“You’ll not intervene fella due to the condition that I’ll put a bullet through your guts if you do,” Shanks replied, baring his teeth in a sneer. Raffles merely shook his head in reply, as if disappointed with someone who was being discourteous, rather than villainous.
“Give my regards to Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade. Tell him this is one hound that he won’t track down,” the cracksman triumphantly exclaimed, walking backwards whilst still pointing his gun at us. When believing it safe to do so however Jack Shanks turned and sprinted across the grounds towards the gates to the property. Her Majesty’s finest commenced to pull up their trousers, with one of the constables toppling over as he did so. But I paid the policeman little heed, transfixed as I was by one of the most remarkable feats I have ever witnessed in my life.
Raffles seemed to pause for but a few seconds to take into account the speed and direction of his target. He briefly gazed up at the sky, either in a fleeting prayer or to assess the wind, before launching the cricket ball he was holding into the air. The red dot arched across the pale blue background. I stood amazed, my mouth agape, in light of just my friend’s audacious attempt. Yet try to imagine – you’ll have to, as this writer is lost for words – how I felt when I observed the ball strike the felon upon the back of his head and render him unconscious.
“I think he’s out,” Raffles remarked.
Chapter 18
We just all stood there stunned at first, albeit not quite as stunned in the same way that Shanks had been. Hands were soon clapping Raffles upon the back though and praise and comments of wonderment were gunned out and colouring the air. Rosebery was also particularly touched and grateful upon getting his sapphire locket back. Yet Raffles himself acted with modesty, or indifference even, towards his astonishing feat. Perhaps he did not wish to revel in the glory of his actions also due to the fact that he had helped to apprehend a fellow thief.
“This will make a fine story for the newspapers, if they’ll believe it,” Lestrade proclaimed, smiling as he envisioned his name in print again.
“I would rather that my name be kept out of the newspapers for this particular piece of fielding, if you do not mind Inspector. Now, rather than catch a thief, we must be conscious now Bunny of catching our train.”
Rosebery entreated us to stay another night, which I was not averse to, but Raffles explained that he had arranged to have lunch at noon with a friend, Ranji, the next day. Whilst Raffles and our host shared one last drink and cigar, Lucy and I said our goodbyes in the garden. Much remained unsaid in many ways, but we promised to write to one another and I promised to travel down to Truro at the earliest opportunity. Again, we kissed.
As much as I wanted to discuss all manner of things with my friend on the journey home I fell asleep both on the train and in the hansom cab in London. I accompanied Raffles back to the Albany however. I lit a fire whilst he lit another candle upon his desk. He then briefly disappeared, to return with a bottle of Pol Roger and two glasses.
“In victory, deserve it. In defeat, need it,” he announced as he poured the champagne.
“I am sorry that you were defeated this weekend A.J, that you did not make a score on your perfect wicket. Please forgive me if I was in some way responsible.”
“I am drinking in light of a victory, as well as a defeat old chap.”
“How so?” I replied, my face creased in bemusement.
“Dear Bunny, I must confess that I did indeed venture down to The Durdans this weekend in order to make a score so to speak, upon a perfect wicket. Yet circumstances conspired against me.”
“So where is your victory?”
“You do not have a conniving bone in your body, do you my friend? Thankfully, for you, I have several. My lack of being unable to steal any loot this weekend has been more than compensated by the fact that you have stolen Lucy Rosebery’s heart. I’ve suspected that you’ve had feelings for her for some time. This weekend was your perfect wicket old chap – and I like to think that I acted as the grounds man. Firstly, do you think that those new clothes I bought you earlier in the week were for the intention of impressing Rosebery? Also, I dare say you thought me a little rude, or callous, in my avoidance of Lucy this weekend. Yet every hour spent apart from me meant that she could spend that time with you. And who do you think snuck into the dining room and moved the place cards so that you could sit next to your intended last night?” Raffles exclaimed with a twinkle in his eye, whilst lighting another Sullivan.
I could have been angry and frustrated again with my friend for keeping me in the dark as to his plans, but I wasn’t. For Cupid’s aim had been as accurate as Raffles’ throwing arm.
“You are a devil A.J, as well as an angel. Thank you. I hope indeed I have stolen Lucy’s heart. She has certainly stolen mine.”
“I did not altogether return empty handed from The Durdans either old chap. But you’ll be pleased to know I that was given the valuable item, as opposed to having stolen it, as a thank you for my actions.”
Raffles here walked over to his luggage and retrieved the inscribed volume of Byron’s book of verse that he had revered so much in the library. I handled the book with similar reverence and read the inscription that Rosebery had added, with a line of thanks to accompany the quote by Virgil.
‘Facilis descensus Averno:
Noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis;
Sed revocare gradum superasque evader ad auras,
Hop opus, his labor est.’
“This is one spoil that you won’t be taking to Spokes to sell on. May I inscribe something myself though A. J?”
“Certainly old chap.”
I wrote the following and then handed the book back to Raffles.
“When all else is written, you are not altogether a villain. Bunny.”
He smiled.
If you enjoyed this, try A Hero Of Our Time, also by Richard Foreman:
A Hero Of Our Time
Richard Foreman
Chapter One
Captain Robert Fischer sat with his back to the window of course so that the afternoon sun shone with spite into the eyes of all his appointments. The jaundiced beams, like metal scraping upon glass, screeched into the listless aspect presently of one Jakob Levin. A bovine, ursine-faced Wehrmacht Private was also present in the musty room. The guard was ornamental, but yet also deemed essential.
"You are Jakob Levin, or rather 1556321?" the officer issued, following his statement up with a weary sigh which seemed part affected, part sincere.
"Yes Herr Captain."
"You were a teacher I see?" the handsome officer then lazily inquired, as if already bored by the interview.
"I am a teacher, yes Herr Captain," Jakob replied, nodding his head and squinting in the light of the mustard sun.
"You were a teacher. Now you are, unfortunately, mine," Fischer exclaimed, raising his eyebrows and pursing his pink lips as he did so. If the directive, worded as a request, had come down from anyone less senior in rank then Robert might have fought or bribed his way out of the burden of nurse-maiding the prisoner. It was an inconvenience to say the least for the bachelor, who valued both his privacy and life of leisure. But the Wehrmacht officer had acceded to the order.
"Yes Herr Captain, I was an English Professor," Jakob calmly stated whilst vigorously fighting off the compulsion to scratch his lice-infested scalp.
Although an English tutor and translator of David Hume, Jakob Levin had learned to relegate the importance of quibbling over semantics, especially if winning the argument meant receiving a rifle-butt in between the shoulder blades by an ignorant Nazi (if ignorance is malevolence, as well as bliss). Jakob often remembered, with mixed feelings as to the value of their teachings, how the Rabbis and Elders would drill into their flock in the camp that 'All that matters is survival, neither dwell on the past or dream about the future. Concentrate on surviving the morning, then the afternoon, then the night.' Rebellion or resignation brought one the same fate, Jakob concluded
.
"But as misfortunate as you are Jakob, some might judge you lucky. As inferior as you are our glorious state still considers you to be an essential worker," the Captain remarked, his tone laced with a harlequined irony – as well as a more obtuse mocking spirit. When the officer pronounced these last two words, he couldn't help but survey the reaction upon the old man's face. Robert Fischer was surprised at its lack of response. How it had made the German half-smile in the past when they had responded to him as if he were an angel, the voice of an angel, when he had delivered those words, particularly of late. But this Jakob Levin had reacted with indifference, perhaps too much indifference. Robert did not doubt the stories of veterans on the Front suffering from a warped form of shell shock, oblivious to the tumult of bullets scorching and zipping around their ears. Could this sallow-faced Jew here be similarly desensitised to despair and hope? Certainly, in theory, the once philosophical German held his life as but a word.
"Should you have had a conversation with any friends or family, or your wife, just previous to your transfer here then it was, unfortunately, your last."
Still the former lauded academic remained stone-faced. But he was Jewish, 'too furtive to be dumb' the propaganda asserted. The prisoner was receptive, if inexpressive.
"There is but one more grief-filled existence to that of being a widow Jakob – that of being a widow who still believes she could be a wife," the officer intoned, privately impressed with the swiftness and originality of the cruel remark.
Jakob retained his squinting, almost gormless, composure to the Captain's slight interest and annoyance. The fish did not appear to be biting. But it was only a matter of time, or method, before Robert would pull out the right lure from his box. It was a game to the Captain to uncover and then squeeze someone's weak spot. Even Achilles had his heel, Robert posed to himself, whilst at the same time believing in his own invulnerability.
"If you haven't already been told, you are to remain now in this house, albeit in my basement. There you will work, eat and sleep. I have been instructed from on high to employ you as a translator. I am to be sent various works of English Literature, mainly poetry I gather, and you are to translate them in to German."
Robert wondered if this brittle, gummy remnant of a man, still dressed in his threadbare camp uniform, also knew of the project by the Ministry Of Propaganda entitled 'Death of the Author', to Germanise Europe's finest works of literature and art? Robert was intrigued because he too had shown a similar outward resignation to the crime that the Jew here exemplified. When asked some weeks ago as to how Robert knew he had gold in his soul, the officer had dryly replied, "Because gold my dear, does not react to anything."
Rhythmically and nonchalantly, as if reciting a shopping list, the Captain further informed the prisoner of his brief.
"If you refuse to do what has been requested of you, you will be shot. If your work proves unsatisfactory you will be shot. And (and here Robert looked straight into, almost behind, his appointment's aspect) if you bore me you will be shot."
Jakob raised a black, wiry eyebrow. The absurdism, horror and aphasia of the grotesque times outside were compounded by a statement at which the ageing Jew did not know whether to smile or be sick from. If Jakob could have perhaps seen the playful glint in the Captain's expression through the abrasive light, then he might have shared a wry smile.
"Do you understand Jakob? Then congratulations, you have got the job. Do you have any questions? If you want to know whether you can see your wife or not, you can't. Besides, absence makes the heart grow fonder does it not? And if you want to know when you start then I can tell you. There's no time like the present. Christian, would you please escort our guest to his quarters," the officer remarked, as if suddenly wanting to be rid of his charge.
"Yes sir. Heil Hitler!" the rough-voiced Private ejaculated whilst saluting. As he did so Jakob could not fail to notice how the soldier owned a stump, where his right hand should have been. His rifle was ornamental also.
"Yes, quite," Robert Fischer glibly replied, not even bothering to look up at the guard as he prodded the Jew out of the door with the barrel of his unloaded Karabiner Kar 98K.
Pinkish-grey clouds smeared themselves across the sky outside. Robert Fischer felt a slight draught, rather than the massaging rays of the sun, upon the back of his neck. More than one commentator had called the thirty-five year old 'devilishly handsome'. His cropped hair was light-brown, though it would grow fairer, like a child's, in the summer months. Robert was just short of six foot, broad shouldered and strong-jawed. His blue eyes could at once prove striking, but then prove unreadable but they were always engaging. The officer's sun-kissed complexion had harvested the good life and his mouth could express either a sensuousness or sarcasm at the curl of a lip, depending on what mood possessed the changeable Captain, or rather which mood Robert chose to possess. Such were his piratical good looks that Robert Fischer could have been one of the town's most famous, or infamous, womanisers even without the added attraction of his princely personal fortune.
Yet the officer's body of late had increasingly become a temple in ruins. His face was still symmetrical, but had grown a little rounder, plumper. He was a thirty-five year old who suffered from shortness of breath and but for the skill of his tailor Robert would have had a more pronounced stomach for all the world to see. His hair too this summer would recede as well as grow fair. But the retiring officer had no need to be fit for military duty. He was but a Captain in name who had purchased a promotion to Superfluous Man. Bribes and favours cemented his privileged position and freedom from active duties. Often he fancied that he could be a real officer, whatever that meant, fighting at the Front; he might have wished it now as he drew the curtains on another withering day and poured himself a large Napoleon brandy. But yet the mock-officer would have whisked his self off to battle not out of a love for his country, which he loved but scarcely recognised nowadays, but for the simple reason that it would be just something to do. Robert Wilhelm Fischer was a coward only in the respect of him not being a hero.
Brandy after brandy was absorbed until oblivion hung over the horizon like the setting sun. It was an hour or so before the party. Nobody expected him to be sober for the occasion so the least Robert could do was be accommodating and live up to his social circle's predictable expectations. Strauss waltzed in the background upon a gramophone as Robert killed time by carving sketches of faces and trees into his already scarred desk with his letter knife. I say his knife, but the initials "A.S" were engraved into the silver handle. The knife belonged in truth to a Doctor Abraham Solomon. Robert had converted his surgery into a reposeful study when he had acquired the house a couple of years ago. Was he nothing but a common thief? Robert gently rubbed the initials under his thumb and told himself that all he felt was an engraved piece of silver; to feel anything else involved too much idle, discomforting conceit for the officer. It represented nothing.
"Am I to cut myself with this knife and wash the guilt from my hands in blood like some melodramatic twit? Or am I to use this letter opener to open some letters?" the officer drunkenly, drolly posed. Robert briefly, wryly half-smiled to himself also as he opened some mail. There was a letter from his young cousin on the Eastern Front. Unable to get past the first paragraph, without experiencing either a slight awkwardness or an enervating torpor, Robert tossed the correspondence aside and drained the remaining warming elixir from the bottle.
"Ah, Napoleon Brandy. One of the few things French, along with Balzac and their natural inferiority towards us of course, that I can tolerate. I wonder if in fifty years time there will be such a tonic as Hitlerian Brandy? I warrant it would be dark, dense, with a bitter and strangely fruity taste. The plebs would doubtless drink them selves stupid with it also. Drown them selves. Did you even invade Russia on the same day as the Corsican? Did History not tell you something? History tells us that history repeats itself. Now for that remark Robert you should reproach yourself. I do believe t
hat statement had the air of a conclusion. "I hold the world as but the world, a stage where every man must play a part, and mine is a sad one" the half-soused officer muttered to himself, chuckling a little after he did so – but sorrowful.
Chapter Two
The party seemed to be full of life. In one corner slender nymphs dressed in tawny and silver provocative dresses – some wearing tiaras or bunny rabbit tails – were draped over paunchy officers, their flushed faces and smooth flesh glistening with sweat. Giddy giggles and snorts of laughter shot across the old church hall and were traded as if involved in a fire-fight. A girlish squeal sliced the air as the magistrate's daughter had her bottom rudely pinched; her response was to sit upon the offending soldier's lap and entwine her glitter covered arms around his neck and kiss him upon the tip of his nose. She didn't even know the daring assailant, but her sorority would have thought him handsome and he held an enviable rank. Two drunken, newly commissioned SS officers plucked a couple of decorative broad swords off the wall and were clumsily fencing with each other. No louder than the ringing in some of the party-goer's ears Vivaldi was being played with no little accomplishment by a small chamber orchestra at the top of the hall. To make themselves heard however they switched to a piece of juvenilia by Wagner. The floor was sticky with spilt drinks, forming a sugary stench if a guest chose to notice it. Yet the rancid air of cronyism, oblique vanity and hypocrisy was just as pungent for the bored officer. Robert yawned, again.
"Am I keeping you awake Captain Fischer?" remarked Anna Bremer, a middle-aged socialite whose colourful perfume proved far more overpowering for Robert than her beauty, charm or wit.
Raffles: A Perfect Wicket Page 5
