Flashman And The Tiger

The more I heard, the dafter it became. I’m no gambling man myself, much, and have never had the skill or nerve for sharping anyway, but in my time I’ve seen ’em all: stud games in Abilene livery stables with guns and gold-pokes down on the blanket, nap schools from Ballarat to the Bay, penny-ante blackjack in political country houses (with D’Israeli dealing and that oily little worm Bryant planting aces in my unsuspecting pockets, damn him), and watched the sharks at work with cold decks, shaved edges, marked backs, and everything up their sleeves bar a trained midget—and you may take my word for it, the last place on God’s earth you’d want to sit on the Queen of Spades or try to juggle the stakes is Grandmama’s drawing-room after dinner; you won’t last five minutes. As Gordon-Cumming, I was asked to believe, had discovered.

"And no one said anything at the time?"

"Why … why, no." He blinked in bearded bewilderment. "No, they did not … the ladies, I suppose … the ghastly scene that must have followed …" He made vague gestures with his cigar. "But they felt they could not keep silent altogether, and told Williams and Coventry—and they," he fairly snarled, "have told me! Before dinner tonight. Why they felt obliged to drag me into the wretched business I cannot think. It’s too bad!"

Sheer vapouring, of course. As Prince of Wales, first gentleman of Europe (God help us), he was the bright particular star and pack leader of the genteel rabble assembled at Tranby Croft, Yorks, for the Doncaster races, and knew perfectly well that any serious breach of polite behaviour by a fellow guest, such as card-sharping, was bound to land on his mat. I reminded him of this tactfully, and added that I didn’t believe it for a minute. Some foolish mistake or misunderstanding, I said, depend upon it.

"No such thing!" He heaved his guts out of the chair and began to pace about. "The young Wilsons and Green—aye, and that chap what’s-his-name—Levett—who is in Cumming’s own regiment, for heaven’s sake—all avow it. They saw him cheat! Coventry and Williams are in no doubt whatsoever. It’s too frightful for words!" He gloomed at me, all hang-dog German jowls. "Can you imagine the scandal if it should come out—if it were to reach the Queen’s ears that such a thing had happened in … in my presence?" He took a step towards me. "My dear Harry—you know about these things—what is to be done?"

One thing was plain—it wasn’t Cumming’s supposed sleight of hand (which I still couldn’t credit) that was putting him in a ferment, but that it had happened in a game presided over by His Royal Grossness, and whatever would Mama say when she heard that he’d been spreading the boards like Faro Jack. Tame stuff, from where I stood, compared to his whoremongering and general depravity, but if it had shaken him to the point where I was his dear Harry, he must be desperate. I’d steered him out of more than one scrape in the past, and here he was again, looking at me like an owl in labour. So, first things first.

"What does Gordon-Cumming say?"

"He denies it outright, of course—Williams and Coventry saw him before dinner, and—"

"You haven’t spoken to him yourself, then?"

He shuddered. "No—and I dread it! You think I should not? Oh, if I could avoid it … how am I to face him—an old friend, an intimate of years, a fellow officer—a baronet, dammit, a … a man of honour …"

Aye, that’s a word we’ll hear more of before this is done, thinks I. "Tell me, sir—these eagle-eyed youngsters … how much do they claim Cumming bilked ’em of?"

He goggled at me. "What on earth has that to do with it? If a fellow cheats, what does the amount matter?"

"Something, I’d say. Now, I didn’t play either night, but my Elspeth said something about five and ten bob stakes, so it can’t have been much of a high game?"

"Heavens, no! A friendly game, to amuse the ladies—why, I set the bank limit at a hundred pounds, both nights—"

"So Cumming can’t have won more than a hundred or two, can he? Well, I don’t know what he’s worth—some say eighty thou' p.a.—but he has a place in Scotland, house in Town, half-colonelcy in the Guards, moves in the top flight, and I’ve never heard he was short o' the ready, have you?" He shook his head, glowering. "Well, sir—would he risk his good name, his commission, his place in Society—good Lord, everything he counts worth while!—for a few wretched quid that wouldn’t keep him in cheroots for a year? Why, sir, it don’t bear looking at, even!"