Words of Command (Hervey 12) (Matthew Hervey) (18 page)

‘Yes, indeed, Colonel. I believe I had perfectly understood that. Is there some cause for doubting it?’

Hervey shook his head. ‘I only doubted that I had made myself clear. I infer therefore that you have not heard rumour of Kennett’s true intention with his pistol yesterday.’

‘No-o.’

He related what Johnson had told him.

Malet shook his head. ‘It surprises me not at all, though I don’t suppose the two dragoons would be able to swear upon oath that the pistol was pointed at the man.’

‘My thoughts exactly.’

‘What do you wish me to do, Colonel?’

‘What would you advise?’

Now Malet paused for thought. ‘I think Captain Worsley should be apprised.’

‘His troop’s now all returned, are they not?’

‘They are. The yeomanry arrived at Maidenhead yesterday morning. And of course I shall speak with him.’

‘And Collins.’

‘Of course, Colonel. And unless they can throw light on the matter, I believe it best to let sleeping dogs lie.’

‘For they may rise and bite you?’

‘I would not fear any bite of Kennett’s, Colonel, but we should have a great to-do and the evidence would not be strong – though I am no lawyer.’

‘It occurs to me that a magistrate might lay a charge of attempted murder – or intent to murder, if there be such a crime. You do not consider that we are complicit in such a thing if we do not report the facts to the authorities?’

‘I believe that our responsibility as far as the law goes is to investigate the evidence, and if it is considered to be demanding of an answer should then, and only then, bring it before the civil authorities.’

‘So we may not, indeed, let sleeping dogs lie.’

‘I don’t think we’re obliged to question any witness directly, Colonel, for an attempt was not actually made – by their account – the shot following Collins’s intervention; and it would be deuced difficult to find evidence of
intent
.’

‘This much I’d concluded last night. The difficulty seems to me, however, to be one of unhappy alternatives. On the one hand, Collins’s action, if unjustified, is an assault on an officer, whereas on the other, if his action
is
justified, Kennett is guilty of a felony,
ipso facto
. And there will be no shortage of “legal opinion” in the canteen.’

Malet sighed. ‘There is ever conjecture in the canteen, Colonel, as I hardly need tell you. I rather think that you have perfectly stated the case for letting hounds sleep. Is it not a matter for what I believe is called “prudential judgement”?’

Hervey had all but made a study of it: fine words, a fine notion – the judgement of Solomon &c … yet so difficult to accomplish. He had certainly not been able – not with consistency – to discern the right course in his own affairs.

He nodded slowly. ‘I suppose we may presume that such conjecture will reach the ears of Mr Rennie, if it has not already done so.’

Malet was puzzled by Hervey’s hesitation. The Sixth –
any
regiment – were not Unitarians: the commanding officer was the undoubted god-head, and the adjutant high-priest, but not least of the trinity was the serjeant-major, the apotheosis of the rank and file. They were of one substance – ‘three in one’. It was they who set the tone, regulated the routine, chose the NCOs, the apostles of the regiment’s creed. Did Hervey not entirely confide in Rennie, because he was not raised in the same ranks? Was he somehow trying to guard Collins against the stern application of unprejudiced military justice? And what was his, Malet’s, duty in the circumstances?

‘Shall I inform the sar’nt-major, Colonel, or will you?’

‘I’ll speak with him myself. And then, as you say, we shall let hounds sleep.’

Malet rose.

‘Damn.’

‘Colonel?’

‘Oh … it’s nothing. Only that I’ve just recalled Lord Hill’s summons today week.’

‘You have another appointment?’

‘One that I had wished to avoid … But no matter; I must think of something else.’

‘There is one more thing, Colonel. Captain Tyrwhitt’s attorney will pay a call tomorrow. I shall then be able to apprise you of the situation … Unless you yourself wish to hear him directly.’

Hervey shook his head. ‘I have no great fondness for lawyers, Malet. You may see him yourself,’ he replied, before adding, a trifle pained, ‘unless that seems unduly unsympathetic to Tyrwhitt.’

Malet’s look suggested that sympathy for Tyrwhitt should be measured.

‘Very well. I’ll await your report … And now, would you dine with me this evening? I’ve sent a note to Worsley asking the same – with his wife, also. It is a very short notice, but I hope it will serve.’

‘I should be delighted, Colonel. Thank you. At what hour?’

‘Eight. I shouldn’t wish it too late for Worsley to get back to Richmond.’

Meanwhile there was yet more paper to attend to.

But Fairbrother evidently dined elsewhere – as the day previous. He had the acquaintance of two of the Theatre Royal’s company – female company – whom he had met at supper a year before with one of the Covent Garden
entrepreneuses
, a pretty, Italian-looking flower girl who had intercepted him and Hervey when they were making their way to a gunsmith in Leicester Street prior to leaving for the Levant, and with whom he had lost no time in reacquainting himself on return.

The flower girl had liked ‘the Captain’, who treated her well and demanded nothing untoward by return, and the actresses were of the same opinion, not least because Fairbrother, as they, had the complexion of warmer climes and the easy manners that went with them – and an air that was somehow protective, like a brother or a cousin, perhaps. They had arranged a box for him last evening, and when the play was over he had taken them to supper; and after a couple of hours’ conviviality had engaged a hackney to take them home across the river, before making his own way to the Strand for the night coach to Hounslow.

But as he turned into Bull Inn Court, darker-lit than the streets about, there was a scream.

He at once put his back to the wall and reached in a pocket for his Deringer pistol.

‘Help! Help! Murder!’

He could see but a few yards – a split second to decide: a lure or a female in distress?

He took off his hat and held it out as a foil, edging down the passage.

A dozen yards from the Strand – outside the Nell Gwyn tavern, darkened and barred – was a woman crying, kneeling by a man who lay on his side.

‘What’s to do? What’s to do?’

He could get no answer.

‘What’s to do, woman?’ he demanded, stepping past to see if there was anyone skulking.

‘They’ve killed him,’ she sobbed. ‘Murder.’

Fairbrother knelt to see if the man were indeed dead.

There was a groan as he tried to move him, and blood.

‘What has happened?’ he asked again.

‘They stabbed him, stabbed him … without a word.’

‘With a knife? A sword?’

She just sobbed, shaking her head.

‘Didn’t you see?’

Still no answer.

‘I must get a cab, get a surgeon.’

‘No,’ she howled. ‘They’ll murder me when you’re gone.’

‘Who will?’

No answer.

‘There’s nothing for it but to get him out of this alley. Here,’ he said, giving her his hat and struggling to lift the man so as to drag him the dozen yards into the gaslight of the Strand.

There were no groans this time – or if there were, he didn’t hear them, the effort to move the dead-weight prodigious.

The safety of the gaslight quieted the woman, who he now saw was both handsome and young – younger than her gentleman-friend – and dressed as quality. He found the wound, not without difficulty, for the shirt was blood-soaked, took off his necktie and began to staunch the flow as best he could.

None of the pedestrians showed the instincts of the Samaritan.

‘Hail a cab,’ he barked at one of them. ‘A man here’s sorely wounded.’

It took a compliant passer-by several attempts, for cabmen were not fond of inebriates, as they fancied the fare to be, but after some minutes a hackney did pull up, driven by a man in an old military greatcoat.

He was inclined to be helpful. ‘There’s the infirm’ry in Vill’ers Street, but they don’t take the likes of this as a rule. Guy’s is the place, I reckon – London Bridge.’

Fairbrother and the hesitant Samaritan got the man into the cab, but only with difficulty, the door not being wide. Then he handed up the woman, thanked the passer-by, waved to the driver and closed the door behind them.

The woman had stopped sobbing, but pressed herself into the corner of her seat, with a handkerchief to her mouth, and gazed out of the window fearfully.

‘The gentleman was escorting you to a carriage, ma’am, I fancy,’ said Fairbrother, himself sitting back, there being nothing more he could do for the insensible figure at his feet.

She looked at him as if to ask what or how he knew, then nodded.

‘Did you have far to travel?’

She shook her head.

There was no knowing whether the man intended travelling with her. Nor did he feel it proper to enquire. ‘We must inform the police,’ he said after a little way more. ‘They will wish to hear your account – and mine.’

She nodded again, as if resigned.

‘Did they rob him of anything?’

She shook her head.

Her unwillingness to speak was perhaps understandable, but frustrating too.

‘I am Captain Edward Fairbrother, ma’am.’ He gave his rank to reassure, though he did not use it, as a rule.

She nodded appreciatively, but nothing more.

‘You are not, I am to suppose then, the wife of the gentleman?’

She looked at him anxiously, but said nothing.

‘I recognize the gentleman, ma’am. It is General Gifford, is it not?’

She nodded.

‘I’m afraid a coroner’s court, if it comes to that, will demand more answers than I. Why was he attacked?’

She shook her head again. ‘I don’t know. I saw just the one, but I think there were more. I believe they may have mistaken him for another. The man I saw said, “Laidlaw, you have ruined me”, and then he thrust with a knife – or some such.’

‘Forgive me, ma’am, you are a married woman?’

She looked away.

‘And this, therefore, will ruin you.’

She nodded again.

Fairbrother fell silent. And then, as the carriage turned for Southwark Bridge, he decided on their course of action. ‘I shall have to give evidence on oath, perhaps, so it is better that I know nothing more. If you were to slip away when we reach the hospital, might your identity remain concealed?’

‘It would, sir.’

‘And you would take the risk of doing so – the streets unknown to you?’

She nodded.

‘Then it is resolved.’

His dinner guests gone an hour and more, Hervey put a late shovel of coal on the fire, and poured another glass of claret for his friend. ‘What an extraordinary affair. And she merely disappeared into the night like … like Eurydice.’

‘Aye. I wondered if it were right to let her, on that account, for it was a beastly place, all turnings and windings, but she showed no terror. And it was not so very far from the bridge, which was well lit.’

‘And it was most definitely Gifford?’

‘Unquestionably. I saw him so many times in the United Service that I could scarce mistake his features.’

‘No, indeed. And what did you do next?’

‘When the orderlies at the hospital – which, I must say, is not like any that I have seen; an admirably efficient place – when they had taken him in and I’d given such details as I could, I went to Bow Street by the same carriage – whose driver I took details of, that I could call him as witness if need be – and there I made a deposition to a serjeant of police. After that, being almost three o’clock, I set off to walk to the United Service to see if they would admit me, by way of the new market, where I found a cup or two of very serviceable coffee, and brandy, the market-men most hospitable. And then at about four o’clock I thought better of the United Service and went instead to Piccadilly and got a bed at Hatchett’s, where I slept long … And then I rose and breakfasted in the afternoon before going thence to see a notary to transact a little business, and thence to the hospital for word of the general – and he was by no means dead. So you see, it is not at all amiss that I should return so late, though I am very sorry to have missed evidently so convivial an evening.’

Hervey shook his head, discomfited by the apology. ‘No, not at all amiss. You are on the half-pay; your time is your own.’

‘I meant that I ought to have sent word.’

‘It seems to me that you scarce had opportunity. It has indeed been a most convivial evening, though. Mrs Worsley is the most excellent of her sex, and the two are plainly the happiest of couples. Worsley’s quite transformed in her presence.’

Fairbrother sipped at his wine with unusual moderation. ‘Perhaps I would have intruded.’

‘Intruded? How so?’

‘Alligator lay egg, but him no fowl,’ he replied, in the accent of the plantation.

Hervey grimaced. ‘I do wish you’d put that nonsense from your mind.’

‘I have no true place here. There’s nothing I can be about in the barracks, and – strange as you may think it – I am now afeard of being idle.’

‘Then this is progress indeed! Here, have a little more claret.’

Fairbrother took the point, and the wine. ‘You know, those market-men were a decidedly rough sort, some of them. The sort you found in the Royal Africans. Yet tractable.’

‘You tipped them well, no doubt.’

‘I did. And to scour the passageway when it was light for any sign of the affair. I’ll meet with them again in a day or two.’

Hervey nodded approvingly … ‘And Eurydice’s identity shall be protected.’

‘I trust so.’

He nodded approvingly again. ‘You are the most gallant of fellows, Fairbrother. I count myself the most fortunate of men to have your acquaintance. And Gifford shall, too, if he recovers.’

‘If he doesn’t go the way of Eurydice’s lover.’

Hervey smiled. ‘Yes, indeed. The comparison was more apt than I’d supposed. But Gifford, I should think, is made of sterner stuff.’