Another Small Kingdom (9 page)

‘And if I can't?'

‘You're Irish aren't you? Would that make you a Catholic?'

‘So what?'

‘If you fail I'll have one of your priests say some masses for your soul. I dare say a soul like yours will need quite a few masses. It's win or die in this one. There's no third way for it to go.'

‘Well, you've made it clear, I'll give you that, Mr Trent, so let's get down to terms. I'll need to take a maid, a good one, and good ones cost money. I'll need someone alongside of me who I can trust and who'll be useful to me, someone who knows the ropes. But she'll have to pass as a maid to a fine lady among maids who are the real thing, and that's not going to be easy.'

‘Anyone in mind?'

‘Kitty Mullen. We've worked together before. She's here in London and ready to work.'

‘Whereabouts?'

‘Sitting in a kip with her lover-boy.'

‘Her lover-boy?'

‘Jack Doran. So after tomorrow morning she'll be a free agent, won't she?'

‘How very convenient.'

‘She's a clever girl as a rule but Jack wormed his way under her skirts and she became his doxy. She was going to be the inside stand when they pulled the Duke of Dorset job. Jack knew he'd need someone with him, someone below stairs, so he worked on Kitty because she was just right for the job. Maybe he even married her, I wouldn't put it past him. He's done it before. Anyway, she's about to see Jack taken and be in line to have his neck stretched. Could you arrange it so she gets pulled with Jack and that I'm allowed to visit her?' Trent nodded. ‘I'll make it clear to her that if she stays put she and Jack can go to hell together but if she comes with me she goes free. What choice would she have?'

‘Not much I would say.'

‘Do I get her?' Trent didn't answer. ‘Come on, Mr Trent, you need me and I need Kitty and I need her willing and keen to slip London. This has to be a two-hander at the very least and you know it.'

‘All right, you get Kitty.'

‘I'll need clothes and I'll need plenty of working money.'

‘And, within reason, you shall have them all. What about payment for you and Kitty?'

‘I'll take care of Kitty out of my end, no need for her to hear any figures, is there, not if she's getting her life back as part of the payment? I'll want plenty up front. If there's a good chance of my not coming out of this I want something for ma and my kid that she looks after.'

‘Not unreasonable.'

‘And I want my brother sprung.'

‘Another one off the hook? What's he in for?'

‘He ain't in for nothing. He's in the army. I want him home safe so he can look after ma and the kid if he's needed.'

‘Hmm, getting involved with the army. I don't like that. You're asking a lot, Molly.'

‘No I ain't and you know it.'

‘All right. I could probably bring your brother back if he's not dead already.' Trent pulled a drawer open, took out a folded piece of thick paper and pushed it across to Molly who picked it up, unfolded it and read it. She gave a low whistle.

‘Jesus, Mr Trent, with that name at the bottom and that seal, it could be me putting you at the end of a rope.'

Trent was not amused because he knew she was right. He didn't like her having such a letter, but without it her chances dwindled to almost nothing and sending her became a waste of time and money.

‘Don't use it unless you have to and never let it leave your person. And think hard where it will be if someone's bumping bellies with you. That letter gets you access to the fastest couriers we have, military or diplomatic.' Trent pushed the drawer shut. The business side of the meeting was over and they moved on to the last item to be settled between them. ‘So, now to payment. What about you? What's to be in it for you if you get me what I want?'

And by the light of the lamp Jasper Trent and Molly O'Hara haggled about the price of her life as the February weather hammered against the windows.

Chapter Fourteen

A
week had passed since Macleod's humiliation by Darcy, a week in which Macleod had suffered much.It was not that Darcy had in any way compounded his actions, rather the reverse. On the two occasions their paths had crossed he had been scrupulously polite which, if anything, made Macleod feel worse rather than better. Boston, or more accurately those in Boston who cared, had been briefly amused by the incident and then forgotten it. But in Macleod's imagination he was the constant focus of sly looks and hidden smirks.

But this day something unusual had occurred to take Macleod's mind off his morbid preoccupation with Darcy. A private letter had been delivered to his house.

Even sullen Amélie had not been able to conceal her curiosity when she had put the letter beside his plate as she served his dinner. Letters were business, they were for the office. A letter to the house was something incredible and surely must contain bad news. Amélie's curiosity had kept her fussing around the dining table, but Macleod had ignored her and the epistle and left it unopened while he ate.

Amélieknew that he must be as curious about it as she was but, seeing he would not give her the satisfaction of opening it in her presence, she finally left the room muttering.

Macleod had at once picked up the letter and examined the seal and the writing. The seal meant nothing to him but the writing seemed familiar. He broke the seal and pulled a single sheet of paper from the envelope.

The first thing he looked at was the signature and at once remembered where he had seen the writing before. It had been on military orders. The man whose name was signed at the foot of the letter had been one of his commanding officers during the war, a man he had respected and trusted as a soldier and almost as a friend. The message was short and to the point. Macleod was to put aside whatever he was doing and come to Washington. He was to make his excuses for his sudden departure but he was to tell no one where he was going nor who had summoned him. He was to use all possible haste.

Having read the letter once, Macleod put it in his pocket and went out for a walk. He needed to think and it was to be the kind of thinking he hadn't done for many years. He required motion. He needed to feel his body in action. This wasn't to be dry law-business thinking. This was to be call-of-duty thinking.

Macleod went into the Burying Ground adjacent to his house. There he could walk undisturbed. And, walking among the dead, he felt like a corpse recalled to life. He was wanted, needed. He would go. He would do as he had been ordered and make some excuse, then go with all speed. The General was in Washington and wanted him there and Washington meant that it was army or government business. As Macleod strode among the headstones he found himself wondering what might be the nature of the duty he was called to. But his was a limited imagination and after a short while he gave the speculation up as pointless. He turned and headed back to the house. Whatever it was, it was American business and as such was a call on his duty.

That night, in his library, Macleod sat by the empty fireplace wearing his night-cap and fingerless gloves with the same blanket on his legs. A tumbler of whisky stood on the table beside him but it stood untasted. He was busy reading, but this had become a night unlike any other because the lamp was turned up and he was reading with genuine interest.

A call to the new capital, Washington. A call to return to duty. A call back to life. Macleod put the letter down. He was ordered to give some reason to cover his sudden departure. Slowly an idea formed. An officer with whom he had served was seriously ill and needed him as both friend and lawyer. He was going, immediately, to Richmond to offer whatever support and service he might give. He smiled. It would serve, it would serve very well. His clerk would be given the necessary instructions the next day.

He picked up his glass and looked at it, then put it down again, threw off the rug, got up and went to the doorway. He shouted into the dark for Amélie then went back to the table, put the letter in the pocket of his dressing gown then stood with his back to the fireplace and waited. Eventually a light showed in the corridor and Amélie came in with the tray on which was the second decanter of whisky. She stopped dead when she saw Macleod standing in front of the fire. Then she looked at the still full decanter on the table.

‘You can take both of them away, Amélie, I'll not need them any more tonight.'

Amélieshrugged and walked to the table and put the decanter onto the tray and went to the door where she stopped and looked back.

‘When you call next time make sure the decanter is empty. I'm getting too old to carry a tray as heavy as this for any lazy pig.'

And muttering to herself she left.

Macleod smiled and let his thoughts drift where they would for a moment. Amélie had adored him as a child. Did she now hate the man he had become? Not that it mattered. He required no one's love and he cared nothing for anyone's hate. He took up the lamp. Tomorrow he would begin his arrangements.

In his bedroom a strange feeling came to him as he prepared to retire, a feeling he could not at first recognise. Then, suddenly, he understood what it was. His memory had stirred. He was not exactly happy, but he was contented. He had been summoned to serve. His country had called on him. Perhaps his life might yet have a purpose. He got into his long nightshirt and went to bed and, for the first time in many, many years, he fell asleep looking forward to the next day.

Chapter Fifteen

T
wo days later, at the end of the day, Bentley sat with Darcy in his rooms. They were drinking tea.

‘Hell's teeth, Bentley, I knew you were efficient but I would call it a piece of damned magic. Just over a week after you say you'll get Macleod out of the way he's going round telling people he's off to Virginia to see an old army friend. How did you do it?'

Bentley smiled, he saw no harm in Darcy thinking he had arranged Macleod's departure. In fact he saw considerable advantage in it, so he was quite happy to take the credit.

‘I have my methods.'

‘How long will he be gone?'

‘That depends,'

‘On what?'

‘On where he goes.'

‘Curse you, Bentley, there's no need to be coy with me, is there? If you got him to go you must know where he's going and for how long.'

‘True, I must, mustn't I? But there's no need for you to know. It's enough for you to know he's going. As for how long, we only need him away until you can travel.'

They drank in silence for a time, each thinking.

‘He's still a damn fool though.'

Bentley looked at him.

‘Why so?'

‘His story, of course. Visiting a sick old friend in Richmond.'

‘And why does that make him a fool?'

‘Because everyone knows Macleod has no friends nor wants any friends, that's what makes him a fool. It's just the sort of shallow story a log like Macleod would come up with. He has as much subtlety as a …'

‘Perhaps Macleod had friends once. You've only known him as a Boston lawyer, and you've not known him as that for very long. You never knew Macleod the soldier nor Macleod the husband and father.'

‘He was married?'

‘Oh yes and had a pretty little daughter.'

‘They died?'

Bentley nodded.

‘And I think Macleod died with them. He just never got round to lying down that's all.'

‘Fever was it?'

‘No, not fever.'

‘Then what?'

Bentley put down his empty cup, got up and stood before the fire pulling his coat tails up over his arms, warming himself.

‘They died, Darcy, like all who die, because they could no longer live. They died because it was their time to die, as it will be for you and I one day. They died, and that's enough for you to know except that it was, perhaps, their death that put Lawyer Macleod, late soldier Macleod, into our hands.'

Darcy became nervous of the way Bentley was speaking. When Bentley spoke in this fashion there was usually a reason and the reason was usually bad news.

‘More tea?'

‘No, it's been a long day and I'm tiring. I'll take a spot of brandy to revive me.' Darcy got up. ‘Tell me, Darcy, seeing as how you're not the fool Macleod is, what would you guess would make him drop everything and run off somewhere? And you're right, wherever it is, it won't be Richmond.'

Darcy thought, as he poured the drink. He didn't want to rise to Bentley's bait but, having called Macleod a fool, he didn't want to appear dull himself. He thought for a moment then smiled.

‘Soldier Macleod you said.' He brought Bentley his drink and handed it to him. ‘You've got the army to call him?' Bentley looked into his glass and said nothing. ‘No. Not the army. Not even you could control the army or even a part of it, but it's something like.'

‘Go on, Darcy, think it out. You're no fool remember?' And Bentley took a sip of his brandy. Darcy's brain turned rapidly, something like the army, but not the army. A light broke through.

‘Duty. Somehow you've called on his damned sense of duty. You've got someone high up in an office of government, someone in with us, to summon him. That's it, isn't it?'

A reluctant smile crossed Bentley's face.

‘Well done, Darcy, you don't lack for cleverness I'll give you that.' Bentley took another sip of brandy. ‘Very poor brandy this, Darcy.'

Darcy returned to his table, sat down and took up the teapot.

‘I only keep it for visitors. I don't use it myself.'

Darcy poured himself half a cup of tea, filled the cup with hot water and sat back. Bentley stood in front of the fire in silence. Darcy sipped his tea and left him to his thoughts, happy enough to have shown how clever he was.

Bentley was pleased and annoyed. He was pleased that Darcy was clever enough to have found a satisfactory answer as to why Macleod was suddenly on the move. The organisation needed clever men, men who could read and interpret the intentions of others. But he was also annoyed that Darcy had shown himself to be so very clever and so quick. It didn't always do to have subordinates who were, or might grow to be, cleverer than their masters. Long ago Bentley had known Macleod as a young husband and father, then he had known him as a soldier and then as a widower. Now he knew him as a lawyer. He had laid all these in front of Darcy and Darcy had spotted the right track almost immediately. Bentley looked at Darcy and smiled. Darcy smiled back thinking Bentley's smile was one of approval of his quickness. But behind the smile Bentley was thinking that perhaps Darcy was too clever to live a long life. Someone as clever as Darcy might indeed come to pose a threat. When that happened, if it was allowed to happen, he must not be in a position to do any serious damage. Sometime soon Darcy's time would come, but not too soon. It would come when Darcy found that he had to die, because he could no longer live. Bentley put his glass on the mantelpiece.

‘And now duty calls me. I have much to do, Darcy, letters to send before Macleod leaves Boston.'

Darcy also got up.

‘And me?'

‘Be ready to travel as soon as Macleod leaves.'

‘And if my hand's not healed?'

‘God damn and blast your wretched hand to hell, Darcy. You'll go when I say.'

Darcy was taken aback by this sudden outburst.

‘As you say, Bentley, just as you say. I'll go as soon as Macleod has taken ship for Richmond.'

Bentley looked at him then grabbed up his overcoat, hat and gloves and left the room without another word leaving Darcy puzzled and, as always when Bentley flared up, a little afraid.