Flashman And The Tiger

I still wondered, too, why Caprice had cut him down in cold blood, and why she wouldn’t talk of it, even. Vanity would have tempted me to take Hutton’s judgment that she was dead spoony on me and had done him in for that reason, if she had not since handed me my marching orders. (And on the pretext of fidelity to some muffin of a military historian! I still couldn’t get over that. Aye, well, the silly bint would rue her lost opportunities when next Professor Charles-Alain clambered aboard her—in the dark, probably, and wearing a nightcap with a tassel, the daring dog.) My own view, for what it was worth, was that she’d murdered Starnberg because it struck her (being female) as the fitting and tidy thing to do—and gave her the last word, so there. Delzons, her chief, who knew her better than anyone, had a different explanation which he gave me the day before we left Ischl, and you must make of it what you will.

Hutton had gone back to London by then, after assuring me that Government was satisfied; no official approval, of course, but no censure either; my assistance had been noted, and would be recorded in the secret papers. Aye, I’m still waiting for my peerage.

Delzons had stayed on to close the Ischl house as soon as I was fit to take the open air. Paris was no keener on maintaining bolt-holes out of secret funds than London, and the pair of us transferred to the Golden Ship, myself to complete my convalescence and Delzons to enjoy a holiday—or so he said, but I suspect he was keeping an eye on me to see that I didn’t get into mischief. I was glad enough of his company, for he was the best kind of Frog, shrewd and tough as teak, but jolly and with no foolish airs.

It would be late November, when I was healed and feeling barely a twinge, that we walked across the Ischl bridges and up the hill to the royal lodge. The trees were bare, there was a little snow lying, and the river was grey and sullen with icy patches under the banks. The lodge itself was silent under a leaden sky, with only a servant in sight, sweeping leaves and snow from the big porch; it would be months before Franz-Josef returned to add to the collection of heads in that dark panelled chamber where his aides had crawled about, giggling in drink, and I’d had conniptions as I stared at the doctored cartridges.

We circled the place, and Delzons pointed out the spot where he’d lain doggo and Caprice had slipped away to shadow the Holnups. I studied the open ground, dotted with trees and bushes, between where we stood and the lodge, and remarked that a night-stalk would have been ticklish even for my old Apache chums, Quick Killer and Yawner.

"But not for la petite," smiles Delzons. "She has no equal. Is it not remarkable, one so delicately feminine, so pretty and vivace, so much a child almost, but of a skill and courage and … and firm purpose beyond any agent I have seen?" He nodded thought-fully. "We have a word, colonel, that I think has no equivalent in English, which I apply to nothing and no one but her. Formidable."

"She’s all o' that." Plainly he was as smitten with her as Hutton had been, but with Delzons it was fond, almost paternal. "Where did she learn to stalk and … so on?"

"In the Breton woods as a child, with her three elder brothers." Ile chuckled. "She was une luronne—a tomboy, no? Oui, un garcon manqué. Six years younger than they, but their match in all sport, running, climbing, shooting … oh, and daring! And they were no poules mouillées, no milksops, those three lads. Yet when she was only twelve she was their master with foil and pistol. Some brothers would have been jealous, but Valéry and Claude and Jacques were her adoring slaves—ah, they were close, those four!"

"You knew ’em well, then," says I, as we strolled back.

"Their father was my copain in Crimea, before I joined the intelligence. I was to them as an uncle when they were small, and grew to love them, Caprice above all … well, a lonely bachelor engrossed in his work must have something to love, non?" He paused, musing a moment, then went on. "But then I was posted abroad for several years, and lost touch with the family until the terrible news reached me that the father and three sons had all fallen in the war of ’70—he was by then chef de brigade, and the three boys had but lately passed through St Cyr. I was desolate, above all for Caprice, so cruelly deprived at a stroke of all those she loved. I wrote to her, of my grief and condolence, assuring her of my support in any way possible. Thus it was, two years later, when I came home to command the European section of the departement secret, that she came to see me—asking for employment. Mon dieu!" He heaved in emotion, and at once became apologetic. "Oh, forgive me … perhaps I weary you? No? Then het us sit a moment."

We settled on a bench by the path overlooking the river, and Delzons lit his pipe, gazing down at the distant snow-patched roofs.