A Hundred Thousand Dragons (14 page)

‘I don't believe that army record,' said Jack. ‘Not if Simes painted those watercolours. They're all pictures of the East, not France and Germany. Is there a photo of him, Bill?'

‘No,' said Rackham. ‘There aren't any fingerprints either. I'll wire New York again. If Simes was in prison, they must have that information. We should be able to lift some prints from his things. Once we get his photograph, we can show it to the Savoy people and Mr Vaughan. If you're right, Jack, and Madison and Simes are the same person, that's one part of the mystery cleared up. With a murder charge hanging over him, he'd want to get out of America in double-quick time.'

‘Can I see his photograph, once you get it from New York?' asked Jack.

‘I'll send you a copy.' He looked at Ashley. ‘I'll send one to you as well, of course.'

‘Bill,' asked Jack thoughtfully, ‘you know the book of paintings we found? I can't help feeling there's more to it than meets the eye. I wondered if it contained a secret message.'

‘A code, you mean? Maybe. It's obscure enough to, that's for sure. I could let an expert take a look at it, I suppose.'

‘Good. There might be nothing in it, but I can't help feeling there is.
A hundred thousand dragons . . .'

‘One would be enough to be going on with,' said Rackham with a grin. ‘Never mind dragons for the moment.' He looked at Ashley. ‘I was thinking about what Oxley, Vaughan's butler, overheard when Craig lost his temper. He said,
I'll have nothing to do with any damned Hun and especially you, you filthy Kraut
. That's right, isn't it?'

Ashley nodded. ‘Yes, that's right.'

Rackham leaned forward. ‘D'you know, I think that's a very suggestive remark. To my mind that phrase,
Especially you, you filthy Kraut,
suggests that Craig didn't just loath Germans but loathed Madison in particular.'

Jack sat up. ‘Bill! That's it! They
knew
each other.'

Ashley smacked his fist into his palm. ‘You're right! All the servants thought Madison was an American. For Craig to work out so quickly that Madison was German means he
must
have known him. That accounts for the quarrel. We know there's something not right about Madison. I'll bet those two had some unfinished business. Vaughan knows more than he's telling us, I'll be bound. The question is, where did they know each other from?'

‘From Arabia?' suggested Jack. ‘After all, Craig's a noted Arabian traveller and Vaughan said Madison had been in the Hejaz during the war . . .'

He broke off suddenly. As he said the words, a possibility so awful came into his mind, his stomach turned over. The nightmare that had whispered to him ever since he had seen Craig that day in Claridge's grew to a scream. It was more than a possibility; he was horribly, sickeningly, absolutely certain.
Eyes like ice, he had. They went right through you
. That's what Doris, the maid had said.
Eyes like ice . . .

‘Oh, my God.' He didn't know he had spoken out loud.

‘Jack?' said Rackham. ‘Jack, what is it?'

He couldn't find the words. ‘Nothing,' he managed eventually. ‘Absolutely nothing.' He didn't want them to guess anything was wrong. He tried hard. ‘It just reminded me of something, that's all.'

Ashley leaned forward. ‘Haldean,' he said, his voice very earnest. ‘You know something about Craig. What?'

He couldn't tell them. This was
his
nightmare. If he had to come clean, he would, but he had to be certain. ‘I'm sorry, Ashley. I might be wrong.'

Rackham and Ashley exchanged worried glances. Jack was sitting in a posture of rigid isolation, completely unmoving, apart from his right hand which clenched and unclenched on the leg of his grey suit. Rackham moved forward impulsively, then stopped. He saw his friend's shoulders tense and could only guess the effort it took him to straighten up and look him in the eyes.

‘The photograph,' said Jack with studied carelessness. ‘When you get a photograph from New York of . . .' He stumbled the words. ‘. . . of Simes, then I'll know. I have to know.'

He tried to smile. It was a miserable failure of a smile, but Bill Rackham suddenly knew he'd seen raw courage.

With Isabelle beside him, Arthur Stanton leaned over the bridge spanning the river that ran through the grounds of Hesperus, watching the bridge make a shivering mirror of itself in the gently lapping waters.

He should have been completely happy. The spring sunshine sparkled off the water, the trees casting broken, shifting shadows over the river. A flock of mallard ducks, the sun catching their glittering spring plumage, circled themselves with sun-flecked hoops amongst the fringes of the weeping willows. He should have been happy, but Isabelle knew he wasn't.

‘What's up, Arthur? You're worried. It's nothing to do with the wedding, is it?'

‘No.' He hesitated. ‘It's Jack.'

‘Jack?' asked Isabelle quietly.

‘There's something wrong. Something happened in London. For the last few days he's been as twitchy as a cat on hot bricks and I'm damned if I know why.'

Isabelle bit her lip and said nothing.

‘You know what it's about, don't you?' asked Arthur.

She squeezed his hand. ‘I don't know what happened in London. He told me he's waiting for a letter from Bill Rackham.'

‘You'd think he was waiting for his death warrant, he's so edgy.'

‘Don't be mean. It's only because you know him inside out that you've noticed. He was fine with everyone at dinner last night. He talked to the curate for absolutely ages about the Apostolic Succession, and he partnered Mrs Channon-Sywell at bridge without a murmur. I think he deserves a medal.'

‘Yes, but he wasn't talking to us, was he?' said Arthur shrewdly. ‘It's all very well chatting up the local worthies, but they aren't going to ask what's eating him, are they? This all started in Claridge's, when that ghastly chap, Craig, came and tore a strip off him. I couldn't credit it,' he added moodily, watching a duck up-end itself in the reeds. ‘Jack simply took it. He didn't defend himself, he simply stood there. What's more, he said he deserved it, which I can't believe for one minute. I wanted to help but he wouldn't let me. We've been friends for ever, and I can't seem to do a damn thing. I know it's to do with Arabia. I knew he'd been out East but I'd virtually forgotten about it, it was so long ago. Why shouldn't he tell me?'

She looked at him helplessly. ‘Something happened to him there. Something he's ashamed of.'

‘What?'

She took a deep breath. ‘I can't tell you,' she said eventually. She drew an arabesque on the honey-coloured stonework of the bridge with her fingertip, gazing sightlessly at the water. ‘Arthur, I wish you'd speak to him. It'd do him good to talk instead of bottling it up.'

‘Do you really think it'd be good for him?' asked Arthur.

‘Yes, I do.'

‘In that case,' said Arthur, ‘I'll do just that. The worst that can happen is that he can tell me to mind my own business.'

Leaving Isabelle on the bridge, he walked swiftly back into the house.

Jack was near the front door, looking at the mid-morning post, which had been placed on the hall table. He had a large flat brown envelope in his hand and the expression on his face made Arthur catch his breath.

Arthur had a speech planned, but what he was going to say went out of his head. He looked from the envelope in his friend's hand to his anguished face and reached out impulsively. ‘For God's sake, what is it? Let me help.'

Jack swallowed. ‘Wait.'

It was one word, yet it brought Arthur up sharp.

Jack picked up the paperknife from the table, his fingers clumsy. He had to concentrate on holding the knife. He slit the envelope open and took out the contents. There were two photographs and a letter.

Arthur honestly thought his friend was going to collapse. Jack gave a juddering breath and clutched at the table for support.

‘It's him,' whispered Jack. ‘Oh, God, it's him.'

Arthur took an appalled look at Jack's grey face. Catching hold of his arm, he led him out of the hall and into the library. Shutting the door firmly behind them, Arthur helped Jack to a chair and knelt beside him. ‘Jack. Please trust me. Please tell me what all this is about.'

EIGHT

J
ack sat in the chair and rubbed his face with his hands, his breath coming in little ragged spurts. Arthur looked anxiously round the room. There were decanters, glasses and a soda syphon on the sideboard. He quickly mixed a brandy and soda and put it into Jack's hands. He had to close his fingers round the glass. ‘Here, let me help,' he said quietly. ‘You're spilling it.'

Jack drank without seeming to know what he was doing, then sat, clutching on to the empty glass. Arthur took it from him and put it on the floor. Jack still sat with cupped hands, his body racked by odd little shudders. Arthur knelt in front of him, trying to get a response, but Jack's eyes were blank and unfocused.

‘Jack?' said Arthur. No response. Arthur took one of the cold hands between his own and shook it. ‘Jack?' he repeated in a firmer voice.

Jack blinked, then breathed out in a long, juddering sigh. It was like life returning. He tried to speak, but Arthur stopped him.

‘Wait a minute. Get your bearings back, old man.' He was rewarded by a grateful look, then Jack shuddered and slumped back in his chair.

‘Where's the letter?' he asked at last. ‘The letter from Bill?'

Arthur picked it up from the floor and held it out to him doubtfully. ‘Are you sure you want to see it again?'

Jack nodded. ‘Open it, will you?' He swallowed. ‘I don't know if I can.'

Arthur glanced through the letter. ‘He's been to the Savoy and shown them the photographs. The clerk on the desk is fairly sure that the man in the photographs – Simes – is their Mr Madison.'

Arthur took the photographs out, holding them away from Jack. They were both of the same man from two different angles, a man in prison uniform. He must have been around forty or so, grey-haired with a high-boned face and thin lips. There was an old scar on his left cheek. He looked, thought Arthur, an unforgiving, dangerous type.

‘Let me see,' said Jack. Arthur turned the pictures towards him. Jack put the back of his hand to his mouth in a defensive gesture. ‘OK. That's enough. It's him.'

Arthur put the photographs face down on the floor and Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hand to his forehead and eyes closed. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked the seconds away in sonorous clunks, spacing out the silence. Outside, through the open library window, came the sound of birdsong and, from far away, the distant sound of a lawnmower. Arthur waited.

Eventually Jack raised his head and met his friend's eyes. ‘Thanks, Arthur. I'm fine now. Thanks.' He sat back in the chair and tried to get his cigarette case out of his pocket.

‘I don't think you're fine at all,' said Arthur in real concern, watching his friend's clumsy efforts. ‘Here, have one of mine.' He gave a cigarette to Jack, took one himself, lit them both, then sat back on his heels.

‘I've been half-expecting this,' said Jack quietly. ‘I had an awful feeling it'd turn out to be him, but it was still a rotten shock.'

‘What's it about?' said Arthur. ‘There's obviously something badly wrong. You've been living on your nerves the past few days.' Jack shifted uneasily. ‘Look, I know what it's like to keep everything bottled up. It doesn't work. Whatever it is, whatever happened, won't you let me help?'

Jack studied his face. ‘I don't know if you can.'

‘You could try.' Arthur tapped his forefinger on the face-down photographs. ‘Who is he?'

Jack smoked his cigarette down to the butt, crushed it out and took a deep breath. ‘He's had a few names. Simes, Madison, and, in Arabia during the war, he was known as Ozymandias. He was a sort of Lawrence of Arabia figure. The newspapers made a thing of him at one time. They thought he was glamorous, God help us.'

‘Ozymandias?' Arthur repeated the word slowly. ‘Hold on, that rings a bell. Is he a Turk?'

‘He's German. He was an advisor to the Turks. His real name is Lothar Von Erlangen. He's the most ruthless man I've ever met. Do you know
Ozymandias
, the poem by Shelley?' Arthur nodded. ‘There's a line in it, a chilling line, which sums him up.
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair
. That's him. He brought despair.'

Arthur moved uneasily. ‘Isn't that overstating it?'

Jack shuddered. ‘I didn't think so. I don't know if you'll agree when you hear what happened. It was the early summer of 1915. I'd been posted to Ismailia – it was my first squadron. I suppose my first achievement was staying alive. The first few weeks could be lethal for pilots, but after that, anyone was entitled to call themselves a veteran. I'd been there for nearly three months . . .'

The wind sang in the wires of the Farman biplane as Second Lieutenant Jack Haldean, following his flight commander's plane, flew over the tents and huts of Ismailia. He checked the direction of the wind, and brought the craft round for as good a landing as could be managed on the bumpy sandy ground. It had been a quiet patrol, with no sign of any Turkish craft. There had been no sign of anything, apart from dun-coloured sand and scrub, rimmed in the distance by the glittering line of the Mediterranean. The two aircraft taxied to the hangers. Jack switched off the engine, hearing the sounds of the airfield once more as the propeller spun to a standstill.