A Corpse in Shining Armour

by Caro Peacock

  Meanwhile, at the other end of the lists, the servants were manoeuvring the Railway Knight on to his set of rails. When they were ready the marshal looked inquiringly towards the Knight of the Black Tower. The silver helmet gave one heavy nod and he levelled his lance.

  ‘The shield!’ somebody yelled at the servants. ‘Take it off.’

  The shield of the Railway Knight had been loosely covered with a piece of sacking, presumably to protect it. It was dangerous because if it had flown off when the wooden knight gathered speed it might have caused his opponent’s real horse to shy. The servants were just giving the Railway Knight a good shove to set him off on his career down the lists, but at the last moment one of them managed to twitch off the piece of sacking.

  The metallic bellow that sounded when the shield was revealed was louder than the galloping hooves of the dark bay and the hiss of wheels on rails. It sounded like some furious and gigantic elephant in a cave. It took us all a moment to realise that the bellow was coming from inside the helmet of the Knight of the Black Tower. As he bellowed, he drove his horse towards the Railway Knight at a speed that looked suicidal. When his lance struck the Railway Knight’s shield square on, the force splintered the lance like kindling and rocked the wooden rider. The artificial horse trundled on to the end of its track. The rider reined in the bay at the end of the list with a force that brought his forelegs off the ground, then spun him round like a circus trick-rider. He rode across the grass, over a flowerbed and straight at the back of the tavern as if he intended to propel himself and his horse inside. The spectators on the roof had been too stunned by his bellow to applaud what had, after all, been a very accurate hit. Now some started shouting at the rider to stop and others screamed. Only one of them seemed unalarmed. Miles Brinkburn sat there with a smile on his face like a child at a pantomime.

  Stephen Brinkburn drew his horse up by the steps that led to the spectators’ platform, dropped the reins and began taking off his helmet. It revealed a face white with fury, jaw set. He dropped the helmet, flung himself out of the saddle and– still in armour–started clanking up the steps to the platform. By then, some of his friends had caught up with him.

  ‘Leave it, Stephen, he’s not worth it.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Stephen, you’ll get into the newspapers.’

  He took no notice of them. Miles Brinkburn had left his seat now and was standing at the top of the steps, the smile still on his face. From several steps down, Stephen launched himself at his brother. For a man encumbered with metal plates, it was an astounding feat of athleticism or fury. Miles hadn’t expected it and was knocked off his feet. The two of them slithered all the way back down the steps, Stephen clanking and Miles yelling something about taking a joke. They hit the ground with Miles underneath. Stephen aimed a punch at him with a gauntleted hand that would have knocked him senseless if it had connected, but one of Stephen’s friends managed to push it aside at the last moment so that it clanged against the bottom step, knocking splinters out of it. One of the splinters pierced Miles’s face, just below the eye socket, drawing blood. He yelled, managed to pull himself out from under his brother’s weight, struggled upright and delivered a kick to Stephen’s jaw. Stephen saw it coming and rolled aside so that the kick struck the back of his neck and was partly deflected by armour plating. As Miles drew his foot back for another try, Stephen grabbed his ankle so Miles hit the ground again.

  They lay there for a moment, panting and exhausted, their faces only inches apart. Blood was pouring down Miles’s face and on to his teeth, his lips drawn back in a snarl. No pretence about jokes now. Stephen’s expression was intent, almost blank. It seemed a battle out of space and time, like a tiger fighting some plated monster from a prehistoric era. The sheer oddity of it must have paralysed the friends surrounding them, because after that one attempt to intervene they’d stood gaping, mouths open. At first they might have regarded it as part of the afternoon’s diversion, but now raw hatred was in the air, like the smell of blood. Miles rolled over, grabbed two handfuls of Stephen’s hair and started thumping his head against the ground. Stephen’s hands clawed for Miles’s throat. One of the friends let out a shrill yell.

  ‘Stop them, somebody. They’ll kill each other.’

  Up to that point, Amos Legge had been watching with the air of a man who’d seen worse. In his book, if the gentry wanted to fight among themselves, that was up to them. Now, moving in his usual unhurried way, he pushed through the crowd of friends and stood over the two writhing bodies.

  ‘That’s enough. Just calm yourselves down now.’

  I’d heard him use exactly the same tone in parting a couple of fighting terriers in a stable yard. The sheer solidity and calmness of him froze the two men. He bent down, untwined Miles’s fingers from his brother’s hair, set him on his feet like a nursemaid dealing with a fractious child and delivered him into the hands of a group of friends.

  ‘Take him inside and get that face sponged off.’

  He watched as they walked him into the building, then hauled Stephen to his feet.

  ‘You all right then, sir? Best get out of that armour so they can take the dints out of it.’

  Like a man in a daze, Stephen clanked off with another group of friends. The rest of the crowd gradually melted away, though some of them still looked shaken. I rode over to Amos, who’d started collecting up lances as if nothing had happened.

  ‘Has Stephen Brinkburn gone mad?’ I said.

  ‘Well, he’s not very pleased at the moment, is he?’

  ‘Really mad, I mean.’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard. His dad is though, so they say.’

  ‘He seemed calm enough before the Railway Knight started. Did something about that annoy him?’

  The wooden horse and rider stood alone at the end of the list, abandoned by the servants who’d run to watch the fight like everybody else. I rode over to it, Amos walking beside me.

  ‘Fair dinted the shield, he has,’ Amos said.

  I looked at it.

  ‘Oh God, that’s why.’

  Amos looked puzzled.

  ‘Just a copy of his own shield, isn’t it?’

  A black tower on a white ground. Stephen Brinkburn would have seen his own device speeding towards him, but something else as well. A black diagonal bar that had not been on Stephen Brinkburn’s shield cut across the one carried by the Railway Knight from left to right.

  ‘It’s the baton sinister,’ I said.

  ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

  Amos’s many abilities did not include heraldry. I was not much better myself, but knew enough to recognise that black bar. It was the heralds’ sign for a man of illegitimate birth. I explained to Amos and he gave a whistle.

  ‘And he thinks his brother did that?’

  ‘Yes, and he’s probably right. Did you see the grin on Miles Brinkburn’s face? I suppose he’d bribed one of the servants to substitute the shield.’

  ‘So he’s telling the world their mother was no better than she should be,’ Amos said. ‘Not surprising he got upset.’

  I didn’t answer, thinking of that metal fist so nearly smashing into Miles Brinkburn’s unprotected face. It looked as if what I’d been told was true, and I didn’t like it.

  ‘I’ll ride back with you, if you’re going,’ Amos said.

  As usual, he’d picked up my mood and sensed that I wanted to get away from there. I said I should like that, please, and he went to fetch the roan.

  It took him time because one of his other jousting pupils wanted to speak to him, so it was about twenty minutes later when we rode towards the gate on to the Wellington Road. Miles Brinkburn was waiting by the gate on his chestnut hunter, in normal dress of dark jacket and tall hat. The blood had been sponged from his face, but the left side of it was raw from his slide down the steps and his left arm hung awkwardly. He smiled when he saw us, but with the shame-faced air of somebody who knew he’d lost control of himself. He wasn’t exactly
blocking our exit, but had positioned himself so that we couldn’t pass without noticing him. I thought he might want to apologise or justify himself for the fight, but he spoke to me with an attempt at a jaunty air, as if nothing had happened.

  ‘I say, that was a most capital blow at the quintain. I only wish I could do half so well.’ Then, to Amos: ‘Would you be kind enough to introduce me, Legge?’

  Amos did it correctly enough, though I sensed he wasn’t pleased.

  ‘Miss Lane, this is Mr Miles Brinkburn. Mr Brinkburn, Miss Liberty Lane.’

  Miles Brinkburn’s shapely eyebrows flicked up and down. He might have been surprised by my first name–a cradle gift from my two radically minded parents–or perhaps he was registering my unmarried state. Under my gloves, he couldn’t have seen whether I was wearing a ring. Either way, there was a hint of speculation in those eyebrows that made me annoyed enough to speak my mind.

  ‘That was a downright unchivalrous trick you played.’

  He bowed in the saddle.

  ‘Then I am rebuked. Should I have challenged him to single combat?’

  ‘If you do, you’d better stipulate that it’s on foot,’ I said.

  He winced. It had been ungenerous to remind him that his brother was the better rider, but I wanted to see how he reacted.

  ‘Beauty has a right to severity, Miss Lane. I hope I may be permitted to alter your poor opinion of me.’

  I gave him a cold bow and moved my hand on the rein, indicating that we wanted to ride past him. He stood his ground.

  ‘You obviously have an interest in knightly pursuits, Miss Lane.’ (I hadn’t particularly, but didn’t interrupt.) ‘I wonder whether you might be interested to see my ancestral armour.’

  I’d heard some unlikely lines of invitation from gentlemen to ladies, but this was the most blatant yet. I decided he was mocking me and replied accordingly.

  ‘I believe I’ve seen it already, Mr Brinkburn. Brought low in the sawdust.’

  He kept his good temper.

  ‘That was only hired stuff. I’m having my own ancestor’s armour sent from home. It’s arriving at Pratt’s in Bond Street tomorrow. There’s any amount of interesting armour and things at Pratt’s. Perhaps we’ll even find another lance for you to break.’

  From his smile, he seemed to think that he was irresistible. It suited me to let him think he was.

  ‘What time at Pratt’s?’

  ‘Would twelve o’clock suit m’lady?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  He nodded as if the thing were settled and at last moved aside to let us through the gate.

  ‘So is it in the line of business, then?’ Amos said, as we rode along the west side of Regent’s Park.

  He knew me well enough to guess that I hadn’t been bowled over by Miles Brinkburn’s charm to the extent of losing all discretion. A lot of my friends were embarrassed by the singular way I made a living, but Amos was unsurprisable.

  ‘Probably, yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve been asked to investigate something connected with his family. I can’t decide whether to agree or not.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s much harm in him,’ Amos said. ‘But he’s a touch impudent, like. He wants watching.’

  Was that meant as a warning to me to watch my reputation? Mr Brinkburn had indeed been impudent in trying to make an assignation with me when we’d only just been introduced. There were two possible reasons for that. The obvious one was that he’d taken me, from my unmarried state and apparent readiness to attract attention, as a woman whose business it was to make assignations with gentleman. The other was more worrying. Was it possible that he knew already, by some means, that I’d been approached to investigate his family’s extraordinary problem? If so, Amos was right and the younger Mr Brinkburn certainly did want watching.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The approach had come, as was often the case in my investigations, from that rising young Conservative MP, Mr Benjamin Disraeli. He’d told me about it two days before, at a private viewing at an art gallery in Pall Mall that I was attending with the family of one of my singing pupils. He’d come up to me in the refreshment room.

  ‘What a pleasant surprise to find you here, Miss Lane.’

  I was sure he would have had sight of the guest list in advance and knew very well that I’d be there. He was a man who preferred surprising other people to being surprised. But I played him at his own game, making social chat.

  ‘I understand I am to congratulate you on your forthcoming marriage, Mr Disraeli.’

  To a plump chatterbox of a widow, with a more than comfortable income, a dozen or so years older than he was. At least that should take care of his debts.

  ‘Yes indeed. Mary Anne has consented to make me a happy man very soon. I only wish all unions could be as well starred.’

  While we were talking, he was deftly steering us towards two empty places on a sofa at the far end of the room, under a landscape in oils so gloomy that nobody was likely to come for a closer look. When we were settled he inquired politely how business was going.

  ‘Reasonably well, thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m doing more private intelligencing than music teaching these days.’

  ‘Yes. I understand the Staffords were more than grateful about that regrettable business with the statue.’

  He was entitled to know something about my work. It had been Mr Disraeli who’d invented my metier for me, pointing out that I seemed to have a talent for investigation and might make a living by using it on behalf of people whose problems were too delicate to go to the police. His network of acquaintances was wide, growing all the time, and he cheerfully admitted that favours to friends were useful currency for a politician. We were useful to each other. Far more than that–and in spite of our political differences and my knowledge of his failings–I liked the man. He took his risks gallantly and was never dull. Even now, sipping lukewarm tea under one of the most dismal paintings in London, I felt my pulse quickening.

  ‘So you want to talk to me about somebody’s ill-starred marriage,’ I said. ‘It’s no good asking me to collect evidence for a divorce. I’ve tried that once and it was my only failure.’

  ‘Yes, but that was because you decided to take the wife’s part. If you’d stayed on the husband’s side…’

  ‘He was a liar, an adulterer and a bully. I’d rather teach music to tone-deaf five-year-olds all my life than work for people like that.’

  ‘Then we must hope that my unfortunate friend’s morals come up to your high standards. It really is a most unusual case–quite possibly a unique one.’

  He had me there, of course. I could no more have refused to listen to him than a child could walk away from a sweet-shop window. The need to earn money was strong, but curiosity stronger. So that was how I first came to hear about the Brinkburn brothers, although Disraeli didn’t mention their names until at last I’d agreed to consider taking on the case.

  ‘It’s an old family,’ he said. ‘They’ve been living on their estates in Northumberland since the Conqueror. Until quite recently they had no money to speak of; they’ve made good marriages in the last couple of generations so they own considerable property near Newcastle, including four or five coal mines. With the railways coming up so fast, that’s almost as good as gold. Then there’s a smaller estate on the Thames in Buckinghamshire. The heir will be more than comfortably placed.’

  ‘But the family are unhappy?’

  ‘By most accounts, the father, the old lord, is happy enough in his way. He’s sixty or so, hale and hearty until recently, but the word is that he’s been out of his mind for some months. He spent quite a lot of his life travelling and had a villa in Rome. Apparently he now believes he’s the Emperor Hadrian. They’ve stored him in a private asylum near Kingston upon Thames and I’m told he’s perfectly easy to manage, provided the attendants drape themselves in bed sheets and remember to say good morning in Latin.’

  ‘Is he likely to recover?’

 
; ‘No. I understand he’s paying the penalty for being too ardent a worshipper of Venus in his youth and is not expected to live long.’

  So the mind of the old lord had been eaten away by syphilis. Even though Disraeli and I talked pretty freely, he couldn’t say that outright.

  ‘And the wife?’

  ‘She lives mostly on the Buckinghamshire estate. She’s twenty years younger than he is. It was never a love match. The present lord’s father had gambled away quite a lot of the money he’d married, so the son had to do his duty and marry some of it back again. I gather he was reasonably good looking in his day and there was the title, of course. He married a woman from his own part of the world. She was considered a beauty by local standards; amiable, although inclined to be bookish. She inherited fifty thousand a year and the four or five coal mines, so it seemed suitable enough.’

  He pretended not to see the grimace I was making. When it came to old families and new money, the usually irreverent Disraeli came too close to being serious for my liking.

  ‘So were there children of this perfectly suitable union?’ I said.

  ‘Two sons. One of the sons is twenty-two now and the other’s twenty. That’s where the problem lies.’

  ‘Sowing wild oats?’

  If so, I couldn’t see how I was expected to trail a young man, or two of them, through the gambling clubs and brothels of London.

  ‘Nothing like that, no. The elder one’s sober as a judge. The other’s probably had his moments, but nothing out of the way.’

  A thin woman in ill-advised purple wandered our way, peering short-sightedly at the picture through a lorgnette. Disraeli greeted her politely and they held a meandering conversation about apparently mutual acquaintances before she drifted away.

  ‘Who was that?’ I said.

  ‘I haven’t an idea in the world. Nobody important, or I’d have known her. So, may I tell him you’ll take it on?’

  ‘Tell whom I’ll take on what?’

  He was deliberately teasing me, trying to provoke my curiosity.