‘I said, may the Good Lord forgive me, that I was interested in men. Or boys. But only if it was safe, no danger, no threat of arrest from the peelers. Half-way down the second bottle, he opened up. He told me about the place by the river, about the entry fees and the precautions and all the other things we knew before. But, Francis, this is the thing. This is the thing.’
Powerscourt leant down and poured a generous measure into Lord Johnny’s glass. It seemed very quiet, up there at the top of the house.
‘There is a crisis in the affairs of the club in Chiswick. Members keep getting ill. One or two of them have died in recent years. The symptoms are all the same. Spots, fever, lesions, pustules.’
Syphilis again, thought Powerscourt bitterly. Most people could go through their whole lives without hearing mention of the word. Now he had encountered it twice in the space of a week. ‘Do they know where it is coming from, Johnny. This disease, I mean.’
‘No, they don’t. But they are worried, very worried. Petrified, in fact. They are thinking of closing the whole operation down. Don’t you see, Francis, don’t you see? I’m sure you do.’ Powerscourt stared intently at his friend, a dark shadow of fear passing over his face, ‘We could have another boatload of suspects. Somebody may be infecting these homosexual characters down there. We know a member who has syphilis, he may never have been cured, the heir presumptive to the throne. God knows how many more people he may have infected down there. God knows how many more lives have been ruined, husbands and brothers who may have to face telling their wives and families how they got ill, devoted fathers trying to summon the courage to break it to their own children that they may be dead in a few years, sores and rotting bits all over their bodies.
‘Let’s just suppose one of these unfortunates thinks he may have caught the disease from one of the members, our Duke of Clarence. Precious Prince Eddy. What would you want to do to him? I tell you what I’d do. I’d cut his bloody throat. I’d cut every single artery in his body and hope the blood spilt all over the floor. It wouldn’t matter if you are caught and hung. Think of it. You may as well die from the hangman’s noose as from the horrors of tertiary syphilis.’
Powerscourt felt very tired. Here was another collection of suspects, even less likely to tell the truth than the ones before.
‘Johnny, Johnny. I thought there were about ten possible suspects, or ten suspect families before tonight. I say families because brothers, even fathers might want to take revenge for ruined lives. How many more of them do you think there might be down by the riverside?’
‘I don’t know. I could only guess. Maybe six. Maybe a dozen. Maybe fifteen at the outside. Not more.’
‘Every time I think we have moved a step forwards, we go backwards. I felt quite cheerful the other day, looking up at the Northumberland County Lunatic Asylum. Maybe I should go in and join them.’
‘Never give up. That’s what you’ve always said, Francis. Never give up. Even at the bottom of that bloody great mountain in India.’
Powerscourt smiled at the memory. That was it. Never give up. He watched without complaint as Lord Johnny Fitzgerald poured out two glasses of Armagnac. Bloody great big ones, as Lord Johnny himself would have said.
16
I wonder how much he knows? I wonder how much they told him? I wonder how much he’ll tell me. Lord Francis Powerscourt was walking to the Army and Navy Club, thinking about his forthcoming interview with Lord George Scott, one time captain of the Bacchante.
A bright January sun had come out, casting great shadows from the bare trees of St James’s Square. Powerscourt paused at the junction with Pall Mall, lost in thought. A slim figure, wrapped up to the chin in splendid furs, was dancing through the traffic to talk to him. If they chose Scott because he could keep his mouth shut, Powerscourt reflected, then maybe he’ll go on doing it. I’ll get nothing out of him at all.
The slim figure came to a halt beside him and looked up at him brightly.
‘Lord Francis! Lord Francis! Hello. Hello. Anybody at home?’
It was Lady Lucy.
‘Lady Lucy, why, how delightful to see you. How very delightful indeed.’ Powerscourt looked her up and down as if he had not seen her for years. ‘What are you doing here at this time of the morning? It’s only a quarter to nine. I thought young ladies of fashion never went out before eleven o’clock at the earliest.’
‘I am not one of those young ladies of fashion, Lord Francis. Later this morning I do have an appointment with a young lady of fashion. She is said to have been romantically involved with one of your equerry persons. I rise to go about your business, Lord Francis. And anyway,’ she smiled at him, their eyes already carrying on a private conversation of their own in the midst of London’s early traffic, ‘I have to buy one or two things in Fortnum and Mason, just up the road.’
‘You look like Anna Karenina in that coat, Lady Lucy. Why do I think you look like Anna Karenina? I have never met the woman.’
‘You’re thinking of that illustration on the first edition that came out in English, the one they put on the cover. That showed a young woman wrapped up to the throat in furs.’ Lady Lucy did not mention that the young lady, or the model on whom she had been based, was outrageously beautiful. ‘But if I am Anna Karenina, who are you, Lord Francis?’ Here came that teasing look again. ‘I think you must be Vronsky. Are we going to an illicit assignation? I have to say that I don’t particularly want to throw myself under a train. Not at the moment anyway.’
‘I’m not sure I would care to be Vronsky. Not today. I am going to be late for my appointment.’
Lady Lucy could not bear to let him go. Surely Anna had held on to her Vronsky through thick and thin?
‘Lord Francis, I have some news for you. About those matters we spoke of at dinner before you went away. How was away? Was it satisfactory?’
‘Since you ask, away was terrible. But I did get to see a nice lunatic asylum. I’m thinking of retiring there. Would you care to join me?’
Lady Lucy’s eyes danced. ‘I would think of joining you wherever you were, Lord Francis. But only as long as I knew you were sane in wanting to be with me.’ Had she gone too far, she wondered. Should she have said that? It was only what she felt.
The object of her affections was looking at his watch. ‘Would you by any chance be free in a couple of hours’ time, Lady Lucy? We could have coffee and biscuits in Fortnum and Mason. But I don’t suppose you’ll be in there all that time.’
‘You’d be amazed at how long I could spend in there. I shall see you then. But there’s one thing, Lord Francis. I’m so terribly sorry.’
‘Why are you sorry?’
‘The information I have found out for you. About your equerries.’
‘Yes, what is it?’ Powerscourt was growing anxious. Not more bad tidings at this time of day. He had had enough to last him a month.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t written it down. Not yet anyway. But I will. Write it down, I mean.’
With that, she was gone, gliding through the throng to the shops of Piccadilly, the high collar still visible against the crowd. Maybe I should turn into Vronsky after all, thought Powerscourt, watching her disappearing figure. It might be quite nice. He corrected himself. It might be very nice indeed. After all, Lady Lucy’s husband was dead, wasn’t he?
Polish. There was polish everywhere, polish on the boots coming down the steps as he walked up the steps, polish on the sword handles, glittering in the winter sun, polish on the scabbards, clanking beneath them, polish on the belts round the waists of the military, some small and tight, some tight but expansive. Polish, even on the hair, was the order of the day at the Army and Navy Club.