Rogue Officer (26 page)

‘You know what I do for a living. Oh, I know you think it ungentlemanly – but it’s something I’m good at. Probably the only thing I’m good at. Where else in the world at this point in time would I get the opportunity to practise my art? India is ideal, being rife with intrigue and murder at the moment. I couldn’t wish for a better stage at this point in my career. At this rate I’ll be a colonel within the year, perhaps even a general within two. There’s not a lot of competition in my game either.’

‘Lieutenant Crossman?’

‘Fancy Jack? He’s hasn’t the callousness to progress too far. Too many principles. Too much integrity. He’s not a ruthlessly ambitious man, like me. He’s happy to progress slowly, by keeping in touch with my coat tails. I do not think less of his character for that: one way is as good as another. We each of us have our skills, Captain, and this was actually not his chosen profession. I brought him into it kicking and screaming. That’s not to say he’s not good at the kind of work I need him for – he’s assiduous and dogged when it comes to a task. That’s the kind of man I need working under me – officers who do the job and do it well.’

Deighnton looked down into his whisky glass. ‘I have learned to dislike the man intensely . . .’

‘Not from the beginning?’

‘No – but he’s as slippery as an eel.’ Again, Deighnton felt he had said too much, for he added, ‘Not that I wouldn’t be the same in his position. I’m a very good shot, though I say it myself.’

‘It takes more than being a good shot to kill a man in a duel,’ replied Lovelace, finishing his glass.

‘That’s true. I’ve got that too. Whatever it is.’

Deighnton looked back at the card table, then said, ‘Was there anything else you wished to talk about, Major?’

‘Oh, no – nothing in particular. I hoped to persuade you to leave my man alone, but obviously that’s not on.’

‘This thing between me and Crossman, there’s no stopping it now, I’m afraid. It’s gone too far for that. I couldn’t hold my head up if I pulled out.’

‘An apology from him?’

‘Sorry, Major, won’t do.’

Lovelace sighed. ‘No, I suppose not. And what’s more I don’t think he’d do it. He doesn’t want the duel, but he’d never kowtow to avoid it. Well, it’s between the two of you. I’m sure I would do the same in your place. I admire a man who’s prepared to put his life on the line for the sake of his honour,’ said the major, intending to fence verbally with Deighnton over this matter. ‘My God, there have been some glorious duels in the past, eh? What about the one between Cardigan and – now who was it? – oh yes, Harvey Tuckett. Captain Tuckett was badly wounded, wasn’t he? And Cardigan was arrested and tried in the House of Lords.’

‘Acquitted though,’ added Deighnton quickly, who knew exactly what Lovelace was doing and he sought to lighten the tone. ‘But what about the petticoat duel? Lady Almeria Braddock and Mrs Elphinstone?’

Lovelace chortled and slapped his knee. ‘Oh,
that
one – over Lady Almeria’s true age, I believe?’

‘In the first exchange of pistol fire, Lady Almeria’s hat was damaged!’

The two men roared out laughing.

‘Then,’ continued Lovelace, wiping away a non-existent tear, ‘when they took to the swords, one of them was pinked and the other apologized.’

They roared again.

‘Women!’ said Deighnton, nodding. His eyes narrowed and Lovelace knew something more significant than a petticoat duel was coming. ‘But my favourite is the duel between the Marquis of Londonderry and an ensign in the marquis’s regiment, a boy named Battier. Battier’s pistol misfired, but he declined to reload and shoot again. Battier walked, much like our Lieutenant Fancy Jack Crossman, and was later horsewhipped for it by Sir Henry Hardinge, one of the marquis’s seconds.’

Lovelace murmured, ‘I’m sure he deserved it,’ then slipped into a casual mode of conversation in which he subtly explored Deighnton’s likes and dislikes. Lovelace was a great believer in ‘know thy enemy’. He cleverly explored Deighnton’s background and preferences without appearing too inquisitive. They had more whiskies, more cigars and pipe-fills, and the evening mellowed on, card games forgotten in the pleasure of stories of watching barefist fights, female conquests at masquerades, tales of wagers which had made fortunes for some gentlemen and wagers which had ruined aristocrats – all those tales in which two like-minded officers indulge, on Lovelace’s part mostly fictitious.

‘I expect you hunt of course, when at home?’ Lovelace asked.

Deighnton nodded, saying that pig-sticking in India was not a patch on chasing a fox or deer back in England. ‘But one makes do with what’s available. Tigers. Now there’s a sport . . .’

And so it went on. Lovelace himself did not hunt or shoot wild animals for sport. It was not something he found any entertainment in. He could kill a man, if it was expedient and absolutely necessary to do so, without compunction. But Lovelace was not a person who did such things simply for the pleasure of letting blood. He saw no good reason to spend a day tracking down a perfectly harmless stag and shooting it for the sake of its antlers. He saw such sport as a waste of good time. However, he did enjoy fly-fishing. He found it relaxing and it gave him time to think over those many knotty problems which beset assassins and spies like himself.

‘Do you like angling?’ he asked Deighnton, thinking that such a slow sport would not interest the captain. ‘I am fond of it, myself.’

Deighnton laughed. ‘Do I like it? I adore it. I’m a member of the Houghton.’

For the first time that evening Lovelace was taken aback. In fact he was stunned. Astonishment was quickly followed by a feeling of monstrous envy. He could hardly believe his ears. The Houghton Fishing Club (along with its sister club, the Amwell Magma) was the oldest and most exclusive fishing club in the United Kingdom. It had only twenty-four members, all immensely wealthy men, and it owned something like a ten-mile stretch of the River Test and its leaders – a length of water which boasted the best trout fishing in the whole of Great Britain. There were thirteen wardens who looked after the Houghton’s interests along the Test, tending this prime piece of fly-fishing heaven. How in God’s name, thought Lovelace, did a man like Deighnton become a member of such an exclusive club?

‘I would sell my mother into slavery to be a member of the Houghton,’ he said, aware that jealousy laced his every word. ‘How did you do it? Prime Ministers, Field Marshals, members of the Royal Family – they’ve tried and failed to enter the portals of the Houghton. I myself once went to the Boot Inn in Stockbridge just to catch a glimpse of the men who do belong.’

‘I know,’ said Deighnton in a self-satisfied tone, ‘it’s delightful, is it not?’ He frowned a little, as if in thought. ‘Perhaps I could take you along as a guest sometime? We seem to like the same things. Get on well together, I would say. Yes, I’m sure that could be arranged, once we’re both back on home soil.’

‘Well, that’s mighty handsome of you. I would like that above all things,’ said Lovelace. He glanced at the mess clock. ‘Now, I have to go. I think you’re needed back at the table. Thanks for the chat.’ They shook hands.

Outside in the cool evening air, Lovelace drew deep breaths. What a loathsome creature was Captain Deighnton. A slug. Yet a member of the Houghton! He was very valuable to someone, that much was certain. You only got into the Houghton when a member keeled over and died. Who had purchased Deighnton the unobtainable? And why, for God’s sake? It was a mystery which needed unravelling and Lovelace was determined to do it. Clearly Deighnton must be involved in some scheme which made other people a lot of money, and was well paid for it, and therefore made it worthwhile for the captain to put up with being in a land he hated, full of people he loathed. Lovelace had seen the way the captain had looked at the Hindu waiter, and had heard the way he spoke of his servant. It was quite obvious Deighnton despised the local population, perhaps even more than he did the country.

‘Yet he remains here,’ Lovelace said to himself, ‘which speaks volumes.’

A
t the same time Lovelace was chatting to his mortal enemy, Jack was hacking his way through jungle. He and his men had been tracking a group of guerrillas for several days. It was no use calling in the cavalry, or any other outside help. The jungle was too dense for ordinary troops. Only a small unit with experience of rugged travel could penetrate that foliage. And since they were actually already there, Jack realized his group might as well finish the job. He had left Sajan with the horses in a friendly village and taken Raktambar, King and Gwilliams into Hell.

Not that his men liked Hell very much. Raktambar and King in particular were disgusted with the place. Both had ‘Yellapuram fever’, an illness named after the village where the first British soldiers in India caught the disease. Jack Crossman believed they had picked it up in the miasma of the swampy areas through which they had passed. Raktambar said he knew how to deal with the sickness and found a vetch which he called
moong
, a cure for the fever. Certainly the vetch was helping, though clearly not banishing outright all the symptoms.

Both invalids had a great fear of snakes, of which there were many and various. Both did not like being in enclosed spaces, especially dark green ones full of spiders and large savage insects.

‘You’ll be telling me you’re worried about tigers next,’ muttered Jack to Raktambar, ‘and wild elephants.’

‘No tiger with brains would come in here,’ replied Raktambar, slicing through a thick vine with his blade. ‘No elephant would fit in here.’

He had learned to use British humour from Gwilliams, who though he was a North American was as dry with his mirth as any Yorkshireman.

‘Well, we’ll soon be out of it.’

‘All we have to do is kill a dozen men and then be on our way, sir,’ added a disillusioned Sergeant King.

Jack said, ‘This is new country for you, King. I would have thought you’d have taken the chance to do one of those linear maps of yours.’

King’s face, ravaged by insect bites, covered in sweat and the muck of a humid jungle, raised what was left of his eyebrows. ‘Map? Sir, I can’t see more than two feet in front of me. It’s always night in here. How do I make a map? What’s more, the birds make a racket enough to wake the dead, clattering around in the tops of trees we never get to see. I get frogs in my bedding, leeches in my leggings, and ants in my food . . .’

The complaints went on. Jack did not try to stop them. They were better out than in, festering away.

Gwilliams was the only man who took such places in his stride.

‘You shoulda bin with me in the swamps of Louisiana. Indians – our kind – tracking you down, dogged as you like. Moccasin snakes and copperheads fillin’ your boots of a morning. Mosquitoes the size of your thumb. This is a walk in the park compared to Louisiana, Sergeant, I can tell you.’

‘And you frequently do,’ retorted King.

‘We’ll rest here,’ said Jack, his arm almost dropping off with the effort of cutting through the undergrowth. ‘Make camp.’

They were in a clearing the size of a small drawing room. Exposed tree roots snaked over the whole area forming a lumpy network. It was impossible to lie down with any comfort. Between the roots was spongy moss, but these small pockets would not have offered space enough for a mouse to sleep. There were insect-eating pitcher plants dangling from the canopy, for which King should have been grateful, except that he was a clumsy soul and continually knocked against them, spilling foul fly-rotten liquid down his clothes. The air was close, hot and very humid. Headaches and diarrhoea were almost universal complaints amongst the group.

‘I will die in here,’ said Raktambar miserably, ‘and never know the sweetness of the marriage bed.’

They all made themselves as comfortable as their environment would allow, using dirty blankets and spare clothes. Gwilliams and King were ‘leech partners’ as were Jack and Raktambar. They each performed the act of burning off the day’s collection of bloodsuckers with a red-hot twig, much in the manner of monkeys grooming each other. No sooner had one set of leeches been cremated however, than a new set began their insidious journey to find flesh. They would not be long without their constant companions, the parasites of the dank quarter.

Jack held up a sock sodden with blood, wondering whether it was worth keeping. Silk socks such as he owned were a luxury and he was reluctant to throw one away if it could be avoided. But there was not water to wash it in and the blood would soon dry to a crispy scratching crust which irritated the skin. He tossed it into the jungle, then wondered whether some predator might smell the blood and come to investigate. It would have been better to burn the sock on the fire for safety reasons!

Gwilliams was cleaning his rifle.

Jack said, ‘Best follow the corporal in his task – weapons foul up easily in this atmosphere.’

‘Powder’s damp in any event,’ grumbled King. ‘I’ll wager they won’t fire, clean or not.’

‘Won’t concern you,’ Gwilliams grunted. ‘You can’t shoot for . . .’

‘Yes, yes, we’ve heard it all before, Corporal. I think the fact that I can’t hit anything with a rifle is probably engraved on the Taj Mahal. Thank you very much for reminding everyone though. I’m sure it had gone completely out of their minds.’

At that moment Raktambar leapt spectacularly to his feet and rushed in an attempt to climb a tree, failing when he could not keep a good hold on the mossy branches. What had made him jump was a huge python that glided past his elbow as he worked. The monster was as thick as his thigh and probably of great length, except that at first the tail was hidden in the undergrowth on one side of the glade, then when it entered the foliage on the other side, the head was not visible either. It bothered no one, this giant reptile, and expected bother from no one.

Gwilliams laughed, as he rammed his cleaning rod down the barrel of his Enfield, twisting and turning it.

‘Now there’s a big critter.’

King said, ‘This isn’t funny, Corporal – that monster nearly bit Raktambar.’