Most Secret

by John Dickson Carr

  In the morning, too, he had gone to attend the Duke of Buckingham’s levee at York House, as he had been instructed to do. He had no difficulty in finding York House, which was also near Charing Cross on the south side of the Strand; nor had he imagined that the rest would be difficult either.

  “Come!” you could imagine His Grace of Bucks saying. “A good welcome, let all take note, to the son of an old friend! Sit you merry, young man; and, ecod, what’s your pleasure in the choice of drink?”

  That, he had thought to himself, was how matters would be carried by George Villiers, the second duke; it was how they carried matters in Somerset, and what he himself would have done.

  But nothing of the sort occurred.

  On the contrary, when he arrived at York House he found himself swallowed up in a great mass of struggling suitors. York House proved to be a splendid place beside the river, having many lawns and coloured awnings; it was divided into two buildings by a court whose terraces descended to the water gate.

  With no tipstaff on guard to question him or even observe him, he entered a great foyer or anteroom. From its floor of veined marble, slippery enough to run and skate upon, pillars of polished wood and gilding rose up at some height to support a roof all painted over with sky and clouds and fat naked goddesses reclining there.

  Though the whole place was full of people, they showed no disposition joyously to skate on the floor. They displayed no joyousness at all, being too preoccupied or even anguished. All their attention seemed centred on a pair of carved double doors at the west side of the foyer, guarded by large flunkeys with supercilious eyebrows.

  There was much loud talk, a continual swish-swish of feet on the marble floor, and a smell of perfume, not very pleasant, with no good tobacco smoke to lighten it. At intervals one or two of the guests would make a rush at those closed double doors, as though attacking a fort. Most often they were fended off by the arrogant footmen, but sometimes they would worm through; the doors opened briefly and closed again.

  Still nobody paid the least attention to my then-young grandfather, which is not good for a man’s ease of mind. At the far end of the foyer, where there were deep windows towards the terraces above the river, he saw a neat little elderly man in a dark periwig, snuff-coloured clothes, and white stockings. This gentleman took no part in the loud talk. He stood in the embrasure of a window, his hands folded behind his back. His face, though something cynical and pitted with wrinkles about the forehead, was not unkindly.

  My grandfather liked his appearance on the instant.

  “Give you good day, sir!” says Kinsmere, with much courtesy and heartiness.

  The small elderly gentleman made a leg, by which I mean he bowed.

  “And to you, sir,” he answered with equal courtesy, “a very good day in return. If you are come to attend His Grace of Bucks’s levee …”

  “Indeed, sir, I apprehend I am.”

  “Have you by chance a petition to offer, may I ask?”

  “Petition, sir? I have no petition, nor desire aught at his hands. The noble lord is there, we must suppose,” cried Kinsmere, stabbing his thumb towards the carved double doors.

  “Yes, yes! The noble lord is there, and takes his morning chocolate.”

  “But, damme, sir, how does one wait upon him? What’s the password to admit us?”

  Kinsmere’s companion drew a deep breath and cast one eye round, like a man who has much patience but needs all of it.

  “Why, as to that,” he replied. “If you are a near friend of His Grace, or bear tidings he desires to hear, you have but to present yourself at those doors. If you are a suitor in some kind, or he owes you money,” and here the small gentleman twitched up bony shoulders, “you are not like to see him at all. ’Tis a thing far easier to gain audience with the king. His Majesty pays no debts, on my life; but at least he is mighty affable and civil in putting you off.”

  At this moment there was a sharp kind of scuffle at the double doors. Both of them were knocked open at once. The aggressor at the doors, changing his demeanour so quickly that he seemed struck by paralysis, adjusted his wig and faltered inside.

  My grandfather had one glimpse of a large, thick-carpeted room with a canopied bed. In that bed, choked round by a lace-collared nightgown, a stout man with a red face and several chins, his shaven head swathed in the silk scarf of dishabille, sat propped up against the pillows with a silver chocolate service in his lap.

  Many persons had gathered round him, including a plump fancifully dressed woman who had very little bodice to her gown. But Grandfather Kinsmere did not look with any attention at those still in the room. He looked at those who were just leaving it.

  Out from the great bedroom, all abreast, stalked four men of fashion.

  All were young. All wore their hats indoors, as the custom was. But, whereas three of them carried the garb of beaux—fringed pantaloons, much lace, light cup-hilt rapier slung just inside the skirt of the coat—the fourth man, at the extreme left, was a very modish captain of dragoons.

  The identity of the three beaux my grandfather never knew or needed to know. This dragoon captain, on the other hand …

  He was a tall man, was the captain, perhaps an inch or two taller than Rowdy Kinsmere. Under his long red coat, with black frogging across the buttonholes, you saw cavalry boots with wide tops to prevent the leg being crushed in a charge. Instead of the dragoon’s heavy backsword, as though to emphasize his modishness he wore over his coat an ordinary cup-hilt on its gold-embroidered baldric from right shoulder to left hip.

  Clean-shaven, unlike most cavalrymen, he had a long nose that flared into wide uptilted nostrils above a narrow mouth. He was so remote in his own sense of superiority, a kind of congealed sneer, that quite literally he did not see anyone else as the four fashionables marched abreast. He did not see my grandfather.

  And then it happened.

  Kinsmere had turned partly sideways, bending down to speak to the little elderly man in the window embrasure. The four fashionables wheeled, making for the front of the foyer; the dragoon captain wheeled at the end of their line. As he swung, staring through my grandfather as through a windowpane, his strong right shoulder rose up. With a great thump and jar it struck Kinsmere just under the chin.

  Kinsmere’s shoe slid wildly on the polished floor; his hand seized at air. But for his excellent balance, and a cat’s quickness on his feet, he would have been knocked flat.

  “Come!” said the little man, extending a hand to help. “That was ill-done! That was plaguey ill-done of so fine an officer, if I may say so!”

  “Why, damme, you say true. And therefore …”

  The four fashionables were now some distance away, uncaring.

  “Stay!” cried the little man. He seized Kinsmere’s arm as my grandfather made an instinctive movement. “Stay!” he repeated, in dignity shot through with alarm. “Where are you going? What would you do?”

  “I would follow him, that’s what. I would follow him, and remonstrate with him. If he won’t hear remonstrance, curse me, I would knock his head against the wall and teach him manners.”

  “Stay, I tell you! You must not, young man; at all costs you must not! To provoke a brawl at York House were the sheerest folly.”

  “Is it so?”

  “It is so, believe me. You would gain short shrift from any of the sycophants here. At best you would be beaten from your five wits; at worst you would see Newgate or Bedlam.”

  “Must I endure it, then?” shouts Rowdy Kinsmere. “Must I receive all and give nothing?”

  “Ay; ’tis to be feared you must.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s the way of the world and of courts, young man. You may mislike it; I mislike it. But that’s the way of things; we can’t mend ’em, and must suffer ’em. Besides—Come!” urged the other, his wizened face taking on the heartiness and the earnestness of peacemaking. “You forget your errand here, surely? And that must not be. You had intent, had you
not, to wait upon my Lord Duke of Bucks?”

  Kinsmere looked across at the carved doors, which were again closed.

  “I had intent to wait upon him, it’s true. But I have altered my mind.”

  “Altered your mind?”

  “All such fuss and turmoil,” exclaimed Kinsmere, “to see him? Why, hang me,” says he in a surprised way, “I have been put at less trouble to see the five-footed calf at Bristol fair. Or even Hamid the Strong Man, whose feats were most prodigious. Besides, having once glimpsed that fat red-faced jackanapes in the bed there—was it my Lady Shrewsbury, his chère amie as they say, astir betimes and beside him?—I am not persuaded that the spectacle much allures me. My lord duke? Be damned to him.” Whereat the young man clapped on his hat. “And now, sir, for an errand of more moment,” he continued. “With many thanks for your courtesy, can you direct me to Lombard Street? I must wait upon an eminent banker-goldsmith, who is in some sense a guardian of mine. I am to claim an inheritance he holds in trust, to the amount of some ninety thousand pounds or the like …”

  “For God’s sake, young man,” interrupted the other, “pray lower your voice!”

  “Hey?”

  “Be not so free in your ways or speech, I counsel you! Be not so open as publicly to mention a sum of that size, else in our honest town they’ll be at you like leeches to drain you of it. Discretion, ever discretion! Hem, now!”

  “Well, but …”

  “You would know the way to Lombard Street, you say, and you would wait upon a banker of that district? Pray pardon my seeming inquisitiveness, but may I hear the name of this banker?”

  “To be sure you may. His name is Mr. Roger Stainley. He—”

  “And your own name, sir?”

  “Kinsmere. Roderick Edward Kinsmere, of Blackthorn in Somerset.”

  The small shrewd-faced gentleman nodded, drawing my grandfather into the window embrasure. From the pocket of his snuff-coloured surcoat he took a spectacle case, extracted a pair of square spectacles, and fitted them on with so deft a motion that he disturbed not a curl of his wig.

  Kinsmere never forgot how he looked at that moment, in the sunlight of the window embrasure. The glass of the great window was a little crooked and of a faint greenish tint, set in a multitude of small round panes with metal edges. They threw wavy shadows across the oak wall of the recess and across the face of the man in spectacles—who had turned sideways, one knee slightly advanced, left hand behind his back, studying his taller companion. For the first time my grandfather looked well at him. He remarked, despite this well-wisher’s sober attire, the handsome gold watch chain and the fine fall of lace at his throat.

  “Hem!” said the sober-resplendent man in spectacles, and cleared his throat once more. Whereupon he smiled, making a very stately and courteous bow. “Why, then, permit me to hope that we are well met,” adds he. “You were not expected for some days, but ’tis no matter. To speak a truth, Mr. Kinsmere, I myself am the banker you would wait upon. I am Roger Stainley. My boy, I rejoice to see you.”

  “Burn me!” exclaimed my grandfather, as they shook hands. He was delighted; he felt a real burst of affection, and all but yanked the prim Mr. Stainley off his feet. “Well met? Burn me, I should think so!”

  “And now …”

  “Why, we’ll go hence and drink hearty. What else?”

  “Drink?” said Mr. Stainley, frowning and pinching at his underlip. “Drink, did you say? Hem, now! Tush, tut, and again tush! This is a matter of business, young sir, and must be done in good order.

  “Stay, though!” he added in some disquiet. “We are not private enough here, I fear. Tongues wag and clack about us, as your ears will provide evidence. We may be overheard, and that must not be. If you will give yourself the trouble of accompanying me …?”

  Stiff, sober, and yet bustling, the banker took his arm and led him from the window embrasure. Mr. Stainley then guided him to an arched doorway at the back of the foyer, along a passage to the rear door and the open air, and thence to a bright flower garden overlooking the water gate, where no eavesdropper could possibly have approached.

  Here Kinsmere gave him the letters of identification, one from Uncle Godfrey and one which his late father had written years ago. While the banker read these letters with great care, my grandfather watched little boats moving against the smoky sparkle of the river. Mr. Stainley finished the letters and handed them back.

  “Good, that’s established!” says he. “You are Alan Kinsmere’s son, you show it, and I consent thereunto. The sapphire ring on your left hand were proof enough in itself.” Then he cast up his eyes in thought. “To our business, now! As regards your accounts …”

  “My accounts? What of ’em?”

  “They are prepared for your inspection,” answered Mr. Stainley. “You made reference (most injudiciously!) to ninety thousand pounds. I may tell you privily that the moneys intrusted to my keeping, by fortunate stewardship of investment, now amount nearer to a hundred thousand than to ninety. It is a handsome fortune, which you must guard well against rogues. How will you employ it?”

  “Sir, does that matter?”

  “Does it matter, you declare?”

  “Indeed, I declare it,” says Kinsmere. “Oh, damme! I was bred up in the country, and want little. So long as there are a few good coins in my purse,” and he slapped the pouch at his right hip, which gave forth a satisfying chink, “who knows or cares for the future?”

  The little banker was much shocked, as well he might be.

  “Come, this is mighty unbusinesslike! This will never do! You were bred up in the country; granted; so much is evident. Yet you aspire, past doubt, to become a man of fashion?”

  “Sir, I do not. If we may make judgment from the four sneering elegants who sailed at us in the foyer (including our bold dragoon captain, damn his uptilted nose), I would have as little truck with such cattle as I conveniently may.”

  “And yet you must,” retorted Mr. Stainley, “because this is an obligation you may not shirk. Come! I’ll not deny you may be in the right of it; I’ll not deny that in my heart I may agree. And yet—duty! Your father stood high in the esteem of the late King Charles the First, and was favourably known to His Present Majesty. You must be presented to the king; you must take your place at court. It will entail certain preparations. Those clothes of yours, for instance …”

  “Clothes, sir?”

  “They were well enough, past doubt, at Blackthorn amid the folks of Somerset. They will not serve, pray credit me, for the galleries and withdrawing rooms at Whitehall.” Again a look of satire and cynicism pinched down Mr. Stainley’s eyelids. “Not that I care, God knows, or that the king will care. His Majesty, notoriously, is the most slovenly man at court. But I hold myself to some degree responsible for you. And I must give you the outward seeming of a man of fashion; I must see you fitted out with foretopped peruke, with satin waistcoats, with clouded cane and Venice-point and finger watch, to save my very conscience!”

  There was much more in this strain. Mr. Stainley talked at some length, answering the questions he himself asked, while the morning sun strengthened on the river and the bright flower beds. They must first do much buying, Mr. Stainley said. They must visit tailors, and wigmakers, and jewellers, and swordsmiths, and hosiers, and heaven knew whom else, until his listener’s head began to reel.

  All such suggestions were pleasing rather than otherwise to my grandfather. He was resolved never to become a spark of fashion. But he rather looked forward to bedecking himself (briefly) in this manner, as he would have looked forward to donning some wildly outrageous costume, just once, for a masquerade ball.

  And then, the banker declared in some anguish, they must find him proper quarters to live in. It must not be known that he was lodged, even for one day, at a common tavern. Mr. Stainley suggested (somewhat uneasily, you might have thought) that Kinsmere should come to lodge with himself and his wife and daughter in Lombard Street, until such time as he s
hould find a place in the fashionable world.

  But this offer my grandfather opposed with heat. For you must know he had his eye out to certain amusements for that night, not unconnected with wine bottles and willing dames. Prim and elderly people, however kindly, are almost always opposed to such diversions; he wanted no watchful eye upon him. So he protested with warm civility that he couldn’t, burn him in hell if he could, so inconvenience his good friend, and the rest of it, burn him to a cinder.

  He had a pretty fair notion that Mr. Stainley suspected his reasons; but the banker only shut up one eye and nodded, with what looked like relief, and they were mighty considerate of each other. Well, then, the banker said, no doubt conscious of having done his duty; well, then, at least his young friend would sup with him at nine o’clock? His young friend would, with pleasure.

  “Enfin, as it may be,” Mr. Stainley concluded, adjusting his flat-crowned hat as he prepared to depart. “I shall be much preoccupied with business for the rest of today. At best of it, you will allow, we can’t go a-buying until the morrow. Meanwhile, young sir, will you take advice from one who is older and pehaps wiser than yourself?”

  “I will take advice from you.”

  “Come, that’s better! That’s seeming hopeful!” And the banker pondered. “You must see the sights, I suppose. But keep to yourself, I conjure you, as much as may be. Go not a-buying at the New Exchange; mingle little with your equals among the quality until such time as I, though of humble birth and small consequence in this world, shall be close at hand to give counsel. Above all things, since you seem not oversupplied with prudence, I would urge upon you the need for self-control. These impulses of yours, when you think yourself jeered or insulted, to knock somebody’s head against a wall …”

  “What of the impulses, Mr. Stainley?”

  “They are unworthy; they are unseemly; resist them! A last word in your ear, Roderick Kinsmere. Do you honour your father’s memory?”