A Hundred Thousand Dragons (2 page)

‘Who . . .'

‘Tell me what he's doing,' interrupted Jack, stammering in his urgency. ‘Craig, I mean. The Assyrian Bull. What's he doing?'

‘Another chap's seen him,' said Arthur in a low voice. ‘They're shaking hands. Hang on, Jack, I think I know him. The second chap, I mean. It's Mr Vaughan. He knew my parents years ago.'

Jack kept his head turned away. ‘What are they doing now?'

‘They're coming into the room. I think Vaughan's asking the other bloke if he wants to go in to lunch or have a drink first.' He sat back in apparent unconcern. ‘I think we're in luck. It looks as if they're going into the dining room.'

Jack's shoulders drooped and he let out a ragged gasp of breath.

Arthur sat upright. ‘Oh no, Vaughan's seen me.' He raised his hand in reluctant greeting and got to his feet. ‘Bad luck, Jack,' he said quietly. ‘Vaughan's coming over.' He glanced down at his friend. ‘We can't get out of it.'

Jack took a deep breath, stood up, squared his shoulders, and turned round.

Vaughan smiled in recognition as he walked towards them. ‘Captain Stanton? I thought it was you.' Although he was much the same age as the man they had labelled the Assyrian Bull, he was a very different type, tall and spare with a wiry strength. He had an intelligent, decisive expression and the fresh look of someone who spent a lot of time outside.

Stanton summoned up a smile. ‘Hello, sir,' he said, then, following Vaughan's enquiring gaze, was forced to add, ‘this is my friend, Major Haldean.'

Jack nodded stiffly.

‘Major Haldean?' said Vaughan with interest. ‘I believe I know the name. Now why is that? Something to do with Sir Philip Rivers I think . . .' He snapped his fingers in triumph. ‘I've got it. Are you Sir Philip's nephew?'

Once again, Jack nodded.

‘Of course. Stanton, you're engaged to Sir Philip's daughter, aren't you? I saw the announcement in the
Morning Post
. Congratulations.'

‘Thank you, sir,' said Arthur. Jack, who still hadn't spoken, was standing rigidly beside him. What the devil was the matter with him?

‘Major Haldean . . .' Vaughan frowned. ‘There was something in the papers . . .' His face cleared. ‘Of course, Major, you're the man who was involved in the Lyvenden case.'

Again, Jack didn't speak.

Vaughan turned his head away. ‘Craig!' he called. ‘Just a minute. There's someone I want to introduce.' He turned back to Arthur and Jack. ‘I'm lunching here with Durant Craig. He's a well-known man.' He looked at them with modest pride, obviously pleased to be seen in Craig's company. ‘Ah, Mr Craig,' he began, as Craig reached him. ‘This is Captain Stanton, whose parents were neighbours of mine, and this is Major Haldean, Sir Philip Rivers' nephew.'

Craig looked at the two men with casual interest, then his eyes narrowed in recognition. ‘Haldean?' He thrust his shoulders forward, his jaw clenched and his face darkened in an angry flush. ‘I know damn well who this is,' he ground out. ‘
Major
Haldean, you say?' He stood back with a contemptuous bark of laughter. ‘So you got away with it, you little runt?'

Arthur drew his breath in with a gasp. Jack put his hands behind his back and stood rigidly to attention, his chin raised and his eyes fixed forward.

His posture, the posture, as Arthur recognized, of a solider on parade, seemed to infuriate Craig. ‘Haven't you got anything to say?'

Jack didn't move. Only the tightening of his throat muscles betrayed that he had heard Craig's question.

Craig's face contorted in fury. ‘You filthy little dago.' He dripped the words out one by one. ‘I swore if I ever cast eyes on you again you'd be sorry!'

There was a stunned silence which knifed into the low hum of conversation around them.

Vaughan, staring at Craig in disbelief, dropped an agonized hand on his shoulder. ‘Craig! For God's sake, man! You'll cause a scene. People are looking.'

Craig shook off the hand. ‘Let them look,' he grated. ‘I've got a score to settle with this lousy little wop that's been waiting a long time.'

Arthur Stanton listened in shocked amazement. Jack, his face set in a blank mask, was simply standing there, eyes fixed on a point above Craig's head.

‘Well,
Major
Haldean?' demanded Craig. He crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Haven't you got anything to say?'

For the first time, Jack met Craig's eyes. He flinched, looked away and shook his head slowly. ‘No,' he whispered.

‘Wait a minute,' put in Arthur vigorously ‘I've got something to say.' He started forward but Jack gripped his arm tightly.

‘Arthur, don't. I . . . I deserve it.'

Craig gave a short laugh and, reaching out, pushed Jack so he staggered and almost fell back into his chair. ‘Coward! I knew it. Come on, Vaughan. I'm not staying near this scum. The air seems foul. We'll eat somewhere else.' He strode off.

Vaughan wrung his hands together, his face working with emotion. ‘I must apologize, gentlemen. I had no idea anything of this sort would happen.'

‘Vaughan!' came a voice from the doorway.

Vaughan leaned forward urgently. ‘I can't apologize enough.'

‘I know that, sir,' said Arthur, torn between an anxiety to get rid of him and genuine sympathy for his position. Once again, Jack said nothing.

With a final, apologetic look, Vaughan turned away to join Craig.

The conversation around them began to swell once more and two waiters, who had been hovering in a meaningful way, faded into the background.

Arthur dropped into his chair beside Jack. ‘What the devil was all that about? Are you all right?'

Jack fumbled for a cigarette. ‘Yes. Yes, I'm all right. I'm sorry you were here, old man. Thank God Belle wasn't around. Don't say anything to her, will you?'

‘Of course I won't. Who on earth was he, Jack? He was an absolute oaf.'

Jack lit his cigarette with unsteady fingers. ‘He's not an oaf. His name's Durant Craig. You must have heard of him.' Arthur looked blank. ‘The explorer, you know?'

‘Hang on.' He had a vague memory of a story in the newspapers some time ago. ‘Did he walk across a desert or something?'

Jack sucked in a mouthful of smoke. ‘That's the one. He's . . .' He stopped and swallowed. ‘He's a great man in his way.' Arthur felt sure that wasn't what Jack had been going to say. ‘He's one of the few Englishmen to have been through the Yemen. He's more at home in the desert than most Arabs.'

Arthur raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that who he was? What on earth has he got against you?'

‘I let him down rather badly once. I deserved everything he said.'

‘You can't have done.'

Jack's mouth twisted. ‘You think so? I'm sorry, Arthur.' He hesitated. ‘I can't explain.'

‘But you . . .' began Arthur when Jack raised his hand warningly.

‘Here's Isabelle,' he said. ‘Please don't tell her.' He crushed out his cigarette, stood up and gave a shaky smile. ‘Isabelle! You look even more radiant than you did ten minutes ago. Shall we go in?' And standing behind his friend and cousin, he shepherded them firmly into the restaurant.

TWO

H
olding two glasses of champagne, Jack skirted his way round the side of the ballroom. Old Lady Stuckley, Mark Stuckley's grandmother, had nabbed him as he arrived and sent him off to get drinks.

He was glad he had come to the Stuckleys' party. After his bruising encounter with Durant Craig, his first thought was to make some excuse and to skip the ball, but that would mean questions to face and explanations he didn't want to make.

And really, what had changed? Nothing. So what if Vaughan did know what Craig thought of him? He'd never met the man before and probably wouldn't meet him again. Even if he did, Vaughan had clearly disliked Craig's attitude and, with any luck, Craig, an imperious beggar, wouldn't stoop to explain. Arthur had seen far more than Jack was comfortable with, but Arthur was a friend.

He had been grateful to Arthur during lunch at Claridge's. Arthur, anxious to keep Isabelle from guessing anything more untoward than a second cocktail had occurred during her absence, went on the attack immediately. His battery of conversational weapons included the wedding, the guests, the presents, the honeymoon (they were sailing to Egypt the day after the wedding) and, as a remarkably effective smokescreen, deciding exactly what they were wearing for the fancy-dress ball.

There were intervals during lunch when Jack found himself so engaged that he could almost forget that any such person as Durant Craig existed; almost but not quite. There were gaps – awkward gaps – when he should have responded but didn't, gaps when Isabelle looked at him with puzzled, intelligent eyes. Then Arthur would come to the rescue once more and the situation was saved, but it was a real relief to say goodbye and get back to the privacy of his own rooms.

But, thought Jack, he couldn't stay hidden away. Life, as he had observed before, went on, no matter how chewed-up he was feeling, and he still had a living to earn, especially if he wanted some time off. There was a story to complete for
On The Town,
another two to edit, three long stints at the sub-editor's desk, an article entitled
Jazzing up Murder
for
Modern Music
to write and a visit to Ronald and Scott's to hire a costume. By the time the weekend came he felt he'd earned his trip to Sussex. He parked the Spyker in the old stable block at Hesperus on Saturday afternoon and, for the first time in four days, relaxed.

He felt the tension ebb out of him as he sat, listening as the little ticking noises made by the hot metal of the engine cooling were gradually replaced by the sounds of distant cattle, horses and birdsong. Even so, he was on edge as he went into the house. Had Arthur said anything? Had Isabelle guessed? The answer, judging from Aunt Alice and Uncle Phil's reception, was no, and Jack breathed a sigh of relief.

And it was, he thought, taking a sip of champagne as he waited for the dancers to let him through, a very good party. With a shriek of glee, Marjorie and Phyllis Stuckley descended upon him.

‘Jack! There you are!' said Phyllis. ‘You look absolutely
spiffing
! Dance with me, darling, won't you? We really have to dance.' The band started an energetic version of
Walking My Baby With The Pink Pom-Pom
. ‘Come on, Jack. This is a ripping tune.' She looked at the two glasses he was holding and her face fell. ‘Don't say you're taken already.'

‘Only by your grandmother,' said Jack, laughing.

‘Grandma's an absolute menace,' said Marjorie petulantly. ‘She always collars all the best men.' She looked at his costume. ‘I wanted you to come as a sheikh,' she said with a pout. ‘You'd look just like Rudolph Valentino.'

‘Is that meant to be a compliment?' asked Jack with a grin.

‘Oh,
yes
,' said Marjorie fervently. ‘He's scrummy. What are you, anyway? Isabelle said something about Greek gods, but you don't look very Greek to me.'

‘I'm a Corsican bandit,' said Jack. ‘I refused to be any sort of god.' He was wearing a scarlet shirt, a scarlet scarf, baggy trousers, one gold earring and what seemed to be an arsenal of weapons. ‘Now I'm here, I feel quite soberly dressed.'

‘The costumes are marvellous, aren't they?' said Phyllis, looking around at the knights, fairies, Vikings, princesses, cowboys, harlequins, columbines, sheikhs, geisha girls and various unidentifiables who thronged the dance floor. ‘I bet you can't guess what we are.'

‘The most beautiful girls in the room?'

Marjorie and Phyllis giggled in delight. ‘That's right, of course,' said Marjorie, ‘but what else?'

The two sisters were wearing long silky dresses of midnight blue picked out with stars. ‘I give up,' said Jack after a few moments' frowning consideration.

‘Go on, guess!' pleaded Marjorie.

Jack glanced at the seats at the side of dance floor where old Lady Stuckley, dressed as The White Queen, was waiting. She caught his eye and beckoned him over. ‘Can I catch up with you later? I really should talk to your grandmother. Besides that,' he added, looking across the room, ‘I think that monk chap is waiting for you.'

‘Rasputin?' Marjorie's face fell.

‘You promised, Marjorie,' said Phyllis.

‘All right, but he's so
old
. Afterwards, Jack?'

‘I'll count the minutes.'

He carried on threading his way through the crowd. Blackbeard the pirate put a hand on his arm. ‘Avast, me hearties,' he growled, adding, in a normal voice, ‘D'you fancy a smoke on the terrace, Jack? It's ages since we caught up with each other and I can't hear myself think in here.'

Jack grinned. Under an exuberant beard and eye patch, topped off by a bandanna and three-cornered hat bearing the skull and crossbones, was his old friend, Mark Stuckley. ‘I didn't recognize you under the shrubbery.'

‘The beard, you mean? Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.' Mark raised his voice to carry over a saxophone solo. ‘Are you coming outside?'

‘I promised your grandmother I'd get her a drink,' said Jack regretfully. ‘I'll join you later.'

‘Okey-doke,' said Mark. ‘Have my sisters seen you?'

‘Yes,' said Jack, nodding to where Marjorie Stuckley was being steered round the floor by Rasputin. ‘Marjorie's nabbed me for a dance after the Mad Monk. Who is he? I can't make out who's who under all these beards people have sprouted.'