Scarlet, Morris sprang to his feet. "One might better assume, sir, that you are an incompetent nincompoop with not the brains to see past your fat nose!"
August Falcon gave a hoot of delighted laughter.
His face an even deeper hue of scarlet than that of the incensed Morris, the commodore jumped up, and roared, "Midshipman! Show this disrespectful and ill-mannered person the door!"
The midshipman, neither as tall nor as sturdy as Morris, chose to show him the door by opening it and waiting with a grave expression and twinkling eyes for the "disrespectful and ill-mannered person" to pass through.
Shaking his head, Falcon stood also. "I warned you, Armitage. They're all cut from the same cloth. Dense material, at best."
"Good day, sir!" snorted the commodore, breathing hard as he sat down again. "Have you anything more substantial to add, Captain Armitage?"
Keeping his temper with an effort, Jonathan answered, "Gideon Rossiter and his friends have been able to learn that the League was organised, and is controlled by six men. They are identified by small jewelled tokens, and each of them also has a number. We know that they refer to their leader as the Squire. We believe that this Squire planned my ruin and disgrace because whilst I was in Suez three years ago, I evidently saw or heard something that was dangerous to his schemes."
The commodore shook his head. "What an imagination!"
With a faint smile the director murmured, "But you have not the very remotest notion of what that—er, 'something' may have been."
Humming softly, Falcon followed Morris to the door.
Jonathan said grittily, "Unfortunately, no sir. But we believe that they are training mercenaries to foment sedition throughout London. I've no doubt but that they intend to use the Blue Rose Mine in Cornwall as a storage facility for their stolen cargoes, and as a reception area and training ground for their—"
"Troops?" The commodore threw back his head and laughed heartily. The director's lips curved into a thin smile.
Jonathan's fists clenched and he took a deep steadying breath.
The director said, "It saddens me that a young gentleman who passed out of Eton and Addiscombe College with so impressive a scholastic record as you achieved, should have allowed his love of strong drink and his lust for a beautiful woman to destroy everything the future offered. You will hold yourself available, Captain Armitage, for an official investigation into your disgraceful conduct as master of the Silken Princess. In the event you are found guilty, you will be stripped of your rank, discharged with dishonour from the Company, and all back pay and prize monies confiscated. You will then be handed over to the High Court of the Admiralty to be punished for your crimes to the fullest extent of the law. Meanwhile, sir, you are free to leave with"—his sardonic gaze flickered to the door—"your friends. However"—he leaned forward—"do not attempt to leave England!"
Jonathan said with proud defiance, "I have told you the true facts, my lord. To the best of my ability, I shall attempt to serve England. With my friends!" He bowed and stalked from the room, the midshipman closing the door behind him.
" 'Pon my soul but they don't breed men like they did in my young days," snorted the commodore, rising and taking up a fat satchel.
"What I fail to understand," said the director, a thin hand on his thin middle, "is what in the world they hope to gain from it all."
"Notoriety, very likely." The commodore waddled to the door. "Though one might think the half-breed would have had enough of that; he's the joke of London."
"A deadly joke," said Lord Hayes thoughtfully. "I think few men laugh to his face."
"They laugh like hell behind his back," grinned the commodore. "And he knows it. He's outspoken in his contempt for the haut ton, and would do anything to slander as many gentlemen as was in his power. Only look at their little group, m'dear fellow. Not a man of 'em who ain't got some sticky skeleton in the family closet. And now they've added a real gem to their ranks. Jonathan Greville Armitage. What'd they call him in Cornwall? Crazy Jack?" He chuckled, nodded his thanks as the midshipman opened the door for him, and went out shaking his head and saying, "Jove, what a fine recruit!"
Once more the midshipman closed the door, walked back to stand by the table, and waited.
The director asked, "Well, nephew Joel? What sayest thou?"
The midshipman answered gravely, "I sayest, it fitteth, my lord."
"The question is," murmured the director, "is it a perfect fit? The stakes are extreme high. There can be no slips, you understand."
"I understand. About Armitage. I fancy he'll be thrown to the lions?"
"Probably."
"He's had a very nasty time of it, sir."
"Pity," said the director. "But—we have no choice, do you see?"
With slow reluctance the midshipman said, "Yes, uncle. I see. But I wish we knew what it was that Armitage saw—or heard, in Suez."
"So do we all, dear boy," sighed the director, taking out another tablet. "So do we all."
Chapter 17
The afternoon was grey and drizzly, and the three men came gratefully into the warmth of palatial Falcon House. They shed their wet cloaks and went up the stairs to August's comfortable private parlour, where a crackling fire awaited them.
A lackey hurried to light a branch of candles. When he'd drifted silently from the room, Falcon said, "Well, 'tis done. I fancy you mean to leave Town, Jack."
Morris looked sharply at Jonathan. "When? Where do you go, dear boy?" He added with a sly grin, "Sussex, perchance?"
Jonathan shook his head. "I must see my family. I'd have gone down sooner had I not been prevented by this stupid board of enquiry."
"It was a strange business," said Falcon thoughtfully. 'To say truth, I'd have laid odds you would be held for Admiralty justice. They dealt lightly with you."
"Lightly!" Morris expostulated. "Despite the testimony of those navy physicians regarding his head wound, and the information Joe Taylor gave them, the best they could do was to decide against further prosecution pending a more far-reaching investigation."
Jonathan said, "Which means—an I know anything of governmental manoeuvrings—that those involved will busy themselves in finding scapegoats, or in covering up all evidence of their own wrongdoing, and prolonging their investigations till the matter has been forgot!" He smiled suddenly. "But only listen to me grumble, when I should instead be full of gratitude. I know now that I was not responsible for the loss of all those lives; I have taken back my self-respect and my wits—"
"Such as they are," inserted Falcon.
"Such as they are," agreed Jonathan with a chuckle. "And at least I am not obliged to languish in prison, which I'd thought very likely."
"Had Admiral Chetwynd not come so eloquently to your defence," said Falcon, "you'd not be sitting here now."
"Very true! He's a grand old sea dog, is he not? He told me I owe his intervention to Lady Lyme-Rufford. I gather he courted her when he was a young man."
"I wonder he didn't win the lady," said Morris. "He has a silver tongue."
Falcon said, "Even was it studded with gems, I still say Armitage was let off surprisingly easy. The League was more of a threat."
"We can't prove those varmints were aiming at Jack," argued Morris.
Falcon fixed him with an incredulous stare. "The ball that was fired at our carriage on Monday made a hole in his tricorne. The knife that came through the window yesterday missed him by a hair. I should have realised that both were intended for you! What sorry assassins the League hires to—"
He was interrupted as Tummet rushed into the room balancing a laden tray precariously. "That 'orrid 'ound, guv," he panted, kicking the door closed behind him. "Be the death o' me, 'e will! Not that you'll care," he added.
A deep bark resounded in the hall. Morris grinned and suggested that Falcon give Apollo to Jonathan.
"Certainly not," said Falcon. "Miss Rossiter would never forgive me if the League put a period to the animal. You
must learn how to deal with him, Tummet."
"I shoulda brung back one o' them Cornish spells," grumbled Tummet, setting his tray on a handsome sideboard.
"I know a few," said Falcon obligingly. "If you wish someone ill, you've only to drop a toad on his doorstep, and he'll be visited by the most wretched luck."
Tummet said, "Even if that 'orrid 'ound 'ad a doorstep, which 'e don't, it wouldn't do no good. Show 'im a toad and 'e'd likely eat it. 'Course," he added, brightening, "I could give 'im a bag o' feathers! A long and painful dee-mise! That'd serve 'im right fer—" Given pause by Morris's aghast stare, he looked at two other arrested expressions and said uneasily, "Cor, I don't never mean it, gents! A 'orrid 'ound 'e might be, but I wouldn't wish 'im a slow death!"
Jonathan said quickly, "Besides, 'tis all superstitious nonsense."
"And those stupid spells only work on—on native born Cornish people," said Morris.
Falcon laughed. "I collect I must be prepared to awaken some night and find a charmer or diviner waving a deceased fowl over my bed, or some such thing, to break the spell! Wake up, Tummet! Must you stand there with your jaw at half mast? You're here in the capacity of a valet—try behaving like one!"
Tummet blinked, and unstoppered a decanter.
Morris asked, "Given any more thought to the Suez business, Jack?"
Jonathan took the glass of Madeira Tummet offered. "My brain's numb from puzzling at it. Suez is always bustling, of course, but I can recall nothing outlandish occurring when last I was there."
"Wouldn't 'ave to be nothing outlandish, mate," said Tummet, thrusting a generous measure of cognac at Falcon. "Mighta bin some cargo being moved what shouldn't oughta bin. Or some ship wot shoulda bin somewhere else."
Jonathan sighed. "We've gone over those points a dozen times. If there was something of that nature, I know nought of it."
Morris complained, "Not going to forget me, are you Tummet?"
The valet, who had been staring at his employer in a disturbed fashion, offered another glass and declared with his broad grin, "Can't ferget you, mate. Got a good 'eart you 'as."
"There's a thought." Quite aware of his man's furtive and apprehensive scrutiny, Falcon said, "What about hearts, Armitage? Any blatant affaires de coeur being conducted? I fancy there were plenty of British people about?"
"Always." Jonathan blotted out the yearning of his own heart, and the memory of a certain lovely lady in East Bourne. "Government servants, employees of the Company, merchants—what have you—coming across the desert from Cairo, and waiting for East Indiamen to carry them on to Aden and India. Others, preparing to return home."
Falcon shuddered. "The desert conjures up appalling visions of heat and flies. Not the place for affairs of the heart, I'd think."
"You're out there. Suez has some fine hotels, and the air is very fresh and invigorating. Quite a number of young ladies travel that way in search of advantageous alliances, and are undismayed by the desert journey. Though I've often thought it must be hard on their chaperones, and people of more advanced years. I recall one English lady who seemed so frail, yet betrayed no sign of fatigue. I heard later that she had been badly burned in her youth, and that her health was uncertain, but she was singularly sweet natured and uncomplaining. Her sister, though! Gad, what an odious woman! A voice like a nail on slate, and—"
Falcon all but leapt from his chair. "The Buttershaw dragon?" he exclaimed.
Morris choked on his wine and Tummet pounded at his back until he begged for mercy.
"Was that her name, Armitage?" demanded Falcon. "Lady Clara Buttershaw?"
"I've no idea. I think I was never introduced to the lady. I assisted her sister once when she tripped on the veranda steps, is all."
"Miss Jennifer said the men she overheard in Plymouth spoke of Suez and three years ago. That would have been '45. Was the Buttershaw woman from Town in '45, my clod?"
"How the deuce would I know?" said Morris. "I was with my regiment in the Low Countries, and—"
"Well why had you not the sense to be in England when you were needed? Oh, have done with your feeble excuses. Describe the large lady, Armitage."
"Jove… 'tis three years. You describe her for me, and I may recollect."
Falcon sprang up and began to pace up and down in his excitement. "She is tall and hatchet-faced, and I think has never said a conciliating word to anyone—"
"Except you, my tulip," put in Morris with a grin.
All too aware that the usually cantankerous Lady Clara Buttershaw had a pronounced tendre for him, Falcon scowled at him. "Have you anything sensible to offer?"
"Her sister," Morris offered, "is the Lady Julia Yerville, and as gentle as Lady Clara is harsh. Her voice is very soft, indeed she speaks in a sort of—er, breathless whisper, and—"
"And she always wears white!" exclaimed Jonathan, his eyes glinting.
"She does!" cried Falcon exuberantly.
"We have it then!" Morris checked and added dubiously, "Or have we? Perhaps Lady Buttershaw was merely visiting relations in Calcutta or Bombay, or Karachi, or—"
"Or Timbuctoo, or Tooting!" exploded Falcon. "Have done with your geographical gibberish!"
Jonathan grinned and pointed out, "We can scarce charge the lady with treason only because she chanced to be in Suez three years ago. The worst that could be said of her conduct was that she seemed to delight in antagonising everyone she encountered. Except for the Frenchman, apparently, but—"
"Frenchman?" Falcon, who had sat down again, demanded, "What Frenchman? Did he travel with them? Do you have his name?"
Jonathan frowned, racking his brain. "He escorted them about once or twice and dined at their table, but he certainly was no courier, if that's what you mean. It struck me as rather odd, because one night I chanced to see him leaving their room in the wee hours. He was looking back and speaking very softly, but when he saw me he turned red as fire and rushed off. As to his name, I've not the remotest notion. Nor can I think that my having stumbled upon so trite an incident would constitute a danger to the League."
"Depends on the way you look at it," argued Morris. 'Take a snail, for instance. It don't alarm me to see one, but to a cabbage it might mean death!"
"Then you'd best guard your head," snapped Falcon, "for a snail would take it for a cabbage any day! Jack, this may have been a far from trite incident. It sounds most smoky to me! You must have noticed something about the fellow! Cast your mind back! It may be of great importance!"
Jonathan groaned and put a hand over his eyes. He said slowly, "He was strikingly good looking, I remember that. Not above forty."
Morris asked, "Dark? Fair?"
"He wore powder… Jupiter! I don't recall anything more. I only saw him for a brief—No—wait! There was one thing. He had an odd sort of gait. Held his right thigh when he walked—almost as if he was making it move, but—"
"My… dear… God!" gasped Morris.
They both stared at him.
He shook his head dazedly. "No—no, it can't be!"
Falcon said, "You're chatting with an idiot. Be so good as to include us in your conversation."
Morris blinked at him. "I saw him in the Low Countries. He's—he's a legend! The darling of France… I can't believe—"
Falcon's eyes widened, he said in hushed incredulity, "Barthelemy? Is that who you mean?"
Morris gave him a half-embarrassed, half-apprehensive look. "It couldn't be! I mean—could it?"
"Do you speak of Marshal Jean-Jacques Barthelemy?" asked Jonathan.
Tummet whistled softly. "That's gorn and done it, that 'as! 'E's a real tartar, 'e is!"
Falcon said, "Wasn't he seriously wounded in some battle or other?"
Morris nodded. "Lauffeld. The doctors wanted to amputate his right leg, but Barthelemy wouldn't have it. Rumour says the leg's been a nuisance ever since."
"I heard he's the most ambitious man in Europe," said Jonathan slowly. "In which case—he might very well be—"
/> "Be involved with the League!" Falcon exclaimed, "Zounds! Rossiter must hear of this, and fast!"
Morris said uneasily, "If the League is dealing with France, the Horse Guards should be told oft."
Falcon regarded him pityingly. "My poor blockhead. Do you never learn? We suspect General Underbill of being one of 'em. If we trusted the Horse Guards with this we'd very likely be invited into a dungeon at the Tower and never live to tell another soul anything!"
"I may be a blockhead," said Morris stubbornly, "but I've not got so grand an opinion of myself as to know what to do in this case."
Jonathan said, "Nor I. Perchance your friend Rossiter will have the answer."
"Very likely." Falcon looked solemn. "But meantime I think it best that we say nothing of this to anyone. Are we agreed?"
Morris hesitated, but at length agreed, and Jonathan pledged his word also, then came to his feet. "I must get on my way if I'm to reach Dover while the light holds."
"Stay in touch with us," said Falcon. "You have opened another door for Rossiter's Resistance."
"When the time comes," Jonathan told him, "I'll go through that door with you! I've some long overdue debts to settle!"
"I think we are being foolish past permission," said Jennifer, turning with a sigh from Lady Lyme-Rufford's front gates. " Tis nigh three weeks, Duster, and not a word, not a line."
Duster, who never seemed quite at ease on a shoulder smaller than that to which he was accustomed, bobbed up and down and offered his latest remark, which appeared to have something to do with drinking "the third glass."
"Very true," agreed Jennifer absently. "But, I know him, you see. If things go badly, he will not come. Or is that conceit, do you fancy? Might he have long since decided 'gainst coming back at all?"
She wandered slowly up the drivepath. With the approach of evening the house was bathed in the glow of a magnificent sunset. The scent of honeysuckle hung on the warm air, and birds were making a great to-do in the trees as they hurried home. All of which was lost upon Jennifer. "If he should come," she told Duster, "I shall have to greet him with disdain, for he did not tell me that he was wed. Great Aunt said the poor lady only lived a little while, but—he should have told me, Duster. On the schooner, he had remembered her. I am certain that is why he was so… distant."
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