds of the party washed over us through the open French doors. I turned to look at her; a balmy breeze stirred her shoulder-length hair.

“Why did you come to see Bernie tonight?” she asked, without turning her head. “Is he in trouble?”

I wasn’t best sure how to reply to that. On the one hand, I would cheerfully have committed murder to keep Jane from being hurt, yet all my professional instincts were whispering that hurt was lurking just around the corner, like a mugger in a doorway. On the other hand, Bernie’s transgression, whatever it was, was not yet part of our official inquiry, and at least for now, I felt bound to respect his confidence. I decided to stall for time. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know... he hasn’t really been himself since you came back from tour. You know Bernie – not a care in the world. But he’s been... snappish. Off his feed. The other night I got up for a pee, and he was gone. I found him sitting in his study, just staring into the fire. He always sleeps like the dead. It’s not like him.”

“If he’s in trouble, he hasn’t confided in me. You know I like Bernie – you can’t help but like him. If he needs help, I’ll do whatever I can.” I glanced ostentatiously at my watch. “Damn, it’s late. Early meeting tomorrow. I’d best find John and say my goodbyes.” I patted her arm awkwardly. “Try not to worry. And if anything’s wrong, tell Bernie to ring me. Any hour, day or night.”

“I will.” Her face was wintry and bleak. “Bernie told me you were almost killed last night. Is it true?”

I thought about lying. But I couldn’t – she was the one person I had never truly lied to. For, but not to. “Yes. I made a mistake. But it was a mistake I would make again, I’m afraid.”

“You’ve always been reckless, Dex. It’s one of the things I’ve always loved about you. And one of the reasons I chose Bernie.”

There was nothing to say to that; I turned to go. A small voice, almost a whisper, held me back. “Can I tell you something, Dex? That night, when we met at the Park Hotel. That wasn’t just chance, you know – I knew you’d be there.” And with a maddeningly enigmatic glance over her shoulder, she turned back to the moonlight.

V

Re-entering the great hall, I cast about the vast, oak-paneled room, but our host had disappeared. I set out to find him, down Persian-carpeted hallways, past Impressionist oils and Renaissance tapestries. Outside Weathersby’s study, I paused to admire a fine, floodlit marble bust of Caligula, reputedly almost two thousand years old.

Abruptly the door to the study flew open, and Robert Leicester, Lord Palmerston, the famed philanthropist and Hastewicke Gentlemen outside centre, stalked forth. Rather out of keeping with the general mood of the gathering, his brow was furrowed, and he looked decidedly pissed off about something. He started as he saw me and his expression changed at once to one of fond sadness. “Dex! Your turn next, is it?”

“Actually, I was just looking for John. My turn for what?”

For a moment, Bob looked flustered, but he recovered well. “Oh, you know John. Loves to bore the socks off of you, gabbing on about his latest acquisition. He’s in his study, fondling it as we speak. Thought you were his next victim.”

“Right – I’ll just say my goodbyes then. See you next week at practice.”

Leicester strode off down the hall without another word, evidently preoccupied, or swollen of bladder. I knocked at the doorframe and entered at John’s cheery “Come!”

Weathersby stood in the centre of the room, cradling an immense double-bore rifle, a blissful smile on his broad, sable-bearded face. The loose-head prop’s mule-broad shoulders and massive girth strained the seams of his white Egyptian cotton shirt. His tie was undone, and he held a frosty and ample G&T in his free hand, which he raised in salute as I entered. “Dex! Sorry we haven’t had much of a chance to chat tonight. How are you! Come see my latest prize!”

I took the rifle from him, amazed at its weight. It was an old Holland & Holland .450/.500 side-by-side, and had obviously seen an amplitude of both hard knocks and tender care. Its magnificently-burled walnut stock was scratched and dented, but lovingly-oiled; the bluing on its engraved barrels was worn down to bare metal in places. But when I opened the breech, the action worked soundlessly, without a trace of play. I examined the inscription on the intricately-engraved breech-plate: “D. Finch-Hatton, Nairobi, Kenya.”

“H&H Nitro Royal Express hammerless sidelock double, calibre .450/.500, vintage 1904 – a true elephant gun, so powerful it once killed two Cape buffalo with a single shot,” John said. “You recognize the original owner?”

“Denys Finch-Hatton. Immortalized by Isak Dineson in
Out of Africa
, and badly impersonated by Robert Redford in the film version.”

“Spot on. Had my eye on this gun for years – knew it was out there, for the right price. It’ll be the centrepiece of my collection.”

John’s enthusiasm for Victorian collectibles, and the safari age in particular, was legendary. He owned one of the finest collections of African memorabilia in England – guns, photographs, camp equipment, ivory, skins and other trophies, native art and other artifacts. “Still in working order?” I asked.

“Shot it myself only yesterday, at the Holland & Holland range.” He pulled open his shirt, to reveal a deep purple bruise, in the shape of a rifle-butt, on his heavily-muscled shoulder. “Amazingly accurate, but it kicks like a bloody mule. Have a look at the cartridges.” He gestured toward his desk; I opened one of the boxes and whistled as I pulled out a gleaming, cigar-sized cylinder of brass, tipped with an immense nickle-plated bullet. “Over an ounce of lead there, with enough powder behind it to shove it clean through an elephant and out the other side.”

“Congratulations, John – it’s a beautiful piece. Must’ve cost a bloody fortune, with a pedigree like that.”

“Two bloody fortunes,” he grinned. “But it’s only money. Had a bit of luck on the futures market last week, and I thought, what better way to spend it?”

“Well.” A delicate pause. “Another year gone by. Thanks for another lovely party. Most generous of you, as always.”

“You’re not going? But the night is young!”

“Duty calls. Some of us, unfortunately, have to work for a living.”

“Come on, Dex – one for the road, while I call you a taxi.” He gestured toward a well-stocked drinks cabinet and reached for the phone; I helped myself to a generous Springbank while he rang the taxi company. “Ten minutes, he says.”

“Ta.” I gazed into the fire for a moment, marshaling my thoughts. “You played well in Vegas, for an old fat bastard. What’s your secret, then?”

“Avoid training like the plague, but eat a hearty breakfast an hour before game-time. Sex with multiple partners the night before. That, and silk jock-straps. No chafing.”

“Ah, for the life of a lord.” I raised my glass.

John laughed. “It was quite a good tournament, though. I particularly enjoyed the final – always relish a chance to trample the Yanks into the dust.”

“You don’t like Americans?”

He shook his head. “Too full of themselves – treat you like they’ve known you for years and shagged your sister besides on the strength of a few minutes’ acquaintance.” He looked at me with evident amusement. “You don’t agree?”

“I find them refreshing, myself. Unpretentious, and good for a laugh. You have to admit that there’s good fun to be had in Vegas.”

“No argument there. You just have to be prepared to pay for it.”

“Speaking of which, I hear we have you to thank for Suite 455. That was uncharacteristically generous of you.”

He fixed me with a bright stare; for just a moment, some of the hearty good humour left his eyes. “And who told you that?”

“Sorry, I can’t reveal my sources. But really, that was above and beyond the call.”

“Yet you chose not to take advantage of the opportunity.”

“No need – I was rooming with The Gland.”

“Ah.” His face cleared, as if a mystery had been resolved. “He left not a strip club or blackjack table untried, I suppose?”

I nodded. “And you? Did Suite 455 feel your mighty presence?”

“Indeed it did!” John laughed, eyes twinkling. “The wife of the Sonoma Rugby Club’s captain practically dragged me there – said there was nothing like an English accent to charm her knickers off.”

I winced at the imagery, but said nothing. John, however, noticed. “I see you don’t approve,” he said, smile fading. “I suppose you wouldn’t stoop so low as to fuck an opponent’s wife. And yet you had no compunctions about fucking the wife of a teammate. Curious.”

I kept the shock off my face and carefully tamped down my anger. I was suddenly and forcefully reminded that Weathersby was one of those who had not favored my selection to the First XV, or my presence as a member of the Hastewicke Gentlemen. “Old history,” I replied conversationally. “But solely out of personal curiosity, how did you happen to hear about that?”

“Ah, laddy.” That feral grin was back. “I have my sources, just like you do. But don’t worry.” He leant forward to whisper conspiratorially. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Chapter 4

My affair with Jane began one night in Belgravia, 14 years ago; it lasted just seven days. It happened this way. I went to the Park Hotel for a colleague’s retirement dinner. The Hastewicke Gentlemen were off touring Argentina, but I had been unable to accompany them, my testimony being required for the conviction of the Green Park serial rapist. The trial had reached its dramatic conclusion only that morning, and now the testimonial dinner was winding down as well.