A Visit To The Horse Guards

4

A Visit To The Horse Guards

    “Only,” said Mrs Pontifex grimly to the Beau next day: “it shows as what we had better stir our stumps and get the girl on out of it. Acos even if she can see right through Sid Bottomley, she is thinking about ’im too much!”

    “Well, any girl of that age would, what with living in the same house with them demned looks. But I take your point. Well—Horse Guards?”

    Mrs Hetty agreed it should be the Horse Guards.

    Sub-Lieutenant Grant was, therefore, somewhat startled to receive a visit from a Mr Porteous, very sober in a suit of black clothes with a plain brown waistcoat, though with something of a frolic to the curls when he took his hat off and bowed very low, a Mrs Porteous, plump and comfortable in sober black with black silk bows and nary a feather to the bonnet, and a Mr Bonner, a meek gentleman with the suspicion of a stoop and an apologetic manner. And a Miss Martin.

    Mr Grant would have looked twice at Miss Martin in any case, what with the glowing chestnut curls within the modest straw bonnet, the pretty chintz dress, and the smile; but on reading the paper which somehow Mr Bonner had put under his nose, he blinked, and looked again. And instead of asking sternly if they were relatives of the person about whom they were enquiring, as were his instructions, and then passing them firmly back to Sergeant Bates, asked them to please wait. And hastened off to his superior’s office.

    “Sir, I would not disturb you about such a matter, but is not a connection of yours married to a Luton?” he said, holding out the paper.

    General Sir Arthur Murray read the paper through in silence. Then he said: “Yes, my sister Amy is married to a Michael Luton.”

    Mr Grant nodded and refrained from mentioning that his close friend, one Lieutenant Rupert Gratton-Gordon, was quite well acquaint with the dashing lady driver what had had Michael Luton’s brother’s matched bays when the late Percy Luton’s horses was sold off.

    “What do they look like, Gerald?” asked the General.

    Mr Grant reported faithfully that the young lady looked perfectly respectable and that the couple looking after her were respectable enough—merchant class, y’know, sir. Oh, and that they had a lawyer’s clerk with them.

    “Hm. Well, in that case, please ask them to step up.”

    Mr Grant agreed he would do that, sir, refrained from saluting, and hurried out.

    General Sir Arthur Murray rubbed his chin very slowly, looking not at the name of the addressee on Major Martin’s document, but at the signature. “Hmm,” he repeated to himself.

    The sight of the very youthful Miss Martin, with her pretty face flushed, shyly smiling and a little anxious inside a simple straw bonnet lined with some pink stuff could not but reassure an experienced older man that here was no adventuress. General Sir Arthur greeted her very kindly indeed. –The bonnet had had a blackish stain inside it which Mrs Mayhew, sniffing, had attributed to “that dratted Lilian.” But thanks to Mrs Wittering’s steam kettle it had freshened up wonderfully. So Mrs Wittering had first covered the stain by lining the bonnet with some plain pink cotton material, and then veiled that in gathered muslin, the which gave a delightfully soft effect. Explaining that pink flattered a lady’s cheeks. The chintz, pink and fawn with a little darker brown in its pattern, had made up into the most charming little gown, quite suitable for a maiden to wear to the Horse Guards of a morning. And one would never have guessed that it had once formed the voluminous petticoat of a very Arcadian shepherdess in a somewhat ill-fated venture of Mr Harold Hartington’s into the pastoral mode.

    “So,” said the General once his visitors were seated, “you are in quest of a Captain Luton, Miss Martin? May I know the circumstances?”

    Her kind friends had previously discussed this point and so Mr Porteous said weightily: “If you will allow it, sir, Mr Bonner, what is in the orfice of our attorney-at-law, will explain the circumstances.”

    The General replied politely: “Thank you, but I had rather hear them from Miss Martin herself. Perhaps Mr Bonner might add anything necessary afterwards. Please, Miss Martin, if you would?”

    Miss Martin thought that the General looked very pleasant: he had regular features, a face inclined to the square, a little heavy-looking, as befitted an older man—he must be of her papa’s generation—and, although his figure was a little heavy, he was nothing that could have been called stout, and most certainly not the gross and crotchety personage she had been expecting. The which, she now realised, must have been based on her impressions of one, Major-General Flyte, an expatriate Englishman living in their street who had successfully made himself disliked by all his neighbours and all the tradespeople of the district. She spoke up very composedly and told him the details of her story quite coherently.

    The General for his part thought she seemed a sensible girl, and was glad there were no tears or, worse, hysterics. He listened carefully as she spoke—not merely to the details of the story, but also to her mode of speech. And concluded there was no doubt she was a lady, whatever the father might have become.

    “I see. May I ask whether you know who was your father’s Colonel, at the time he left the British Army?” he asked politely at the conclusion of the narrative.

    “I am not absolutely sure, but I think it must have been the Colonel Whittall to whom Papa sometimes referred.”

    The General rubbed his chin. “Mm.”

    “It was about twenty-four or -five years ago that he sold out, sir, as far as we can gather,” said Mr Bonner meekly.

    “Quite. I was used to know General Whittall, as he became, quite well. He died about ten years ago,” said General Sir Arthur on a brisk note, ringing his bell. A sergeant shot in, saluted, and was sent for Mr Grant. A low-voiced conference took place, and Mr Grant hastened out again.

    “I have sent for the relevant papers. It may take some time,” said the General, sitting back and looking very much at his ease. “Perhaps you would care for tea, Mrs Porteous?”

    “Very kind, I'm sure, General,” replied Mrs Porteous, smiling a motherly smile and nodding happily. “Is it not, my dear?”

    “Yes, indeed; thank you, sir, it would be most welcome,” agreed Miss Martin.

    The bell was rung again and a tray of tea requested. And of those present perhaps only Mr Lefayne was shrewd enough to wonder if this General Sir Arthur Murray was as experienced a strategist as his rank implied, and if the tea were something of a delaying tactic. While the General decided which tack he should take.

    As they waited for the tea the General, in a very fatherly manner, asked Miss Martin for some more details about her life in Holland, and the possible whereabouts of her brother. She answered quite readily, though tactfully omitting any reference to breeches rôles and the supervision of faro tables.

    “Luton,” said General Sir Arthur over the teacups, “is quite a well known name in English Society.”

    “Indeed, sir?” replied Mr Porteous respectfully.

    “My master thought he knew the name, sir,” agreed Mr Bonner respectfully.

    “Mm. What firm are you with, again, Mr Bonner?”

    Respectfully Mr Bonner mentioned that very respectable firm of lawyers, Archer and Lewett. –There was such a firm, and it did contain a Mr Bonner. They were Mr Lefayne’s wealthy brother's solicitors, and even if Mr Bonner would not have been willing to lend his aid to almost any scheme proposed by his client’s connection, he owed Mr Lefayne more than something, for there had been an incident in which Mr Bonner had become carried away by the prospect of a small inheritance and had ended up in a gambling hell at the mercy of a certain Captain Spooner. Who, Sid Bottomley had explained very clearly, as Mr Hartington, a heavier man than the actor, delivered some well-earned medicine, was not any sort of a captain except a Captain Sharp, and had seen Mr Bonner coming. And did he want him, Sid Bottomley, to tell Mr Archer? The which the crestfallen Mr Bonner did not. And had subsequently agreed with alacrity to lend his name to Mr Bottomley. Pardon, Lefayne. So the personality of Mr Bonner was solid enough. It was true that Sid Bottomley might not always have bothered to back up such a fiction. But in the case of Miss Martin he did not like to take the risk of being discovered. And besides, his mind was fully as devious and meticulous as his brother’s—the main difference between the two being, that Sid did not always bother to apply it.

    “Yes. Well, the Lutons are connections of my own. The late Sir Percy Luton, M.P., was my sister’s brother-in-law. That,” said the General slowly, “is the junior branch.”

    Miss Martin looked politely puzzled, and her two stout bourgeois protectors nodded and smiled but did not look enlightened. Only the lawyer’s clerk’s gaze might have been seen to sharpen a little.

    “Well, um, would you know this Captain Edward Luton, then, sir?” asked Mr Porteous. “From what we can work out, he must have been a contemporary of Major Martin’s, and perhaps might be of your own age, sir.”

    “Ye-es. The papers are coming. But I can certainly tell you of my own knowledge that the Edward Luton to whom this letter is addressed is now deceased. He had little aptitude for the Army life and, I think, sold out quite some time before the turn of the century. Had he lived, he would have been a man of turned seventy.”

    “Oh, dear, oh dear!” lamented Mrs Porteous. “And to think we had it you was to be fixed up so nice, dear, with a recommendation to the gentleman’s care!”

    “Never you mind, Miss Martin, my dear, you are most welcome to live with us,” said Mr Porteous firmly.

    “You—you are very kind, sir,” she replied shakily, fluttering her lashes and looking as if she might cry. –The actors remained within their rôles, but Major Martin’s daughter was conscious of emanations of considerable approval of her performance. And silently thought to herself that, if the Luton venture was to turn out null and void after all, in spite of her brother’s and sister’s optimism, perhaps they would permit her to tread the boards with them!

    “In law, I think this might be considered rather more than a recommendation,” said the General, eyeing Mr Bonner sideways.

    Mr Bonner cleared his throat. “There is that consideration, sir, yes. Out of course, if we was in Scotland, the situation would be much clearer. Much.”

    “Very possibly. But the signatures of two witnesses?” he murmured.

    “Mr van der Meer was the grocer, and Mr Hos lived next-door to us, sir,” ventured the Major’s daughter on an uncertain note.

    “And a very warm man, what owned the lease of the ’ouse!” agreed Mr Porteous, nodding approval.

    “Well, yes. He said, once I had translated it for him, that it would probably not do me much good, but he would be happy to witness it. –Papa was a little feverish, sir, but quite rational at that point. He said that the letter was—was just a precaution.”

    “I quite understand, my dear,” replied General Sir Arthur kindly. “This Hos sounds a decent fellow. But did he not offer you shelter when your papa was gone?”

    “Well, no,” she said, with an embarrassed expression. “He would have done, but Mrs Hos would not have it, because of their son. He—he was wishful to marry me, but Mrs Hos had the daughter of a merchant friend in mind for him.”

    “I see. And have you contacted your father’s family, Miss Martin?”

    “We intention getting down to Orpington very soon, sir. But as the word was, that they had quite washed their hands of him,” said Mr Porteous weightily, “and we was in London in any case, we thought we had best see about this first.”

    “I fear you will not find any Martins left at Orpington,” said the General briskly.

    “May I respectfully h’enquire, did you know the family, sir?” asked Mr Bonner.

    “A little, yes. Old Martin died—that would have been your grandfather, Miss Martin—some thirty years ago,”—here Mr Porteous’s and Mr Bonner’s eyes met—“and the property went to a cousin. I have an idea he might have sold it: I think you might be wasting your time going to Orpington. My sister Amy knew the cousin’s wife: they were débutantes together.”

    “That is when a young lady makes her curtsey to the King, dear,” explained Mrs Porteous helpfully.

    “Yes, Mrs Porteous,” murmured Miss Martin politely.

    The General’s wide mouth twitched a little, but he said merely: “As I say, Miss Martin, there are no Martins left. The cousin was a… Dearborn, that is it. I can obtain the Dearborns’ direction, and would be happy to write them on your behalf.”

    Mr Porteous agreed gratefully to this proposal, and supplied his own direction. General Sir Arthur Murray might have believed that his face expressed nothing as he wrote down the address of Mr Buxleigh, but the actors exchanged wry glances over his bent head. Clearly it was not a desirable address for a lady of quality.

    Mr Grant then surfacing, panting and very ruffled, with a great pile of books and papers, the General looked through them carefully. Some he set aside, unaware that the artful “Mr Bonner” had long since taught himself to read documents upside-down, and was conning them as fast as he could. “Yes,” he said finally, “this is the record of your father’s discharge, Miss Martin. And the address of next-of-kin, here, is still that of the family place in Kent: Pudsey House, Pudsey, near Orpington.

    “Ah,” said Mr Porteous gravely, noting it down. “Thank you, sir.”

    The General then asked if Miss Martin had a copy of her father’s death certificate. She had it in her reticule along with Petite Maman’s marriage lines, and passed him both documents.

    “Yes, well, this seems clear enough. –You have not contacted the Fleuriot family?”

    “Yes, I have,” she owned. “I have two uncles, sir, but neither of them would see me. My mother always said that they would never forgive my grandfather’s having left her a share of his fortune even though she had flouted his wishes by marrying Papa, and—and she was right.”

    The evident embarrassment only confirmed the General’s impression that she was an innocent, modest little thing who had been brought up befitting her rightful station in life, and he nodded kindly. He handed the documents back to her and said: “You must take very good care of these, my dear.” Unaware he was echoing the words of a kind Dutch merchant.

    The visitors were then politely dismissed, with a parting reassurance that Mr Porteous would hear from him very soon, and rapidly found themselves outside on the pavement, blinking a little in the mild April sunshine.

    “Ho!” said Mrs Hetty with great significance, nodding the respectable black bonnet hard. “Junior branch, indeed!”

    Sid took her arm hastily. “Yes; there’s something up, but we can’t talk about it here. Come on, let’s find a pub.”

    And the party forthwith adjourned to the nearest public house. Where Mr Buxleigh, gravely consulting the gun-metal watch of the respectable Mr Porteous, ascertained that they would miss dinner if they headed for home, and so had best eat here. The ordinary having been ordered up, with tankards of ale for the two gentlemen and glasses of porter for the distaff side, they freshened their throats and got down to it. Having ascertained that their table was far enough from all the other customers to run no risk of being overheard.

    “Junior branch implies there is a senior branch what has got a title in it, Miss Cressida, dear,” said Mrs Hetty grimly.

    “I see. But what has that to do with me, Mrs Pontifex?”

    “Dunno—yet. Go on, Sid, what did yer manage to read orf them documents?”

    “Apart from a lot of extraneous information about the wrong Martins entirely, only the address of next-of-kin of Captain Edward Luton.”

    “Oh,” said Mr Buxleigh, his face falling.

    “No, wait!” commanded Mrs Hetty. “And?” she demanded breathlessly.

    “Sare Park,” said Mr Lefayne neutrally. “S,A,R,E.”

    They looked at him blankly. After a moment Mrs Hetty ventured: “Sounds fancy. Near to?”

    “Well, not near to anything, Hetty,” he said on an apologetic note. “There was only the county name, after that. Dorset. –That’s on the south coast,” he explained kindly.

    After moment Mr Buxleigh said: “Must be a fair-sized place, then.”

    “Very possibly,” he acknowledged tranquilly.

    “You sure it’s ‘Sare’, rhymes with ‘dare’?” asked Mrs Hetty.

    “Well, yes.”

    “’E knows something!” she said fiercely. “Spit it out this minute, Sid Bottomley, or I’ll crown yer with that there tankard!”

    “Don’t do that,” he said hurriedly, drinking the last of its contents. “Well, it is a title, all right. Lord Sare. Not sure what sort of a title. I had no idea the family name was Luton.”

    “Thought Luton town was over Essex way?” said Mr Buxleigh vaguely.

    “Something like that. Be that as it may, Sare Park, or else this Edward Luton lied to his superior officers, is in Dorset.”

    “Go on,” prompted Mrs Hetty grimly, though embarking hungrily on a large portion of meat and potato pie.

    “Well, Lord Sare died quite recently. An elderly fellow, true, but merry with it. Bore the hallmarks of one not much given to concentrating on his responsibilities in life. Er, you knew him, Hetty,” he said apologetically.

    “I never!” she gasped indignantly.

    “Well, yes. Neddy Sare,” murmured Mr Lefayne.

    Mrs Hetty dropped her fork. “I thought that was S,A,Y,E,R,” she admitted numbly.

    “No.”

    “Old Neddy?” she croaked.

    “Yes.” Politely Mr Lefayne picked her fork up off the tabletop and handed it to her.

    “He were merry, all right and tight,” she owned feebly.

    Mr Buxleigh was apparently transfixed. “Neddy Sare?” he croaked. “I never even knew he was a lord! Look, is this a leg-pull, Sid?”

    Mr Lefayne ate meat and potato pie placidly. “No. Nice place down in Dorset—that would be Sare Park,” he explained kindly. “Sir N. told me about it.”

    “What about Mrs Meredith?” he croaked.

    “He did not have to tell me about her, Beau. I already knew, along with half of London.”

    “Very funny,” said the Beau heavily. “I mean, did she know?”

    “I have no notion: I am not that closely acquaint with Mrs Meredith. But possibly she did, or she would not have stuck with the old goat so long.”

    “He were generous enough,” said Mrs Hetty weakly.

    “Yes, but twice Diana Meredith’s age,” said Mr Buxleigh heavily. “But if she knew, why did she not shout it about?”

    “Beau,” said Sid firmly, “this is wandering from the point.”

    “What is the point?” demanded the Major’s daughter suddenly.

    “Very possibly, depending on exactly when old Neddy handed in his final account, that your father left you to the guardianship of an English lord, Miss Martin,” replied Sid Bottomley calmly, eating meat and potato pie.

    She had been waiting for this deduction, and at once cried: “Nonsense! And in any case, if he is dead, it cannot signify!”

    “I think it can. From the look on his face, General Sir Arthur Murray certainly thought it did.”

    “Aye, and you will notice he wasn’t giving out no addresses of Whatsit Parks down in counties without even no ‘near tos’ in ’em!” said Mrs Hetty brilliantly.

    “Quite,” Sid agreed. “Miss Martin, if the document your father left can be said to stand in place of his legal will, which I rather think it might, given that it has two witnesses to attest to his signature, then your legal guardian must be Lord Sare.”

    “As he is dead, it cannot signify!” repeated Miss Martin on an impatient note.

    “Your position may depend on the late Neddy Sare’s own will. But I think it may turn out that your legal guardian is the present Lord Sare—his heir, you see.”

    “Surely not!”

    “As I say, it may depend on the wording of old Neddy’s will.”

    “Mr Lefayne, this is silly! I do not wish to be the ward of any Lord Sare, and I am very sure Papa had no idea whatsoever that Captain Edward Luton might have succeeded to any title!”

    “Nevertheless, I think your best move would be to take legal advice immediately.”

    “Aye, we’ll do that,” decided Mr Buxleigh.

    “What, lawyers?” said Mrs Hetty dubiously.

    “Joe’s lawyers are utterly to relied upon,” murmured Sid.

    “Aye, and what do they charge per hour for their reliability?” she retorted.

    “Yes; Mr Lefayne, I have no money!” the Major’s daughter reminded him.

    “Miss Martin, I shall be happy to defray any legal expenses.”

    Reddening, she protested, but, Mr Buxleigh and Mrs Hetty weighing in on Mr Lefayne’s side, was overborne. Mr Buxleigh, the bit between his teeth, would have set off for the offices of Messrs Archer and Lewett immediately, only that Mr Lefayne’s current disguise was brought to his notice. So he decided they would do it tomorrow. Without fail.

    That being settled, and the waiter having informed them there was a nice treacle tart, they followed up the meat and potato pie with that. Mrs Hetty adjuring Miss Martin, who tried once again to point out that she did not wish to be the ward of a lord, nor yet a fine young lady, either, to hold her gab.

    Once his visitors had departed, General Sir Arthur Murray stared into space, frowning, for some time. Then he got up and went slowly along the corridor, up some back stairs, along another two corridors, up a very narrow flight of stairs, along another corridor, round a corner and down an odd little flight of steps, and knocked on the door of an obscure little office tucked away in very odd angle of the building. So obscure, in fact, that had you not known there was an actual room within you might have taken the door for that of a broom cupboard.

    “Yes?” called a voice.

    The General opened the door and went in. “Hullo, Edward.”

    The man who was known to the other inhabitants of the building as “Mr Frew” was very obviously packing up: the room was in wild disarray, there were boxes and piles of papers everywhere, the drawers of the big desk which was set at an angle in the oddly shaped room were all pulled open and empty, and a roaring fire was consuming papers in the tiny fireplace, necessitating the opening of the one small casement window.

    “Hullo, Arthur,” he replied mildly, tossing a further handful of crumpled paper onto the fire.

    Persons such as Mr Grant or his friend Lieutenant Gratton-Gordon would have stared to see the obscure Mr Frew, who did not even hold a military rank, and was described, if one bothered to ask one’s superiors what he did, as doing “something with records, or some such demned dull pen-pushin’,” addressing the General by his given name. Such persons not being privy to the fact that, in spite of the mass of paper that customarily occupied his little room, “Mister” Frew was nothing at all to do with records, held in fact the rank of full colonel, and at various times over the past approximately fifteen years, when one might reasonably have supposed him to be at his pen-pushing, had not been in the building at all. In fact, not in England. The rôle of the soi-disant “Mr Frew” was, in fact, an investigatory one, very much in the service of His Majesty, King George IV. Possibly all this did not explain his use of the General’s Christian name, but then, General Sir Arthur Murray had known his father and uncles, and was connected to his family by marriage.

    “I have just had,” he said, pushing some papers off the one visitor’s chair, and sitting down heavily, “a rather odd encounter, Edward.”

    “Oh?” replied Mr Frew, not ceasing to crumple papers and toss them into the blaze.

    “Yes. Do you remember a Major Martin? Matthew Martin.”

    Mr Frew ceased to feed the fire, and straightened. “Ah,” he said slowly. “Matthew Lucius John Martin? ‘Bully Matt’? How could I forget him?”

    “God; I had forgot they called him that,” said the General with a shudder. “Aye, that was he.”

    “Was?” Mr Frew went slowly to prop his lean shoulders against the wall by the little window.

    “Yes: I have just seen what purported to be his death certificate. Well, it was in Dutch, but I think it was genuine.”

    “Ah. That does sound… reasonable,” he murmured.

    “Did you know what he was up to?”

    “When last heard of, running a gaming house in The Hague, and keeping his nose more or less clean. Apart from weighted dice, marked cards and, so my informants told me, indifferent ham and worse sherry.”

    “That certainly fits with what the little girl said. –His daughter. Apparently he lost interest in the gaming house after the wife died, and left the girl with nothing.”

    “Oh, yes? There was more than one child, as I heard it.”

    General Sir Arthur explained, on a grim note, the son’s disappearance.

    “Yes, well, one cannot conceive that the son of Bully Matt would have much of a sense of responsibility. What was the girl after?”

    The General rubbed his chin. “You won’t like this, Edward.”

    “Nothing Bully Matt ever did or said, whether nominally in our service or not, ever inclined me to like anything about him, so it will be no change,” he said sweetly.

    “She had a paper, which looked genuine enough—”

    “Martin’s usually did.”

    “Er—yes. Well, as I say, it looked genuine. It purported to be in his own hand, commending her, in the case of his own demise, into the care of a Captain Edward Luton of his own old regiment, for old times’ sake.”

    Mr Frew’s jaw dropped. “Uncle Neddy? You cannot be serious!”

    “I am perfectly serious.”

    “Arthur, the way the old man told it to me, the fellow tried to blackmail him! Fortunately Uncle Neddy had the sense to go to Martin’s colonel: that finished the thing. Martin was told to sell out before he was thrown out.”

    “That would have been Whittall: yes. That would fit.”

    Mr Frew grimaced thoughtfully. “Mmm… I suppose he did once save old Neddy’s life, but personally I should have thought the blackmail cancelled that debt.”

    “Apparently Martin did not think so. The letter certainly reminded Neddy of an obligation.”

    After a moment Mr Frew said: “When was it dated?”

    “Some three months since. A week or so before Martin died.”

    “How convenient. Do you have the exact date of Martin’s purported death?”

    The General had the details on a sheet of paper. Silently he handed it to him.

    “A month before Neddy went, almost to the day. Very convenient,” noted Mr Frew, handing it back.

    General Sir Arthur looked at him with something of a helpless expression on his broad features. “Well, what do you think, Edward?”

    “I do not know what to think,” he said lightly. “But you know me: both my temperament and my training incline me to think the worst. How did the girl strike you?”

    “Very young. I should have said, a sweet little maiden, had I not known she was Martin’s daughter. But there was no suspicious note at all, Edward! And the kindly dame with her assured me she had had a strict convent education.”

    “I suppose even Martin might have considered his origins, not to say his duty, when it came to the upbringing of his daughter. Is there more?”

    “Not very much.” The General told him how the kindly Mr and Mrs Porteous had escorted Miss Martin to England and were prepared to help her find her relations. Ending: “Worthy people, I suppose. I think he is possibly a retired tradesman, something of the sort.”

    “Nothing smoky about them?” drawled Mr Frew, raising an eyebrow.

    “Nothing at all. And if you wouldn’t mind not doing that, old man, I’d be vastly gratified: you’re your grandfather to the life, you know.”

    “A dreadful thought,” he agreed solemnly. “Let me think… Uncle Neddy succeeded to the title back in… Well, it was when I was with the Regiment in the Peninsula. ’07, I think—yes. Then I was—er—seconded. Martin at that stage was working for the Austrians: that was when I first had the pleasure of his acquaintance. Apart from myself, I do not think he saw an Englishman for several years on end—until 1812, in fact. Well, I suppose someone might have mentioned the fact that Neddy had come in for the title, at that stage.”

    “Why didn’t he come back to England and hang on his sleeve then?”

    “Possibly he was in funds. Or believed Neddy still to be compos mentis enough to recollect the blackmail. Well, who can say?” said Mr Frew, smiling for the first time. “But I think it is not impossible that at some stage, he did hear that Uncle Neddy had the title. And if he really was dying when he wrote the letter, decided he might as well try to foist the girl onto him as not. And if he was not dying, and is not dead… Yes: in that case, he will have written the letter after he heard Neddy had gone, in the hopes of foisting the chit on—er—the present incumbent.”

    “Edward, for God’s sake!”

    “Don’t pretend the thought did not spring to mind, Arthur: it would be Martin all over.”

    “Did he ever know your name?” asked the General, frowning over it.

    “No. I was masquerading as a Signor Giotto, and allowed myself to be revealed as a Captain Stacey. –There was a Stacey holding that rank at that time in the regiment in question: about my figure and colouring. But having penetrated the Giotto disguise to his satisfaction, Martin would not, I think, have bothered to question the Stacey persona. I will not say he was not cunning enough to do so; but I will say he was too damned lazy to bother. Which is one reason why, in spite of his earnest representations as to his usefulness to our cause, I dropped him like a hot potato the minute it was in my power to do so!” he said, laughing a little.

    “Edward, he can have had no cause to love you,” said the General with a concerned look.

    “That is why I incline to the opinion that he knows damned well Uncle Neddy’s gone, and is sitting in Holland like a damned spider in its web, using the girl, who by the way may or not be his daughter, as a pawn in his game.” Mr Frew’s long blue-grey eyes twinkled very much.

    “Spiders don't have pawns,” said General Sir Arthur very weakly indeed.

    “No!” he agreed, laughing.

    “Edward, for God’s sake, be serious!”

    “Very well. Did they mention Sare Park?”

    “No; in fact they seemed to know nothing about the family at all, including the fact that old Neddy had the title. Which I did not mention, by the by. Well, better safe than sorry. Oh—” The General here recollected the presence of the lawyer’s clerk, and mentioned that he had seemed to recognise the name Luton.

    “Mm. What firm is he with?”

    “Archer and Lewett. They are certainly respectable; I deal with them myself.”

    “Have you ever seen him there?”

    “Er—well, no, I don’t think so; but I don’t make a habit of examining my lawyer’s clerks’ faces, dammit, Edward!”

    Mr Frew made a habit of examining every face he came across. He said nothing, just smiled a little.

    “I really think the girl is genuine,” said the General earnestly.

    “Mm. Well, I shall send to Holland immediate; at least we may ascertain if the creature is really gone. And, I think, make some discreet enquiries as to the boy’s whereabouts. I don’t suppose,” he said, straight-faced, “you can give me an exact description of the girl?” He watched drily as the General duly floundered. “Sweet-faced” and he thought brown eyes, was about it. Reddish-brown hair. Curls. Mr Frew did not ask whether he thought the curls owed something to the curling-iron: it would have been a waste of breath.

    “I promised them the Dearborns’ direction,” he ended lamely.

    “Did you, indeed?”

    “Yes. Well, I have but to call on Amy—”

    “Arthur, dear old fellow, you have to write to Amy, as Amy is in the depths of the countryside. The depths.”

    “No, she ain’t— Oh,” he said sheepishly. “In the depths of the countryside: right you are. Oh—I have the Porteous fellow’s London direction.”

    “Well done,” said Mr Frew, his eyebrows rising a little.

    “Edward, if you could but have laid eyes on her! I would lay my life she is an innocent child! And a complete lady! And the Porteous fellow is clearly a worthy tradesman or some such. Complete with a comfortable wife; one would have to be out of one’s skull to suspect them of a thing!”

    Mr Frew did not say that giving the appearance of persons who were beyond suspicion was the stock-in-trade of persons such as Major Martin and those with whom he had associated for many years—or, indeed, of persons such as himself. He did, however, say: “Did they explain what the Devil they were doing in Holland?”

    “Er—no. But I suppose,” he said, rallying, “that even the middle classes may venture abroad, if they have the wherewithal to do so!”

    “Now that the Continent is safe from Boney—yes,” said Mr Frew, smiling. “Don’t fret, Arthur: it may all be perfectly innocent. But I should just like to check it out, y’know.”

    Smiling in great relief, the General assured him he had known he would see it like that, promised not to write to Mr Porteous until Edward advised him it would be the judicious move, and hurried back to his office.

    “Mr Frew” did not immediately return to the clearing out of his room. He leaned in his narrow little casement, looking at the roofs of London under a pale April sky. After quite some time he said with a little grimace of distaste: “Even if it all be true, and she is as innocent as dear old Arthur claims—the offspring of Bully Matt Martin at Sare Park? Ugh!”

    The man known as Mr Frew and who held the rank of Colonel was in actual fact, his Uncle Neddy having died without legitimate male issue, Edward John Amyes Luton, Twenty-Eighth Baron Sare. It was one of the oldest titles in England and, as perhaps the distaste at the thought of Miss Martin’s innocent person sullying the precincts of the family seat indicated, most certainly one of the proudest.

Next chapter:

https://theoldchiphat.blogspot.com/2023/02/waiting-in-wings.html