Bar Sinister (8 page)

"Do you imagine I ever think of anything else?"

Richard's voice was so quiet that for a moment his words did not register.

Tom had been watching the spider methodically spinning strand after tiny strand. He
jerked his head sharply and was rewarded with another spasm that left him gasping. "If you feel that
way, then I wonder you won't go to them." He squinted, but it was impossible to make out his
friend's expression. Richard stood beyond the pool of candlelight.

Richard took his jacket from the chair back and put it on with deliberation. Tom bit back
an automatic sarcasm. He didn't have to see the coat, he remembered it very well--the fabric
visibily sleazy, the cut foreign. It had annoyed Tom, who was as fastidious in such matters as he
could afford to be, for six weeks.

Richard said calmly, "I could give them only a few days. And don't cover yourself with
guilt. Two weeks or two days--the effect would be precisely the same. I'd come galloping on the
scene, probably frightening them. They're not used to strangers. I'd disturb their routine, confuse
them, and to what purpose? I'd just have to leave, and I daresay that would confuse them,
too."

"And what if you're killed?"

Richard shrugged. "I think it unlikely they remember me. Amy was two when I saw her
last. Perhaps she does have a few dim recollections, but Tommy wouldn't know me at all. I hear of
them regularly, and I daresay they hear of me. Thanks to Mrs. Foster, they probably think of me as
Father Christmas."

"Surely not."

"As a shadowy figure who writes letters," Richard amended, not smiling, "and sends
gewgaws on their birthdays. That's tolerable. Do you fancy I'd want them to go into paroxysms of
grief over me if I were killed? I find the idea revolting."

He went to the fire, added a careful ration of sea coal, and stood looking down at it.
Apparently his handiwork didn't satisfy him, for he reached for the poker and began jabbing at the
coals. The flaring orange light showed his set profile. The bunched muscle of his jaw jumped.

Tom chose his words with caution. "If they were mine, I'd want to see them, say
good-bye to them."

"My Christ," Richard said softly, "I couldn't bear it." He gave the fire one further tired
poke and set the iron in its place with exaggerated care, which was necessary, Tom saw with
astonishment, because his hand was unsteady.

Surprise was succeeded by bewildered pity. Tom closed his eyes. He could think of
nothing to say. He was not a parent himself and could only guess at the feelings attached to that
state. He had always vaguely supposed them pleasant. It now occurred to him that fatherhood, in
Richard's circumstances, was something akin to tragedy.
For a man of feeling...

Was the idea so absurd?
One need not wear one's feelings on one's sleeve.
Richard had
a reputation for aloofness and withering sarcasm, but sarcasm is a fair defence against feeling.

They had known each other since boyhood. Richard had been a high-strung lad whose bad
dreams annoyed his fellows by night and whose belligerence by day made friendship a constant
hazard. They had been thrown together because they were both left at Parson Freeman's rectory,
where they were being schooled, during the holidays. Later they had lost track of each other for
long stretches of time and neither troubled to write. Even in the Peninsula they had not sat in one
another's pockets.

Tom had always accounted Richard a friend, but not a close one, and he had accepted
guardianship of Richard's children in the patronising conviction that Richard could very likely find
no one else. Now he was in Richard's debt.

If Richard were in my shoes, would I take such pains for him?
Tom turned the thought
over in his head.
No. What a self-satisfied prig I am. Full of conscious virtue and blind as a sow. Saint
Thomas Conway, patron of orphans and universal good fellow.
Self-disgust kept him silent.

Richard leaned on the mantel, head bent, still staring into the fire.

"Will you tell me how things are left?" Tom said at last.

Richard straightened. "I've writ everything down. I meant to go over it with you
later."

"Tell me."

Richard took a long breath. "They won't be a charge on you. You needn't think that.
There's enough to see them educated and a small dower for Amy."

"How the devil did you contrive that?" Tom was astonished.

"Cheeseparing, and four very bad novels."

"In two years?"

"I'd finished the first before Isabel died." He walked over to the bedside table and took up
the other brandy glass. "If the government decide to honour their debts there'll be three months'
arrears and whatever prize money they award. I told the colonel to direct it to my solicitor when I
exchanged." He swirled the liquour in the glass. "That might see Tommy into a clerkship."

"Not into the army."

"No." He gave a short laugh. "Over my dead body."

Tom said quietly, "Sell out. Before you run out of luck."

"And do what?"

"Write."

Richard stared at him. "I haven't another book in me."

"Send Don Alfonso to King's Town and stay home yourself." Don Alfonso was the hero
of Richard's later works, a highborn Spaniard of extravagant pride and stupidity. A good satire,
Tom thought, but one the general reader was unlikely to recognise. The books sold because the
plots, improbable though they might be, moved like lightning. "Did you model Don Alfonso on old
Cuesta?"

That startled a smile. "As Don Gregorio might have been at twenty-five, with touches of
Joachim Blake."

"A clever invention."

"Nonsense," Richard said flatly. "I write the purest tripe. The great British publick prefer
it to art."

Tom chuckled. "I only read the one. It was damned amusing."

Richard said nothing. The brandy sloshed in slow circles.

There was an uninhibited crash at the front door and Sims entered, laden with viands
from the nearest inn.

Despite the humiliation of having Sims feed him in the manner of a robin stuffing its
nestling's craw, Tom surprised himself by eating with a fair appetite. Sims's imperturbable cockney
cheer was equal to that, or as Tom well knew, any other occasion. Nevertheless Tom determined
to take no more meals lying down.

Sims swept up the crumbs deftly. "Try a bit o' cheese, major. Nice crumbly cheddar.
Nothing like it. There's a bit o' berry tart if you've a fancy for it. Sip o' ale first? Right you are." He
trundled over to the table where Richard was picking at a slice of boiled chicken, and poured a swig
into a pewter tankard.

"Try not to spill it all over him," Richard said shortly.

Sims was offended and returned to Tom's side muttering, but he didn't spill much.

Richard rose. "I'm going for a walk."

"No 'urry, Major Falk, sir."

The door closed.

Sims clucked like a hen. "Not 'alf civil tonight, is 'e?"

"He's tired," Tom said pacifically. "Er, how long have I been lying here, Sims, and why?
Not another metal fragment."

"No, now. Pulled a couple of stitches when we come down from London in Lord Bevis's
flash carriage. Road like a cart track the last five mile. That didn't 'elp. You was doing well enough
'til the ague set in." He met his master's gaze blandly. "Been more'n a week. 'E said," Sims jerked
his head in the direction of the door, "'E said wot you wanted was Peruvian bark, but the 'pothecary
balked. Wanted to dose you with laudanum. Rare set-to that was. I told the quack you didn't use it,
but 'e thought 'e knew best. Major Falk threw 'is drops out the door and they 'ad words."

"I can imagine." Tom suppressed a laugh. It hurt to laugh. He was relieved to know that
the surgeons hadn't been at him again. "The ague, you say. You're sure?"

"Sure as death," Sims said with characteristic want of tact. "Dosed you with bark, Major
Falk did. 'Ad to pour it down you, four, five different times. Nasty stuff. 'E said I should keep a
supply of the bark to 'and. That right, Major?"

"Yes. Thank you, Sims. If you've been spelling Richard off and on for a week you'll be
tired, too. Turn in early."

"Oh, I took forty winks on me couch of ease this morning. Major Falk said 'e'd cope. 'Ad
'is scribbling to keep 'im 'appy. 'E's writ a book, ain't 'e?" Sims looked impressed.

"Four. No, more than that. The first few were too dreadful to count."

"Cor. Is 'e famous then?"

"No." Tom stared at his man and decided not to try to explain pseudonyms. Richard's
was Peter Picaro. Alliterative and appropriate. Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.

"'Ere, wot's so bleeding funny?"

"Sorry, Sims," Tom choked back a laugh. "A stray thought."

"It's a fair treat to see you pulling out of the dismals," Sims said generously. "More like
yerself, if I may say so, Major."

"You may. Thank you, Sims. Did I have the wit to cash a bank draught before I left
Town?"

"Aye. We're in clover."

"Then take a crown, or whatever you need, and be off to the inn. What's it called?"

"The Dolphin, sir."

"To the Dolphin. You can return the crockery and settle the account. Have a pint or two
before you come back."

Sims looked pleased at that and vanished in a trice, having built up the fire and lit a fresh
candle before his exit. It was some time before Richard returned.

Tom drowsed, but he wasn't tired.
Slept out,
he thought. The spider on the
center beam seemed to have retired for the night. It was raining and beginning to blow.

At last the front door opened quietly. Sims was incapable of such delicacy.

"Where's Sims?" Richard snapped.

"At the Dolphin. Probably under the table by now."

"I told him not to leave you."

"I daresay he thought my orders took precedence of yours." Tom felt a stab of
annoyance.
Officious bastard.
"Do you fancy I'll fall on my sword if I'm left alone?"

"You might turn feverish again. I can do without another night of wrestling with you."
Richard latched the door.

"I daresay." Tom squinted. "Richard, you lunatic, you're soaked to the skin. Take that
appalling coat off and change your shirt or
you'll
be needing the Peruvian bark."

Richard crossed obediently to the fire and, removing the offensive garment, dragged out
a dilapidated firescreen. He hung the coat on it, where it dripped a melancholy puddle onto the
flags. "You don't like my Bordeaux jacket?"

"Is that what it is? No. I do not."

"Pity."

"Change your shirt."

"In a moment." Richard knelt and held his hand to the fire.

"You might've had your tailor choose a less obnoxious shade of blue."

"What tailor? It was ready made for an
avocat
who unfortunately succumbed to
the typhus. M'sieur assured me it suited milor' to a perfection. Besides it was dagger cheap and
you'll allow I needed a new one."

Tom closed his eyes. He tried to recall if he had given Richard money for the remove
from London. He felt a cool hand on his forehead and looked up into Richard's composed features.
A drop of icy water hit Tom's nose. "What the devil?"

"Sorry. Wet hair. I wanted to see if you need another dose."

"No!--that is, I'm perfectly well."

"All the same, one more glass..."

Tom groaned theatrically.

A spark of laughter lit his friend's eyes. "I perceive you are greatly improved. It will do
you good, however."

"That's what all quacks say of their revolting potions. Where are you going?"

"To change my shirt." He disappeared beyond Tom's range of vision and returned,
pulling a fresh shirt over his lean torso. His hair had been towelled and stood up in tufts.

"You look a guy."

Richard entered to the scullery. He came back with a glass of murky liquid. "Don't try to
sit up. I'll prop you."

"Good God."

"Stop imagining horrors," Richard said rather sharply. "You're almost healed. When
you've healed completely you'll have to work at it a bit. In a month or so it won't play the devil
with you all the time. Standing and walking would be well enough now. Bending and sitting will
take longer, that's all."

"I do not love thee, Dr. Falk."

"No reason you should. No, don't try it. Just lean on my arm. I'll pull you up."

Tom leaned. He drank the stewed bark off and made a face. Richard removed the glass.
When he lay flat once more and the worst twinges had subsided, Tom took a careful breath. "I'll
need a replacement in the wings--as the children's guardian. Have you thought of that?" He was
proud of his own matter-of-fact tone.

"No. Not really." Richard sat on the chair and stretched his booted legs out, staring at
them.

"Bevis."

"No."

"Do you dislike Bevis?"

"I don't dislike him. He's an affable man. I don't know him well enough." Richard
chewed his lip. "Forgive me. I realise he is your close friend, but I judged him somewhat
volatile."

"In his tastes perhaps. Not in his sense of duty."

"That is high praise."

Tom sighed. "Whom do you suggest?"

"Travers. No, he's bound for America, too. I forgot."

"Who else?"

Richard said bleakly, "There aren't legions to draw from. I haven't your gift for
friendship."

"They're dead, aren't they? I'm sorry, Richard. I have been somewhat more fortunate,
but apart from Bevis I haven't a great many friends I could entrust children to, either."

"Then it will have to be Bevis." Richard rose, levering himself up on the chair back. The
chair protested. "I'll draw up instructions for my solicitor."

"Have you thought to ask your family for help?"

His hand clenched on the curved wood. "Christ!"

"I wish you will hear me out."

"I'd sooner see them on the parish," Richard said fiercely. "Are you mad?"