Bar Sinister (7 page)

Tom Conway felt slack and dull with too much sleep. If he lay still the pain was a mere
nagging below his left shoulder blade. Except for the crackle of the fire and the dripping of rain off
the eaves the room was still. He could hear the sound of Richard Falk's pen scratching across
foolscap. Tom turned his head.

Richard, in shirt-sleeves, his deplorable French coat thrown carelessly across the back of
his chair, bent to his task.

"'Scribble, scribble, scribble, Mr. Gibbon.'"

Richard's hand stilled before he went on with his writing. After a few minutes of steady
application he stopped, sanded the page, and stood. He held the sheet to the light of the flickering
candle, scowling at it. Then he set it down and picked up the candle. "I take it you've decided to
rejoin the living."

Tom drew a sharp breath as unwelcome recollection came flooding back. "Temporarily.
You're a damned provocative sort, Richard. From anyone else I'd take that as a slip of the
tongue."

"From me it had to be deliberate." Richard's face, momentarily illumined by the unsteady
light of the candle, was drawn and tired. A smear of ink decorated one cheek bone He set the
candle on the small table by the couch upon which Tom lay, and went to the scullery. There was a
clanking noise and presently Richard returned minus the smear and bearing two half filled
glasses.

"If I drink another brandy," Tom said dreamily, "I shall puke on your boots."

"Not for the first time."

"I was devilish seasick, wasn't I?"

Richard's rare smile lit his face. He put the glasses down and sat on the rickety chair by
the bedside. "Epically." He stretched, arching like a cat, and pressed the heels of his hands to his
eyes.

"Epically. Is that what you're working at?"

Richard cocked a quizzical eyebrow. "My latest epic? It's finished. I was just copying the
last chapter for the printer."

"When did you find time to write it?"

"Not aboard ship, to be sure." Richard took up his brandy, warming it in his hard,
capable hands. He took a swallow, and leaning his head against the high back of the chair, gazed at
nothing.

What a clump of contradictions he was. Tom closed his eyes, drifting.
A cross-grained,
sour-tongued, inconsistent bastard.
He opened his eyes, staring at the freshly limed ceiling. The
timbers were heavy black bars across the white.
Black and white. Life and death. Death. Bastard,
he thought, and realised with a clutch of dismay that he had spoken the word aloud.

Richard said quietly, "Now who's provoking?"

"How long have we been here in Rye?" Tom turned his head to look at his friend, then
looked away. There was no use apologising. With Richard there never was.
Son of a
whore.

"Nearly a fortnight. Tomorrow you are going to walk with me along the strand."

"Delightful. What if it's still pouring rain?"

"In the teeth of a gale, if necessary."

"Why?"

"Because you're beginning to resemble one of the lower vegetables. I find that
disturbing."

Tom took another careful breath and was surprised to find that the pain stayed at the
same level. It could almost be called an ache. "Very well." Realisation struck him. "A fortnight! My
God, Richard, how much time do you have left to you?"

"Eight days. I can stretch it to nine. Time to walk to Deal. Or we could make a
sentimental pilgrimage to Shornecliff. Do you recall the delights of Shornecliff? Running up sheer
bluffs in full gear. Prancing about in a December surf--"

"What about your children?"

"Flourishing, I trust."

Tom twisted and regretted the movement.
"You
will board the mail coach
tomorrow and set out for Hampshire. For Christ's sweet sake," he gasped, "you've not seen them
in two years!"

"Twenty months." Richard's voice was calm. "Lie back, you lout. You'll rip something
open."

Tom obeyed, gritting his teeth against the sickening contraction of his ruined back
muscles. For a time he thought he would indeed puke on his friend's boots. Presently the room
stopped heaving. Something cool touched his sweating face. A wet cloth.

"My God, how shall I stand it?"

The cloth touched his brow again.

"How?" he repeated, angry.

"I don't know how," Richard said quietly, "but you will."

"Easy for you to say."

Richard did not respond.

Presently Tom's breathing steadied.

"'Thou knowest, 'tis common, All that lives must die, Passing through Nature to
Eternity.'" Richard's voice was wry and sad.

Tom said bitterly, "Aye, it is common. But not easy."

He felt the cloth touch his face again. Richard did not speak, for which Tom was grateful.
He knew he was behaving badly. When he could command his patience, he said, "Where's
Sims?"

"I sent him to see about food. You'll have to eat something solid for a change."

Tom swallowed. "You can stop soothing my fevered brow."

Richard rose and carried the cloth and a basin which had apparently been sitting on the
uneven floor into the scullery. Tom followed him with his eyes. Richard was a long time about his
chore. The back door opened. Was he leaving?
Do I care?
Tom stared at the ceiling. A
spider dangled coyly from the middle beam, almost motionless in the still air. "Did you give up?"
Tom whispered. The spider continued to dangle.

He heard the back door close. Richard entered, his hair damp. "Raining," he said
unnecessarily. "Spring squall. It'll blow over by morning." He walked over to the spindly secretary,
shoving his hair from his eyes with an impatient hand. "Damn."

"What is it?"

"I've blotted my blasted copybook." He leaned one hand on the desk and moved the sheet
of foolscap carefully out of range.

"Why do you write that tripe?"

"Money."

"Is there money in it?"

Richard straightened, wriggling his shoulders as if they ached. "Enough. I screwed twenty
more pounds out of Hitchins this time." He turned, a fugitive smile in his eyes. "I thought I could
intimidate him better in person than by post. I was right."

Tom felt his mouth quirk in unwilling response.

"Easier?"

"Yes."

"Good. What do you say to the brandy now?"

"I say no. Finish your own, however."

Obediently, Richard sat once again by the daybed and toyed with the brandy glass.

"Fool."

Richard raised his glass in ironic salute and tossed off the contents.

"I want you to leave tomorrow," Tom said and knew he lied. The realisation surprised
him.

"When you're on your feet."

"No. Tomorrow. Your children..."

"I don't intend to go to Hampshire."

"Then why the devil did you come home with me? I thought that was the excuse you gave
Daddy Hill." General Hill was notoriously softhearted.

Richard set the empty glass carefully on the small table.

"Why?"

"To see Hitchens and deliver the manuscript."

"If you think I need a nursemaid--"

"If I hadn't come Bevis would have. Your affinity for the sea is well known."

"Sims--"

"Rather hard on Sims, don't you think? It took two of us. Three," he amended
thoughtfully. "McGrath lent a hand, too."

"Where's McGrath?" McGrath was Richard's servant, a black Irishman with a villainous
squint and the disposition of a camel.

"Dallying with his wife."

"In Hampshire?"

Richard inclined his head.

Tom drew a breath. "Then I think you should join him."

"I never meant to go down to Mellings. Why should I?"

"Why! My God."

Richard rose, walked to the leaded window and stood staring out at the distant mass of
the sea. He did not speak.

"I don't understand you."

"You're not required to."

"God damn your eyes," Tom said softly. "I may not be required to, but I will." Very
slowly and with exquisite care he rolled to his left side and swung his long, breeches-clad legs over
the edge of the couch. It was sudden sharp motion that hurt.

He levered himself to a sitting position by careful inches, his arm shaking with the strain
of bearing his weight. He straightened. When he thought he would not faint, he said, "Tell
me."

Richard whirled. In half a second he was across the room, eyes dark with anxiety. "Tom,
don't...you can't."

Tom fended his friend off with a shove of his undamaged right arm. "I can do whatever I
put my mind to," he said through clenched teeth. "Tell me."

"Yes. Very well, but let me help you lie down first. You're not ready for heroicks quite
yet."

"What about...walk...on the strand...tomorrow?"

"Hush." Frowning, Richard slipped his right arm around Tom's shoulders, bracing one
knee on the bed frame and one booted foot on the floor. "Easy, now. There. No more of that
tonight." His touch was hard, and cold from the damp air, but he seemed to know what to do and
he was deft and surprisingly gentle. Lying back down was less hurtful than sitting.

Restored to his former state, Tom glared at the ceiling. The eaves dripped musically. The
spider had swung up, pulling her lifeline with her. The filament quivered. "Tell me," he said
gratingly.

Richard resumed his seat. "I came with you because I knew what the sawbones would tell
you. Lord Bevis was oversanguine."

"You
knew?"
The surgeons had told Tom he would be lucky to live five years.
Loose metal and bone fragments were wandering about his insides, and one piece, a nasty chunk of
brass, lodged dangerously near his spine. Though the surgeons' verdict had not been unexpected it
had been a hard blow.

"Another lapse of the tongue. I didn't know what they'd say. I surmised. In any case I
thought they'd hack you about again. I didn't think you should be alone. Besides, you'd be needing
to find lodgings, and I meant to see to that and to be assured you were well served before I left.
And on your feet, if possible."

Tom digested that. "But I had Sims by me."

"Sims will do. I know that now, but I had to be sure."

"Why?"

"Oh, the devil--"

"Don't avoid me. Why?"

There was a long pause. "I may be a bastard," Richard said drily, "but I'm capable of
ordinary friendship."

Tom closed his eyes.

Richard's voice was rough. "I've known you a long time, Tom. You're my son's godfather
and you stood by me when Isabel died. What more reason do you need?"

Tom unclenched his hands slowly, finger by finger. "You've placed me under a very
heavy obligation."

"There is no obligation. I did what I had to do."

"And devil take the hindmost?"

"Something like that."

Tom lay very still.

"I was afraid they'd make you take laudanum."

"How did you know about it? My God, Egypt." Tom had been wounded some years
before in Egypt. Owing to the stupidity of the surgeons and his own nineteen-year-old ignorance,
he was given addictive quantities of opium. Withdrawal had not been pleasant. He had not used it
in a decade. He still recalled the nightmares.

"Then I am grateful," he said, "and very much obliged."

Richard shifted in the chair.

"It was good of you to put up with my whining."

"No whining. A lot of swearing."

Tom heard his friend rise and looked up at him. Richard stood, rubbing his arms, the
habitual scowl between his brows.

"Is it so very different?" he asked abruptly.

Tom stiffened. "What?"

"Knowing. We've all been under a death sentence in a way." He rubbed his arms again,
shivering. "I don't express myself well. I'm sorry. It's want of sleep."

Tom stared.

"The longer we were over there the shorter the odds. I always thought the axe would fall
sooner or later. I still do. It's a matter of time. You've five years left to you."

"With luck," Tom said bitterly.

"With good luck. I think you should rest for a few months. Then find something to
do."

"Tatting?"

"You said yourself you can do anything you put your mind to. Take up Greek or
architecture or...or accounts. You've a head for figures. Do something demanding."

"Perhaps I'll write a novel."

Richard's shoulders slumped. He turned away and walked back to the window. Tom saw
that it had gone pitch dark out. Unlikely that Richard could see far beyond the gate.

Presently Richard jerked the curtains together. "Try to sleep if you can. I've letters to
write. Sims will be along soon."

"You'll need your candle."

"Yes. In a moment." He riffled through the stack of freshly copied sheets, squared the
pile, and stuffed it in a stiff paper folder of the sort that ties with ribbons. He mended his pen and
bent close to scribble the direction.

"Richard."

"What is it?" He finished and straightened, turning. His hair flopped over his forehead in
a dark wing.

Tom's voice was harsh. "You'll have to talk about your children. There is the small matter
of their guardianship. If you should meet with an accident--"

"If I'm killed you're stuck with them. I'm sorry to burden you with such a charge, but it's
too late to change things. They can be left with Mrs. Foster. My will is with my solicitor."

"You have great faith in the estimable Mrs. Foster."

"I have no choice."

"I
am not so sanguine," Tom said with deliberate brutality. "You've only her
word for it that they're well and happy, Richard. How if she's lying to you? She could be. Even if
she's honest she may take it into her head to marry, or sell the manor and emigrate, and then where
would they be, poor brats?"

"You have the authority to make other arrangements." Richard did not move. His face
was a blur in the dim light.

"What if other arrangements are needed now? What if I stick my spoon in the wall in the
next sixmonth? You'll have to think about them, Richard, at the very least."