“We are now in the presence of royalty Bunny. That man sitting down with Spokes is none other than Jack Shanks. He’s taken more jewellery, cash, paintings, thoroughbred horses – and lives – than any other player in the game. Aye, I am a gentleman to his player. I am an amateur. Shanks is a professional thief. He robs through both force and guile, arming himself with either a clever disguise or shotgun – or both. He once even broke in to the Old Bailey, dressed as a barrister, and stole evidence that would have convicted a member of his gang. Rumour has it that Shanks also hunted down and captured the Ripper. He tortured him, using the Ripper’s own blade, taking a half a pint of blood out of him each day until he died. Shanks is feared and loved in equal measure,” Raffles reported, partly in awe and partly in wariness.
I must confess that I felt more fear than love at this point for this master rogue – and I even downed a few mouthfuls of beer in an attempt to steady my nerves. I also felt somewhat deficient in that whereas Shanks had brought along a bulldog to watch his back, Raffles merely possessed a Bunny.
Chapter 5
Neither Raffles nor I overheard their exchange at the table, albeit little seemed to be said. Shanks shook his head a couple of times, before finally accepting the fence’s improved offer for the contents of the bag that he had brought in with him. Spokes then shook his head and shrugged, after paying over the money, as if to convey that he’d not had the better of the deal and he would barely make a profit when selling the items on.
With little fanfare Jack Shanks then went up to the bar and quietly spoke to the barmaid,
“A drink for everyone Daisy – and two for yourself. I’ll square things up tonight.”
“Are you not stayin’ for a few?”
“No. But don’t worry darlin’, I’ll be back to steal a kiss off you by closin’ time. Before that though I’ve got to steal somethin’ less valuable,” Shanks charmingly replied.
He stayed not for a beer himself, nor did it seem that he desired the gratitude or acclaim of the bar for buying everyone a drink. He stopped only to take in Raffles, who was standing between the edge of the bar and the door. The strangeness, or irony, of the scene is branded upon my mind even now. The arch-criminal Jack Shanks was dressed somewhat like a gentleman and tried to fashion himself so, whilst Raffles, the true gentleman, was dressed like a common criminal and was trying to fashion himself as such. The two men just merely stared at each other, with neither antagonism nor warmth. Shanks appeared to be sizing the stranger up, as if trying to place him – or trying to discern if he looked out of place. I subtly wiped my sweaty palm upon my trousers, believing that I might soon need to take a firm grip upon my cudgel.
“Do I know you fella? You look familiar.”
“I’ve been around. But I’m just passin’ through,” Raffles answered, whilst shrugging.
“That’s it, you’re the spit of that cricketer. What’s ‘is name?” he said, turning in vain to his witless – but brutal – minder for the answer.
I here had a vision of the entire edifice of Raffles’ existence collapsing, or being tossed into the fire. Society would shun him as swiftly as the police would shackle him. He would need the luck of the devil now to perhaps escape with his life, let alone his reputation intact. Yet still Raffles betrayed not a flicker of distress – appearing bemused, or amused, by the conversation. My heart was racing however, in preparation perhaps for my legs to race away too. My hand reached towards my inside pocket and fingered the tip of the short wooden baton.
“That’s it, you look like that gent C.B. Fry. A crackin’ batsman. I saw ‘im, or you rather (he here laughed a little at his own joke), at Lord’s in May.”
“I only wish I were ‘im – and had ‘is money. Although ‘aving seen a picture of his wife in the paper, ‘e can keep ‘er,” Raffles replied in good humour.
Shanks grinned at the joke, although his green eyes remained unsmiling. Aye, I remember there being something dead, or murderous, about those eyes. The clock upon the wall here chimed, reminding the legendary cracksman that he was running late. Time is the ultimate thief I guess, for not even Pinkerton or Sherlock Holmes can recover what it spirits away.
The rogue doffed his cap to Raffles, and Raffles replied in kind, before he departed. The sweat upon my brow had cut streaks through the blacking upon my face. I blew air out from my cheeks and shook my head, marvelling at my friend’s regal insouciance.
“By Jove, that was close,” I whispered, still recovering from our reprieve.
“My dear Bunny, I have stared down a snarling Ernie Jones and F.R. Spofforth, on pitches with the bounce as uneven as a fishwife’s temper. I’ll be damned if I’ll lose my sangfroid to Jack Shanks. To reiterate. Money lost – little lost. Honour lost – much lost. Pluck lost – all lost. Suffice to say though that this is one C.B. Fry anecdote that won’t be recounted by Charles at the Savile.”
Chapter 6
Unfortunately it seems that Raffles neither possessed the desired valuables nor the intimidating authority of Jack Shanks when dealing with the wily fence. It was Raffles’ turn to shrug his shoulders and shake his head as we returned to the King’s Rd and he expressed his slight disappointment at the amount that our haul had raised.
“Still, what goes around comes around. Especially with Spokes.”
After changing back into our slightly more well cut clothes we ventured back to Piccadilly, stopping off at the Cafe Royal to have supper.
“The women who dine there are as fine as the wine and the new chef is first rate. You should try the river crab as a first course. Dinner will be on me old chap, or rather Rupert Robert Fuller.”
We were glad of our choice of restaurant however before even the first sip of the Chablis passed our lips, for as we were entering we bumped into a merry Ranji, who was leaving the establishment. Raffles considered K.S. Ranjitsinhji, ‘the Indian Prince’, to be the greatest batsman of the age – and having bowled against and batted with many of Ranji’s rivals Raffles was qualified to know. “The pain of him scoring runs off you all around the wicket is offset by the aesthetic pleasure of watching him do so... I am reminded of a quote by Schopenhauer Bunny, in trying to encapsulate Ranji’s superiority in executing strokes and finding angles that mere mortals cannot imagine, let alone attempt. ‘Talent hits a target that no one else can hit; Genius hits a target no one else can see.’” Akin to Raffles, Ranji was one of the most generous men I have ever known – and partly as a result of this he was also one of the most debt-ridden. Aye, as much as one could admire Ranji as a batsman, the likes of Raffles and his great batting partner C.B. Fry loved him more as a friend.
Ranji was wearing one of his famous silk shirts beneath his jacket. A genial grin shone out from beneath his ever smartly trimmed moustache as he clasped our hands – before embracing our entire bodies.
“Bunny, I hope you are well. You must come down to Sussex soon, if only to collect a fountain pen that I recently purchased for you. It may not be as mighty as the sword, but it is fine nevertheless. Can I not tempt you both to join me for some drinks? I am out with some old bacchants from Cambridge.”
“Forgive us Ranji, but if I don’t have something to eat my stomach, along with Bunny, may grumble so much as to wake the neighbours. Another time though.”
“Yes, I must speak with you soon my dear friend,” Ranji replied, his tone now more earnest than fraternal. “I could use your advice – and perhaps help. Many a time you’ve pulled me out of a hole when batting with me. I may now have need of your assistance off the field.”
“I am away this weekend, but otherwise you can have a blank cheque in regards to my time and assistance old chap,” Raffles warmly responded, disconcerted a little from sensing the anxiety in Ranji’s usually relaxed manner.
“Thank you, thank you.”
Ranji was then summoned by his brace of companions who had hailed down a hansom cab – and we bid him a good night. Raffles and I proceeded to have dinner. In order to wash the taste
of the public house’s swill out of my mouth from earlier I had the river crab followed by the poisson in a garlic sauce. A bottle of Chateau Lafite expunged all memory of the wretched establishment from my palate. Raffles was in good spirits throughout the evening and spoke in an animated fashion about all manner of things, though as we had a glass of port back at the Albany he soon relayed the true inspiration behind his buoyant mood.
“The spoils from The Durdans may put us both in clover until the Summer Bunny, or beyond. By God, it could indeed be rich pickings this weekend. God or the Devil has put this opportunity in our lap old chap. We must make hay. It’s a perfect wicket!” Raffles exclaimed, his eyes gleaming as brightly as the banquet of loot he was sumptuously imagining.
Chapter 7
We left for The Durdans, Rosebery’s house in Epsom, on the Friday. A lacquer of frost coated every oak, hedgerow and blade of grass as we journeyed out of London and into Surrey on the train. The midday sun soon melted the frost however to leave the landscape lush and glistening like a recently painted picture. Clouds ambled overhead akin to the sheep ambling across the fields. Robins, thrushes and starlings hopped from branch to branch upon skeletal trees in a haze of colour and steam. I caught up on some reading, whilst Raffles caught up on some sleep during the train journey, tipping his hat over his eyes and ignoring his companion – who was eager for discussing the plan for the weekend ahead.
“You have missed some glorious countryside whilst sleeping,” I posited when Raffles finally woke up. “It’s as if God sub-contracted out the shaping of the landscape to Capability Brown. Nature has been at her most beautiful and benign.”
“Hmm, what a book a devil’s chaplain might write on the clumsy, wasteful, blundering, low, and horribly cruel work of nature,” Raffles replied, quoting Charles Darwin – raising his hat to reveal a raised eyebrow too. “But ignore my cynicism Bunny. I should be rapped across the knuckles with a volume of Rousseau – and a copy of Virgil should be opened and then slammed shut, with my nose in between its pages. My apologies for having napped during our journey, but I thought it wise to catch up on some sleep now as I plan to be awake during the dead of night this weekend.”
A handsome cab collected us from the station and took us to The Durdans.
A buttery light washed over the sloping greenery and manicured shrubbery of the charming estate. Woodpigeons darted overheard, as if practising their manoeuvres for when the shooting season would disturb their idyllic life. The house was large, but still homely rather than grand. Horses whinnied in the nearby stable complex. I heard Rosebery call The Durdans his ‘beloved nest’ that evening – and I could immediately see why.
Lucy rushed out to greet us upon our arrival. She wore a fetching cream and red dress, which both flowed and yet also showed off her comely figure. She eagerly clasped Raffles by the hands and almost squealed with delight. She seemed glad to see me also – and mentioned how much she had enjoyed reading my recent humorous piece about Salisbury in The Strand Magazine. Yet she soon turned her attention back to Raffles, Hyperion to my satirist.
“Would you like me to take you on a tour of the grounds? You may want to stretch your legs after sitting down for so long,” Lucy exclaimed. I was unsure whether the invitation extended to myself and I fear I may have looked momentarily bereft somewhat.
“Forgive me Lucy, but could we possibly postpone our walk? I hate to be such a bore, as practised as I am at it, but I would like nothing more now than a nap. I was up late last night and I did not get the chance to sleep upon the train. But I’m sure that Bunny would like to accompany you and see the estate. He loves nothing more than to be immersed in the bower and wilds of nature, providing that a roaring fire and gin and tonic remain within a one mile radius.”
I grinned and shook my head, but less so at his witticism than at his stratagem to take a tour around the house, as opposed to its grounds. He had employed the ruse before of wishing to sleep, whilst prowling around unnoticed. What need had I of discussing his plans for the weekend? I already knew them.
Chapter 8
We were shown up to our rooms but I quickly came back down to accompany Lucy for our turn around the grounds. Although at first she was disappointed at not having Raffles accompany her she soon realised I was the next best thing in that she could talk to me about her would-be suitor. She initially showed me around the stables, where I must confess I but politely feigned interest. The card tables had long consumed any interest – or funds – I might had have in the turf.
“Do you ride Bunny?”
“No. And the equine community are fine with that fact too, I dare say. I try to avoid both horses – and soapboxes – due to my unfailing ability to fall off them both.”
She here laughed. Her laugh was worth a hundred of her smiles – and her smile was priceless.
“I fear that I’m too addicted to climbing upon both, particularly the latter. I know that Raffles may sometimes scoff at my involvement with the cause of women’s suffrage, but it is terribly important to me. I hope you understand, Bunny.”
Such was the earnest and endearing look that Lucy here gave me that I would have been willing to sign up there and then to the prattling movement if it meant that she would have believed me in understanding. I was however perhaps ambivalent at best towards the cause. Not only was there a certain amount of conceit and hypocrisy in their campaigning for only some women – those of a certain class – to merit the vote but I was also not without some sympathy for the following comments, made by my journalist friend Thomas Fletcher at lunch that week.
“Women now have access to alcohol, cigarettes and the wonderfully liberating bicycle. They can own property, file for divorce – and dress and shoe sales seem more frequent than ever. The issue of whether they are awarded the vote or not will have less bearing on their levels of contentment than any of the aforementioned, I warrant. God help anyone who would look to a politician to improve their lot.”
As ever, Arrows hit the mark.
After touring the stables, in which the horses were tended upon with more care and expense than any patron of Boodles or the Athenaeum even, Lucy proceeded to veer off the paths and we walked upon the undulating parkland which surrounded the house. I could not help but stare – and blush a little – as Lucy lifted up her skirts to reveal her attractive, gleaming calves when the grass grew long or ground grew muddy. She soon trod over old ground however and quizzed me about Raffles. We ended our walk by sitting upon a bench in a pretty arbour close to the house. Trellis work, entwined with myrtle, and apple trees hung overhead. A small pond and a statue of Cupid – albeit his bow was broken – stood in the middle of the garden. Mint and thyme tickled my nostrils and a pair of jays twittered in the background, either flirting or bickering.
“You were at school with him, were you not? Tell me, what was Raffles like in his youth?”
“In many ways he was exactly like he is now, only shorter. Yet for many years, after school, I could not tell you a thing about his history. Perhaps I would have seen him more if I had been a follower of cricket. I heard a rumour once that he was engaged.”
“And do you know if he is seeing anyone now? Do you think he will ever marry? When I hint at such questions he deflects things, as if I were bowling him some sort of Yorkie of Googling.”
I neither corrected her cricket terminology, nor answered her questions.
“Mama and Papa are becoming less subtle in their hints that I should wed soon. Portia had less prospective suitors visit her than I have had of late. But I do not want to marry someone I do not love and esteem. Marriage should be a meeting of two hearts and minds, not some financial equation or social commandment. It’s not as though I will only marry a Mister Knightley or Mister Darcy, I just do not want to marry a Mister Collins or Wickham.”
It was not wholly the thought of marrying a Wickham which made Lucy here shiver. Dusk was upon us and the temperature dropped as much as my spirits, upon envisioning the scenario of Raffles
breaking her heart.
“Here, take my jacket.”
“No, I will be fine.”
“Lucy, don’t be silly. You may want the vote, but what you need now is a jacket. I’m being firm for once. If I had a soapbox to hand I may even determine to stand on it over the issue.”
She smiled that smile that made me smile. Although the light was fading her hair still shone – and there was a lustre to her skin and eyes. Raffles’ loss was my gain again in terms of spending the afternoon with this modern day Portia – although I knew I would lose her to him in an instant should he so desire it. I was a lead casket to his gold.
“Bunny, you are wonderfully sweet. Whatever happens between Raffles and I, I would like us to remain friends.”
“I would like that too,” I declared. Although I did not declare how I would have equally liked a large gin and tonic at that moment.
Chapter 9
I felt both ten feet tall – and also like I was about to collapse from my legs giving way – as Lucy took my arm when we walked back to the house. She went directly upstairs, saying she had to change, as we entered. No sooner had she vanished when a shiny-faced servant appeared and asked me if I could join Lord Rosebery – along with Mister Raffles – in the drawing room. He led the way, in shoes even shinier than his face. Gorgeous portraits by Stubbs and Gainsborough hung upon the walls. When I asked our host over the weekend what he thought of Impressionism he curtly described it as being ‘a hideous collection of wretched daubs’. I was too polite, or rather frightened, to argue. The house was also populated by all sorts of sporting memorabilia and antiques which glowed with exquisiteness and homeliness.
Raffles: A Perfect Wicket Page 2
