Bertie and the Tinman, page 5
“No, sir.”
“Doesn’t that strike you as queer?”
Buckfast hesitated. “I’m in no doubt that he was very ill at the week’s end, sir. Feverish. A very high temperature.”
“Undoubtedly,” I concurred, “for a couple of days. He was poorly on Saturday and Sunday, but yesterday he was sitting up having conversations.”
Buckfast nodded. “Perfectly true, sir.”
I said in a reasonable tone, “It sounds most unlike the typhoid I experienced. I was at death’s door for three weeks. A severe chill I can believe, but typhoid . . .”
Buckfast stood erectly, saying nothing.
“Of course,” I went on, rather enjoying this (you can see me blossoming as a detective, can’t you?), “if one were to stand logic on its head and reverse cause and effect, a possible explanation emerges. Suicide equals brain fever equals typhoid. A well-intentioned family doctor may see it as his duty to confirm such a diagnosis.”
Buckfast thought it proper to defend the medical profession. “There was the matter of the wandering.”
“Ah, the wandering,” said I. “Everyone was at pains to mention the wandering. It is, after all, a well-known symptom of typhoid. Everyone, that is to say, except the nurse.”
“I thought she spoke of it,” said Buckfast with a frown.
“The coroner did, when the nurse was giving evidence. He particularly asked her whether the patient wandered in his mind. She denied it. She said she was utterly certain that he didn’t.”
“Perhaps she was absent from the room when it occurred,” the Captain responded.
“Possibly,” said I, and then suggested, not without irony, “Shall we move on? The ventilation in this place leaves something to be desired.”
We removed ourselves to the conservatory, passing Mrs. Coleman on the way. I don’t think she could have overheard us in the Turkish bath. She effected a passable curtsy, and I returned a nod, as one couldn’t smile in the circumstances. In feature and build she was very like her brother had been, though better nourished. She was still red-eyed from weeping, reminding me that the family wouldn’t be overly pleased at having the inquest verdict questioned. However, if Archer, as I suspected, had been terrorized into taking his own life, someone was responsible and should be made to answer for it.
Among the ferns and palms I rapidly located the only bentwood chair furnished with cushions, and dispatched Buckfast for a bottle of Archer’s vintage bubbly. As I reasonably pointed out, the owner had no more use for it. Knowing Archer’s reputation for tightness—not for nothing was he known as the Tinman—I privately doubt whether he would have offered us so much as a glass of beer while he was alive, but I don’t believe in speaking ill of the dead, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt and uncorked his champagne when it was brought. I also offered Buckfast a cigar. Not often do I hand out my specials to virtual strangers. However, a notion was forming in my brain that the Captain could be of service to me. When he had poured me a glass, I invited him to take the stool opposite. Without fuss he wedged a matchbox between his knees and struck a light with his good hand and offered it to me. The hand shook a little as it approached my cigar, but whose wouldn’t? All in all, he exemplified what is best in the British army officer: resource, good manners and loyalty to the Crown.
“Tell me about yourself,” I invited him warmly. “Are you a family man like me?” (That like me is my way of putting a man at his ease.)
“No, sir.” (It doesn’t always succeed.)
“What is your status, then?”
“I’m a bachelor with rooms in London. Jermyn Street.”
“A good address,” I told him. “Not far from mine. I have a place in Pall Mall.”
“I know, sir.”
“And you had some time in the army? The Guards?”
“Cavalry, sir. The 17th Lancers. I was wounded in the Zulu War, at Kambula.”
“Rotten luck.”
“I got in the way of an assagai.”
I shook my head in sympathy. “A savage beast.”
“It was a spear, sir.”
“I was referring to the native who threw it, Captain. So you returned to England—on a generous pension, I hope?”
“It suffices, sir. I have a modest private income.”
“And you know enough about racing to earn a penny or two?”
He gave the suspicion of a smile. “One never knows enough, unfortunately.”
“How true!”
He added, “I owned a colt that won the Guineas and came second in the Derby.”
“Oh? Which was that?”
“Paradox.”
I was more than a little impressed. He was speaking of one of the outstanding thoroughbreds of recent years. “You owned Paradox? I thought Brodrick-Cloete owned Paradox.”
“I sold it as a two-year-old.”
“Pity. What did you get for it?”
“Six thousand. I bought it as a yearling for seven hundred.”
“Not bad! I can see why Archer cultivated you. Let’s drink to Paradox.” We touched glasses and I looked searchingly into his eyes. “I want to confide in you, Captain,” I informed him without ceremony. “From all I heard this afternoon, I don’t believe Archer was deranged by typhoid. I think he shot himself deliberately. Does that shock you?”
He was silent for a moment. “Why should he do such a thing, sir?”
I lowered my glass and leaned forward. “That’s the crux of it, Buckfast, that’s the crux of it. I’m hoping you can enlighten me. We heard he was low-spirited. Is that true? When you left him at midday yesterday, he was happy and contented. Weren’t those your very words?”
“Well, yes. That was my clear impression, sir.”
“Yet the doctor and the nurse reported that he was low in spirits. He told them he was going to die.”
Buckfast lowered his eyes for a moment and rested his chin on his fist in an attitude of thought. “They must have been speaking of much earlier. The doctor left by half past nine. By noon, when I went out, Fred was much improved. You could ask Mrs. Coleman.”
“I don’t think we should trouble her now.”
“I wouldn’t have dreamed of going out if I’d thought he was depressed, sir. I cared about Fred. I’ve seen him through some dreadful times—slanderous attacks by people who should have known better, the deaths of his first child and his wife. I took him to America to recover from the grief. When you’ve seen a man in the depth of despair, you know the signs. He was at peace when I last saw him. I swear it.”
From a normally reticent man, this was a singularly moving speech. Buckfast had gone quite pink as he uttered it. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the corner of his eye.
I refilled his glass. “Now that he’s gone, what do you propose to do?”
“I’ve hardly had time to consider, sir. I’ve been showing the coroner over the house and preparing for the funeral. After that, no doubt I’ll be asked to assist the executors in going through his papers.”
“After these duties have been dispensed, would you consider rendering a service to me?”
He didn’t move a muscle, but his eyes shone like the Koh-i-Noor. I believe he thought I was about to offer him a position as my racing manger. “Whatever you deem that I’m capable of performing, sir.”
I said, “I, too, had a strong regard for Archer, and I’m not satisfied that what we heard today was the whole truth. I shall be making some inquiries of my own—in the strictest confidence—and you are best placed to assist me in this enterprise.”
He looked a shade crestfallen, I thought, but to his credit he said at once, “It will be my honor and my pleasure, sir.”
“Not much pleasure, I suspect,” said I.
“What can I do to help?”
I put aside my glass and sat forward. “Of all the words that were spoken at the inquest, three intrigue me mightily. Why? Because they were the last that Archer ever spoke.”
“‘Are they coming?’”
I nodded. “A simple question, but what a dread significance it has in the circumstances. ‘Are they coming?’ What could he have meant by it? The coroner seems to have missed the point completely. Presumably he dismisses the words as the rambling of a demented man. Demented? Or tormented? That is what we have to discover, Captain.”
His eyes had widened. “So you believe he was expecting someone to come to the house, sir? Someone real?”
I answered, “I doubt if he was referring to the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Mrs. Coleman was at the window looking out, and Archer thought she’d seen some visitors who so alarmed him that he reached for the gun. Captain, have you any notion who they might have been?”
He shook his head. “Every jockey is vulnerable to criminal elements, sir. There are plenty of low types on the fringe of racing.”
I nodded. We both knew the temptations open to jockeys, and Archer had more than once been asked to explain a curious result, but he had satisfied the Turf authorities each time. In sixteen years of racing he had only once been suspended, and that was when he was a lad of fourteen.
I asked, “Did he have any enemies among the jockeys?”
“Not that I ever heard. Rivals, yes. Fordham, Cannon, Wood. He gave no quarter on the racecourse, and they knew it. But they respected him.”
I took out my watch. I’d already lingered longer than I intended. My birthday guests would assemble in the anteroom at Sandringham in under three hours. “Very well. We obviously have some serious detective work ahead of us. Are you game? You’re at liberty to say no if you wish.”
“I’ll do anything I can to be of assistance, sir.”
“Good. What’s your Christian name?”
The question discomposed him a trifle. “Charles, sir.”
“Is that what your friends call you?”
“They call me Charlie, sir.”
“That’s good enough for me. Well, Charlie, I’m Albert Edward. Bertie to my intimates, but you’d better continue to call me sir.”
“As you wish, sir.”
“These are your instructions. Search your memory minutely for any incident concerning Archer that might suggest he was under threat. You say his executors will want your help in sorting through his papers in the next few days. Study those papers before you hand them over, even if it means staying up all night. Look for anything of possible significance in the accounts, the correspondence, his betting book. I shall want a report when I see you next, and, I hope, some promising avenues of inquiry.”
“Will that be at the funeral, sir?”
“I think not, Charlie. I’ll be sending an equerry.”
“Then how shall I report to you? By letter?”
“Lord, no. We’ll meet privately. This is a highly secret investigation.” I got up and reached for my hat. “What was the name of that valet—the fellow who placed the revolver in the night commode?”
“Sarjent, sir.”
“I’d like to see him if he’s still about. And would you have my carriage called? It’s waiting in the lane beyond the church.”
I have a reputation for being fastidious in regard to dress, and I suppose it’s justified. I don’t have a large wardrobe by the standards of European royalty, but what I have is the best, and I make a point of keeping it so. When Sarjent arrived, I said, “Do you know who I am?”
I needn’t have asked. He was out in goose pimples at the sight of me, a tall, willowy young man of about twenty-five. “I believe so, your Royal—”
“How long did you work for Mr. Archer?”
“Four years, sir, first as a groom.”
“He must have thought well of you. It was your job to guard the house when he was away?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you ever notice anything suspicious? Intruders, that sort of thing?”
“Never, sir.”
“What exactly did Mr. Archer say when he asked you to guard the house?”
“He said he didn’t want it burgled while he was away, sir.”
“A reasonable sentiment. And are you as good a valet as you are a guard?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then take this hat and coat and brush them soundly. I want them back in ten minutes, in the front hall.”
He was back in less, which was unfortunate, as I was just emerging from the cloakroom to a fanfare of rushing water. When he had helped me into the coat, he dropped the florin I tipped him with and retired blushing.
My co-investigator, Charlie Buckfast, made a more timely entrance.
To round off our business, I told him in confidence, “I’ll arrange to see you in London in a week or so. Occasionally I have engagements in the metropolis, of a private nature.”
He said impassively, “My rooms in Jermyn Street are at your disposal anytime you wish, sir.”
I winked and said, “I have hopes of you, Charlie.”
CHAPTER 6
And now we shall trip the light fantastic together. Consider yourself invited to the County Ball at Sandringham on Friday 12 November, 1886. Let’s rattle the chandeliers with my favorite dance, the Triumph. It’s meant to be danced with vigor, you know, and Signore Curti and his instrumentalists will give no mercy until I signal them to stop. In case you were thinking of sitting out, I must warn you that I’m a tyrant in my own ballroom. No one is permitted to shirk.
I take Lady Randolph Churchill’s hand and lead her on to the floor. If I’m any judge, Jennie’s spirits need a lift. She’s been unusually subdued since she arrived, and the whisper is that she and Randolph were barely speaking before they got here. The age-old problem. I wouldn’t be Randolph for all the tea in China when she shames him with those exquisite violet-tinted eyes. But through the white lace gloves, Jennie’s hand is warm to my touch, and I feel not the slightest tensing of the fingers when Randolph turns to Lady de Grey and invites her to make up a set. Cunning old Randolph, a politician in all things. Gladys de Grey is a black-haired beauty straight off a Goya canvas, all passion and fire, but she was married for the second time last year, and is so besotted with her noble earl that she’s the safest woman in the room for Randolph to be seen with.
Before Curti raises his baton, I spot a few malingerers behind the columns where they’re apt to take cover when the Triumph is announced. “The footmen have instructions to take the names of all deserters!” I shout, and repeat the phrase in French for the benefit of the Duc de la Trémouille. It terrifies him into snatching the plump forearm of the wife of the Lord-Lieutenant and hauling her into a set led by my dear wife Alix and the Comte de Paris.
I smile at Jennie. “Ready, my dear?”
“Whenever you say, sir.”
Is that meant to be suggestive? I can’t be certain, but I give her the look that never fails to redden a pretty cheek. Then I nod to Curti, and the opening chord is sounded. Every gentleman bows, every lady curtsies, and that is the first and last stately movement in the dance. We hurtle into the briskest gallop you can imagine, skirts and coattails flying. Jennie and I lead the set, down the middle and up again, past a blur of red and black jackets and taffeta gowns of every color. She is obliged to cling to me in order to stay upright, and I won’t deny that this is one of the attractions of the dance. In this account of my adventures I mean to be frank about liaisons, and I shall be, so you must take my word for it that I’ve never bedded Jennie—our intimacies are exclusively platonic. That is, up to the time of writing.
We stand back to watch the less boisterous dancing of the next pair, the Comte and Comtesse de Paris, who are my principal guests. Poor dears, they have been living at Sheen House since their expulsion from France. Who would be a pretender to the French throne? Mind, even a staunch anti-Republican must have reservations about the Comtesse, who smokes a pipe (not during the dance) and helps herself to my cigars on every imaginable pretext.
My sympathies toward the royalists from across the Channel are well known, and in certain circles notorious. When I offered Chiswick House to the Empress Eugenie after the fall of the Second Empire, I was called to Windsor to explain myself. I was informed that my action was diplomatically inept, which gave me an opportunity to respond that as I was never taken into the confidence of the diplomats, I could scarcely be blamed for upsetting them.
As we progress, I glance at Jennie, but her eyes are on Randolph or the lady he is dancing with, so I turn my gaze toward the far end of the ballroom, where I meet a penetrating look from a face ravaged by sixteen years of heroic service to me: Sir Francis Knollys. Who would believe that Knollys was capable of diverting me from the fascinating Lady Churchill?
This, you see, was the day of Fred Archer’s funeral at Newmarket. Impossible for me to attend, so I sent a gigantic wreath and Knollys. And now I’m extremely impatient for his report.
I decide to exercise the prerogative of mercy and limit the reprises of the dance to two, and my guests limp to the nearest chairs. Unfortunately, supper is not due for twenty minutes. When I have returned Jennie to her spouse, I tell Signore Curti to give us a slow quadrille, which at least will supply an opportunity of communication. Then I beckon to Knollys.
We make up a square consisting of myself and Alix, Prince Christian and my sister Lenchen, the Comte and Comtesse de Paris, and their young daughter Hélène, the Princesse d’Orléans, partnered by Knollys. The tempo is undemanding, so each time I step sufficiently close to Knollys I can discreetly slip him a question.
“A fitting send-off for the Tinman?”
“Indeed, sir. Upward of thirty carriages.”
“Plenty of wreaths, I daresay?”
“More than I could count. They blocked the hall and stairway of the house.”
At this, Knollys steps aside and I find my uncouth brother-in-law fixing me with his one good eye. Christian has aspirations to be a Turfite, and he must have overheard, because he says in a voice audible to the entire set (save possibly Alix), “You must be speaking of the dead jockey. Where was the poor fellow buried?”
