No doubt Agnes could find plenty to occupy her in the schoolroom, whether her charges were there or not. But he had no worries that Sir Roderick would be waiting for his arrival with a growing impatience. No, it was far more likely that the Assistant Commissioner — after the previous evening’s excesses of drugs or alcohol — was still trying to muster the strength to face the day.
He looked at the note again. Agnes had signed it, and then, as an afterthought — perhaps because she was worried he would take her humour as criticism — she had added as a postscript.
I hope that this investigation takes you a long time, Sam. I hope you never have to go away.
He felt a smile creep across his face, and tried not to let it turn into a complacent smirk.
It had certainly been a night to remember, he told himself, as he swung his legs out of the bed and reached for his clothes, which were lying in a hastily discarded heap on the floor.
Agnes was not the most skilful lover he had ever taken to his bed — far from it — but never had he known a woman to throw herself into her love-making with such fervour and intensity.
There was a bowl of water on the washstand. The water was cold to the touch. No doubt Agnes had already used it herself, before setting off for the schoolroom. But after all they’d shared the night before, it did not bother him that the water now touching his skin had previously caressed hers.
His toilet complete, he dressed with the speed and efficiency of the man of action that life had so often compelled him to be. Yet once he was dressed, he was in no hurry to leave the room. Rather, he lingered by the door, committing all the details to memory, as if he hoped that he would return to it — but had a secret, hidden, fear that he might not.
His gaze fell idly on the bed. The sheets and blankets were in great disarray, as though a desperate struggle had taken place beneath them. And in a way, he supposed, it had.
He was reluctant to obliterate the evidence of the night of passion he had spent with Agnes, but — whilst he was proud of it and grateful for it — it might not be a sight that the governess wished the servants to see.
He crossed the room, stripped back the bedding — and froze in something like horror.
Midway down the mattress — where Agnes had been lying during the first of their couplings — there was a thin red stain.
The detective in him wanted to get closer to it — to examine the stain in all its forensic detail. But the man in him had no need to do any such thing. The man in him already knew that the stain was blood — and what the source of that blood was.
He felt suddenly very giddy, and clutched frantically on to the bedhead for support. He had not known. He had never even so much as guessed. And Agnes had certainly never told him. Yet there was all the proof he needed that the woman he had taken into his arms the night before had been a virgin.
Chapter Fifteen
The ‘Quality’ were probably still at their leisurely breakfast — and a gargantuan meal it would be, if Blackstone knew anything about the upper classes — but the dozens of servants who were employed to answer their every whim had already been at work for hours.
A team of gardeners was busily engaged in rebuilding the floral calendar with dozens of new plants, straight from the hothouses. Another team had begun the never-ending task of polishing the scores of windows until they gleamed in the sunlight. There were servants with brushes and servants with hoes; servants scrubbing the paving stones and servants buffing up the brass fitments on the impressive main door. A veritable army was at work. And that, Blackstone reminded himself, was only the servants carrying out their tasks outside the house. God alone knew how many more of them were involved indoors!
He ambled over to the stables, and watched the grooms and blacksmiths at work. Money had never meant much to him. Though his police salary would have seemed pitiful to any of those people sitting at the breakfast table, he still gave at least half of it to the orphanage in which he had been brought up. Yet looking at these fine horses — so noble and so spirited — he found himself wishing that he had sufficient funds to own one.
“You’ve got the bearing of a military man about you,” said a voice behind him. “Seen service, have you?”
Blackstone turned around, and saw that the man who’d addressed him was George Carlton. Even at that early hour of the morning — early, at least, for the Quality — the Major already glowed with a health and vigour which his drug-soaked godfather, Sir Roderick Todd, would have envied.
“Sorry if I derailed your train of thought by speaking out,” Carlton said apologetically. ‘It was just, seeing you standing there like that, I thought you might have been a soldier at one time.”
“I was,” Blackstone said.
“I’m very rarely wrong on such matters,” Carlton said, obviously pleased with himself. “What the Army stamps on a man very rarely wears off, even with time. Might I enquire where it was you served?”
“India. And Afghanistan.”
“My father was in Afghanistan,” Carlton said. He put his hand to his mouth, as if he had been struck by a sudden revelation. “Hold on there, a minute! Your first name wouldn’t happen to be Sam, would it?”
“That’s right, it would.”
“And when you were serving in Afghanistan, were you a sergeant, by any chance?”
“I was.”
“Sergeant Sam Blackstone,” Carlton said wonderingly. “My father’s often spoken about you. You saved his life, didn’t you!”
Blackstone shrugged. “He would have done the same for me, if I’d been in his position.”
And it was no lie, Blackstone thought — no attempt on his part to flatter a member of the officer class.
Mad Horatio Carlton hadn’t been like many officers, who saw the men who served under them as mere cannon fodder. True, he wouldn’t tolerate insolence, and would have any man who showed a sign of it flogged to within an inch of his life. But out there on the battlefield, all those fighting with him — whatever their rank — were his comrades.
“I say, it’s a tremendous honour to meet you,” George Carlton said enthusiastically.
“As I told you, I only did for him what your father would have done for me if our positions had been reversed,” Blackstone said, as he felt his skin start to itch and realized that this was one of the rare occasions in his life when he was actually embarrassed.
“You do ride, I assume,” Carlton said, his boyish enthusiasm still very much in evidence.
“Yes, I ride a little,” Blackstone replied cautiously.
Carlton roared with laughter. “Listen to the man,” he said, as if addressing an invisible audience. “A little, he says. I’m sure you’re just as splendid in the saddle as you seem to be in most of the things you do. What say we take a couple of horses and go out for a gallop on the steppe?”
Ah, to be young, Blackstone thought — and then it suddenly occurred to him that despite his boyishness, George Carlton was not that much younger than he was himself.
Ah, to be privileged, he corrected himself. To assume that something could happen just because you wanted it to.
“What’s the matter, Old Man?” George Carlton asked. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid you won’t be able to keep up with my pace, because I shall simply refuse to believe that.”
“I’m not sure the Count would take kindly to someone like me borrowing one of his horses,” the Inspector said.
“But you won’t be, don’t you see?” Carlton countered. “It’s simply that I’ll be borrowing two of them, and since the Count’s my cousin, he can’t really object to that, can he?”
“Possibly not,” Blackstone agreed, “but I’m not sure Sir Roderick would like the idea much, either.”
“In case you need reminding, Sir Rodder’s my godfather!” Carlton said. “Always indulged me tremendously when I was a sprog, and I don’t see any reason why he shouldn’t continue to do it now I’ve grown to man’s estate. So if he gives you any grief on the matter,
just refer him to me.”
Blackstone looked beyond the house to the everlasting steppe. “It’s tempting,” he admitted. It was more than tempting, he told himself. It was a golden opportunity to get close to one of the house guests — to question him without Sir Roderick Todd constantly interfering.
The peasants were already labouring in the fields — and probably had been ever since first light — although ‘fields’ was probably the wrong term to apply to what they cultivated, since each man was toiling over only a small strip of land.
“Got rid of this kind of agriculture in our own country nearly two hundred years ago,” George Carlton commented. “Good thing too, in my opinion. Look how much land is being used simply to divide one strip from another. Grow twice as much if they amalgamated their plots.”
But they wouldn’t, Blackstone thought, remembering what Agnes had told him the night before. To a peasant, his land — his land — was the reason for his existence, the very essence of his being. He wouldn’t share it with others, even if, in the process, he were to become better off.
They were not more than a hundred yards beyond the village when they spied the military cordon which Captain Dobroskok had thrown around the area. It had seemed impressive enough from the coach, but observed from horse-back it was truly awesome. The last time he had seen it, Blackstone had compared it to a band of iron around the village. Now it seemed more like a ring of fire — ready to burn anyone who dared to draw close to it.
“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Major Carlton asked.
It was quite a sight, Blackstone agreed silently. And all for the sake of a little golden egg.
The mounted soldiers had seen them approaching. The ones closest to the point that the new arrivals were obviously heading for had already reached down and unsheathed their rifles.
“I rather think we’d better turn round,” Blackstone said.
“Whatever for?” Carlton asked.
“Picket lines make me nervous,” Blackstone explained. “They’ve strict orders not to let anyone through. If they think we’re trying to break out, they might start shooting. And while I’m not afraid of death, I don’t want to hasten it through a stupid misunderstanding.”
Carlton reached into his uniform jacket, and produced an impressive-looking piece of paper.
“Safe conductor — as the French call it — droit de passe,” he said, with all the enthusiasm of a public schoolboy eager to show off the parcel of goodies he has received from home.
“Safe conduct!” Blackstone repeated thoughtfully. “And is it bullet-proof, sir?”
Carlton laughed, as if he really thought his riding companion had been making a joke.
“You’re worrying unnecessarily,” he said airily. “These chaps aren’t going to shoot us. That would be more than their lives are worth.”
It was the true officer mentality, Blackstone told himself. They all believed — from the most elevated general, right down to the greenest lieutenant — that an enlisted man would never dare to shoot an officer. Which was why it always came as such a shock to them to learn that a hot lead cylinder is no respecter of rank.
“I think it still might be wisest for us to head back to the stables, sir,” Blackstone said.
“Nonsense!” Carlton replied. “Can’t give these horses a proper run within the military cordon. Need miles of open country for that.”
As they got closer — as it was possible to distinguish their faces — the soldiers sheathed their rifles.
“See what I mean?” the Major asked complacently.
The mounted soldiers at the point closest to where they would pass through the cordon came to attention — bodies and faces rigid, eyes fixed firmly on the horizon. They did not even blink when Carlton saluted them.
“Now how was that managed?” Blackstone asked, when he and the Major were clear of the line.
“How was what managed?” Carlton asked innocently. “Why did they let us through?”
“You saw my safe conduct, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did,” Blackstone agreed. “But they didn’t!”
“Of course they did. Had it in my hand all the time. They’d have to have been blind to miss it.”
“They saw it, but they didn’t examine it. It could have been your laundry list, for all they knew. Besides, how do you come to have a safe conduct at all, when Captain Dobroskok assured me that no one — not even a Grand Duke, a member of the Russian royal .family — is allowed to leave the area?”
Carlton grinned sheepishly. “My father told me that you were a smart fellow. I should have listened to him. You’ve really caught me out, haven’t you?”
“Undoubtedly,” Blackstone agreed. “But what exactly is it that I’ve caught you out in?”
“Not sure I should tell you,” Carlton admitted. “And if I do tell you, I’m not sure how much of it I should tell you about. Matter of fact, stuck out in the middle of nowhere as we are, I’m not even certain how much you’re entitled to know. Not making much sense, am I?”
“Not a great deal,” Blackstone agreed.
“Tell you what, then,” Carlton said. “Let’s go for a ride, as we originally intended. In my experience, a good gallop does wonders for clearing the brain. I’ll probably know exactly what to do when I’ve given my steed her head for a while. So what do you say? Shall we try a little hell-for-leather?”
Blackstone nodded.
There didn’t seem to be a lot else he could do.
Chapter Sixteen
Major George Carlton was an even finer horseman than his father, Sir Horatio, had been, and the steppe was the perfect terrain for him to display his ability to get the best out of a horse. Blackstone found it impossible to keep up, and for half an hour could do no more than follow in Carlton’s wake, as he galloped past villages, circled small forests, jumped brooks and forded streams.
Finally, Carlton decided that he’d had enough and brought his horse to a halt.
“She’s got a big heart, and she’s earned a rest,” he said, patting the beast affectionately as Blackstone drew level with him. “It’s a pity you can’t always rely on people as much as you can rely on horses.”
Blackstone felt he could use a rest himself — it was a long time since he’d ridden so hard — but the questions which had been intriguing him since they left the soldiers behind them were now demanding an answer.
“I’d like to know why it was so easy for us to get through the cordon, sir,” he said bluntly.
“We’ll come on to that presently,” the Major promised him. “But first, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk more generally. You don’t mind, do you, Sergeant Blackstone?”
“That’s Inspector, not Sergeant, if you don’t mind, sir,” said Blackstone, who’d worked hard to get where he was.
“Ah, but that’s just the point, don’t you see!” George Carlton explained. “Inspector Blackstone is a London policeman, and I don’t know much about the police or how they work. But Sergeant Blackstone is a soldier, like me. A soldier, furthermore, who saved my father’s life. And if I’m going to confide in anybody — if I’m to say more than I probably should — I’d like it to be to Sergeant Blackstone. D’you understand what I’m saying?”
There was something about Carlton’s boyish earnestness which made Blackstone grin, despite himself.
“That distinction’s all well and good, sir,” he said, growing more serious again. “But I can offer no guarantee that Sergeant Blackstone won’t tell Inspector Blackstone what he knows.”
“Of course you can’t,” Carlton said solemnly. “I’d expect Sergeant Blackstone to tell Inspector Blackstone. It’s his duty. Still, if you’ve no objection, I’d be happier calling you ‘Sergeant’.”
“I’ve no objection,” Blackstone told him.
For perhaps a couple of minutes, Major Carlton gazed intently at the horizon, then he turned to his companion and said, “You know, Sergeant Blackstone, I really do worry about the future.”
“Your own future? Or the future of your family?”
Carlton laughed nervously. “Nothing so trivial as that, I’m afraid. What’s got me worried is the future of my own country — and the future of Europe in general.”
“That’s a lot for any man to have on his plate,” Blackstone said, not quite sure where Carlton was going with all this, but certain he was going somewhere.
Carlton frowned. “The problem is, you see, that we soldiers have got so good at killing.”
“We’ve always been good at killing. It’s what we’ve been doing since time immemorial.”
“Perhaps so. But we’ve not always had the means to do it so effectively. The outcome of battles — of whole wars, come to that — used to turn on the deaths of a few thousand — or even a few hundred — soldiers. After all, there are only so many men you can kill when all you’re armed with is a sword or a spear. But it isn’t like that anymore.”
“Isn’t it?” Blackstone asked, although he could now see the lines on which the Major’s thoughts were running.
“No, it isn’t. You remember me saying I was in the Sudan with General Kitchener?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it changed my view about a lot of things, but especially about warfare.” A shudder ran right through Carlton’s frame. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget what I saw there.”
“Are you talking about the campaign in general, or the Battle of Omdurman in particular?”
“Omdurman. The Dervishes who attacked us were armed with spears, and bows and arrows. Some of them had no more than copies of the Koran in their hands. On our side, we had machine guns and repeater rifles. The poor devils never got closer to our lines than three hundred yards away. Killing them was easy. It was like scything down wheat. And when it was all over, and we had time to assess the damage, we calculated they’d lost eleven thousand men, with another sixteen thousand wounded. And what do you think the losses were on our side?”
Blackstone and the House of Secrets (The Blackstone Detective series Book 3) Page 12
