The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “Wait! Wait!” cries he, wattling. “That’s a monstrous suggestion! Contain yourself, sir! Are you positive it’s Ignatieff?”

  I was ready to burst, but I didn’t. “I’m positive.”

  “Stay here,” says he, and bustled out, and for ten minutes I chewed my nails until he came back, shutting the door behind him carefully. He had got his normal beetroot colour back, but he looked damned rattled.

  “It’s true,” says he. “Count Ignatieff is here with Lord Aberdeen’s party – as a guest of the Queen. It seems – you know we have Granville in Petersburg just now, for the new Tsar’s coronation? Well, a party of Russian noblemen – the first since the war – have just arrived in Leith yesterday, bringing messages of good will, or God knows what, from the new monarch to the Queen. Someone had written to Aberdeen – I don’t know it all yet – and he brought them with him on his way north – with this fellow among ’em. It’s extraordinary! The damndest chance!”

  “Chance, my lord?” says I. “I’ll need some convincing of that!”

  “Good God, what else? I’ll allow it’s long odds, but I’m certain if Lord Palmerston had had the least inkling …” He trailed off, and you could see the sudden doubt of his own precious Prime Minister written on his jowly face. “Oh, but the notion’s preposterous … what purpose could it serve not to tell us? No – he would certainly have told me – and you, I’m sure.”

  Well, I wasn’t sure – from what I’d heard of Pam’s sense of humour I’d have put nothing past him. And yet it would have been folly, surely, with me on the point of setting off for India, ostensibly to undo Ignatieff’s work, to have let him come face to face with me. And then, the wildest thought – was it possible Ignatieff knew about my mission?

  “Never!” trumpets Ellenborough. “No, that couldn’t be! The decision to send you out was taken a bare two weeks since – it would be to credit the Russian intelligence system with super-human powers – and if he did, what could he accomplish here? – dammit, in the Queen’s own home! This isn’t Middle Asia – it’s a civilised country –”

  “My lord, that’s not a civilised man,” says I. “But what’s to be done? I can’t meet him!”

  “Let me think,” says he, and strode about, heaving his stomach around. Then he stopped, heavy with decision.

  “I think you must,” says he. “If he has seen you – or finds out that you were here and left before your time … wait, though, it might be put down to tact on your part … still, no!” He snapped his fingers at me. “No, you must stay. Better to behave as though there was nothing untoward – leave no room to excite suspicion – after all, former enemies meet in time of peace, don’t they? And we’ll watch him – by George, we will! Perhaps we’ll learn something ourselves! Hah-ha!”

  And this was the port-sodden clown who had once governed India. I’d never heard such an idiot suggestion – but could I shift him? I pleaded, in the name of common sense, that I should leave at once, but he wouldn’t have it – I do believe that at the back of his mind was the suspicion that Pam had known Ignatieff was coming, and Ellenborough was scared to tinker with the Chief’s machinations, whatever they were.

  “You’ll stay,” he commanded, “and that’s flat. What the devil – it’s just a freak of fate – and if it’s not, there’s nothing this Russian rascal can do. I tell you what, though – I’m not going to miss his first sight of you, what? The man he threatened with torture and worse – disgusting brute! Aye, and the man who bested him in the end. Ha-ha!” And he clapped me on the shoulder. “Aye – hope nothing happens to embarrass the Queen, though. You’ll mind out for that, Flashman, won’t you – it wouldn’t do – any unpleasantness, hey?”

  I minded out, all right. Strangely enough, by the time I came back to the Castle with Elspeth that afternoon, my qualms about coming face to face again with that Russian wolf had somewhat subsided; I’d reminded myself that we weren’t meeting on his ground any more, but on mine, and that the kind of power he’d once had over me was a thing quite past. Still, I won’t pretend I was feeling at ease, and I’d drummed it into Elspeth’s head that not a hint must be let slip about my ensuing departure for India, or Pam’s visit. She took it in wide-eyed and assured me she would not dream of saying a word, but I realised with exasperation that you couldn’t trust any warning to take root in that beautiful empty head: as we approached the drawing-room doors she was prattling away about what wedding present she should suggest to the Queen for Mary Seymour, and I, preoccupied, said offhand, why not a lusty young coachman, and immediately regretted it – you couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t pass it on – and then the doors opened, we were announced, and the heads in the room were all turning towards us.

  There was the Queen, in the middle of the sofa, with a lady and gentleman behind; Albert, propping up the mantelpiece, and lecturing to old Aberdeen, who appeared to be asleep on his feet, half a dozen assorted courtiers – and Ellenborough staring across the room. As we made our bows, and the Queen says: “Ah Mrs Flashman, you are come just in time to help with the service of tea,” I was following Ellenborough’s glance, and there was Ignatieff, with another Russian-looking grandee and a couple of our own gentry. He was staring at me, and by God, he never so much as blinked or twitched a muscle; I made my little bow towards Albert, and as I turned to face Ignatieff again I felt, God knows why, a sudden rush of to-hell-with-it take hold of me.

  “My – dear – Count!” says I, astonished, and everyone stopped talking; the Queen looked pop-eyed, and even Albert left off prosing to the noble corpse beside him.

  “Surely it’s Count Ignatieff?” cries I, and then broke off in apology. “Your pardon, ma’am,” says I to Vicky. “I was quite startled – I had no notion Count Ignatieff was here! Forgive me,” but of course by this time she was all curiosity, and I had to explain that Count Ignatieff was an old comrade-in-arms, so to speak, what? And beam in his direction, while she smiled uncertainly, but not displeased, and Ellenborough played up well, and told Albert that he’d heard me speak of being Ignatieff’s prisoner during the late war, but had had no idea this was the same gentleman, and Albert looked disconcerted, and said that was most remarkable.

  “Indeed, highness, I had that honour,” says Ignatieff, clicking his heels, and the sound of that chilly voice made my spine tingle. But there was nothing he could do but take the hand I stretched out to him.

  “This is splendid, old fellow!” says I, gripping him as though he were my long-lost brother. “Wherever have you been keeping yourself?” One or two of them smiled, to see bluff Flash Harry so delighted at meeting an old enemy – just what they’d have expected, of course. And when the Queen had been made quite au fait with the situation, she said it was exactly like Fitzjames and Roderick Dhu.

  So after that it was quite jolly, and Albert made a group with Ignatieff and Ellenborough and me, and questioned me about our acquaintance, and I made light of my captivity and escape, and said what a charming jailer Ignatieff had been, and the brute just stood impassive, with his tawny head bowed over his cup, and looking me over with that amazing half-blue, half-brown eye. He was still the same handsome, broken-nosed young iceberg I remembered – if I’d closed my eyes I could have heard the lash whistling and cracking in Arabat courtyard, with the Cossacks’ grip on my arms.

  Albert, of course, was much struck by the coincidence of our meeting again, and preached a short sermon about the brotherhood of men-at-arms, to which Ignatieff smiled politely and I cried “Hear, hear!” It was difficult to guess, but I judged my Muscovite monster wasn’t enjoying this too much; he must have been wondering why I pretended to be so glad to see him. But I was all affability; I even presented him to Elspeth, and he bowed and kissed her hand; she was very demure and cool, so I knew she fancied him, the little trollop.

  The truth is, my natural insolence was just asserting itself, as it always does when I feel it’s safe; when a moment came when Ignatieff and I were left alone together, I thought I’d stick a pin
in him, just for sport, so I asked, quietly:

  “Brought your knout with you, Count?”

  He looked at me a moment before replying. “It is in Russia,” says he. “Waiting. So, I have no doubt, is Count Pencherjevsky’s daughter.”

  “Oh, yes,” says I. “Little Valla. Is she well, d’you know?”

  “I have no idea. But if she is, it is no fault of yours.” He glanced away, towards Elspeth and the others. “Is it?”

  “She never complained to me,” says I, grinning at him. “On that tack – if I’m well, it’s no fault of yours, either.”

  “That is true,” says he, and the eye was like a sword-point. “However, may I suggest that the less we say about our previous acquaintance, the better? I gather from your … charade, a little while ago – designed, no doubt, to impress your Queen – that you are understandably reluctant that the truth of your behaviour there should be made public.”

  “Oh, come now,” says I. “’Twasn’t a patch on yours, old boy. What would the Court of Balmoral think if they knew that the charming Russian nobleman with the funny eye, was a murderous animal who flogs innocent men to death and tortures prisoners of war? Thought about that?”

  “If you think you were tortured, Colonel Flashman,” says he, poker-faced, “then I congratulate you on your ignorance.” He put down his cup. “I find this conversation tedious. If you will excuse me,” and he turned away.

  “Oh, sorry if you’re bored,” says I. “I was forgetting – you probably haven’t cut a throat or burned a peasant in a week.”

  It was downright stupid of me, no doubt – two hours earlier I’d been quaking at the thought of meeting him again, and here I was sassing him to my heart’s content. But I can never resist a jibe and a gloat when the enemy’s hands are tied, as Thomas Hughes would tell you. Ignatieff didn’t seem nearly as fearsome here, among the tea-cups, with chaps toadying the royals, and cress sandwiches being handed round, and Ellenborough flirting ponderously with Elspeth while the Queen complained to old Aberdeen that it was the press which had killed Lord Hardinge, in her Uncle Leopold’s opinion. No, not fearsome at all – without his chains and gallows and dungeons and power of life and death, and never so much as a Cossack thug to bless himself with. I should have remembered that men like Nicholas Ignatieff are dangerous anywhere – usually when you least expect it.

  And I was far from expecting anything the next day, the last full one I was to spend at Balmoral. It was a miserable, freezing morning, I remember, with flurries of sleet among the rain, and low clouds rolling down off Lochnagar; the kind of day when you put your nose out once and then settle down to punch and billiards with the boys, and build the fire up high. But not Prince Albert; there were roe deer reported in great numbers at Balloch Buie, and nothing would do but we must be drummed out, cursing, for a stalk.

  I’d have slid back to Abergeldie if I could, but he nailed me in the hall with Ellenborough. “Why, Colonel Flash-mann, where are your gaiters? Haff you nott called for your loader yet? Come, gentlemen, in this weather we haff only a few hours – let us be off!”

  And he strutted about in his ridiculous Alpine hat and tartan cloak, while the loaders were called and the brakes made ready, and the ghillies loafed about grinning on the terrace with the guns and pouches – they knew I loathed it, and that Ellenborough couldn’t carry his guts more than ten yards without a rest, and the brutes enjoyed our discomfiture. There were four or five other guns in the party, and presently we drove off into the rain, huddling under the tarpaulin covers as we jolted away from the castle on the unmade road.

  The country round Balmoral is primitive at the best of times; on a dank autumn day it’s like an illustration from Bunyan’s ‘Holy War’, especially near our destination, which was an eery, dreary forest of firs among the mountains, with great patches of bog, and gullies full of broken rocks, and heather waist-deep on the valley sides. The road petered out there, and we clambered out of the brakes and stood in the pouring wet while Albert, full of energy and blood-lust, planned the campaign. We were to spread out singly, with our loaders, and drive ahead up to the high ground, because the mist was hanging fairly thick by this time, and if we kept together we might miss the stags altogether.

  We were just about to start on our squelching climb, when another brake came rolling up the road, and who should pile out but the Russian visitors, with one of the local bigwigs, all dressed for the hill. Albert of course was delighted.

  “Come, gentlemen,” cries he, “this is capital! What? There are no bearss in our Scottish mountains, but we can show you fine sport among the deer. General Menshikof, will you accompany me? Count Ignatieff – ah, where iss Flash-mann?” I was having a quick swig from Ellen-borough’s flask, and as the Prince turned towards me, and I saw Ignatieff at his elbow, very trim in tweeds and top boots, with a fur cap on his head and a heavy piece under his arm, I suddenly felt as though I’d been kicked in the stomach. In that second I had a vision of those lonely, gully-crossed crags above us, with their great reaches of forest in which you could get lost for days, and mist blotting out sight and sound of all companions – and myself, alone, with Ignatieff down-wind of me, armed, and with that split eye of his raking the trees and heather for a sight of me. It hadn’t even occurred to me that he might be in the shooting party, but here he came, strolling across, and behind him a great burly unmistakable moujik, in smock and boots, carrying his pouches.

  Ellenborough stiffened and shot a glance at me. For myself, I was wondering frantically if I could plead indisposition at the last minute. I opened my mouth to say something, and then Albert was summoning Ellenborough to take the left flank, and Ignatieff was standing watching me coolly, with the rain beating down between us.

  “I have my own loader,” says he, indicating the moujik. “He is used to heavy game – bears, as his royal highness says, and wolves. However, he has experience of lesser animals, and vermin, even.”

  “I … I …” It had all happened so quickly that I couldn’t think of what to say, or do. Albert was dispatching the others to their various starting-points; the first of them were already moving off into the mist. As I stood, dithering, Ignatieff stepped closer, glanced at my own ghillie, who was a few yards away, and said quietly in French:

  “I did not know you were going to India, Colonel. My congratulations on your … appointment? A regimental command, perhaps?”

  “Eh? What d’you mean?” I started in astonishment.

  “Surely nothing less,” says he, “for such a distinguished campaigner as yourself.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I croaked.

  “Have I been misinformed? Or have I misunderstood your charming wife? When I had the happiness to pay my respects to her this morning, I understood her to say – but there, I may have been mistaken. When one encounters a lady of such exceptional beauty, I fear one tends to look rather than to listen.” He smiled – something I’d never seen him do before: it reminded me of a frozen river breaking up. “But I think his royal highness is calling you, Colonel.”

  “Flash-mann!” I tore myself away from the hypnotic stare of that split eye; there was Albert waving at me impatiently. “Will you take the lead on the right flank? Come, sir, we are losing time – it will be dark before we can come up to the beasts!”

  If I’d had any sense I’d have bolted, or gone into a swoon, or claimed a sprained ankle – but I didn’t have time to think. The royal nincompoop was gesticulating at me to be off, my loader was already ploughing into the trees just ahead, one or two of the others had turned to look, and Ignatieff was smiling coldly at my evident confusion. I hesitated, and then started after the loader; as I entered the trees, I took one quick glance back; Ignatieff was standing beside the brake, lighting a cigarette, waiting for Albert to set him on his way. I gulped, and plunged into the trees.

  The ghillie was waiting for me under the branches; he was one of your grinning, freckled, red-haired Highlanders, called MacLehose, or
something equally unpronounceable. I’d had him before, and he was a damned good shikari – they all are, of course. Well, I was going to stick to him like glue this trip, I told myself, and the farther we got away from our Russian sportsmen in quick time, the better. As I strode through the fir wood, ducking to avoid the whippy branches, I heard Albert’s voice faintly behind us, and pressed on even harder.

  At the far side of the wood I paused, staring up at the hillside ahead of us. What the devil was I getting in such a stew for? – my heart racing like a trip-hammer, and the sweat running down me, in spite of the chill. This wasn’t Russia; it was a civilised shooting-party in Scotland. Ignatieff wouldn’t dare to try any devilment here – it had just been the surprise of his sudden appearance at the last minute that had unmanned me … wouldn’t he, though? By God, he’d try anything, that one – and he knew about my going to India, thanks to that blathering idiot I’d married in an evil hour. Shooters had been hit before, up on the crags, in bad light … it could be made to look like an accident … mistaken for a stag … heavy mist … tragic error … never forgive himself …

  “Come on!” I yammered, and stumbled over the rocks for a gully that opened to our left – there was another one straight ahead, but I wasn’t having that. The ghillie protested that if we went left we might run into the nearest shooters; that was all right with me, and I ignored him and clambered over the rubble at the gully foot, plunging up to the knee in a boggy patch and almost dropping my gun. I stole a glance back, but there was no sign of anyone emerging from the wood; I sprang into the gully and scrambled upwards.

  It was a gruelling climb, through the huge heather-bushes that flanked the stream, and then it was bracken, six feet high, with a beaten rabbit-path that I went up at a run. At the top the gully opened out into another great mass of firs, and not until we were well underneath them did I pause, heaving like a bellows, and the ghillie padded up beside me, not even breathing hard, and grinning surprise on his face.