Sea Change (17 page)

He did not have to like it, however. He especially resented his inability to think about anything else. There was surely much to ponder in the singular circumstances that had led to the fatal struggle at the Pension Siegwart. Zuyler and Jupe had killed each other and Estelle de Vries had fled with the Green Book. That seemed clear. But where had she fled to? The Simplon Pass was so obvious a destination that Cloisterman feared it might be too obvious. Mrs de Vries had shown herself to be a cool-nerved and resourceful woman. Just how resourceful he was not sure they yet knew. But he could not seem to concentrate on the clues to her intentions that he felt certain were scattered amidst the sparse facts of her behaviour to date. Instead, his mind was clogged with the brutal absurdities of a dawn duel between two men he scarcely knew over a long dead woman he had never known at all. It was a miserable scrape to find himself in. And somehow it seemed more miserable still because one of the duellists was sleeping like a baby in the same room where Cloisterman knew he was destined to toss and turn till the long night ended. Whereupon…

'Damn you, Dalrymple,' he muttered under his breath. 'I didn't deserve this.'

But deserving, as he was all too well aware, had absolutely nothing to do with it.

The roofs of Berne rose above them like those of some dream city, floating, girding mountains and all, on the mist that shrouded the river.

It was a still, chill, breathless dawn in the sloping, snow-spattered meadow where the four men assembled, between the mist-line and the Interlaken road. Few words were spoken at first and most of those were in the form of a stumbling effort by Cloisterman to call the duel off, to which Wagemaker responded with a grunted refusal and Mcllwraith with a fatalistic shrug. Spandrel and Cloisterman were shivering and clearly ill at ease, whereas the two men who were about to hazard their lives were icily calm. They took off their greatcoats, then Wagemaker opened the pistol-case he had brought and offered Mcllwraith his choice of the matched pair. They loaded the weapons themselves, apparently concluding, without the need of saying so, that their seconds were unequal to the task.

'We should toss a coin to see who has the right to fire first,' said Cloisterman, fishing one from his pocket. 'Unless…' But, with a shake of the head, he abandoned his last attempt at mediation.

'No need,' said Wagemaker, holding Mcllwraith's gaze with his. 'Ten paces each, then turn and shoot. Agreed?'

'However you please,' said Mcllwraith. 'Since you want this so badly, you may as well have the ordering of it.'

'Agreed, then. You can put your money away, Mr Cloisterman.'

'May I at least count the paces for you?' Cloisterman asked through pursed lips.

'You may,' said Wagemaker. 'Shall we get on?'

'One thing,' put in Mcllwraith. 'Before we do.'

'Well?'

'Dorothea wouldn't have—'

'Don't mention my sister by name, sir. I don't choose to give you the right to.'

'What you choose to do is to defile her memory.'

'By God, you have a nerve. Now let's see how steady it is. Are you here to talk or to fight?'

'I'm here to give you satisfaction, Colonel. As I'm bound to. But we should be clear. Dorothea sacrificed her life to prevent us doing just this eight years ago.'

'Is that true?' asked Cloisterman.

'It's no business of yours whether it's true or not,' barked Wagemaker. 'Step back and let's be doing.'

'Very well.' Cloisterman retreated, signalling for Spandrel to follow.

When they were thirty yards or so away, Wagemaker cocked his pistol and Mcllwraith cocked his. They nodded to one another, then took up position, back to back.

'Oh God,' groaned Cloisterman. 'This really is going to happen.'

'Did you think it mightn't?' asked Spandrel.

'I hoped.' He sighed, then shouted, 'Ready?'

'Ready,' came Wagemaker's reply.

'Ready,' Mcllwraith confirmed.

'One,' Cloisterman called. And at that they started walking.

Duelling was no part of life in Spandrel's bracket of society. It was to him a strange and exotic indulgence of the upper classes, to which army officers, however humble their origins, also had habitual recourse. He had witnessed one once, thanks to Dick Surtees overhearing the arrangements being made in a coffee-house by the seconds and suggesting they go along and take a look at 'two pea-brained sparks using each other for target practice'. It had been a bloodless affray in Hyde Park, the 'pea-brained sparks' in question missing their targets by a country mile, looking heartily relieved to do so and departing arm in arm, like the best of friends. Spandrel found himself wishing there could be a similar outcome to the second duel he was ever about to witness. But he knew in his heart there could not be. Blood would be shed at the very least. A life — Wagemaker's or Mcllwraith's — was likely to be lost in the exchange that now lay only a few seconds in the future. He fervently hoped it would not be Mcllwraith's. But he greatly feared that it would. At the count of ten, he held his breath.

The two men were about twenty yards apart when they turned. Wagemaker spun on his heel, raised his arm and took aim a fraction of a second more swiftly — more naturally — than Mcllwraith. The Scotsman's arm was still just short of the horizontal when Wagemaker fired. The loud crack of the pistol shot broke the silence that had followed Cloisterman's count of ten, only to be swallowed in a cawing rise of rooks from the mist-blurred trees further down the meadow. For a frozen instant, Spandrel did not know what had happened. There was no answering shot. The two men stood perfectly still, framing the city behind them, the cathedral tower seeming to mark, like a raised finger, the point from which they had measured their paces.

Then Mcllwraith groaned and took one stumbling, sideways step. His arm dropped. His other hand moved to his chest. He seemed about to fall. Wagemaker slowly lowered his pistol. 'He's done for him,' said Cloisterman, stepping forward. 'As he swore he would.'

But Mcllwraith did not fall. With a cry more like that of a beast than a man, he wrenched himself upright. Spandrel could see his chest heaving with the effort. He was hit, perhaps fatally, but something stronger than lead shot was holding him on his feet. He took one lurching step back to the position from which he had stumbled, his racing breath pluming into the air around him. Then he raised his pistol once more.

'He means to fire,' said Cloisterman, pulling up sharply.

'You're a dead man, Captain,' Wagemaker called to his opponent. 'You can't even stand straight, let alone shoot straight.' With that he threw his pistol to the ground. 'This is—'

There was a second pistol shot. Wagemaker's head jerked violently back as bone and blood burst out of it. He swayed for a moment, then fell backwards, hitting the frosted turf with a thud. There was no other movement. He lay where he fell, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, still and lifeless.

'Good God,' murmured Cloisterman. 'Good God Almighty.'

Mcllwraith let his pistol fall to the ground. Then, slowly, as if stooping to pray, he slipped to his knees. Spandrel began running towards him. As he ran, he saw the captain topple over onto his side, his body convulsed by a series of spluttering coughs. Then he lay still.

'Captain?' Spandrel bent over him and touched his elbow. There was blood on Mcllwraith's waistcoat, oozing through the fingers of the hand he had clasped to the wound and darkening the frost-white grass beneath him. 'Can you hear me?'

'I can… hear you,' Mcllwraith replied through clenched teeth. 'Wagemaker?'

Spandrel looked across at Cloisterman, who had hurried to where the colonel was lying and was stooping over him. Hearing the question, he looked over his shoulder and said, 'Quite dead, Captain, I assure you.'

'But he still has the… advantage of me.' Mcllwraith seemed to be smiling. 'At least he died… cleanly.'

'You're not going to die,' said Spandrel.

'I wish you were right. But as usual… you're wide of the mark. Unlike… Wagemaker.'

'I'll fetch a doctor,' said Cloisterman. 'As fast as I can. Stay here, Spandrel. And go on talking to him. It may help.'

The two men exchanged nods, then Cloisterman took off across the field in a loping run, the tails of his coat flapping out behind him. He was heading towards the houses clustered around the bridge by which they had left the city, the bridge from which Estelle de Vries claimed to have thrown the Green Book into the river. Since she had uttered that claim, no more than thirty hours or so ago, Zuyler and Jupe and Wagemaker had all met their deaths, suddenly and violently, when they were least expecting to. And now Mcllwraith seemed likely to join them.

'Has he gone?' Mcllwraith's voice was hoarse and strained.

'Yes. Don't worry. He'll—'

'Stop jabbering and listen to me, Spandrel. I don't have long. I'm dying, man.'

'No. No, you're not.'

'Don't contradict me, damn you. I've seen enough death… in my time… to know what it's like. Just listen to me.'

'I'm listening, Captain.'

'Good. This is… important. You must leave here. Now.'

'I can't do that.'

'You must. Take my pouch. It's in my coat. There's money. Guineas. Louis d'or. And sequins. You'll need those for Rome.'

'Rome?'

'You have to go on… without me.'

'I can't leave you like this.'

'There's … no choice. I've been here before. Not to Berne. But to Switzerland. I know their ways. This is a Calvinist canton. They come down hard on… Catholic indulgences. That's what they see duelling as. You and Cloisterman will be arrested … as soon as the Sheriff hears what's happened. Do you want to go back … to prison? Maybe even a Dutch one? A warrant naming you as a suspected murderer… could find its way here from Amsterdam… while you're in custody. Do you… want that?'

'Of course not.'

'Then go. While you still can.'

'I won't leave you until the doctor's arrived.'

'There'll be nothing for him to do.' Mcllwraith winced. 'An undertaker, now. He could be… useful.'

'Don't say that.'

'I'm only… facing facts, man. You should… do the same. You mustn't be here when Cloisterman returns. He's for the Government, remember, and… well capable of handing you over to the authorities… in exchange for his own freedom. I don't want him… spending the committee's money.'

'He wouldn't do that.'

'Wouldn't he? You're too trusting, Spandrel. That's your… big weakness. So, trust me… for once.'

'I do.'

'Good. In that case…' Mcllwraith twisted round and clasped Spandrel's arm in a disconcertingly strong grip. 'For God's sake, go.'

Another half an hour had passed by the time Cloisterman returned to the meadow, accompanied by a doctor none too pleased to have been summoned from his breakfast-table and two of his manservants, equipped with blankets and a litter. Mcllwraith was unconscious, though still breathing. But of Spandrel there was no sign. He had draped the captain's greatcoat over him and added Wagemaker's to keep him as warm as possible. And then…

'Where have you gone, Spandrel?' Cloisterman muttered, gazing suspiciously into the distance. 'What game are you playing?'

'This man is near death, mein Herr,' said the doctor, interrupting the drift of his thoughts. 'We must take him to my house.'

'Very well.'

'There has been… a duel?'

'Yes.'

'But it is Sunday. The sabbath. Have you no…' The doctor frowned at him. 'Verachtenswert.'

'What?'

'We must go. We will not save him. But we must try.'

They loaded Mcllwraith onto the litter, strapped him in and set off at a brisk pace across the meadow. Cloisterman made no move to follow.

'Come with us, mein Herr,' the doctor called back to him. 'There will be questions.'

'Naturlich.'' Cloisterman made after them, quickly enough at first to catch up, then more slowly. Questions. Yes. There would be. A great many questions. And not enough answers. He stopped and looked across at Wagemaker's body, the face white beneath the shattered brow, the clotted blood black against the frozen grass. He remembered the colonel's steady, sleeping breaths of the night before. So much certainty, so much strength, undone in an instant.

'Mein Herr!' The doctor's voice carried back to him through the cold, clearing air. 'We will send someone for the other. Einen Leichenbestatter. Kommen Sie!'

'I'll follow. In a moment.'

What should he do? Spandrel had fled. That was obvious. And who could blame him? Not Cloisterman. He was inclined to do the same himself. He had been told to assist Wagemaker. But Wagemaker was dead. Dalrymple had said nothing about trying to complete Wagemaker's mission in the event of the colonel's demise. Strictly speaking, Cloisterman's duties were at an end. He could not be blamed for returning to The Hague and reporting the dismal facts as they stood. He would be blamed, of course. But he could bear that a good deal better than having to answer to the Bernese authorities for the havoc he might be accused of wreaking in their peaceful city — on the sabbath, as the doctor had pointed out. The doctor, however, did not know his name and was presently preoccupied with Mcllwraith. There was an opportunity for Cloisterman to slip away. But it would not last long. If he did not take it, he might come to regret it. And, so far, he had come to regret just about everything that had happened since his departure from Amsterdam. It was time to think of himself.

'Excuse me, Colonel,' he said under his breath as he turned towards the road. 'I really must be going.'