Think of England (12 page)

Da Silva nodded, as one professional to another. He stood, and extended a hand to pull Curtis up. Curtis, who outweighed him by several stone of muscle, took it, feeling da Silva’s fingers warm around his for a moment.

“Very well,” da Silva said. “I’ll slip out first, give me five minutes before you leave. I’ll come up with a reason for you to return to London, and a means for you to let me know when assistance is on the way. Keep your head, keep your countenance. No heroics. Getting the information to Vaizey is what matters.”

“Understood. Just let me know what’s needed. Otherwise, er—what’s that thing of that chap about service?”

“‘They also serve who only stand and wait’?”

It was pleasing how easily da Silva picked up his meaning. “Yes. I always rather struggle with that.”

“Do you? It sounds like my ideal job.” Da Silva gave him a swift smile, without the usual hint of mockery, picked up his coat, and went silently down the stairs.

Curtis sank back against the wall and wondered what in the blue blazes was happening to him.

Da Silva, a secret agent. It seemed extraordinary when one considered the ghastly floral buttonholes and the languorous manner. Easier to imagine him as a competent professional if he thought of him working in the library, intent on his manuscript. Impossible to think about if he pictured him on his knees…

Enough of that. Sir Maurice, Curtis’s uncle, would not have recruited da Silva if he wasn’t good. For a moment Curtis imagined the two of them in a room: the ferocious Sir Maurice, who made Curtis’s own spine stiffen; da Silva languid in a velvet jacket. His mind rebelled at the picture. But of course da Silva would adopt another persona for work, no doubt a crisp professional manner. He could pull it off, Curtis was sure, he switched between roles like an actor. Perhaps it was easier for queer sorts to play a variety of parts, being used to concealing the truth about themselves—

The thought pulled him up short.

He had been in exclusively male company at school, of course, and at college. He could have sought out female companionship at Oxford, as many did, but he had been occupied elsewhere, concentrating on his sporting career and, as a poor second, getting his degree. He had joined the army straight out of university, and from then on he’d mostly been in one or another part of Africa, at least up until Jacobsdal. He had, in fact, spent his life with men. And if, in those circumstances, one played the fool with other fellows, as he had at school, and college, or had a particular friend, as he had in the army, well, that was only natural. Men had needs.

Today’s business with da Silva was very far from his first time with another chap. It was simply the first time he’d been forced to think about it.

Curtis shut his eyes. He could still feel a slight dampness in his groin from da Silva’s mouth, and he had a momentary urge to stroke himself.

He had never considered his own tastes beyond the moment. He didn’t often consider himself at all, not being the introspective sort. But in that shocking moment when he had thought he had forced himself on an unwilling man, he had faced a truth.

He had wanted da Silva. Not just the physical relief, not just a hand on his cock; he’d wanted the dark, clever man who dropped to his knees so easily for all his prickly pride. Curtis had woken up hard this morning, thinking of da Silva between his thighs in the mirror last night. He had struggled to control his arousal in the billiard room, watching the man bent over the green baize table. And nothing on earth could have held him back just now, not once da Silva had offered his outrageous, marvellous mouth.

You asked him to suck you off. You begged him to.

He rubbed his hands over his face, unsure where his thoughts were going.

Very well: he would rather have his cock sucked than not, and da Silva was a handsome devil who knew his way around a chap, and God knew it had been so long since he’d felt aroused, let alone acted on it. Was there anything more to it, really?

All his previous encounters had been with chaps like himself: soldiers, sportsmen, good fellows. He had an unformed but definite idea that being queer entailed doing something different, womanish, something like the rouged men in those London clubs. Like da Silva, with his perfectly shaped brows and tight trousers and mannerisms.

Curtis wasn’t like that. He simply didn’t
feel
queer, whatever that might feel like. He felt like a normal chap who, now and then, enjoyed encounters with other chaps, that was all. Some people might not see the distinction, he supposed, but there was definitely a difference. He wasn’t sure what it was, but there was one. Well, there had to be, since he wasn’t queer.

This was not a useful line of thought.

Curtis straightened up from the wall and marched downstairs to grab his oilskins. It was time to go back to the house, face the Armstrongs, do his duty to King and country, put away this self-indulgent nonsense. If da Silva could keep his mind on the job in hand, Archie Curtis, late of His Majesty’s service, could hardly do less.

Chapter Eight

Luncheon was a noisy, chatty affair. Curtis concentrated on the interplay around him, viewing the country house party through the prism of what he knew.

Lambdon had his eye on Mrs. Grayling. No question of that; he was a heavy flirt, and rather a vulgar one. Curtis would have objected in Grayling’s shoes, but the silly fellow was fascinated by Lady Armstrong. James Armstrong and Holt were still in friendly competition for Miss Carruth’s attention. She divided her favours with a pleasant smile for both, but no sign that she felt any inclination towards either. A good dissembler, or simply not attracted to a pair of young men who were coming to strike Curtis as rather ill-mannered? Da Silva was charming the pallid Mrs. Lambdon, God alone knew why. Curtis did his best not to watch him. He couldn’t help feeling his mouth looked a trifle bruised.

The rain stopped as they ate, and after coffee and cigars, Lady Armstrong assembled her walking party to the caves. Curtis, by now desperate for a bit of physical exertion, was among them; da Silva, he was unsurprised to note, was not. He was doubtless up to something. Curtis had found the dark lantern and his discarded pullover in his wardrobe before luncheon. He had no idea when da Silva had retrieved them or sneaked them in to his room, but it was a rather pleasing reminder of his competence. Curtis had forgotten all about them both.

Holt and Armstrong cut Miss Carruth out of the main group with a practised pincer movement, so Curtis walked most of the way with Miss Merton. It was no chore. She was, it turned out, not just a companion: she was the Patricia Merton who had taken gold at the Ladies’ All England shooting competition for three years running, and the two-mile walk became as pleasant an interlude as almost any Curtis had spent since his return from South Africa.

As they paced through the open countryside, bare and bleak, with the hills ranging away up to the looming Pennine peaks, they spoke of target and game shooting, compared notes on gun models and cartridge manufacturers, argued the merits of pigeons and pheasants. Miss Merton animated proved to be a very likeable woman, not pretty, but handsome, with fine eyes and a decided, practical way about her, and she was remarkably easy to talk to. In fact, she was just the sort of woman he’d imagined he might marry, at some unspecified point in the future, although even by the end of that very enjoyable walk, he didn’t feel any urge to bring that point closer.

Miss Merton showed no more inclination to cast lingering looks than Curtis felt. She discussed guns like a sensible woman, and kept half an eye on Miss Carruth, and after all, a new friendship was a much more appealing prospect than a mere country-house flirtation.

Lady Armstrong stopped them at the base of a rocky slope. “We go up here to the cave mouth. I hope everyone is ready for a little scramble, and nobody is afraid of the dark?” There was a ripple of laughter from everyone except Mrs. Lambdon, who gave a whinny of distress. Lady Armstrong smiled. “Perhaps the gentlemen could assist the ladies?”

Holt deftly swooped on Miss Carruth. Lady Armstrong gave her stepson a pitying smile and said, “James, support your mamma.” Mr. Lambdon took Mrs. Grayling’s arm with an intimate murmur that won him a giggle, leaving Mr. Grayling to offer his arm to Mrs. Lambdon. Curtis looked round at Miss Merton.

“Don’t you dare,” she told him.

“I shouldn’t dream of it. You may need to help me if the going’s too rough.”

In fact the path was very manageable, and his leg not too bad at all. The cave entrance had been opened wide, and lamps hung there for the visitors’ use. James and Lady Armstrong set off first. She almost slipped on a smooth stone, and he caught her with a protective arm round her waist and a cry of “Watch out, mater!” At the same moment, Curtis almost lost his footing, as a drip from the ceiling splashed onto his head.

“All very treacherous, isn’t it?” murmured Miss Merton. “Any idea what we’re in for?”

“Well, it’s a limestone cave, which is to say, the rainwater soaks through the ground and leaches out the stone. So we should see some rather good rock formations, I think.”

They moved down through the first tunnel, which was steep and unpleasantly slippery, despite crude steps that had been cut underfoot. It was damp and cold and airless, and the walls seemed to bulge like ripples of flesh with a wet shine to their yellow-brown surface.

“Like being in the gullet of a dragon,” Miss Carruth called back, voice echoing oddly off the wet walls. She was just behind the Armstrongs, followed by Grayling and Mrs. Lambdon, with Curtis and Miss Merton after them. “Oh!”

“What? Fen?” Miss Merton called. “Fen!”

Mrs. Lambdon ahead of them stopped dead, with a squeak of amazement.

“Do move, will you,” said Miss Merton. “Oh. Oh, goodness me. Look at that.”

It was one of the better caves Curtis had seen. Great spikes of stone came down from the roof like teeth, or sprouted up from the floor, looking like huge dribbled candles. The Armstrongs, familiar with the sight, had moved their lanterns to the best points to cast light. Shadows jumped and flickered. Mrs. Lambdon made a wailing noise and clutched Mr. Grayling’s arm.

“Well, this is something.” Miss Merton looked around. “Can we explore?”

“Please do,” said Lady Armstrong. “There’s a network of tunnels and galleries here like a honeycomb under the hills, but most of them are too narrow to go down very far. Don’t squeeze through anything tight and you can’t get lost. If your lantern should go out”—Mrs. Lambdon moaned—“just call out and stay still. It’s very easy to get disoriented underground, or in the dark.”

The party spread out. Curtis, intrigued and not burdened with a woman who wanted his support, headed down a wide tunnel into what turned out to be a small gallery, its walls an icy white compared to the brown and yellow of the main cave. He paced its edges, examining the rippled walls, imagining the age of the extraordinary creation. At the end of the gallery was a small wall of rocks, man made, and as he peered over he saw that it marked a pit, almost perfectly round, utterly black, nearly six feet wide.

He held out his lantern and peered down, but saw only the void gaping beneath. It was an unsettling sight. He dropped in a pebble experimentally and listened out, but heard no rattle as it hit bottom.

Footsteps sounded behind him.

“Good, isn’t it?” Holt had come in alone. “Watch out for that pit. Nasty little trap. You wouldn’t want to fall in.”

Curtis straightened. “I wonder how far it goes down.”

“Nobody knows. They’ve lowered ropes with lanterns on, but they’ve always run out of rope before they run out of hole. It’s some kind of sinkhole. A bottomless pit, straight down to the bowels of the earth.” Holt spoke with relish.

“Good Lord.” Curtis stared into the abyss a moment longer. “Have you lost Miss Carruth to Armstrong?”

“To her bulldog.” Holt pursed his lips, making a face intended to evoke Miss Merton’s severity. Curtis had no patience with those manners; one did not speak of women like that. He gave the fellow a disapproving look and turned again to the weird walls.

Holt didn’t seem to take the hint. “I say, quite seriously, what did you make of that business with our Hebrew friend this morning?”

“He beat you fair and square. What else is there to make of it?”

“Oh, come. That was professional play. Didn’t you think? Have you ever seen a gentleman play like that?”

Curtis hadn’t. If da Silva wasn’t a professional sharp it wasn’t for lack of ability, or an excess of morals either. It was quite obvious that he wasn’t a gentleman. Holt was right.

Curtis couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“He’s a fine player,” he said instead, defensively. “He didn’t play for money. I don’t see any reason to do the chap down. He may not be our sort but he’s not so bad as all that.”

“He’s a blasted Jew.”

“Well, yes, but what of it? That was a game of billiards, not a religious discussion.”

Holt shook his head, annoyed at Curtis’s lack of understanding. “You were a soldier. You must have some interest in protecting your country.”

“Against da Silva?”

“Against his sort.” Holt must have read Curtis’s incomprehension in his face, because he went on, “This country is in the doldrums. Decadence is rotting us from within. We’ve a king who only cares for pleasure, and a set of adulterous commoners and wastrels and rootless cosmopolitan money-grubbers around him. Decent Britons scarcely get a look-in, nobody gives a curse for the people who make up the backbone of the Empire. The people who are supposed to set an example are all swept up in rackety living, or talking airy-fairy tripe about being sensitive, and the people with a bit of moral backbone are called old-fashioned. Well, I’d rather be old-fashioned if da Silva’s an example of the modern type. I’d have hoped you were the same.”