The Fuzzy-Wuzzy Man (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 3)

by Andrew Wareham

  Mr Holmes waved a tenderly manicured hand, forgot himself so far as to run his fingers through his hair, disarranging its elegant styling. “We should not have fought at all! To stand up with an already injured man, wounded in heroic battle, runs contrary to all I have ever understood, and now! Well! He shall receive the cut direct if he dares show me his face ever again. More! I shall slap his face! Perhaps he will not be frightened to stand against me! I, too, must abase myself – I am truly aware that my own honour – not necessarily as pure as the driven snow already – has been compromised. May I offer to shake your hand, Sir Frederick?”

  “Gently, I beg of you, Mr Holmes,” Frederick said, smiling courteously and cautiously extending his right hand.

  “Ooh, sir, I’m never rough!” Holmes flushed, drew himself up, spoke crisply. “I do apologise, Sir Frederick! It is expected of one, you know!”

  They made their formal, public peace, the witnesses noting and silently approving their wisdom.

  “Breakfast is ordered at my inn, gentlemen – would you all join me?”

  Holmes would with pleasure, Russell refused.

  “On another day, Sir Frederick. I have unfinished business this morning, sir. I beg that I may do myself the honour of waiting on you in the future, to acquaint you with the final outcome of this disgraceful affair.”

  Russell bowed, stiffly, formally, strode away, squaring his shoulders and achieving a dignity that had escaped Holmes, his anger very plain.

  They left London before noon, seeking cleaner air, Bosomtwi and Ablett, both having been silent spectators sat in their coach, quite unable to find anything sensible to say about the affair, except that they would know what to do if ever they ran across Partington in Dorset – horsewhips favoured.

  “We shall not see him again – he will leave England,” Frederick assured them.

  They had been just three days in Long Common when express letters arrived from Critchel, Paget and Russell, a copy of the Morning Post as well.

  The letters conveyed in prose more or less purple the identical information – Partington, having disappeared for twenty four hours, had been found in the gutter outside a boy house in Shoreditch, a low, rough haunt that catered for the more exotic tastes. Partington had entered and left unescorted, an unwise move; he had smoked opium whilst inside, had left euphoric, without care. He had been set on by three or four men, quite probably with the proprietor’s connivance, and had been so unwise as to scream and try to run. He had been knifed repeatedly, once in the throat to ensure silence, several times in the belly for fun. Stray dogs and rats had got at the body, hopefully after death had supervened.

  Bosomtwi and Ablett were jubilant – let all cowards die so! Frederick found he did not care.

  The Morning Post had a long paragraph on the dreadful affair of the shocking discovery of the mutilated body of Lord P-, found in a low gutter, foully done to death. Lord P- had been a protagonist in the recent strange affair of honour, when the gallant Captain Sir F- H- had defended his name, though already honourably wounded in brave battle against the King’s barbaric foemen. The Hero of the Hercule had again proved his valour and his disgraced enemy now lay in ignominious death – a proof indeed, that the treader of the Paths of Righteousness should not go unrecognised, or the sinner unrewarded.

  “What a pile of crap”, the hero remarked, privately.

  They stayed a month at Long Common, decided to go to Abbey in May after a dry week had made the roads more easily passable. Frederick arranged with Paget that he should bring his family and Iain on a visit immediately before the harvest – the first stage in introducing the boy to his home.

  The Abbey was en fete, the return of the Hero, home from the wars – the local newssheet, the Chronicle, had devoted many of its pages to Charybdis and Captain Harris, the West Country having a long tradition of seafaring and victory and adopting Frederick into its pantheon. The Spice Islands had been welcome – any victories were welcome in this puzzling war – and the recent excursion against the Barbary Pirates was much applauded. Not so many years had passed since the corsairs had last raided the West Country, and occasional assaults still occurred on the southern Irish coasts, and their memory was still vivid and kept alive in Punch and Judies, where the fierce Mahometan was a staple, and in local farces, none ever complete without a hook-nosed, beturbaned barbarian. Occasional attacks over four centuries had left a legacy of hatred, and a genuine welcome for any sailor who hit back at them.

  Frederick was cheered by the tenantry, and saluted by the Yeomanry in Dorchester and the Militia in Poole – it was really rather embarrassing.

  “Mr Hartley – you are well? Wed yet?”

  “Next month, sir.”

  Civilities thus complete it was possible to plunge into estate business, especially to deal with the untidy situation of the neighbouring lands.

  “The Partington estate, who inherited, Mr Hartley?”

  “An uncle, sir, a Mr Hackett, his father’s younger brother, barely ten years the late lord’s senior – it would seem there was a half dozen of sisters and twenty years between the two sons. He has made an entry to the estate, and a very vigorous clearance of the house. He delayed his family and they joined him only two or three days ago, it would seem.”

  “A younger son, not rich, I presume?”

  “Not that I can discover, sir, he would seem to have been settled in a small way in a house left by his mother, with his wife and children and his surviving sisters – they seem to have suffered a rather high mortality, sir, when the spotted fever came through some twenty years since – somewhere in the North Country. His lawyer visited me some four days ago, Sir Frederick, to discuss the loan secured against his wheat lands – it has, of course, fallen due in total on the late lord’s demise, and the funds to repay it are simply not to hand. A sequestration is possible, Sir Frederick, but we would, in effect, force him to sell up, for he could not maintain the estate without the income from his wheat fields, and drive him out of the area, back to his house in the North.”

  Frederick had not considered the problem of the loan made at the time of the enclosure but realised immediately that it would do his reputation no good at all to drive the new lord into ruin.

  “Can we stand the loss?”

  “It will not be a loss, Sir Frederick – the lawyers proposed that the new lord should pay interest annually, should repay the capital eventually, probably in seven years time. While the price of corn is high, and rising, we can live with that, sir and I let it be known that we would not be concerned to pursue arrears of interest, sir, with your permission, of course.”

  “Good. Let it be so – much better for our standing in the county.”

  “Wheat has reached forty three shillings, sir, and can only rise while the war continues. God bless the French, say I, sir!”

  “I might not go that far, Mr Hartley. I feel I should call upon Lord Partington – if we are to be good neighbours, then I believe I must make the first approach.”

  “In the circumstances, Sir Frederick – a new baronet of public renown with a larger holding against a sixth baron in straitened circumstances – it would be a courtesy on your part, and I do not believe they ever met, there can be no tie of affection with the previous lord, and his disgrace was such that I do not think they have gone into black gloves for him. Provided you make courtesy calls on Sir Geoffrey and Mr Robinson, I think all will be well, sir.”

  It was all very difficult, but the landholders had to stay together, form a united front against the forces of disorder and revolution – the uprising in France was proof positive that the mob was dangerous and must be controlled – politics was not the province of ordinary people and they must be led by their betters in education and understanding, the more particularly in their local circumstances where the recent enclosure had led to the dispossession of so many families. There must be stability, and, having unwittingly created disorder, it was Frederick’s province to re-establish a proper authori
ty in the valley – the new Lord Partington must be left with no grievances, he must be made welcome and shown respect. Pray God that this one was respectable!

  # # #

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  Andrew Wareham

  Here’s an excerpt from the beginning of Book Four in the Series: Britannia’s Son

  Frederick stepped out of his carriage. It was new, and plain, he had been unwilling to have his newly awarded coat of arms - spears and volcanoes - engraved on the door panels, for fear of showing away, Johnny Newcome at his worst. He scowled disapprovingly at the imposing front elevation of Partington Manor, while Bosomtwi drove round to the stable yard, discreetly out of sight and away from any comment his master might choose to make.

  Since he had last been here the front of the manor had been elegantly sheathed in Portland stone, carefully symmetrical, false pillared to give a Palladian effect, and elms had been planted to right and left so as to screen the more plebeian elevations from view. They would take another thirty years to grow tall enough to completely hide the unwanted old Elizabethan brickwork, but still managed to disguise it.

  Frederick wondered just how many thousands had been spent on the rebuilding and the creation of a park to the front. It had not been cheap and the bulk of it would have been his loan, misspent on ostentation rather than on drainage and improvements for the enclosure.

  He paced up the four wide steps, knocked on the double-leafed front door, waited as it was pulled open. In the previous lord’s day there had been a pair of footmen to perform this duty, costing forty pounds a year apiece in wages, and their keep and their uniforms – satin was not inexpensive, he believed – and no doubt little presents as well. Small wonder the old lord had been short of cash, had borrowed from him, and no doubt others.

  “Captain Sir Frederick Harris,” he announced, presenting his card.

  A respectable middle-aged butler, very clearly long in the family’s service, inclined his head gravely.

  “Please to come in, Sir Frederick. My apologies, sir, for not immediately recognising you! If you would care to wait in the salon, Sir Frederick, his lordship will be informed of your presence.”

  Three minutes by the clock on the mantel and his lordship came into the room, settling his frockcoat on his shoulders, obviously made quickly presentable. His clothing was new, correctly sober in colour – slate-grey coat over charcoal pantaloons and white shirt and black tie-cravat – but it was not quite mourning – not even an armband. His late lordship had been too disreputable, had died disgracefully: his name had been erased from the family tree. That made things easier.

  Frederick smiled and offered his hand, not perhaps strictly according to the rules, but making his position clear – he came as a welcoming neighbour and friend. Partington shook his hand gratefully.

  “I am honoured, Sir Frederick… I was not certain whether I should call on you, whether indeed you would wish to receive me!”

  “I would wish always to be on terms with my neighbours, Lord Partington, and hoped that my unfortunate involvement with the late lord would not make this impossible. Your predecessor was in some ways an unusual man, my lord, and there were some difficulties… but, I felt it important to make it clear that these were personal and died with him, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Sir Frederick. Sir Geoffrey has already come to me and said exactly the same in making me welcome. I am so very grateful! This is a difficult time for me, for I had never expected to step into my predecessor’s shoes, Sir Frederick, was quite unprepared for the eventuality. He was fifteen years my junior and I had waited to hear of his marriage and of the heir who would quite naturally result from it. I knew nothing of him, and it was only when I first arrived here last month that I realised just how untoward an event that would have been!”

  Frederick smiled and commented that he could imagine more likely occurrences.

  “Quite! Fortunately my wife and daughters did not accompany me, Sir Frederick, and I was able to send to delay them for a sennight.”

  Partington waved a hand, pointed to the lighter coloured patches on the walls where, Frederick knew, paintings had hung.

  “The subjects were quite disgraceful, sir, and in the library – etchings, woodcuts, line-drawings, watercolours and oils covering every surface, and every one utterly perverse! They burnt, sir, despite a catalogue that claimed some of them to be Masters. I shall not describe them!”

  “I can imagine, sir – I visited here once, was made welcome by servants whose nature was somewhat ambivalent. I did not penetrate beyond this salon, and, having seen its decoration, had no wish to! I must say that I was very pleased in the butler who gave me entry today, my lord!”

  “I dismissed five indoor menservants, Sir Frederick!”

  “A very good thing, too, my lord – they were a disgrace!”

  “An extremely expensive disgrace, too, Sir Frederick!”

  Frederick could just hear music in the background, a piano and a ‘cello or viola, indistinct upstairs.

  “My daughters, Sir Frederick, they both play.” Partington took a step to the side, looked out of the window, away from Frederick. “On the topic of expense, Sir Frederick, my predecessor owed you a large sum…”

  “Secured against four hundred of your best acres, my lord, for which I apologise! The loan had to be made at the last minute to achieve the enclosure, and I liked the late lord so little that I gave my estate manager a free hand to fleece him as he would. There is no question of foreclosure, my lord, and the whole matter can wait until the estate is in profit, in a few years time. Your lawyers have, I believe, made a proposal and I have instructed my Mr Hartley to proceed entirely as they suggest. I beg, my lord, that you will not be concerned about the matter – the error was not yours and there should be no penalty accruing to you!”

  “You are generous, Sir Frederick. Thank you!”

  “Not at all, my lord.”

  Talk moved on: the weather, poor; the King, mad; the Prince, disgusting; the war, unending. The butler produced wine, having judged the meeting to be successful, and they drank a companionable glass, parted at the end of their thirty minutes much relieved in each other.

  Ablett met them at Abbey, informed Frederick that one of Sir Geoffrey’s grooms had just ridden in with a note and was awaiting a reply, and that Rogers had come in on one of Bosomtwi’s thoroughbreds, leading the other three.

  “Invitation to dinner, two nights hence – one moment, man, while I write an acceptance.” Frederick fished in his pocket, found a shilling, as was expected of him, went quickly to the library, sent Ablett out with his reply.

  “Rogers seems to be good with the horses, Bosomtwi.”

  “He got the feel, isn’t it, sir. Best he should stay here, sir. I need a good man for when I go to sea with you, sir.”

  “I had not thought of that – you are, as normal, quite right! What’s his wage?”

  “He live in the rooms over the stables, so he always there if he needed. That’s free. He eat from the kitchen for free, too, isn’t it, because I ain’t having no cooking fires in my stables, sir! So, he get paid fourteen bob a week, because he work every day, except he have holiday, and that good money!”

  Quick calculation on his fingers said that it was five times as much as a seaman made.

  “Right – tell Mr Hartley. Will he just look after your horses?”

  “He work for Abbey, sir! He look after the whole stable!”

  “Good. What about you? Are you taking a cottage here?”

  “No, sir. My wife, my Kitty, she happy at Long Common, isn’t it, with the other womenfolk. Best they together when we at sea, sir, and they old mum and dads, they there, too. Maybe the time comes, the war end or we got to live onshore forever, then we think again, isn’t it. But, while we seam
en, that best.”

  “Why go to sea again?” The thought unspoken and quickly dismissed – it was his life, it defined him as a man, without the sea he would be lesser – he could not leave the sea, not until it left him through age, infirmity or more important work on land. The sea had made him, it would be somehow impious, and unlucky, simply to turn his back on it because it was no longer convenient.

  “How is Sid settling in, Bosomtwi? I noticed the food was of his quality – an improvement on Cook’s offerings. Have there been problems downstairs?”

  “Housekeeper have to deal with them, sir! Big arguments! Mr Sid is Chef, but he is Indian man and Cook, she go to chapel in Bridport on Sunday! She don’t reckon to take no orders from no brown man in her kitchen – but Mrs Montague, she soon deal with that – she get told her marching orders, do as she told or down the road with her! Mr Siddhartha is chef and that what Sir Frederick say, and that the law!”

  “Where does Sid live?”

  “He got a room, sir, but you don’t need to worry about him, he ain’t going to take a wife.”

  End of Excerpt

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