The Prisoner's Dilemma

by Sean Stuart O'Connor

  Sharrocks turned to walk away but before he had taken half a dozen steps he stopped and called back to the man with a further thought.

  ‘Here’s something to lighten the mood of an old comrade from the Dettingen days. I was at the affair myself and I shall ask my colonel to give you a letter of passage that you can show when you’re stopped on your journey back to Edinburgh. It will save you days of interrogation at our checkpoints. There you are now, what could be fairer than that? No more long faces now.’

  * * *

  Although Zweig’s eyes had never left the castle’s windows he was only too aware of the fury in the figure that now stamped with such aggression across the beach towards him. The wind had moved around from the south and it began to blow from the sea, pulling at Zweig’s clothes and lifting a fine sand into his face. In the distance, the raised surface of the water shone brilliantly as the afternoon sun flashed between high clouds.

  When Dunbeath reached Zweig’s dune his insane energy seemed to carry him up its side without any apparent effort. He now strode towards the summit, reddened with threat. But in contrast to the turbulence that seemed to be coming from Dunbeath, Zweig rose easily to his feet with a great air of contentment and greeted the earl as if he were an old friend, joining him at a picnic.

  ‘My Lord Dunbeath,’ Zweig murmured, smiling broadly, ‘it is a pleasure to see you again.’

  But Dunbeath was all business and had no time for such niceties.

  ‘Now, you listen to me,’ he growled through clenched teeth, ‘I have had enough of your impertinence. I have had enough of you sitting here, staring at my castle with those insolent intentions so clear on your face. You are to leave and leave immediately.’

  Zweig sighed sweetly and shrugged as he shifted as if to sit down again.

  ‘I think not, my lord. This is God’s strand. I think I may put myself where I please.’

  ‘In which case you can sit here for another month if you must,’ hissed Dunbeath with barely restrained violence, ‘but your filthy debt will come to an end soon and this wind will turn you to dust. Miss Kant is under my protection and you can go to the devil.’

  Zweig smiled and inclined his head slightly to one side.

  ‘Debt? Is that what you have been told. No more?’

  Dunbeath’s rage was in danger of exploding but as he turned to go he allowed himself to grind out a reply.

  ‘No more? What more do I need? You have my warning. You will be gone in an hour or I shall send a messenger to the English. They will be interested to meet the man who was bringing guns and powder to their enemy.’

  Zweig beamed pleasantly again.

  ‘Very well, if you wish it. But, if that were to happen I would have every opportunity to tell them of how you forced the murder of a young man. Of how you compelled a man in cold blood to kill his own brother. Yes, you may put a hemp rope around my neck, my lord, but I would see to it that you should have the silken.’

  Dunbeath was knocked silent. For half a minute or more the two men stood staring at each other, the one smiling and relaxed and the other puce and rigid with anger.

  ‘But, I have the telescope. You have no proof,’ Dunbeath said at last.

  ‘Ah, the telescope,’ Zweig replied slowly, twisting slightly as if he was about to aim a blow. ‘Yes, but I have the witness. He has told me everything. You see, my lord, we both have cards in our hand. It seems we may have to deal each other. We may have to co-operate.’

  Dunbeath didn’t alter his fierce staring into Zweig’s face. Then he blinked and murmured bitterly to himself.

  ‘More damned co-operation. Another damned Prisoner’s Dilemma.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Zweig encouragingly.

  Dunbeath didn’t answer and there was another long silence.

  ‘Just what do you want?’ he muttered eventually.

  ‘I simply want Miss Kant, my lord, so that we might leave and return to our homeland.’

  ‘So you can trade her for your disgusting debt?’ snorted Dunbeath. ‘And now you’re trying to bargain with me over a fisherman’s fairy tale. You are nothing but the lowest kind of blackmailer. You can rot in hell for all I care.’

  At this Zweig smiled respectfully at Dunbeath and bowed as if he was congratulating him on a fine speech after a fine dinner. Then he gave him a quick last nod and sat down again on the same spot. He stiffened as he resumed his fixed staring at the castle.

  Dunbeath turned on his heel with a deep growl and strode back the way he had come. A few minutes later he flung open the door of his study and passed Sophie without a word, his face livid as he went to a table in the window and snatched up a decanter of whisky. He poured himself a glass and put it to his lips with a shaking hand.

  ‘I have seen your captain, Sophie. He will be gone soon. You have my word on that.’

  * * *

  The trooper snapped closed his telescope.

  Much more of this spying nonsense and he would go mad, he thought to himself, wondering yet again what that bully Sharrocks wanted. It all just looked like a family spat to him. He weighed up now whether he’d seen enough to warrant going back to Craigleven with an update or whether he’d be stripped down for giving up his post. His aching back gave him the answer and he walked stiffly to his horse, determined though to add a little spice to his report.

  * * *

  The long early May evening now stretched ahead of Zweig and even his iron determination began to soften under the hammer blows of fatigue and the disappointing emptiness of his exchange with Dunbeath. But he rallied yet again and, as the sea continued to thunder, his eyes still burnt with the light of determination and the spark of his extraordinary will.

  He was aware that this was the third night. A fourth day would be dawning tomorrow. Something had to give. Zweig knew that the earl wouldn’t rest easy. He knew his kind well and he was quite sure that the easy manner he’d adopted and the delicate way he’d spoken to him would eat away at him until the pain forced the man to act. Yes, he knew these superior types, he thought once more. They could stand anything but the courtesy and politeness of other people. He would wait. Something would give.

  Chapter 16

  It was at around three in the morning, and the night was at its darkest, when the Indian servant tripped lightly up the dune and made a deep bow in front of Zweig. He was a magnificent looking man with a wide sash around the waist and a glorious turban of many soft shades of madder, the ends of which fell in two long loops of cloth behind his back. Under one arm he held a small wooden tray, inlaid with mother of pearl, and as he smiled respectfully and asked what he could bring him, Zweig faltered as he considered which of many delicacies he should order first.

  They remained like this for a couple of minutes, Zweig’s mind staggering in indecision while the servant swayed before him. Then the wind picked up and, as sand blew into his cheek, Zweig’s hold on himself began to return.

  He shook his head, for once giving up his rigid determination never to move his position. Slowly, the Indian melted and the harsh outline of the castle sprang back into focus.

  A chill went down him at the realisation that the demons were visiting him already. This was the third night, he thought, and the dabbawallah would be just the beginning; no doubt there would be musical processions and wild cats before long. He shook himself again. Something must give soon, something had to give, for better or worse.

  * * *

  At Craigleven, L’Arquen, too, sat pondering a breakfast some hours later. He was quite alone in the centre of a long mahogany dining table, its beautiful surface intended to see thirty or more entertained for dinner. Ahead and around him was the loot of the land, much sent of it up to Scotland by his adoring mother and much other plundered from the surrounding villages and made delicate by his personal chef. Compotes of summer fruits, sugared sweetmeats, half a dozen cuts of fowl and game, freshly baked breads and plates of salted seafoods and fish, all fought for his attention. Behind him a uni
formed footman, long abandoned by Lord Duncansby, stood in watchful attention.

  ‘Bring me a cup of chocolate,’ L’Arquen drawled to the man with a waft of his hand over the crowded table, ‘and put this food out will you?’

  The footman was about to step forward when there was a sharp knock at the door. Major Sharrocks strode into the room and crossed the floor to come to attention on the other side of the table from the colonel, his respectful gaze aimed high over L’Arquen’s head and boring into the panelling.

  ‘Why, Sharrocks. Back from your rounds, already, eh? Well, you’re most welcome. Why don’t you take your ease and try some of this fish? Mackerel, I should imagine from the look of it.’

  ‘No, thank you, sir. I’ve already breakfasted.’

  ‘Have you indeed. Well you seem alive with news. What progresses?’

  ‘More on the Dunbeath situation, sir. We stopped a messenger coming from Edinburgh to the castle yesterday with a letter to the earl. I had the seal lifted – never fear sir, my man’s an artist, the most suspicious of chancery lawyers would never spot his work. We’ve opened it and here it is, sir. When I read it I thought it best to keep the messenger here overnight. There didn’t seem to be any merit in Lord Dunbeath receiving it before we say so.’

  He handed the letter to L’Arquen whose face tightened as he read it in two quick glances.

  ‘So, Lord Dunbeath is required by the Board of Longitude in London to present his findings to them on May 9. Why, I believe that’s in seven days time. He’d have been hard pressed to get there if he’d left two weeks ago. Yes, you made the correct decision, Sharrocks. There is no hurry to our delivering this. God knows it’s taken long enough to get here already. Did you notice when it was sent? Over a month ago. You’re quite right though, the less time he has, the less likely he is to attempt the journey.’

  L’Arquen looked away for a few seconds as he weighed up the situation.

  ‘Have that criminal of yours reseal the letter but keep the messenger here until I say he can go. I’d far rather have Dunbeath where I can keep my eye on him than run the risk of him causing trouble in London. Good, that’s decided. What else have your men to report from there?’

  ‘A strange development, sir. Lord Dunbeath came out and spoke to the man on the dunes, the one he pointed his pistol at a few days ago. There was some kind of exchange and then Dunbeath roared off back to the castle. High dudgeon wouldn’t describe it. A rage more like.’

  ‘Spoke with the man, eh? What d’you think’s going on, Sharrocks? Something’s not right. Why would an earl consort with a madman?’

  L’Arquen rose to his feet, his face flushed with irritation.

  ‘What do you imagine all this nonsense is about? All I know is that we’re spending far too long on this snooping of yours, looking through telescopes and creeping about the countryside. Tittle tattle about who’s speaking to whom. You’ll be looking through keyholes next, Sharrocks. I want your men to be out looking for rebels not lying around in the grass enjoying themselves.’ As L’Arquen spoke he seemed to be feeding his own ill temper. ‘I’m bored with all this and bored with your inactivity, Sharrocks. Bored, do you hear? Much more of this and I might as well call on Dunbeath and ask him what he’s up to myself?’

  He stopped as he said this, considering his own thoughts. Then he turned to snap at Sharrocks again.

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s exactly what I shall do. I shall go and ask him what he’s doing. And why not? I wonder I didn’t think of it before. Rouse out the troop and have them ready to leave in ten minutes.’

  * * *

  David Hume reread his letter to Adam Smith. He made a minor change to a paragraph and then folded it for sealing.

  His young friend would certainly be intrigued by Sophie’s exploration of the Dilemma, he mused, wondering yet again whether Smith would ever receive the information he’d been sending him. He knew it would be a miracle if they were ever to arrive with the amount of confusion there was on the roads. More than that, it would be an even bigger miracle if Smith were ever to write back.

  * * *

  Once Sharrocks had given out his orders for the escort to assemble, the troop had made good time from Craigleven and the colonel and his men were soon crossing the land bridge that led to the Castle of Beath. They arrived at the front entrance, their horses snorting and steaming and L’Arquen dismounted and glared up at the massive stone masonry. He grimaced as he read the clan motto and then hammered at the gigantic door, stamping in irritation for half a minute until the diminutive figure of Annie appeared to pull it open.

  L’Arquen had decided on a policy of gratuitous good humour and he murmured pleasantly to the old housekeeper in spite of his annoyance at being kept waiting for so long.

  ‘And what is your name, my dear?’ he cooed.

  Annie answered and began to ask him to stay where he was while she found her master. But L’Arquen quickly rode over her.

  ‘No, no, don’t leave me here in the hall. I shall come with you and introduce myself to Lord Dunbeath. No, I insist on it, now lead on.’ He clapped his hands behind her in mock encouragement, as if he were seeing a child into bed.

  ‘On, on.’

  Reluctantly, Annie led the colonel up the stairs and towards the great salon. She put her head round the door to announce him but L’Arquen pushed roughly past her and came briskly into the room, smiling broadly as he saw Lord Dunbeath and David Hume standing by the fire.

  ‘Ah, gentlemen, good day to you, good day to you, indeed. Please excuse my intrusion,’ he said as he advanced over to where the pair stood. ‘My name is Colonel George L’Arquen of Lord Harrington’s regiment of dragoons. You’re no doubt aware that we are stationed at Craigleven. How d’you do? How d’you do?’

  Dunbeath eyed L’Arquen coldly, clearly quite unamused by his entrance.

  ‘L’Arquen, you say? A strange name. How do you come by that?’

  ‘It is Norman, sir. We came with the Conqueror. But less of me, am I to believe that I address the Earl of Dunbeath?’ Dunbeath nodded curtly. ‘Then again, I must apologise for taking up your time, sir. But perhaps you know something of my family already? Do you recall my father, Gracehill, from your days in London?’

  ‘Viscount Gracehill? Yes, I knew him in Parliament. When I could be bothered to attend the place.’

  L’Arquen continued to smile placidly.

  ‘A great shame you do not, sir, my father esteemed your presence. Indeed I had heard it said that you were no longer able to take your place in the House. There was a rumour put about – I’ve no doubt it was untrue – that you were given no choice in the matter. It was said that you had refused to take the Oath of Allegiance.’

  There was a profound silence for some seconds. Dunbeath felt quite sure that the redcoat fop had intended to land a blow and he began to colour and bridle. But L’Arquen appeared not to notice the tension and instead looked about the room as he chatted amiably on.

  ‘I must congratulate you, Lord Dunbeath, what a room this is! It must be one of the finest in all Scotland. I’ve rarely seen such tapestries; no doubt they came direct from the Gobelins Manufactory in Paris itself. Made for the room, I’ll be bound. And what stories they show, eh? How they loved their allegories then. No doubt about this one,’ he said, waving to a picture of a young girl in medieval dress about to bring her sword down on an armoured soldier, ‘Charity Overcoming Envy’, I’d wager. And there, to the right of the window, Judith with the head of Holofernes.’ L’Arquen gave a short laugh. ‘How fond the ancients were of women chopping off men’s heads, eh.’

  He turned to Dunbeath, still beaming, and then looked beyond him to focus on a large piece to one side of the fireplace.

  ‘And, if I’m not mistaken, here are our old friends, Gyges and Candaules. What a story that is. So often the tale, eh? Two men at odds because of a woman. It rarely fails to amuse.’

  Dunbeath’s colour continued to rise but he somehow managed to control himself enoug
h to change the subject. He waved an arm at Hume.

  ‘Mr David Hume, newly arrived from Edinburgh.’

  L’Arquen’s appearance changed in an instant. Gone immediately was the insincere beam and, in its place, a look that bordered on violent interest came over him.

  ‘Am I to understand, sir, that I am in the presence of the author of the Treatise on Human Nature?’

  Hume bowed in reply.

  ‘Well sir, I would live in hopes that I might have the pleasure of discoursing with you on this at a later date. How extraordinary it is to find you here.’

  There was a slight pause as L’Arquen gazed fixedly at Hume. Then he seemed to shake himself out of whatever was preoccupying him.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ he continued, ‘I am much occupied at present with more unpleasant business. I exclude the two of you from my comments, of course, but I refer to the troublesome Scots.’

  He had turned his gaze back to Dunbeath and he now looked hard at him, his voice pitched at its most provocative.

  ‘Who would ever believe that there are still fools in this country who would try to put Charles Edward Stuart on the throne, eh? Bonnie Prince Charlie, indeed! The English throne. The English throne whose king is the Head of the Church of England.’

  L’Arquen ground on, his head inclined menacingly to one side.

  ‘Yes, Head of the Church of England. Hardly a role for a Scottish papist I shouldn’t have thought. Less still a half Polish, Italian speaking papist.’

  Dunbeath returned L’Arquen’s stare, glowering at him with a scarcely concealed loathing.