"The Beaumans, ah!" Sir Hugo said, inspired to "set the scene" even further by drawing his small-sword and bloodying it with the gore of a dead highwayman now slung head-down cross a saddle, then wiping the blade clean on a pocket handkerchief. "Evidence," he snickered as he did so. "A couple of 'em got hacked t'bits, so some of us must own blooded swords, d'ye see? You, Burgess… you, son."
"You were sayin' 'bout the Beaumans?" Lewrie asked as he obeyed his father's suggestion.
"With Twigg's men t'smoak out their lodgings, and with a little money t'in-spire the local 'Captain Tom o' the Mob' in their parish, the Beaumans might not get a single night o' rest anywhere in London! Hue and cry, rocks an' cobblestones through the right windows… dung an' mud slung at 'em when they dare go out by a… properly outraged Mob o' Londoners, hmm?"
"A capital idea, old friend," Twigg applauded as he rejoined them at the coach door. "The blooded swords and the harassment, both. Let an anonymous letter or two get into the papers, suggesting that a pack of cruel and arrogant slave-holders have no place in a civilised England, in London, and they'll rue the day they took ship! I believe I may be able to arrange that, as well!
"Come, then," Twigg ordered, turning grimmer. "Let us be away. The quicker we're done with the magistrate, the sooner we shall be in London, where we will dine on roast lamb and tandoori chicken. Then, our plans may be set afoot!"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
And, it was a true Far Eastern, Hindi feast, the sort of thing that Lewrie ravenously remembered from his time in Calcutta. All four of them at-table in Twigg's Baker Street house that evening were veterans of India, and each new course was cheered much like the arrival of the Christmas pudding. Genteel and witty conversation, expected of diners at refined English tables, had given way to lip-smacking, slurping, and only occasional sallies in finding new adjectives and adverbs to congratulate Twigg on his chef and his creations.
But, instead of lingering over nuts, sweet biscuits, and port (and entertaining each other with the aforesaid witty conversations to the wee hours), their small party broke up just before ten of the clock, Sir Hugo and Trilochan Singh taking the short walk to his private town-house, and Burgess Chiswick, yawning heavily, off to the Madeira Club, where Sir Hugo had arranged a room, and temporary membership.
"You are surely exhausted by our arduous adventure, today, sir," Twigg imperiously announced, as if the matter was settled, "and by the early hour at which you, and we, were forced to arise for our journey. Ajit Roy will light you up to a spare bedroom for the night. You are sure you brought along your best uniform, your medals, and such? Good. Such a brave show, your barrister assures me, will go a long way with the Lord Justice who will conduct your evidentiary hearing tomorrow. Good night, bonne nuit… achchhaa raat, sonaa t'keek* … all that." (* achchhaa raat, sonaa t'heek=good night, sleep well)
"Thankee, again, sir," Lewrie replied, loath as he was to give Twigg thanks for much of anything, for he still had his lingering suspicions of the man's motives.
"We breakfast at seven in this house" was Twigg's parting comment as he betook himself to his first-floor study with a lit candle, with no acknowledgement of Lewrie's gratitude, sincere or not.
If Twigg's country estate, Spyglass Bungalow, was Hindi-exotic, a museum and treasure trove of priceless Far East relicts, his London house was the epitome of subtly understated Palladian grandeur, a home furnished and decorated by a rich, but modest, English gentleman, from the crown of his head to the tip of his toes. Albeit with rather more firepower available than most. No bejeweled tulwars or valuable Asian matchlock or flintlock jenails, but, here a gun-cabinet, there a gun-cabinet; a brace of rifled duelling pistols in a glass case in the salon, a brace of rare Ferguson rifled breechloading muskets standing in the library, and double-barreled fowling pieces secreted behind almost every open door! Twigg obviously was a fellow who'd spent too long in the field to sleep well without something bang-worthy near to hand. In Lewrie's own spacious, but darkly panelled, bedchamber, his own double-barreled Mantons were set out on the wine-table, much like a house servant might spread out his "housewife" shaving kit ready for the morning. There was a shotgun (presumably loaded and primed for any emergencies) 'twixt the wall corner and the armoire, and a brace of infantry hangers crossed on the wall near the door!
Sleep well, mine arse! Lewrie thought as he undressed; Court in the mornin', gaol right after dinner, and the noose after breakfast o' th' next day? Shit!
He did give sleep a try, sans the silk ankle-length night shirt so thoughtfully laid out for him, for even the mild warmth of a London summer was a tad too hot. The wee decanter of brandy left on the night-stand didn't help much, either; nor did the rumble of wheels, the clops of hooves, or the squeal of axles from the street outside, even if the road had been strewn with straw to dampen the din. Window open and the noise was maddening; window closed, and it was too stuffy to breathe.
He sponged off and dressed in slippers, breeches, and shirt and padded back down to the first floor with a candle in his hand to find a book to read… or another decanter of brandy. At the library room's door, though, he heard a suspicious noise. There was a skritching and rustling, sounding as if someone had snuck into the house despite all of Twigg's security, and was rifling through his files. There was also a gurgling, bubbling sound. Someone's throat had been cut, and was now in his final gasps for air? The office door was open, and there was a light inside, so he went on tiptoes to investigate.
But no, it was only Mr. Twigg, sitting cross-legged on a pile of large and garish tasseled pillows with a portable writing desk in his lap, and quill pen in hand… now more comfortably dressed in equally garish pyjammy trousers and robe, with a long night cap on his head, now and again sucking on the mouthpiece of a "hubble-bubble" pipe, and blowing smoke rings 'tween scribbled thoughts.
"Oh, 'tis you," Twigg snippishly said. "Can't sleep, hey? Oh, come in, then, if you must."
"I thought t'find a book, or…," Lewrie said, excusing his odd-hour ramble. "Was it Doctor Samuel Johnson who said that 'the idea of being hanged concentrates the mind most wondrously'?"
"Some scribbler, yayss," Twigg drawled. "Or, it very well might have been Boswell, to make the old grump sound more lively."
"You're up late," Lewrie commented as he found a more conventional seat in a wing-back chair. Looking about for a bottle of something.
"I find that as I age, the need for sleep is less," Twigg said, finishing off whatever he was writing with grand nourish, and a smug sniff of pleasure, before sanding it and setting the paper aside. "Of course, when younger and more active in the Crown's service overseas, I perhaps developed a habit of sleeping with one eye open, in short bouts, and have never really lost it. You, I should expect, usually have no difficulty sleeping deep, long, and well."
Insult me more, why don't you? Lewrie silently groused.
"Something about all this has disturbed my sleep, for the last year or better," Lewrie said.
"And, what is that, Lewrie?" Twigg asked, looking nettled to be interrupted in his thought processes as he prepared a fresh sheet of paper and dipped his quill into the ink-pot.
"Why you, of all people, all of a sudden, are so solicitous for me," Lewrie said. "Half the time, I imagine you're saving me for future work upon your behalf, the other half the time I think I'm being used in some scheme you've dreamt up, but for the life o' me, I can't find what advantage there is in it. I can halfway believe that you are as opposed to slavery as Wilberforce and his crowd, but… knowing you and your ways by now, I'm always haunted by knowing that nothing with you is ever that clear… that you always have an ulterior motive, or a whole set o' motives. Am I to hang as your martyr to further some grand scheme o' yours, or…?"