Death and glory, p.10
Death and Glory, page 10
“Quite right,” the Guv murmured. “Was President Lincoln involved?”
“Yes, Mr. B.,” Jenkins answered. “He knew they were after diplomatic recognition, and the last thing the Union needed was for Great Britain to concern itself with the American Civil War. However, the Confederates were counting on attracting British and French sympathy in hopes of getting finances for their own war effort.”
“What happened then?” I asked.
“Lincoln ordered the envoys’ release, blaming the captain of the American ship for being overzealous, but he didn’t actually apologize to Great Britain, which I suspect angered Palmerston, not to mention the English landowners and merchants, many of whom had business with the South.”
“I see,” Barker replied. He peered at the document for a few moments. “What is this squiggle?”
“It is Slidell’s signature,” Jenkins replied. “I’ve got the parliamentary archives and the Public Records Office looking for anything that might have their names on it. Truthfully, I’m not optimistic that we’ll find anything, sir. The records were probably discarded when the envoys were tossed out.”
“Jubal Slidell,” the Guv said. “It seems to me I’ve heard that name before. Search for it, if you get the chance.”
“I will,” Jenkins replied. “Mason, too?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.”
I stood back for a minute, looking at Jenkins. A year ago, I would have called him a sot. Often, he came in at seven thirty in the morning having already drunk his breakfast. He’d do as little as possible until a public house lunch and then shoot out the door at five headed for the Rising Sun Public House.
This wasn’t the same man. This was a useful member of our staff. He had opinions, information, even inspiration. Granted, he still smelled of stout, but no one had asked him to be teetotal. It occurred to me that perhaps we had asked too little of him in the past. His mind required stimulation like the rest of us. He might become more competent if we needed him to be. Barker’s expectations had changed all of us. Mac, Jenkins, and I all had scraps with the law and were essentially unemployable until the Guv gave us a chance.
“That’s very good work, Jeremy,” I said.
“Thank you, sir,” our clerk replied.
I saw it. He deflected the compliment. It had become part of his character to do so, as if any compliments were undeserved.
“No, I mean it,” I pressed. “Top-drawer work. I’d never have thought of it.”
“I’m sure you would have, Mr. L.,” he responded. “Most everyone’s signatures go through changes throughout their lifetimes so that one can look at a random signature and know what decade or period of his life it came from.”
“That’s a form of detection,” I said.
He nodded. “I suppose it is, though not as important as your work.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Jenkins,” Barker rumbled. “We would have been lost without it. We had neither of us thought of enlarging a photograph and had no idea how to tell one signature from another. Tell me, gentlemen, what might cause a document such as this to not be used for its original intent?”
Cyrus Barker was being headmaster now, something he did from time to time to keep us on our toes.
“It hadn’t been ratified,” I said. “I don’t know how Woodson and his men got hold of the treaty. I’d presume it would have been safe in the Parliament archives or destroyed.”
“Agreed,” my partner stated. He turned to Jenkins. “Jeremy, I want you to investigate whether it was ever housed in the archives and try to find out when it was last seen.”
“Yes, sir,” our clerk answered.
“Thomas, I want you to keep an eye on the delegation. Discreetly, of course.”
“I will, sir.”
“Excellent,” the Guv said. “I think it fitting that if they are watching us, we should be watching them, as well.”
CHAPTER 11
The day of the ball arrived. Barker and I had gone to our offices and delayed the inevitable for as long as possible, but at last, it was time to go home.
“There’s nothing for it now, lad,” Barker said to me as we locked the door behind us. “We must face our fate like men.”
We arrived at home at a quarter to six. Rebecca was upstairs dressing and had been doing so for most of the afternoon. Philippa had appropriated Barker’s black and gold kimono, which meant she had actually climbed the stairs to his aerie and stolen it. I’d have cut my own throat before daring such a thing. She is fearless, however, and merely shot him the gimlet eye.
“Out saving London again, are we?” she asked when we arrived. “Was it assassinations or gangs this time? Thievery or secret societies?”
“The latter,” I informed her. “The very Confederates who are being feted tonight, in fact.”
“If you need any help, don’t hesitate to ask.”
She leaned forward and kissed Barker’s cheek. The Guv hates displays of affection, especially in front of others. Of course, she knew this. I suspected she knew everything there was to know about him. As Barker has often said, she is a canny woman.
“Philippa,” he warned, but he understood he was fortunate to get the peck. It was better than the court-martial he anticipated. She was getting her way, of course, but Barker allowed it just the once. Perhaps he was nervous. He could wrestle a man to the ground, but society was another matter.
I nipped upstairs and changed into my evening kit, including a new shirt and white bow tie I’d purchased for the event. I inspected my black Inverness cape and my shoes critically, and then I dragged a brush through my gypsy curls until I was satisfied. I was downstairs in fifteen minutes. Barker still hadn’t changed, and Lady Ashleigh had gone upstairs to finish getting ready.
I caught up with Jacob on the stair. He looked harried. I’m sure Philippa and Rebecca had kept him busy for hours.
“What will you be doing tonight?” I asked.
“I intend to soak in the bathhouse until I look like a sultana.”
When I turned, Rebecca was waiting for me at the foot of the stair. Her dress took my breath away, and that feeling returned from when I first met her that someone as wonderful as she could not possibly be mine. I had done nothing sufficient to earn such a jewel. Her dress was black and studded with rows of shiny jet beads. A thin choker with a teardrop pearl was fastened about her throat. In every way she scintillated.
“You look marvelous,” I murmured.
“I like your new tie,” she said, adjusting it. “Tell me you’re not working tonight.”
“I am,” I conceded. “But only in a general way. I can dance all I like.”
“You’d better,” she said. “And don’t dare ask what obscene amount of money I paid for this dress.”
She deserved to have a good time, I knew. The best time, in fact. I couldn’t count the number of public events I’d missed due to work, but I was certain she could. It isn’t easy being married to an enquiry agent. Most men in my profession remain bachelors.
“Have you been waiting long?” my wife asked, inspecting me carefully.
“Ages,” I replied in a teasing tone. “What do you women do up there, anyway? Alchemy?”
“In a way,” she answered, glancing at the Guv. “Oh, dear. Mr. Barker has not changed into his evening suit.”
“I’ll see to it.”
I marched him upstairs and settled into one of the chairs facing the empty fireplace. We were on opposite sides of the garret that spanned the house, he behind the Asian folding screens he uses to create a dressing room. To call his quarters a garret would not begin to describe it. Along the walls below shoulder height were bookcases and above them on the slanting red ceiling were weapons from various countries of all description. It was bloodthirsty, but that was the intent. I fancied he knew how to use every weapon.
“Is there anything in particular we should be watching for tonight?” I called over my shoulder.
“I’m looking for anyone from this delegation that we haven’t met thus far,” he replied. “I’d like to know how many enemies we face, and how skilled they are.”
I heard him brushing back his hair with a pair of beaver brushes. When he came out from behind the screens, he looked resplendent in his evening kit. The black spectacles with brass frames had been replaced by a gray pair of an oval design. The features behind the lenses were ghostly but I assumed he could see through them. The final touch was a watch fob with a cloisonné cross inside a crown, the seal of the Knights Templar. Those who didn’t know what it was wouldn’t notice it. Those who did knew better than to remark upon it.
Having passed inspection, we opened the front door to find a white landau at the curb. The night was warm, if a trifle damp, and Lady Ashleigh did not really need the short ermine jacket she wore over her pale turquoise silk gown. She was stunning with her flaming red hair pulled back and a large pair of aquamarine earrings.
The ball was to be given at the Benham estate by Lord John Benham, a cotton merchant and speculator who had bought up many of the plantations after the War Between the States. The property was built beside the Thames, eight miles west of our offices. When it came into view, I recognized it as being one of the largest private properties in suburban London. I could not imagine what sort of monthly upkeep would be required for such an expansive estate. I looked at the Guv and he nodded.
The landau rolled to the door and the footmen helped the ladies disembark. One could feel a charge of excitement in the air. There was chattering everywhere, and the din was appalling. It seemed as if everyone knew everyone apart from us. Well, three of us, that is. Philippa knew everyone and they all wanted to talk to her.
“Why is everyone staring at us?” I murmured in Rebecca’s ear as we followed them inside.
“Don’t you know?” she asked. “This is the first time Lady Ashleigh and Mr. Barker have appeared together in society.”
The Guv stood out, elegant but faintly menacing. The smoky spectacles were not as unusual as the round oriental ones he generally wore, but they were unusual enough. He was taller than anyone there, attracting some attention. His snowy shirtfront seemed as broad as a tablecloth and was studded with onyx buttons. Everyone studied the scar that bisected one eyelid, while pretending not to notice it.
“I wonder if Rosebery will be here tonight,” I said in a low voice.
“I think not,” the Guv replied. “This is a purely Confederate event, from what I can see. The delegation is tolerating us, but if we think ourselves their comrades, we are fools. Woodson and Beaufort have been watching us closely by day. St. Ives has been questioning you by night. No one trusts us, especially not Woodson. We’re here to keep our eyes open and take impressions.”
I held out an arm and Rebecca took it. Barker offered his and Philippa did likewise, both aware that they were being watched by anyone who had ever heard either of their names. I wondered about the vagaries of Man, or rather of Woman, that of all the men in London—rich men, handsome men, famous and important ones—Lady Ashleigh should choose the most rugged and impassive of us all. I couldn’t explain it, and I’m not sure if anyone else could, either.
We stepped through the ornate entranceway into a dining room. Dozens of servants flitted about like bees and there was the accompanying hum of hundreds of voices.
Suddenly Rebecca balked, squeezing my arm.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispered.
“Why not?” I asked. “We’ve danced before.”
“Thomas, I am a Jewess,” she murmured. “We are not normally permitted to attend society balls. If I am found out, there will be a scandal.”
“Your name is Llewelyn now,” I told her. “If I have been mistaken for a Jew in the City now and then, you can pass as Welsh here.”
“But no one here knows my family. People must be curious.”
“Chances are you’ll never meet these people again,” I said. “Ignore them. Lady Ashleigh has the matter well in hand. She knows what she is about. In her own way, she is as powerful as the Guv.”
Still, Rebecca was nervous. The hand that draped across my arm was tense, as if she didn’t want me to get away. She watched the other women, their deportment and style. She was accustomed to smaller soirées amongst her own acquaintance and did not wish to put a foot wrong.
Barker came up beside us, Lady Ashleigh at his side.
“We will be dining first,” he rumbled.
He spoke to a footman, who led us to our seats. We were not directly beside the members of the delegation, but they were nearby. The volume of conversation was lowered as everyone began to take their seats, enough that I heard a small orchestra that had been fighting for control and losing. I took a breath, feeling nervous myself, wondering what turn this evening would take.
CHAPTER 12
I don’t know what I was expecting vis-à-vis the ball. I’d been looking at the situation through the eyes of a professional enquiry agent, but it was impossible to know how Woodson and his men would behave in such a situation.
“I’m curious about our seats,” Her Ladyship said as we approached the long, elegant table. “I do hope we are seated together.”
As it happened, when we found our place cards, we were not. There was a woman’s name on the card between Barker’s place and mine, whom I saw was Mrs. Bella Boyd, the very woman Caleb had warned us about. Philippa was put out but admitted the fault had been hers. A communication with the hostess earlier might have solved the problem, but then, she hadn’t the time, having been informed of the ball too late, which meant it was Barker’s fault, and shouldn’t he be ashamed of himself? Lady Ashleigh took the Guv by the arm and steered him away.
“She’s introducing him to her acquaintances,” Rebecca whispered in my ear. “I gather a number of people have been waiting to meet him, if only to gawk.”
I pulled out Rebecca’s chair and helped her be seated. Philippa’s seat was on my left, my wife two chairs beyond her. I took my own, relieved that Mrs. Boyd had not yet appeared. The Guv returned to the table and was almost instantly trapped into conversation with the woman to his right, a plump lady in her sixties who would talk to a wall if she had no other company, and in Barker had met the human equivalent thereof. My partner is polite, however, and answered her questions civilly, though he was aware she was fishing for information about him. Scotland Yard could have taken notes from her interrogation. Her name was Lady Rathbone, and Philippa told me later that she was one of the biggest gossips in London.
The dinner began. Lord Benham, the host, made a speech lauding their guests, the Confederate delegation, who looked politely uncomfortable. He spoke about the good they were doing, not only for England and the Board of Trade but for America, as well.
A toast was made after the first drinks were brought out, and then General Woodson stood to speak. He gave a short speech, but it was a good one, too good to have been done off the cuff. He must have given it before several times, it was clear.
“Thank you all,” he said. “We are grateful for the outpouring of support. It has been a long struggle, one that has taken us to places we never thought we’d be. In their wisdom, and they have much of that, the Knights of the Golden Circle have launched an ambitious plan to reclaim our homeland. Even more, to find land elsewhere suitable to provide cotton for your great country. I’m delighted to say that we’ve done it. And not just cotton! We now have plantations in South America growing rubber, sugarcane, coffee, and cocoa beans.”
There was a polite round of applause.
“It all comes at a cost, however,” he continued. “We have been exiles for an entire generation. Frankly, good people, we are tired and want to go home, but to do so we shall have to fight for our country again. We have explored every other possibility, including petitioning the various countries who have hosted us.
“But cotton will soon be king again, and it will no longer be in the hands of Yankee carpetbaggers hoping to make a profit at your and our expense. We are going to take back the land we fought and died for. To do so, we covet your prayers.”
He sat down again, almost bashfully, while enthusiastic applause broke out. He waved them down.
“You covet more than that, General,” I muttered to myself. At that moment, I understood what the purpose of the evening and this glittering ball had become: an opportunity to raise money for the cause.
Then St. Ives got up to speak. I had not seen him until now. He mounted the dais and looked about at the audience. The man was in his natural element. He wore a tie and gloves of silk that at one moment were white and the next the color of quicksilver.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he called so that everyone in the room could hear his voice. “I am more than honored, we are more than honored, by your kindness and generosity. We have struggled for many years in Brazilian jungles, on lush islands, even on the sides of steep mountains in Colombia, in order to restore our honor. We have been toiling for so long, I cannot begin to describe what it means to be dressed in formal attire and surrounded by such a bevy of beautiful guests. It is too much! Too much satin, glittering jewels, silk dresses, and dainty shoes. We feel like parched explorers finding an oasis in the desert.”
He looked across the room. Every eye admired him, every ear waited for his next remark. Then he shocked society by opening a silver case and choosing a whiff, a small cheroot, lighting it with a vesta. From where I sat, I could see the cigar’s wrapper. Oscar Wilde had lit a cigarette on stage before a performance of Lady Windermere’s Fan two years before, which caused a sensation. It was less so now, but scandalous enough that everyone began talking again. They were delightfully scandalized. Only a man as charismatic as St. Ives could get away with such a thing.
