Now that was odd; lightly asked—too lightly. "Oh, just that," says I. "I guess he was trying to take a rise out of me, knowing I can’t stand Cumming—but not knowing that you can’t stand him either." I gave her hand a squeeze, reassuring like. "Why, you crossed him off our list years ago."
"Did I? I don’t recollect." And that was odder still, for if there’s an elephantine memory in London W.I. it resides in the otherwise wayward mind of Elspeth, Lady Flashman (as she had just proved by reference to Mrs Leo Lade and that other bint, whoever she may have been). Suddenly, I knew that something was up. For all her banter, she’d been on the q.v. from the moment Cumming’s name was mentioned: the quick wary glint in the mirror, her artless inquiry about what Williams had said, and the indifferent "Did I? I don’t recollect" told me she was keeping something from me. Was it possible that Cumming had been trying his lecherous hand again? At her age? Damned unlikely … yet then again, Queen Ranavalona had been a grandmother, and that hadn’t stopped me. By God, if he had, I’d see to it that he came out of his present pickle with his name and fame in the gutter. But that could wait; I’d another fish to fry at the moment, and as we neared the drawing-room door I paused, assuming a frown.
"Hold on, though—yes, Williams did say another thing … Yes … At baccarat, last night, did you notice anything … well, out o' the way about Cumming’s play?"
She looked bewildered—but then, on any subject that hasn’t to do with money or erotic activity, she usually is.
"Why, Harry, whatever do you mean?"
"Was there anything remarkable about … his placing of the stakes?"
"My stakes, d’you mean? I told you he was helping me—"
"No, his stakes! How did he put ’em on the table?"
She looked at me as though I were simple-minded. "Why, with his hand, of course. He just put them … down …"
"Yes, dearest," says I, keeping a firm grip on myself, "but that’s not quite what I mean—"
"—those wee coloured counters with the feathers on them, he just put them in front of him—and mine too, because, you see, he was advising me how to bet, since I did not understand the rules, or how much it would be safe to wager. And I must say," says she, opening the floodgates, "it is quite the silliest game, for there’s no cleverness in it, and indeed I told him so. `For how can we tell what to wager,' I said, `when we have no notion of what the Prince’s cards may amount to? Why, he may have a count of nine, and then where shall we be?' He laughed and said we must take the risk, for it was a gamble. `I know that,' I said, `but it would be more fun if we knew one of the Prince’s cards, and he knew one of ours, for then we could judge how much to put on.' He said we must be like Montrose, and repeated that verse we used to recite at school, you know the one, about fearing our fate too much who will not put it to the touch to win or lose it all, and I said `That is all very well, Sir William, but remember what happened to him,' and he laughed more than ever …"
I love her dearly, far beyond any creature I’ve ever known, and I can prove it, for never once in almost seventy years of married life have I taken her by the throat. Mind you, it’s been a near thing, once or twice.
"—and the court cards, would you believe it, count for nothing! `Why, then,' I asked him, `do they have them in the pack at all?' and he said he supposed it was to make weight, whatever that may mean, and I said it was a great annoyance to have to pay out to the bank when we had been dealt two kings, and got another when we asked for a third card, and the Prince’s cards were the sorriest rags, but they made eight, and that was the better hand, but it seems hard that three kings should be worth nothing at all …"
I took her gently by the arm and steered her away from the drawing-room door to an alcove at the end of the corridor, for I could see there was only one way, and that was to come out with the thing plump and plain. "Did you see Cumming at any time add counters to his stake after the Prince had declared the result of the hand?"
She took her lower lip gently in her teeth—a tiny gesture of puzzlement which has been turning my heart over since 1839. "You mean after the Prince had said who had won?"
"Precisely."
She frowned. "But, then … it would be too late to add w his stake, surely?"
"That’s the whole point. Did he, at any time, after the result had been called, place any counters beyond the line?"
"Which line?"
"The line," I replied through gritted teeth, "round the edge of the cloth on the table." It was like talking to a backward Bushman. "The line beyond which the stakes are placed."
"Oh, is that what the line was for? I thought it was just for the look of the thing." She reflected for a moment, and shook her head. "No … I cannot think that I saw him putting out more counters, after …" As realisation dawned, the forget-me-not eyes opened wide, and her lips parted. "Why, Harry, that would have been cheating!"
"Begad, you’re right! So it would … but you never saw him do any such thing—with his hands, or a pencil—"
"Gracious, no! Why, I should have checked him at once, and told him it would not do—that he had made a mistake, and must …" And at that she stopped short, staring at me, and slowly her alarm changed into the oddest old-fashioned look, and then she smiled—that old teasing cherry-lipped Elspeth pout that used to have me thrusting the door to and wrenching at my breeches. To my astonishment I saw that her eyes were suddenly moist as she shook her head and came close to me, putting a gloved hand up to my whiskers.
"Oh, Harry, my jo, ye sweet old thing!" murmurs she. "Is that why you’re tasking me with all these daft questions—because that clavering auld clype Owen Williams has told you that Billy Cumming put his hand on mine once or twice at the baccarat?" She laughed softly, loving-sad, and stroked my withered cheek. "To be sure he did—but only to guide me in placing my wagers, silly! And you’re still jealous for your old wife, wild lad that you are—well, I’m glad, so there! Come here!" And she kissed me in a way which any decent matron should have forgotten long ago. "As though I’ve ever wanted to fetch any man but you," says she fondly, straightening my collar. "Supposing I still could. Now, if you’ll give me your arm to the drawing-room, I dare say Mrs Wilson will be serving tea."
The deuce of it is, when Elspeth turns a conversation topsy-turvy, all wide-eyed innocence, you can never be sure whether it’s witlessness or guile. She’s always been ivory from her delightful neck upwards, but that don’t mean she can’t wheedle a duck from a pond when so minded. Knowing her vanity ("Supposing I still could", my eye!) I didn’t doubt that she believed my inquiries had been prompted by pure jealousy, to her immense gratification, lovingly expressed … still, there was something to do with Cumming that she wasn’t telling. Well, perhaps it was something I’d be better for not knowing; one thing seemed clear, for what it was worth: whoever had seen him cheating, she had not.
I left her prattling over the cups to Lady Coventry and on the spur of the moment decided not to visit the Prince to see how his fine frenzy was coming along, but to call on the principal in the case, as promising more information—and entertainment. Faced with ruin and dishonour, Cumming should be an interesting spectacle by now, and a little manly condolence from old comrade Flashy might well lead him to do something amusing. The more mischief the better sport, as the great man said.
He was taking it well, I’ll say that, standing before his mantel, every inch the Guardee, rock steady and looking down his aristocratic nose. I guessed he was a volcano ready to erupt, though, and when he’d dismissed his valet I took him flat aback by holding out my hand, avoiding his grip—and seeking his pulse. I do love to startle ’em.