Flashman And The Tiger

"I’m no diplomat, sir," says I. "Too blunt by half. His lordship and Owen will do it ten times better without me. Besides," I added, blunt honest old Flashy, "the fact is he don’t like me. Dunno why, but there it is. No point in putting his back up, so the less I’m mentioned, the better."

D’you know, Williams absolutely shook his head in sympathy, and Bertie went so far as to give my arm a clap before I withdrew. He was even more demonstrative an hour later, when I was summoned to his presence just as I was on the point of turning in, and found him sitting on the edge of his bed in his dressing-gown, glass in hand, cigar at the high port, plainly dog-weary but content at having laboured well in the vineyard.

"Well, he’s signed!" cries he jovially. He picked up a paper and held it out: just a few lines, with a forest of names at the foot, led by "W. Gordon-Cumming" and the Prince’s scrawl. "Not without the deuce of a struggle, Owen Williams tells me. Swore it was tantamount to a confession, but gave in when they told him it was that or ruin. Help yourself, Flashman," indicating decanter and humidor, "and sit ye down. Gad, I don’t care if I never have such an evening again—after dinner, too, shan’t sleep a wink." He swigged comfortably. "D’you know, I did not half believe he’d put his signature to it—but you knew, downy old bird that you are!" He was positively twinkling.

"Well, sir, he really didn’t have much choice, did he? All things considered, he’s come off dam' lightly."

"That’s what Lycett Green thinks, tho' he’d the grace not to say so. Oh, aye, they’ve all put their names to it, as you see. He peered at the paper, shaking his head. "I must say, it’s a damning thing for an innocent man to sign … and yet …" He screwed up his little eyes at me. "D’you think there’s the least possibility he’s telling the truth?"

"Look at it this way, sir—would you have signed it, knowing yourself innocent? Or would you have damned ’em for liars and offered to put ’em through every court in the land? Or taken a horsewhip to ’em?"

And think what Mama would have made of that, I might have added. He looked solemn, wagging his head, and then demanded, almost peevishly:

"What the devil possessed him to do it—to cheat, I mean? Was he off his head; d’you think? You know, temporarily deranged? One hears of such things."

"Dunno, sir. And I doubt if he does, either."

He shook his head and rumbled a few philosophies while we sipped and smoked. He was enjoying his relief, and when we parted he was at his most affable, pumping my fin and calling me Harry again, "I’m obliged to you … not for the first time. This—" he tapped Cumming’s paper "—was a brainwave, and the sooner it’s safely bestowed, the better. Not the sort of item we’d care to see in the morning press, what? Well, good-night to you, old fellow, thank’ee again … aye, and thank the Lord we’ll hear no more of it!"

And if you believe that, sweet prince, you will indeed believe anything, thinks I. For if there was one stone cold certainty, it was that we would hear more, abundantly more and running over, of the Great Baccarat Scandal of Tranby Croft. Bertie, blind to everything but the need to keep it from the Queen’s ears, and asses like Coventry and Williams, might suppose that the vows of silence sworn by all and sundry would prove binding—honour and all that, you know. I knew better. At least a dozen folk, two of ’em women, were in the secret, and the notion that they’d all hold their tongues was plain foolish. It was bound to get out—as I’d deter-mined it should from the moment I’d stood in Gordon-Cumming’s presence, weighed him up, and realised what a prime subject he was for shoving down the drain. All it needed after that, as you know, was an inspiration, and careful management; now, nature could take its course.

Which it did, and if it took longer to leak out than I’d expected, the resultant row was worth the delay. It’s still not established who blew the gaff, but my firm belief is that it was Bertie himself, unlikely as that may seem. But the fact is that the Yankee papers named as their source none other than Elspeth’s chum, Daisy Brooke aforementioned (it was they who christened her Babbling Brooke), and since she was warming the princely mattress in those days, it’s odds on that he whispered the scandal to her, more fool he. Daisy swore ’twasn’t so, and threatened to sue, but never did.

Whoever blabbed, it was all over the clubs and messes before Christmas that Cumming had cheated, chaps were cutting him dead, and he was demanding retractions and apologies and not getting them. So there he was, reputation blasted, and nothing for it, you’d have thought, but to order a pint of port and a pistol for breakfast or join the Foreign Legion.

He did neither. To the shocked murmurs and secret glee of Society, the delight of the public, and I’ve no doubt the tenor of the Prince of Wales, he brought an action for slander against his five accusers from Tranby.