“That he’s a cheat and a liar!” cries Bertie. He growled down his temper, gnashed on his cigar, and faced us. “Very well, then. God knows we’ve done our best to sift the thing – and that’s our conclusion. He’s played foul and been caught out. Now,” says he, and for the first time that night he sounded royal, “how is it to be hushed up?”
They stood mum, so I put in my oar again. “’Fraid it can’t be, sir … unless you and Williams are prepared to risk a court martial.”
If I’d said “are prepared to steal the Crown Jewels and make a run for Paraguay” I couldn’t have provoked a finer display of consternation, but before Bertie could explode, I explained.
“You and he both hold the Queen’s commission, sir. I’m retired, of course. But as serving officers, aware of dishonourable conduct by a brother officer, you’re obliged to bring it to the attention of your superiors. Since your highness is a field marshal, I’m not sure who your superiors are, exactly … Her Majesty, of course. Or I dare say the colonel of Cumming’s regiment would do …”
I was drowned out by a prolonged fit of princely coughing, the result of outraged smoke going down the wrong way, which gave him time to digest my warning, and emerge mopping and wheezing to announce hoarsely that he didn’t give a tinker’s dam for courts martial, or words to that effect, and not a whisper was to be breathed to military superiors or anyone else, was that clear?
“It must not come out!” he croaks. “At all costs it must be confined to … to ourselves. The scandal …” He couldn’t bring himself even to contemplate it. “A way must be found!” He sat down again, thumping his knees. “It must!”
Which left us back at the starting-gate, three of us racking our brains and Flashy looking perplexed but inwardly serene, for all I was waiting for was a lead. At last Coventry gave it.
“If some accommodation could be found,” says he, “which would signify … ah, disapprobation of Sir William’s conduct, while satisfying the … ah, resentment of his accusers, and of course ensuring that no word of this deplorable affair ever –”
“Oh, talk sense, Coventry!” barks Bertie. “They want his head on a charger! Green made that plain enough – and how you’re to contrive that in secrecy I cannot imagine!”
“How d’you punish him without exposing him?” wonders Williams, and I saw it was time for the Flashman Compromise which had been taking shape in my mind over the past minute or two. I made a judicial noise to attract their attention.
“I wonder if Lord Coventry hasn’t pointed the way, sir,” says I. “Suppose … yes, how would it do? … if Cumming were to sign a paper … you know, an undertaking sort of thing … pledging himself never to touch a card again. Eh?” They stood mute as ducks in thunder. “Stiff penalty for a man in his position, what? I’d be surprised if that didn’t satisfy Green and his pals. And in return,” I tapped the table impressively, “they would pledge themselves to silence – as would we, absolutely. That would settle things – without a breath of scandal.”
There was a hole in it a mile wide, but I knew Bertie wouldn’t spot it: my last five words were all that mattered to him. He was pointing like a setter, Coventry was in his customary fog, but Williams burst out:
“Cumming would never do such a thing! Why, it would be tantamount to a confession of guilt.”
“Not a bit of it, Owen!” says I. “He ain’t admitting a thing – and if he were, ’twould only be to us, and his accusers, who think he’s guilty anyway. No one else would ever know.” I turned to Bertie, his cigar now in tatters. “I’m sure he’ll agree, sir – what other choice has he? Public disgrace … and worse than that,” I went on, fixing Coventry and Williams with my sternest look, “would be the shameful burden of knowing that greater names than his had been tarnished by the publication of his dishonour.”
That did the trick: Bertie started as though I’d put a bayonet into his leg, and from Williams’ expression I knew that if I’d said: Tell Cumming that if he don’t do as he’s told, and preserve our precious Prince from scandal, God help him,’ I could not have been plainer. Coventry, naturally, was appalled.
“But … such a document, supposing Sir William should consent to sign it, in return for a pledge of silence … would it not bear a … an odour of … of conspiracy?”
“Certainly not,” says I. “It would be a simple promise never to play cards again, signed by him, duly witnessed by His Royal Highness – and by the accusers. Nothing smoky about it. They would give their word of honour to His Highness never to speak or write of the matter hereafter. And that would be that, tight as a drum.”
Bertie hadn’t said a word for several minutes, and when he did it was clear what was preoccupying him. “Could we be sure those people would keep silence?”
“Once they’d given their word to the Prince of Wales?” says I, and that seemed to satisfy him, for he sat in silence a moment, and then asked the other two what they thought of the scheme. They puffed doubtfully, of course, Williams because he feared that Cumming would refuse to sign, and Coventry out of general anxiety. Would Lycett Green and Co agree, he wondered, and Bertie let out a muffled snarl.
“They’ll agree!” says he grimly, which settled that, and they passed on to the wording of the document, which was simple enough, and then to considering how it might best be put to the guilty party. Bertie wondered if I should take part with Coventry and Williams, but modesty forbade.
“I’m no diplomat, sir,” says I. “Too blunt by half. His lordship and Owen will do it ten times better without me. Besides,” I added, blunt honest old Flashy, “the fact is he don’t like me. Dunno why, but there it is. No point in putting his back up, so the less I’m mentioned, the better.”
D’you know, Williams absolutely shook his head in sympathy, and Bertie went so far as to give my arm a clap before I withdrew. He was even more demonstrative an hour later, when I was summoned to his presence just as I was on the point of turning in, and found him sitting on the edge of his bed in his dressing-gown, glass in hand, cigar at the high port, plainly dog-weary but content at having laboured well in the vineyard.
“Well, he’s signed!” cries he jovially. He picked up a paper and held it out: just a few lines, with a forest of names at the foot, led by “W. Gordon-Cumming” and the Prince’s scrawl. “Not without the deuce of a struggle, Owen Williams tells me. Swore it was tantamount to a confession, but gave in when they told him it was that or ruin. Help yourself, Flashman,” indicating decanter and humidor, “and sit ye down. Gad, I don’t care if I never have such an evening again – after dinner, too, shan’t sleep a wink.” He swigged comfortably. “D’you know, I did not half believe he’d put his signature to it – but you knew, downy old bird that you are!” He was positively twinkling.
“Well, sir, he really didn’t have much choice, did he? All things considered, he’s come off dam’ lightly.”
“That’s what Lycett Green thinks, tho’ he’d the grace not to say so. Oh, aye, they’ve all put their names to it, as you see. He peered at the paper, shaking his head. “I must say, it’s a damning thing for an innocent man to sign … and yet …” He screwed up his little eyes at me. “D’you think there’s the least possibility he’s telling the truth?”
“Look at it this way, sir – would you have signed it, knowing yourself innocent? Or would you have damned ’em for liars and offered to put ’em through every court in the land? Or taken a horsewhip to ’em?”
And think what Mama would have made of that, I might have added. He looked solemn, wagging his head, and then demanded, almost peevishly:
“What the devil possessed him to do it – to cheat, I mean? Was he off his head, d’you think? You know, temporarily deranged? One hears of such things.”
“Dunno, sir. And I doubt if he does, either.”
He shook his head and rumbled a few philosophies while we sipped and smoked. He was enjoying his relief, and when we parted he was at his most affable, pumping my fin and calling me Harry again.
“I’m obliged to you … not for the first time. This –” he tapped Cumming’s paper “– was a brainwave, and the sooner it’s safely bestowed, the better. Not the sort of item we’d care to see in the morning press, what? Well, good-night to you, old fellow, thank’ee again … aye, and thank the Lord we’ll hear no more of it!”
And if you believe that, sweet prince, you will indeed believe anything, thinks I. For if there was one stone cold certainty, it was that we would hear more, abundantly more and running over, of the Great Baccarat Scandal of Tranby Croft. Bertie, blind to everything but the need to keep it from the Queen’s ears, and asses like Coventry and Williams, might suppose that the vows of silence sworn by all and sundry would prove binding – honour and all that, you know. I knew better. At least a dozen folk, two of ’em women, were in the secret, and the notion that they’d all hold their tongues was plain foolish. It was bound to get out – as I’d determined it should from the moment I’d stood in Gordon-Cumming’s presence, weighed him up, and realised what a prime subject he was for shoving down the drain. All it needed after that, as you know, was an inspiration, and careful management; now, nature could take its course.
Which it did, and if it took longer to leak out than I’d expected, the resultant row was worth the delay. It’s still not established who blew the gaff, but my firm belief is that it was Bertie himself, unlikely as that may seem. But the fact is that the Yankee papers named as their source none other than Elspeth’s chum, Daisy Brooke aforementioned (it was they who christened her Babbling Brooke), and since she was warming the princely mattress in those days, it’s odds on that he whispered the scandal to her, more fool he. Daisy swore ’twasn’t so, and threatened to sue, but never did.
Whoever blabbed, it was all over the clubs and messes before Christmas that Cumming had cheated, chaps were cutting him dead, and he was demanding retractions and apologies and not getting them. So there he was, reputation blasted, and nothing for it, you’d have thought, but to order a pint of port and a pistol for breakfast or join the Foreign Legion.
He did neither. To the shocked murmurs and secret glee of Society, the delight of the public, and I’ve no doubt the terror of the Prince of Wales, he brought an action for slander against his five accusers from Tranby.
The trial came off in June of ’91, and it’s one of the regrets of my life that I was not present, if only to see stout Bertie in the witness-box, squirming under the inquisition of saucy jurors who didn’t know their place, unlike the judge and counsel who grovelled to him something servile, and did everything but tote him in and out of court in a palankeen. The proceedings lasted a week, and by all accounts it was one of the finest legal circuses ever seen, with the judge as ringmaster and nothing lacking but an orchestra and chorus girls. Knowing our revered Lord Chief Justice of the day, the ancient Coleridge, I wasn’t surprised, for he was a jolly old buck with a tremendous fund of good stories; once made a speech lasting twenty-three days, they tell me, and was responsible for the three-mile limit, in case you’re interested.
You may be sure I was sorely tempted once or twice to view the spectacle, but decided reluctantly to keep clear – when you’ve had a hand in engineering a disaster it’s best to stand well out from under to avoid falling debris. I knew Bertie and Co wouldn’t advertise my part in the affair, which was deplorable enough without the notorious Flashy being dragged in, and sure enough they didn’t. One or two who knew I’d been at Tranby quizzed me, but I took a stern and silent line – you know, shockin’ biznai, old comrade, beyond belief, state o’ the Army, damnable altogether … that sort of thing.
Aside from the verdict, which I’ll tell you presently in case you don’t know, the great sensation was the storm that burst over the head of our unfortunate Heir Apparent. God forbid I should ever feel sorry for the fat bounder, but even I was astonished at the way the press and pulpits laid into him; you’d have thought he’d been kidnapping nuns and selling ’em to the Port Said brothels. And all because he’d been playing baccarat! “Woe to the Monarchy!” wailed one rag, another spoke of a “chorus of condemnation”, and the rest expressed shock and disgust, denounced his taste for the “lowest type of gambling”, and recoiled from the spectacle of “the future King of England officiating at a gamblers’ orgy”. Even the Times went wild with terms like “regret”, “concern”, and “distress”, a Scotch journal decided that “the Prince is evidently not what he ought to be”, but the leader I liked best was the one that said the British Empire was humiliated and the rest of civilisation was pointing the finger at us.
As to the trial itself, you can go to the official record if you’ve a mind to, but I flatter myself you won’t learn much that I haven’t told you. The lawyers went back and forth over every blessed moment of those three nights, every shift of those damned counters, every syllable of who said what to whom, and what expressions they wore, and what they thought and why, over and over, and I dare say at the end of it the jury were as fogged as the public. The biggest guns of the day fought the case: Clarke, the Solicitor-General, no less, who appeared for Cumming, was reckoned the shrewdest mouthpiece of the day, while the defendants were represented by two of the best hatchet-men in the business, Charles Russell and young Asquith – you know the latter as the buffoon who infests Number 10 Downing Street at the moment, and my recollection of him is as a shining morning face to which I once presented a prize at the City of London School, but for all that he was accounted a sharp hand in court, while Russell was a human hawk, and looked it.
Reading the press reports, I concluded that the evidence given didn’t differ much from what I myself remembered of events, and in nothing essential. Owen Williams had drawn up a précis of what had happened at Tranby, in which various holes were picked: there seemed to be uncertainty over the order of the interviews on the Wednesday evening, and some vagueness as to who had suggested presenting the damning document to Cumming – which wasn’t surprising, since it had been yours truly, and they were keeping me out of it. Elspeth likewise: I’d been worried that she might be called as a witness, since on the first night she’d sat as an onlooker, and on the second had for a time taken Lady Coventry’s place next to Cumming, but either they’d forgotten about her – or more likely they’d remembered, and had realised that the last thing the trial needed was her drivelling brightly in the witness-box. Like several others of the party, she wasn’t even mentioned.
None of which mattered to the case. Cumming, in evidence, repeated his flat denial of the charges, claiming that he’d lost his head and signed the paper only because he’d been persuaded that there was no other way to avoid a public scandal. He got in a sly thrust at Bertie by suggesting that H.R.H. had been chiefly concerned to cover his own ample rear – which, as I knew, was gospel true.
The five accusers stuck by their stories pretty well, although Clarke, who was obviously a complete hand at confusing the issue with trivial questions, claimed to find all kinds of discrepancies in their testimony; he also hinted, ever so delicately, that a couple of them might have been tight, had great fun about Lycett Green’s being a master of foxhounds, and took a nice injured line of surprise that in view of Cumming’s pledged word, stainless character, and so forth, they weren’t prepared to admit they’d been mistaken. His final speech was four times as long as that of Russell, who simply went straight at Cumming’s throat: why hadn’t he demanded to be brought face to face with his accusers, as any honest man would have done? He also reminded the jury that the five accusers weren’t alone in thinking Cumming guilty; the Prince, Williams, and Coventry thought so too.
In all that I read, I could put my finger on only one flat lie: the defendants’ denial that there had been any arrangement to keep watch on Cumming’s play the second night. Well, I ask you! You’re told a man has been cheating, and don’t keep an eye on him next time? Pull the other one, Walker; you watch him like a lynx. According to Owen Williams, they’d told him they’d agreed to watch, but now, in the witness-box, they w
ere claiming they’d done no such thing. Their reason was plain enough: they didn’t want to be thought of as spying on a fellow guest, and there was some fine wriggling under cross-examination – one of ’em, I think it was Lycett Green, absolutely said: “Knowing the man had cheated, I looked, but not with a view to watching”, which is as fine a piece of humbug as I could ha’ thought up myself. Not that it made a ha’porth of difference: they’d seen what they’d seen, and held by it.
By the morning of the seventh day, with the cases of both sides completed, the thing was on a knife-edge: half the Town was positive Gordon-Cumming was the biggest cheat since Jacob, while t’other half held that Clarke had shown up the five accusers for unreliable idiots (if not vindictive parvenus) whose evidence wasn’t worth stale beans. Perambulating from the Park to the Temple during the day, I heard Cumming damned and defended in the clubs, but the farther east I walked, the more I encountered a truly British phenomenon: among the commonalty, the anti-Cummings wanted to see him done down for precisely the same reason that the pro-Cummings hoped he’d win: because he was a toff. The lord-haters were full of righteous indignation about the pampered rich rioting and gaming while honest folk went hungry, so to Hell with Cumming and the Prince of Wales and the lot of ’em; on the other side were the forelock-tuggers who thought it “a bleedin’ disgrice that a proper gent wot ’ad fought for Queen an’ country” should be defamed by the likes o’ them nobodies. No wonder the foreigners can’t understand us.
No doubt because I hoped to see him sunk to perdition, I could imagine several excellent reasons why the jury should find in his favour and award him thumping damages. Foremost in my mind still, you see, was the conviction that he couldn’t have cheated; spite and prejudice aside, it wasn’t in the man’s nature. But it was up to the jury now, and no doubt all hung on the direction they would receive from the venerable Coleridge. The early editions were carrying his summing-up at length, and I studied it eagerly in the corner of a Fleet Street pub, with a pie and pint to keep me company.
Flashman Papers Omnibus Page 434
