She left the fireplace and began to walk slowly around the persian carpet between the gilt sofas, still deep in thought.
‘But, much more importantly than that, they think it is how they will get to heaven. Just as we bargain with each other, so, do we not also bargain with God? Perhaps we know no other way to relate to the idea of God than this? What else are all those offerings, prayers, good works and sacrifices if they’re not the way that people bargain with God? And to what end? Well, to co-operate. Because people believe that God wants them to co-operate. What is the urge to do good, to co-operate, than the ultimate shadow of the future – their wish to get to what they believe to be heaven?’
Hume felt for his cuff as he looked at her with fascination. He thought for a moment.
‘But, the opposite might also be true, Sophie,’ he said. ‘Perhaps defectors have no sense of guilt? They just view co-operators as stupid. They think of them as people who deserve to be beaten. In fact, how often do you hear these people say ‘there’s only one life’ as if that gives them permission to behave badly, to defect? As you know, I have no belief in God, no place for him in my thinking. Although I may admire the faith I see in others, I believe instead in our natural benevolence. Still, the more I think on it, the more I see that these defectors are often the people who seem to think little of God or believe him to be only a comfort to the weak. They think of life as having a finite length and, in that sense, they view it all as a one-time Prisoner’s Dilemma. No wonder they snatch at every advantage they can. How different that is to how people view life in the cultures and religions of the East. One reads often about the belief there in reincarnation. That must be the ultimate shadow of the future, mustn’t it? To think that you’re going to live all over again – and be rewarded for living well. As if there was some kind of celestial ladder to be climbed. It’s hardly surprising that these people have elevated co-operation into a religious tenet. I believe some of them call this belief ‘karma’ do they not?’
‘I have heard these tales myself, Mr Hume. I think it is indeed called karma,’ said Sophie. ‘For myself, I believe all this distills down to one great conclusion – that there is only one story in life and one philosophy. And that is to believe in the power of love. Is that not what co-operation is? Is it not the belief in other people’s good nature, in which the shadow of the future leads us to a shared vision? A vision based on trust, on forgiveness, on openness and on creation?’
Sophie looked intently at Hume, her mind very obviously clear now.
‘This seems so universally true,’ she continued. ‘When one looks at people who are completely foreign to one – you mentioned the people of the East, for example – the same deep currents seem to be flowing in all cultures: love, family, ritual, loyalty, friendship. For all the superficial differences between people, wherever they live, whatever their religions, surely that is why even deeply strange cultures are understandable to us at the more profound levels of motives and social habits.’
‘I have reached very many of the same conclusions myself, Sophie,’ replied Hume. ‘Perhaps our moral sentiments have evolved like everything else? Why shouldn’t we have evolved our instincts for survival by assessing who we can work with in society? It’s becoming increasingly plain to me that what we are constantly doing in our lives is making rational choices that benefit our wellbeing. These choices are problem solving mechanisms, they are the way of settling the Prisoner’s Dilemma, and they decide between short term expediency and longer term rewards. In favour of the latter.’
Sophie nodded.
‘You may wonder what I mean by evolve,’ Hume went on. ‘I mean for our minds to have developed to give us the knowledge to know instinctively, as you put it, Sophie, ‘in the blink of an eye’, who we trust and who we don’t. More than that we are instinctively weighing up the history of our exchanges with each other and constantly looking at the bill, the cost to us. But, you might ask, how can such a complicated process work?’
Hume was sitting on one of the great gilt sofas and he leant over to a table next to him and picked up a small box. Without any warning he threw it in a loop towards Sophie’s right hand.
‘Catch!’ he called out. Without thinking, Sophie shot out her arm and easily caught it in mid air.
‘Now, observe what you’ve just done,’ Hume continued with a smile. ‘Can we truly appreciate your achievement? You have judged in a fraction of a second the velocity of that box, its trajectory and its direction. And your eyes have linked to your brain and this has co-ordinated a thousand muscles and other tissues. It’s astonishing. It would take you a year or more of your mathematics to try and understand the mechanics of what you’ve just achieved.
‘Yet you did all that instinctively, in less time than it takes to blink. And all for something as trivial as catching a box. Think, from that, how much more attuned we must be to survival and to finding people that will help us survive. I believe the thought processes of reason are like the box catching. They are so deeply ingrained in our minds that the trust and co-operation instinct is in our very natures. I don’t think the Prisoner’s Dilemma is to be discovered any more than other things that are vital for life. Like air or water. I think how we deal with the Dilemma is part of the person we are, it is who we are. Is this not remarkable?’
David Hume raised his arms upwards as he made the point and beamed in pleasure.
‘So, there we are,’ he said as he let them drop. ‘Now, Sophie, all this profundity has exhausted me. I think a breath of sea breeze is called for. Will you join me in a walk?’
‘No, I thank you, I’ll be needed here to help Annie prepare dinner. I shall see you later.’
* * *
Seventy miles to the north of London, and not long before the traveller reached the great cathedral city of Peterborough, the Cambridgeshire village of Stilton slumbered peacefully under its ancient roof stones, the walls of its cottages and houses gleaming a dull orange grey in the dying rays of the beautiful spring day.
Of all the famous coaching stops on the Great North Road the Bell Inn there was renowned for its hospitality and today, as so often, laughter and raised voices flowed out of its open windows and into the cobbled courtyard.
Sitting by the open door as the last of the sun threw a million motes about the taproom a group of redcoated soldiers basked in its glow, gossiping and laughing with their foaming pots on the table in front of them, never left still for long.
Through the door a figure in a grey uniform came blinking into the sudden gloom. He saw the soldiers but sat at an adjoining table, calling for a servant as he did so.
‘Pease pudding and watered milk, if you’d be so kind. And make all haste, would you?’
One of the soldiers pulled a face as he heard the order and called across to the stranger.
‘Where are you from, mate?’ He pointed at a large embroidered silver greyhound on the newcomer’s arm. ‘What’s the insignia? Never seen that before. Won’t you have some ale with us?’
‘Thank you, but no,’ replied the man briskly. ‘There can be no friendship or jollity when we have our duty. You don’t know the sign of the greyhound, my friend? I am a King’s Messenger. Speed is all, nothing is allowed to slow us or stand in our way.’
‘Where are you bound for?’
‘Scotland. Right up in the far north of the place. Sore arse time, it’s going to take me days. I think we’ll all be going there soon if this Bonnie Prince Charlie joker carries on much more. They’re getting ready for war in London.’
‘So we’ve heard. What’s your errand?’
‘An arrest warrant for one of the nobs up there. Poor sod, my guv’nor told me it looked more like a death warrant to him.’
* * *
Makepeace was at the tiller of the jacht as the little craft beat northwards in the fresh westerly that came over its beam. Zweig looked once more at the set of the sails.
‘A fine course, Mr Makepeace,’ he called out. He turned to Dun
beath and laughed lightly. ‘Thank God for Mr Makepeace, I believe we have a helmsman that will allow me some sleep.’
Dunbeath laughed in reply and Zweig went below.
* * *
L’Arquen took another pull of his whisky and then brought the crystal rummer down hard on the surface of his desk with a snort of anger. He looked around his study sourly. What was he doing here? Hundreds of miles from anywhere he wanted to be and anyone he’d want to speak to. No rebels found and now this damned Dunbeath business. That bastard, lying so openly.
The more that L’Arquen brooded on the matter the more that questions arose in his mind. Why had Zweig been staring at the castle? He was obviously demanding attention, that much was clear, but attention about what? Had Zweig been bringing the arms and powder for Dunbeath? And then it had blown up and Dunbeath was refusing to pay him? That made sense. The one thing he could be sure of was that he wasn’t chasing the girl …Dunbeath would never have said that if it had been true.
L’Arquen suddenly sat up.
Of course, the girl. What was he doing, waiting for Dunbeath to reappear when the girl was there? She would know what was going on. Why didn’t he pay her a visit and give her the chance to tell him what all this was about? And, if she didn’t? Then he’d see how she liked that Williams animal. That would be worth seeing. Dunbeath wouldn’t like it but to hell with him.
He jumped up from his chair, boiling with anger and the lust for revenge.
He pulled open the door the door of his study. The guard looked at him nervously.
‘You, go and bring Major Sharrocks here. No, don’t. Find him and tell him to make the troop ready. We ride in five minutes. Good God, why do I have to do everything myself?’
Chapter 24
L’Arquen set the troop a fierce pace and the seven miles from Craigleven to the great Urquhain stronghold passed quickly by. The men had ridden in complete silence, each one of them aware of the tension between their officers. As they hurtled over the castle’s land bridge they saw with mute apprehension how L’Arquen brought them to a skidding halt at the front entrance and jumped down from his horse, bristling with anger and intent. He banged furiously on the door and when, a minute later, it was opened by Annie, the short wait had been enough to infuriate him still further. He barged past her slight figure and glowered around the hall. Sharrocks followed closely behind.
The colonel glared into Annie’s face.
‘Where is Mr Hume?’ he shouted.
‘He’s walking on the dunes, your honour.’
‘And where is your niece?’ growled L’Arquen with heavy sarcasm.
‘I don’t know who you mean, sir.’
L’Arquen pulled a pistol violently from its leather case and pointed it at the old woman’s forehead. He was now almost screaming.
‘The girl! You know who I mean. Find her and bring her here immediately or she’ll be looking for a new aunt.’
There was a soft creak from the staircase and L’Arquen looked up to see Sophie calmly walking down towards him. She came to a stop close to the bottom and stood gazing down on the two officers without the slightest sign of fear. L’Arquen was now quite rigid, his gaze fixed on her, the pistol still locked on the housekeeper’s head. Without taking his eyes from Sophie, his manner changed in an instant from fury to menace.
‘Take the old bag out onto the dunes, Sharrocks, and see what she knows. Don’t come back here until I call for you. And, if you see Hume returning, you are to detain him. I wish for some time with this young lady to see what she knows of domestic duties.’
Sophie turned and walked with slow and silent dignity back up the staircase. She reached the top and made for the door to the great salon. L’Arquen strode after her, his heavy, purposeful stride echoing on the wooden floor.
‘Now,’ he said, once they were in the room, ‘what is your name?’
Sophie looked steadily into L’Arquen’s flushed face. She was quite composed and her voice carried no tremor of anxiety.
‘What do you want here? Lord Dunbeath is away on vital business. He will not be pleased to hear how you have treated his housekeeper.’
‘Ah, not a maid and certainly not from Inverness. Yes, I know Dunbeath’s away. He’s in London with Captain Alexis Zweig. You seem surprised that I should know these things. Yes, Zweig – the man Lord Dubeath told me was just a ruffian chasing after you! Believe me, I shall settle the score with him for this when he returns’.
He stared balefully at Sophie, his head tilted back in his arrogance.
‘Tell me,’ he muttered, ‘what is that accent of yours? Let me think, I have spent time at Court and I believe I know a German inflexion when I hear it. Now, why would a German girl be here and why would Lord Dunbeath have lied to me about where you came from?’
As he said these last few words, the truth suddenly came to him.
‘The shipwreck! Of course. You must have come from Germany with that Zweig fellow. My God, how many others of you are alive? I was told you’d all died but I see I’ve been lied to again. And why exactly would Dunbeath wish to mislead me about you both? Is he leading this uprising? Was Zweig bringing him the powder?’
As he said this he began staring at Sophie with a renewed intensity. His voice trailed off and he took a step towards her.
‘You’re in great danger here,’ he said in an unnaturally thick tone. ‘I could have you hanged for arming our enemies you know. I have only to call my men and you’d be swinging in the wind at the next assizes. You will have need of a friend to escape this. Someone who can explain your presence here away. I could be that friend. Yes, your only hope is for my protection.’
He had taken two more steps forward and was now so close to her that Sophie could see only too plainly what his protection would involve.
L’Arquen paused. His breathing was heavy and coming in rasping bursts, his chest rising and falling at an unnatural pace. Then he lost all restraint. A hand shot out and grabbed Sophie’s hair. He bent her head back, all the time making strange noises at the back of his throat. His glazed eyes fastened on her shirt and his free hand pulled at the fastening of the leatherwork he wore across his chest and waist. It fell to the floor with a crash. He now moved his hand to her collar. He put his fingers down the open neck of her clothing and Sophie could see his eyes narrow as he gathered himself to tear her clothes open. But still she refused to plead. Still she refused to scream. She knew there was nobody in the castle to hear her. L’Arquen tensed as he began to pull.
Suddenly, there was a sharp knock on the door and the sound of a throat being cleared.
‘Ahem!’
L’Arquen swung round and Sophie looked over his shoulder. In the doorway a tall, thin young man with a pronounced nose was standing in a dusty travelling coat, open at the front. He was staring at the bottom corner of a tapestry.
‘Mr Adam Smith, ma’am,’ he said brightly, ‘at your service. Forgive my intrusion – the front door was open.’
With a furious snort, L’Arquen dropped his hold on Sophie and picked up his belt. He strode to the door, pausing as he passed to stare at the young man with an enraged, vindictive look.
Adam Smith simply beamed his beatific smile back at him.
* * *
As L’Arquen emerged from the castle, still bristling in his anger, David Hume was returning from his walk. Hume was about to hail him with a polite word of greeting when L’Arquen turned his maddened features on him.
’Mr Hume,’ he spat out bitterly, ‘God knows why you are allowing yourself to stay here. With this Dunbeath traitor. I wish you to let me know the instant he returns from London. I shall be leaving men at this entrance and you are to inform them if you see or hear of anything.’
Hume looked at him in surprise but thought better than to say anything. L’Arquen stalked away, past his silent and rigid troopers, and hurled himself at his horse. The animal could feel the tension in the man and instantly reacted to his rough handling. It reared and L’Ar
quen slashed at its flank with his whip as the poor beast became the depository of his humiliation. He looked up and saw Sharrocks.
‘Station two men here, major,’ he bawled at him, ‘outside this entrance. They are to report to you the minute that Dunbeath returns.’
Sharrocks began to organise his troop as L’Arquen spurred his horse and rode violently off alone towards Craigleven. Hume stared after him, still bewildered by the events that had clearly been taking place while he’d been on the dunes. He went inside the castle and climbed the stairs, his pace quickening as he heard the sound of a conversation carrying to him from the great salon. One of the speakers was Sophie but the other was a male voice that he thought he vaguely remembered. He pushed open the door with interest and anticipation.
Inside, Sophie and Adam Smith were sitting next to each other on a sofa, talking together like old friends. Hume looked at them with astonishment.
‘Mr Smith! Why, you are the last person I was expecting to find here! By all that’s wonderful, it’s certainly good to see you. But why did you come?’
‘Well, I had to,’ said Smith, giving Hume the great honour of looking directly at him, ‘your letters describing the implications of the Prisoner’s Dilemma excited me too greatly. I’m sure my landlady would agree. She became irked by my discussions with myself and threatened me with notice. But I couldn’t stay in Edinburgh, anyway, when such remarkable things were being talked about here. I had to hear more for myself. Miss Kant has kindly been telling me something of the conclusions you’ve been coming to and I must say I’m even more pleased that I’ve made the trip.’
‘And I am most pleased that he did so, too,’ added Sophie with feeling. Hume noticed now that she seemed pale and drawn. ‘He arrived in the nick of time. That man L’Arquen was about to treat me most ill. And since Mr Smith saw him at his mischief I have no doubt that he will be bent on revenge against us all. There’s more, I’m afraid. The colonel seemed to know everything about Alexis Zweig and he’s convinced that Lord Dunbeath has sided with the rebels. How can we get a message to them before they return? We have to tell them to stay away.’
The Prisoner's Dilemma Page 29
