Chapter Four
I entered the Pyrenees Conference room the next morning no less bewildered, clutching the sheaf of papers that included my report, but determined to squelch my dark impressions and be a part of whatever I was supposed to be a part of here, be it probationary or whatever God chose to make of it.
Archibald Campbell sat with Doctor Mac and Madame Rose at one of several smaller tables adorned with cups and plates around the sides of the conference room. Madame Rose wore a sky-blue morning dress trimmed with pink satin rosebuds and Doctor Mac wore a surprisingly dandyish blue suit that almost matched his wife’s gown for shade. Warm golden wood trim accented the black and gold brocade panels walling the room and a golden carpet sprang thick and plush under my feet as I moved toward them into the room. Black leather and mahogany seats gleamed with bronze studs around a formal conference table.
An outlandishly-costumed woman immediately broke away from Madame Rose and stretched out a hand to me. She dressed in a loose, brocaded pink silk tunic sprayed with golden embroidered fireworks and quaint tight-bottomed black trousers, with ridiculously high, lacquered pink platform shoes. Her golden hair was smoothly drawn into braided buns on either side of her head and held in place with thin enameled sticks and pink and black ribbons. Ornate metal pendants glazed pink dangled from her ears and over her ample bosom.
“Oh, Prince Florizel, this is one of my dearest friends, Annabelle Bliss Fun,” Madame Rose explained, rising also and joining us. I took as light a grip as politely possible on the strange woman’s hand, a little fearful of her curving pink and gold enameled claws. “Her husband is Fun See Tokiyo, the merchant who is to be another of the company members.”
“You didn’t tell me Prince Charming was so handsome!” Madame Annabelle said to Madame Rose in an absurd stage whisper.
“I didn’t know it until last night, silly,” Madame Rose retorted merrily. “Pray forgive us, your highness. We are irrepressible assigners of unfortunate nicknames. My husband is still known as ‘Don’ among his cousins for his tendency to take on impossible tasks in the name of gentlemanly and right conduct, like Don Quixote stood for chivalry. That is how our eldest daughter came to be called Dulcinea.”
“I will happily tilt windmills at his side, and be his Sancho Panza in such a cause as that,” I immediately rejoined.
A much older lady doing the honors of the breakfast tea turned out to be Elinor Dashwood Ferrars, stately and sweet at the same time, dressed in a softly patterned light brown day gown covered with tiny white vines and leaves and a cozy beige shawl and white mob cap. She gave me tea and a warm smile and I recalled that she was the wife of the country parson, Edward Ferrars.
A graceful ebony-skinned woman in rich dark red with soft lace at her throat and wrists introduced herself while handing me a plate of assorted breakfast items. Sahara explained that she was the wife of Zambo, the owner of the Caribbean security firm. The last person who scurried in was the very beautiful, vivacious lady of India we had glimpsed the night before, dressed in wrappings of deep violet. A bronze stud pierced her nostril and bronze hoops graced her wrists.
“I am Abdalla Gafur,” she explained breathlessly. “I am the wife of the one called Mowgli. Forgive me for not greeting you last night, but Sararati was so naughty to slip out after his father and annoy you all when I thought he was already in bed. This is why we call him Sararati, because it means naughty. He is so curious about everything and pesters Doctor Twist endlessly. I thought he would be lonely and frightened with strangers, but he is his father’s son.”
“Considering the flock of kids we all brought along, dear lady, one more child could hardly be called annoying,” Doctor Mac, who had also risen to shake my hand, said to her kindly. “Looking forward to becoming better acquainted with your naughty son.”
Abdalla Gafur smiled bashfully at us and Madame Rose squeezed her shoulder before turning toward the last party seated away from the main conference table.
This man was from head to foot a son of the American West. He dressed entirely in black leather trail garments, boots, and a Stetson, all beautifully-ornamented with Indian beadwork of the Western American Plains people. Iron-grey hair fell in waves to his shoulders and a carefully-waxed handlebar moustache touched an immaculate goatee. He possessed a harshly handsome, aquiline face and jet black eyes.
“This is Pecos Bill,” Doctor Mac exclaimed, dragging me over to him. “His wife Sluefoot Sue is to be a member of the company. And this is their man-of-all-work, Dobbs.” A drably-dressed, somber-looking cowboy nodded to me but kept his place beside the black-clad man, who looked intently at me but made no motion. Doctor Mac had clapped a hand on the fellow’s shoulder but other than a flicker of his eyes he gave no acknowledgement.
“Bill had a horse named Widowmaker,” Doctor Mac explained, “Which no one but he and his wife had ever successfully ridden, a magnificent black stallion, so I’m told. Someone snuck into their camp one night and tried to steal the animal. Bill went after the horse thief, actually to save his life, because the horse was in the process of stomping the man to death. Unfortunately a stray blow from Widowmaker’s hooves nearly made Sue a widow, and left our western friend more or less paralyzed up to the eyes. Sue and Dobbs, here, have worked out a means of understanding him by his blinks and eye motions.”
“He says he’s right pleased ta make yer acquaintance, and ain’t never met a prince before,” Dobbs affirmed. I went white and red by turns, shocked by this man’s crushing disability and astounded by his impeccable appearance and alert demeanor. I had skimmed the outlandish biography of Sluefoot Sue and scoffed at the adventures hinted at in this couple’s career. But I could at least credit that he had been an active, vibrant man, and to see him reduced to this appalling state of helplessness left me without a clue as to how to speak to him, to act in his presence.
“We all need a human touch,” Doctor Mac said, very softly. “Even if it doesn’t seem like we could profit by it. Don’t falter now, Prince Charming, when it’s hardest but may matter most.”
I glanced sharply at him. I was not a man for intimate contact under any circumstances. Mine was a world of polite bowing or the briefest of handshakes. But as I shifted my gaze back to those eagle-bright eyes I found myself reaching out and placing a firm hand on the man’s shoulder. His expression changed, somehow, even though his mouth remained fixed. Warmth flooded those black eyes and I could tell I had managed to do the right thing.
Turning toward the conference table as someone rapped upon it, I realized that Mrs. Moore-Campbell stood at the head of the table and that others who must be the actual members of the company had already taken their places while I had been distracted by these introductions. I hurried to the chair left open for me at the foot of the table, wondering whether this was a place of honor opposite our leader or a place where she could better pass judgment on my performance. I could not help noting that she looked anything but likely to scrutinize. In fact, she seemed ill-at ease but still magnificent in an ivory morning dress embroidered with bronze leaf sprigs and tiny seed pearls. Ivory combs with pearls swept her hair up into a most becoming French roll.
“Thank you all for coming. The lady and gentleman seated with my husband at the second table are Dr. and Mrs. Alexander Mackenzie Campbell, our cousins. Mrs. Campbell is the administrator of the Alexander Campbell Foundation Trust, established in memory of our guardian. She has been asked to sit in on this meeting because our enterprise will need financial backing, and we hope to interest her in our cause.
“This is a very different undertaking for me from singing in a concert hall. We have, all of us, seen a need for something to be done about a certain pattern of crimes we have researched or personally witnessed. Deciding how to take action to stop these crimes is in the hearts of everyone assembled here. That is why I have asked you to come to this meeting.
“I propose that we band together and use the talents and skills God has given to us to fight an evil that h
as taken hold in many places around the world and risen far into the highest ranks of government, business, and even the church. Some of you have reports to make on what we have learned concerning these criminal elements. We believe wrong-doers have been trained and organized for a common purpose as yet only partly understood. Reverend Ferrars, please begin.”
Edward Ferrars, wearing a somewhat misshapen gray cardigan, houndstooth gray knee-breeches, pale yellow and gray argyle socks, comfortable brown walking shoes, and holding a gray motoring cap nervously in his blue-veined, wrinkled fingers, stiffly rose from his seat and drew a pair of steel half-spectacles from his breast pocket. He was a stooped, slightly portly gentleman past the middle age, white side-whiskers framing a kind, serious face. He adjusted a sheepskin draped over his chair.
“I keep sheep,” Edward confided with a boyish smile, “because they remind me that man needs a Shepherd. This story I am about to relate represents incidents repeated a thousand times or more, everywhere.”
“Mr. Collins!” I said, bowing slightly to the gentleman who rushed out to meet me as I approached the cottage of the vicar of Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s living. Mr. Collins pumped my hand, presenting his wife Charlotte, a plain but pleasant-looking woman. Collins wore an overly elaborate cassock trimmed in purple velvet and thick with snowy lace. We had just arrived from services at Lady Catherine’s chapel when I made my presence known to them.
“You see that we are in the midst of more improvements to our humble abode, Mr. Ferrars,” gushed Mr. Collins. The place was in a disastrous state of construction with lumber and scaffolding and mud in equal measures of inconvenient placement. “Her ladyship is so careful of our comfort, and constantly looks for ways to show her pleasure at my attention to her parish. And she has given me more and more responsibility for her affairs, both parochial and personal. I have the greatest influence to--”
“I need to speak with you about a private church matter, Mr. Collins.” I bowed to his wife. For a moment I saw a flash of something in the woman’s eyes. Fear, perhaps despair haunted them. So she knew, or suspected. I pitied her as she gathered her tastefully simple black and white striped skirts, turned, and fled the room.
“Dear me, Charlotte is so abrupt,” blustered Collins. “Perhaps she is checking on the children. Such a devoted mother she is. I would have asked her to bring us some tea.”
“No, thank you, Collins. I have come to you about a very grave matter, one that as yet is only whispered of, but may soon become a shout of disgrace upon the church.”
“What? You speak nonsense, Mr. Ferrars.”
“You said that Lady Catherine has entrusted to you certain matters of personal business.” I cut him off with an impatient wave of the hand. “One of these was the selection of a personal attendant to her ladyship’s daughter, a young woman who handles her correspondence and other family matters. This woman has compromised you, Collins.”
“How dare you?” Collins’ face turned scarlet. “I am an important man! My living is larger than yours, and Lady Catherine and her nephew Mr. Darcy are very powerful people. Accuse me at your peril.”
“You do not want them to know what you have done. Do not force me to make it public. Think of your wife, your children—your connection to the family of Mr. Darcy’s wife. Spare these people your disgrace, the full disclosure of your foolish, carnal weakness. You have betrayed your wife with this creature and allowed her to extort the position with Miss de Bourgh from you in exchange for her silence.”
Collins began to tremble. “Oh, mercy! The scandal! What can I do?”
“This evil you have done is bad enough, but there is more. This treacherous woman has taken from Lady Catherine vital documents. They will enable unscrupulous persons to steal from her ladyship great quantities of money, land and influence. Scandals cannot hope but attach themselves to her and her family unless her ladyship can hush them up. We will try to help her do that, but you must resign the living here and take your family into seclusion. You will never again seek a position in the church.”
“I shall be ruined! This is the only profession I am trained for.”
“You may suffer in this life for what you have done, but I pray you will seek God’s forgiveness so that you do not face His wrath in the next. Remember what the Word says about those who cause His little ones to sin – you who abuse the trust of those who rely on a man of God.”
Edward Ferrars seemed drained when he finished his story. He wiped his forehead, peered around the room and sat down with a stiff little bow. Everyone stirred and murmurs of shock and distress broke the heavy silence.
“Prince Florizel, please give us your report next,” Madame Phoebe invited.
I cleared my throat, tried to make my eyes expressionless, and made a formal, continental bow. I referred to the very clear and straightforward account Madame Phoebe had given to me, not because I did not vividly remember this occasion, but because I still did not know what exactly was expected of me, and how my account might mesh with others. I did not wish to leave out anything our leader might consider important to making her case.
“I have found myself lately interested in we call the ‘second sons’ of English society. These are young men who are of the gentility or wealthy classes, yet are not in line for a large fortune. Therefore they must look to some profession to make their way. They may have had a military commission purchased for them, be in government service, or in some business or industry. Here is what happened in one case.”
“Drinks all ‘roun’, my good man!” The flushed young man staggered against the highly-polished bronze and black bar and nearly collapsed. Many of his new-found friends, eager to take him up on his offer, helped him onto a black leather and bronze barstool. He flashed a wad of money and the bartender lost his scowl and turned down slightly the wireless blasting the Home Game. He set pint pots beneath his clockwork taps and turned the master lever that caused them to draw bitter, stout and good October ale according to each man’s shouted desire. Mechanical arms reached across to the patrons at the bar.
I smiled at the newcomer and drew him aside to a table after the drinks had been paid for. As usual, I wore a disguise for my evening ramblings among the fallen. Tonight I had chosen gray tweeds and had colored my hair and beard a fatherly gray. Tinted spectacles obscured my eyes and my clothing hung loose and baggy to accentuate the appearance of shrunken, advancing age.
The young man was already so drunk it was unlikely he knew what his own face looked like at the moment, much less mine. His clothing was worn and shiny, though it seemed once to have been well-made and well-fitted, fawn brown linen, leather gaiters, with perfectly matched fawn gloves worn to holes and half-hanging out of his jacket pocket.
I noted his expensive watch dangling open on his watch chain and as I solicitously tucked it back into the young man’s waistcoat pocket and closed it I saw no less than five pawnshop numbers scratched into it. For whatever reason, this young man had seen more hard times than good.
“You should spend your money on some new collars and cuffs before you treat a bar full of strangers, my friend.”
“I will -- I will do that too. When I show up at that gate of hell where I work tomorrow, they shall know I’m more than just the cast off son of the thirteenth earl of the fifth house of the seventh … er – whatever it is.”
“You’ll show them, eh?” I kept a heavy hand on my companion’s fast-disappearing pint between gulps. I had to prevent the clockwork mechanism in the table from weighing the pot. I had no desire for the interruption it would create by lighting the gas beacon above our heads and alerting the bartender to the need for a refill.
“Thass right. Show them I’m a man. Show them they mus’ respec’ me or I’ll sell ‘em out too.” In the manner of the intoxicated he switched from bravado to a flood of tears. “Didn’ know Dodge meant to kill th’ poor bloke. Killed over a briefcase stuffed wi’ papers, he was.” He changed to furtive but determined. “Money is all that matt
ers, y’know. All that matters.”
Whereupon the fellow’s head fell on the table and he began to snore. I had taken pains to choose a table away from the direct lights of the golden gas jets dotting the sporting-poster and memorabilia-plastered walls. I deftly searched him in a way that looked to the other patrons as if I were simply arranging the poor sot more comfortably to sleep it off.
Money the fellow had plenty of. Trying to hide it and counting hastily I couldn’t be sure of the exact total but it was more than five thousand pounds. Yet I couldn’t find any evidence of what made this fellow worth such a lordly sum. I did find a scrap of paper rolled up like a spill and tucked into the lining of the fellow’s frayed coat sleeve. The paper contained nothing but a smudged address.
A Dodge, a Twist and a Tobacconist Page 7
