Flashman And The Tiger

Elspeth was in her element, flaunting her mature charms on the first evening in a Paris rig-out which drew glittering smiles of envy from the female brigade and an approving grunt and leer from Bertie. She’d had the deuce of a struggle getting into the thing, with me heaving at her stays, but once all was fast and sheeted home she looked nothing like the grandmother she was, with her hair artfully tinted and that milky complexion carefully enhanced, but above all with that happy, complacent radiance which she hasn’t lost yet—and she’s close on ninety now. Aye, she’s always had the priceless gift of pleasing, has Elspeth, and making people laugh—for she’s a damned funny woman when she wants to be, a top-hole mimic, and all the more engaging because she plainly hasn’t got two brains to rub together. "Never see her but it sets me in humour," Palmerston used to say. That was her talent, to make folk happy.

She charmed Bertie, seated by her at dinner, won admiring glances from the other men with her artless prattle, and to my astonishment even exchanged pleasant banter with Gordon-

Cumming. Hollo, thinks I, has the old fire rekindled? Watching her at work, I rather liked the look of her myself, and that night, waking in the small hours to find that plump excellence cuddled up against me, I was amazed to find myself inspired to climb aboard, puffing and creaking, while she giggled drowsily, saying I was a disgrace and would do myself a mischief.

"At our age!" she murmured afterwards. "Whatever would the children say? Oh, Harry lad, d’you mind the Madagascar forest … Harry? Harry? My dear, are you all right? Shall I fetch you a glass of water … a little brandy, perhaps?" I was thinking, glory, glory, what a hell of a way to die, being in no condition to move, let alone answer, but I remember noting that she hadn’t minded a bit, and saying to myself, aye, you’ll still bear watching.

Ah, but fond recollection has carried me ahead of events. It was on that night, after dinner, that the Prince had proposed baccarat, and Cumming had supposedly cheated for the first time. I’d no inkling of this, of course, nor yet on the Tuesday evening, when he’d been seen doctoring his stakes yet again, the bounder—they said. Now, on the Wednesday night, the murder was out (among a few people, anyway), and I was in the pool room trying to fathom it—and, I confess, wondering what I might do to jolly the mischief along. Well, you know my style, and between ourselves … wouldn’t you?

First, though, to the fathoming. So far as I could judge, there was a choice of three explanations—each one so far-fetched as to be nigh impossible.

Odds on with the punters in the know was that Cumming had cheated. It didn’t wash with me, much though I’d have liked to believe it. He was a prime tick and arrant snob, a very model of military and social excellence, cool, handsome, lordly, rich, and moustached, wore his handkerchief in his sleeve, looked down his nose at the world, probably was too fastidious to shave in his bath, might well be a former paramour of my beloved, and on all these counts was ripe for any dirty turn I could serve him. But that wasn’t the point; however detestable I might think him, the plain fact was that swindling simply wasn’t his style. I told myself that even the unlikeliest folk do the damnedest things … was it possible that Cumming was the kind of reckless ass who’d play foul in a trifling game, not for gain, but for the sheer mad fun of the thing, to see if he could get away with it? There are such fellows; I’ve seen ’em. Rudi Starnberg, for one—ah, but he was a villain, in love with knavery. Cumming wasn’t, and for all the bone-headed bravery he’d supposedly shown at Ulundi and in the Sudan, I couldn’t see him bucking this tiger. He had too much to lose … and while I hate to say it, he was a gentleman.

Then the witnesses were either mistaken or lying. But error must be discounted: two or even three people might improbably be mistaken—but five? On two different nights? So all that remained was a conspiracy to disgrace Gordon-Cumming, by five assorted perjurers. Ridiculous, you say … well, I don’t. I’ve sworn truth out of England myself all too often, and seen the saintliest specimens lie themselves black and blue for the unlikeliest reasons. I’ve also known from the age of three that "honour" and "solemn oath" and "word of a gentleman" are mere piss in the wind of greed, ambition, and fear.

Still, you had only to look at the five witnesses to see that conspiracy was too far-fetched altogether. None of ’em even knew Cumming all that well, or had reason to dislike him, let alone plot his ruin. And one of them could be ruled out, flat. Here they are:

Arthur Stanley ("Jack") Wilson, son of the house, a bright young spark who lived off Papa and hoped to be taken for a man-about-town; fairly brainless and possibly capable of being wild, I’d have thought, but hardly vicious;