Lessons in Power (9 page)
players adored her. They loved to take her off to some establishment after the game to entertain her with white wine. She’d only to smell the wintergreen wafting from the changing room and she was like a
greyhound in the slips, ears pricked and waiting for the action to start.
She’d watched Jonty play when he was just eighteen, a boy lacking in self-assurance and a mere
shadow of the confident and urbane man he’d become. The thought of seeing how Jonty and Orlando
would fare as opponents excited her. She alone in St. Bride’s knew the true relationship between the men—
would the tackles be entered into as firmly if the beloved
was likely to be on the receiving end of them?
Her theory was that Jonty would bullet into Orlando without the slightest jot or tittle of a second thought.
He’d probably enjoy sending his friend flying into touch and, so long as there were no significant bones broken, then he’d be happy to see a noteworthy number of bruises decorating his darling’s limbs or torso.
Perhaps there would even be counting of same at Forsythia Cottage, later.
Orlando she was less certain about. Had this match taken place a year or so previously, then the man
would have been wary of inflicting any harm upon
his
Dr. Stewart. He’d probably be far less cautious now and might well enjoy the prospect of throwing
someone
on the floor then rubbing his little nose into the dirt before letting him up. Not enough to spoil his looks, naturally; Orlando would be careful on that point.
The English fellows won the toss, which started a rumour that they had a weighted coin as they
always seemed to call correctly. The outside half dropped the ball, launched it for the pack to chase and the game was underway. Jonty darted about like a terrier, harrying and tackling, spinning the ball out to set his backs going every time he got possession. The fact that this was a team used to playing together shone from the start—a try was soon scored and converted, the wily Wakefield, who was an expert on the works of
Jane Austen, going in under the posts.
Orlando had hardly seen the ball, let alone got his hands on it, and he wasn’t impressed. When a pass finally did come his way he was surprised, but with Ariadne Peters in his eye line he couldn’t dare spill the ball forward, so he fumbled it into some sort of safe place under his left arm and set off. He’d passed the gain line and spotted a nice little gap between two lumbering forwards—who were no doubt ambling off to where their instinct suggested the next scrum might form—when a cannonball came flying across the field to take him, itself and the ball firmly into touch.
Orlando was winded, the rugby ball flew away, then the cannonball got up with a big grin all over its gob and said, “Sorry, Dr. Coppersmith, don’t know my own strength
,
” without meaning a word of it.
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Lessons in Power
By the time Orlando got possession again his side had gone behind even further, but this time he
aimed directly for the corner flag, managing to evade all tackles and going over for a virtuoso try. The half ended on an even better note when Orlando managed to tackle the muscular little cannonball and get its face covered in mud, including at least a hundredweight which went up its diminutive nose. As the whistle blew for halftime, honours were even.
When the game recommenced the numerical chaps played with a bit more organisation, getting into
their stride and using their brains rather than just their muscles for once. The play drew closer to the English fellows’ try line, at which point a loose pass allowed Jonty to intercept the ball in its flight and set off to try to pierce the line of mathematical men. A huge forward (name of Voyce and said to be an expert in the matter of gravitational analysis) lunged at him, took him round the waist and dumped him in a heap over the touchline.
Miss Peters held her breath, not because she feared that Jonty was injured, but because she was near
enough to Orlando to see the fearsome look of rage in his eye. The man took off like a train in the direction of the interception, swung the tackler around and squared up to him.
Voyce must have been six foot seven if he was an inch. Orlando wasn’t small, but the man towered
over him. The look in Orlando’s eye would have made even Goliath quail—notwithstanding that Voyce
was on his team, there was every possibility of his colleague laying him out with a right hander. The referee (a tiny little scrap of a man who was an expert in botany and who looked as if he made his living
impersonating stalks of barley) stepped between them with a firm, “Gentlemen, I don’t want to see this.
Keep away from one another.”
The two players looked shamefaced. Both mumbled a “Yes, sir,”
and went back to their correct positions for the line out, Jonty’s team heartened and amused by the fact that the opposition seemed to be doing half
their
job by sorting each other out. If the left wing and the wing forward were dismissed the field, life would be much easier.
Ariadne Peters eyed the two would-be protagonists with glee—she could see exactly what was going
on, if no one else could. Orlando had been happy to slam Jonty onto the ground in the first half. She’d been close enough to see the man deliberately rub his friend’s blond hair into a nasty spot of mud so that his usually handsome coiffeur soon resembled a rather dirty haystack. But she would have bet a five-pound note that Orlando regarded this as his prerogative alone, not to be shared with anyone else. If another player dared commit a high or late or otherwise unsuitable tackle on a certain scrum half then he would have Orlando to answer to.
She’d also seen what added to the aggravation. Voyce had deliberately booted Jonty as he lay on the
ground while winded,
ergo,
she supposed, he must pay. The game continued apace but Orlando’s mind was only half on it. He wanted to avenge his little pal, who’d looked a bit dazed after the tackle although he’d subsequently played off whatever injury he was carrying. Orlando’s eye followed Voyce around the pitch,
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Charlie Cochrane
looking for the ideal opportunity—it came when all the circumstances lined up. Voyce at the bottom of a ruck, Orlando in position to rake the ball out, a certain forward’s leg exposed, a set of studs on a size-ten boot, a little strafe or two, and not a witness who could say that any of it had been deliberate.
When the final whistle blew, Jonty’s team claimed a glorious victory, the mathematical comeback
proving too little too late. The teams set off for the communal baths with much clapping and slapping of backs.
When they’d removed all the mud, all concerned repaired to the neutrality of the Bishop’s Cope,
where the beer flowed and Miss Peters was given a gin and tonic or two to cradle. She mingled with all the players, discoursing knowledgably, and if she lingered with those who had the finest physiques or the handsomest faces, at her age and in her position no one would criticise her.
At last she cornered Orlando, something she’d wanted to do since the game ended, and not in
company with his little cannonball-like pal. “A fine match, Dr. Coppersmith, the first of many for your team, I hope.”
Orlando beamed. “Most satisfactory, Miss Peters. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Oh I did. Though not as much as you, I suspect.” Miss Peters had a twinkle in her eye that her
brother would have recognised and been wary of.
“Well, I will admit that it was very agreeable to score that try. At least I could equal that drop goal which Dr. Stewart sneaked in.”
“Oh, I think that you could easily claim to have outscored him.”
Orlando’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry?”
“The referee may not have noticed but I saw what went on in that ruck. Playing at St. George and on
your own player too.”
Orlando had the grace to blush. “I’m not sure I entirely understand your meaning.”
“Of course not, young man.” Miss Peters took a sip of her drink. “And don’t worry, I won’t tell
himself
anything about it. I don’t know if he’d be pleased to have a champion or brain you for being a big daft Jessie.”
Orlando and Jonty arrived at the Stewarts’ London home in time for an ample supper and a game of
whist, augmented with hugs from Mrs. and back slaps from Mr. Orlando wore his smuggest grin at being
with his “family” again—they were spending a weekend in the capital, ostensibly to have the new suit
fitted, but with much else to do.
Saturday morning, a visit to Waite’s was the first item on the agenda, with Jonty on tenterhooks to see how Orlando would look in a classy suit, the man’s clothes up to now having been decent and functional, drab and boring. Even in its rudimentary form, the outfit exceeded all expectation, making Jonty wish he 46
Lessons in Power
could take a photo to capture the moment, as his father had for him when he’d had his first long trousers.
Indeed those very trousers were referred to within thirty seconds of them coming through the door, young Mr. Waite falling on the men and reminding Jonty of all the times he’d been pleased that his establishment had been graced with the family’s custom.
As Orlando was poked and prodded with pins, Mr. Waite had gone on to enquire politely after the
Stewart family, especially Lavinia’s husband, who was also an
occasional
,
allowed to do business here on the basis of his father being a bishop.
Jonty let him carry on chatting, having his own clear plan. “I understand from Dr. Coppersmith that
an old friend of mine, Lord Christopher Jardine, was in here the day he died. Most distressing for you all.”
He caught Orlando’s eye, wondering if the lie—
old friend—
had been spoken smoothly enough and if he’d given the faintest hint of his true feelings. The slight nod he received in return reassured him.
“Indeed, sir. As we remarked to Mr. Stewart, it was truly dreadful.” Waite frowned. “I must admit it’s been rather a topic of conversation from his old school friends and fellow members at Platt’s. And there has been other, less desirable, interest.”
Jonty’s ears pricked up. “Not the press, surely?” He knew that such people would be beneath the salt
for this establishment and hoped to exploit the shared antipathy to journalists.
“He said he was from the
newspapers
—” Waite managed to make the word sound like it meant
sewers, “—although I didn’t believe him. He wanted to ask questions but I’d not allow it. Later, I found out he’d been snooping around my staff as well. Most unacceptable.”
“I wonder who the scoundrel was?”
Jonty noted the throwaway style of Orlando’s question with pleasure. He was getting the hang of this
sleuthing business.
“I have no idea, sir, nor do I wish to ascertain an answer. Now, if you would just permit me to take
that lapel back a little, I think…” They all admired Orlando’s reflection in the full-length mirror.
“Perfect. Mr. Waite, you’ve excelled yourself.” Jonty grinned and set his mind to working out how,
now that the tailor had his friend’s measurements, he could get three more assorted suits made up without
someone
twigging.
They’d have walked to Timothy Taylor’s house, but with time on short commons a cab had to be used
and Jonty was left to kick his heels in frustration, urging on the horse by willpower alone. They’d no need to try the strong-arm stuff on the doorstep—Jonty had written to the man in advance to procure an
appointment for eleven that morning. Coffee was waiting for them, a thin, evil brew which bore no
resemblance to the marvellous stuff Mrs. Ward served up. It was left largely untasted in the cup.
“I want you to tell me where you went to the night that Christopher Jardine was killed.” The authority which Jonty felt was evident in his voice.
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Charlie Cochrane
“I don’t have to enlighten you. It was
not
Dorking.” Taylor looked superciliously down his nose at them. There was a spark of fight in him, a dash of self-confidence, which hadn’t been present at their previous encounter, to such an extent Orlando became convinced he’d been talking to someone about this matter.
“But you had time to go there and back. Ample. If you didn’t visit his lordship, then where were
you?” Jonty hadn’t missed the renewed confidence, although he wasn’t going to be put off in the face of it.
“I’ve said already that I refuse to account to you for all my movements.”
“But you would have to tell the police, wouldn’t you? And they’d be even more sceptical than I am.
You have until Monday. If you haven’t sent me word by then about where you were that night, I’ll be
taking what we know to our friend Inspector Wilson. And Inspector Wilson will make me look like a
Sunday school teacher.”
“There is one more thing.” Orlando reached into his pocket, pleased to see the puzzled reaction on his lover’s face. “What can you tell us about this?” He produced a handsome cigarette case, which Jonty would have found familiar.
Taylor took it, examining it all over. “Nothing. As far as I’m aware I’ve not seen it before; there’s no inscription to aid in identifying it.” He returned the case.
“The police will find
that
significant, too.”
“What was all the business with the cigarette case? It looked remarkably like one of Papa’s.” They
were back in a Hansom cab, this time heading for the train to transport themselves south to the subtropical environs of Dorking.
Orlando grinned. “It is. I borrowed it this morning. Can’t you guess what I was doing?”
“Acting the goat? Winding Taylor up?” Jonty had no idea what had been going on, not for the first
time when it came to the machinations of the Coppersmith mind.