Another Small Kingdom (4 page)

Chapter Five

T
he French Girl was back again, back to haunt him, back to drive him, back to ruin what little peace of mind was left to him.

If Macleod's maternal grandfather had not been French, he might have lived a very different life, perhaps even a normal one.

Claude Vernier was a successful merchant who had moved from Paris to Edinburgh. Being an ambitious and clever man, he had looked across the Atlantic eager to enter the growing and lucrative markets of America. But he had two problems, a daughter, Françoise, and a wife, Clotilde. The daughter needed a husband and the wife insisted he should be Catholic. Finding a suitable son-in-law in Protestant Edinburgh had been a particular headache for Monsieur Vernier. It was not that he was at all devout. He was not. But, as his wife was devout enough for both of them, his own lack of piety was of no consequence. The problem was that his wife constantly nagged him to return to Paris so that Françoise should be found a Catholic husband, not some Protestant who would stand damned for all eternity at the altar even as he made his wedding vows.

The very last thing Vernier wanted was to go back to France for an extended stay. Thus it was that the pretty and pious Françoise was introduced to Monsieur Macleod, a young man Vernier had taken into his firm and watched carefully. Monsieur Macleod had a talent, perhaps even a genius, for business and, as his son-in-law, would be the perfect choice to launch the American development. As he was also a Catholic, Françoise was persuaded to overlook the drawback of his features and finally to concede, albeit reluctantly, to his proposal of marriage. Thus it came to pass that Euan Macleod acquired a bride, a partnership and a rich father-in-law.

And Euan Macleod fully lived up to his father-in-law's expectations and was indeed sent to establish offices in the American Colonies. And so it was that in 1758 the first, and as it transpired, the only child of Euan and Françoise Macleod was born in Boston and baptised Jean Marie Macleod. The naming of his son had been a gesture of thanks by Euan to his father-in-law for giving him a future in the New World so very different from that of the rest of his family in the Old. For Euan was a true-born Highlander who had rallied to the head of Loch Shiel in '45 and fought with the Bonnie Prince's army from Prestonpans to Falkirk. But after Falkirk, he had thrown away his claymore and shield and left the two of his five brothers who had survived that ill-fated campaign to die with what was left of the flower of the Highlands in the blood-soaked turf of Culloden Moor. He had walked to Protestant Edinburgh and there lived, thrived and married.

The birth of a son two years after their arrival in Boston crowned Euan's ambitions for success in business and society in his adopted country. It also allowed Françoise Macleod, for the first time in her marriage, to experience love, to feel a deep, warm affection rather than the cold satisfaction of a duty done. The baby was as lovingly tended as any baby could be both by his mother and her young French maid, Amélie. Amélie had been brought from Paris by Françoise's mother as soon as it had been arranged that the couple would sail for the Colonies. She had done this so that, even far away across the Atlantic, French would be spoken in the Macleod home and France, though far away, would not be forgotten.

Amélie, on arrival in Edinburgh, had at once proceeded to adore her mistress as an almost divine being while at the same time determining to detest Britain with an unrestrained loathing. Scottish Britain, English Britain, perfidious Britain, it mattered to Amélie not at all. Her lady was for France, for Paris, yes even for Versailles and the Court itself, and why not? Madame was not for this cold uncivilised place. She expressed her contempt by speaking nothing but French and it was a moot point, first in the Vernier household in Edinburgh and then in the Macleod household in Boston, whether Amélie wouldn't or couldn't speak English. If Amélie had loathed Edinburgh, she regarded Boston, indeed all America, as the innermost ring of hell itself. Britain at least was not so far from France, but America, mon Dieu, one might as well be on the moon. And where were the nobility in this wilderness? Where were the châteaux and grand houses fit for her Madame to grace with visits? America was ‘le barbarisme'. Only La France was for her Madame and, in France, only Paris and the best society. The truth was that Amélie had lived her day-dreams in a fantasy Paris, but when Jean Marie was born Amélie forgot her dreams and joined her mistress in a deep and unreserved love for the child, and as the baby became a boy he grew to be as happy as any child could be throughout his early years.

As he grew, it became clear that young Jean Marie was indeed a favoured child. He had inherited his father's cleverness and his mother's good looks. By the age of ten he had been given a thorough education in his family histories, French as well as Highland. He knew that all English, Lowland Scots, and German Protestants should be at least despised and at best hated and killed. He also knew that God spoke French and was a good Catholic.

All of this deep learning he took with him when he left his mother and Amélie in tears and went away to school where he found how quickly and completely the world can be made a living hell for any little boy unlucky enough to have, as his first two names, Jean and Mary. It was at school that he quickly and permanently became ‘The French Girl', the name Darcy had now discovered and found funny. Found it so funny indeed, that it would very probably turn out to be the death of him.

Chapter Six

B
entley sat and waited for the lawyer's reaction. Macleod's mind turned over slowly while Bentley looked at him. For Bentley it was a pleasure to watch Macleod thinking, he could almost see the well-oiled cogs turning. There would be no rush. He wouldn't betray any surprise if he felt it. And he would squeeze the pips out of what had been said and the way it had been said. Bentley knew Macleod's response would be a good one, whatever he said would put him in an advantageous position to find out more without giving anything away. Oh, he was a joy to watch was Lawyer Macleod. But Bentley couldn't wait indefinitely.

‘You understand, Macleod, that whatever happens, whatever he may say or whatever comes to your ears, you're not to kill him.'

And he waited once more but this time the wait was very short and when Macleod spoke, it was in a casual, matter-of-fact voice.

‘Then I won't kill him.'

That was it. And Bentley knew Macleod had turned the tables on him. He couldn't leave it at that because that would leave him nowhere, and he couldn't afford to be left nowhere. Bentley almost permitted himself a wry smile. Macleod was certainly some piece of work, yes sir, Lawyer Macleod was some piece of work. Carefully Cedric Bentley proceeded.

‘And you'll give me your word on that?'

‘Yes, you can have my word.'

Too easy, much too easy. What next? Bentley waited.

‘On your oath?'

‘You can have my private word, Bentley, and on oath if you like. Without witnesses, completely deniable, given to you at a meeting which I would guess no one else even knows about considering the lateness of the hour. For whatever you think it may be worth to you, you may have my sacred word.'

‘Well, say at least you will honour your word as a gentleman?'

Lawyer Macleod smiled and said nothing. Damn, thought Bentley, that was a stupid mistake and he couldn't afford to look stupid. Macleod might or might not have some kind of honour tucked away somewhere, but he had none where being a lawyer was concerned, and tonight, even though this was Macleod's home, he was very much the lawyer. Bentley knew that all he had done so far was show the weakness of his hand. Well, leave it alone or go on? Lawyer Macleod watched Bentley carefully. But what he did not know and could not have guessed was that Cedric Bentley was deciding whether Macleod would live or die.

Bentley had decided that he had only two options, bring Macleod in or snuff Macleod out. Tell him or kill him. It was his turn to take his time and think. Macleod waited, he was good at waiting. Bentley thought about his choices. Killing would do the job in a way, but maybe telling would do the job better. A clock ticked in the darkness of the room as the two men looked at each other in silence. Finally Bentley decided. The lawyer would live. Telling him it would be, and if tomorrow morning or any morning, having slept on it, he changed his mind, well, he could arrange for the lawyer to be dead quickly enough. But only if that would be the better course to get the job done.

‘Darcy's somehow found out about the French Girl. He was laughing about it in the club this afternoon. This evening he was drinking heavily and started in on it among his friends, making sport of you. I thought he had been made to see sense after luncheon. He was told about how you dealt with it on your last two outings, but I guess he may have got bottle brave. He doesn't like you Macleod and it seems he couldn't resist the chance to do you a bad turn. I thought I'd tell you about it before someone else did and,' he paused, ‘before you decided to do anything about it yourself.'

There was no reaction. Bentley had hoped for one, but nothing came. Inside, Lawyer Macleod was raging. Darcy laughing at him and making others laugh, the little shit. Well, others had thought he could be made the butt of their laughter so perhaps Darcy should join them and not go back down South after all. Perhaps he should be persuaded to become another permanent resident of Boston Common's Burying Ground.

But Macleod made sure that nothing of his thoughts showed and when he spoke it was as if Bentley had said that it had been a nice day.

‘Thank you for telling me.'

‘Not at all. My concern was not for you and not particularly for Darcy. My concern springs from something more important than any duel or any death, yours or Darcy's. I will not allow you to kill Darcy because it is my duty, duty to my country, duty to America.' At last, thought Bentley, the man had been reached. Macleod had looked almost surprised. It had only flashed across his face, maybe his eyebrows had risen, maybe his eyes had widened, maybe his lips had moved. But however small and however fleeting, it had been there. Bentley had reached into the man and knew he had scored a hit. They were back on level terms now. No, he was on top. With men like Macleod it was all or nothing. Let there be only one tiny crack in their fine façade and they would break wide open.

‘For America?'

The calm voice was there, the set face was there, the unconcerned body was there. But it was all no good now. Macleod might look the same but he wasn't thinking the same. Now he wanted to know, he needed to know. It wasn't business any more. Maybe, thought Bentley, just maybe I've found a place where honour might mean something to this man, and honour in any man meant weakness, and weakness could always be used.

‘Before I tell you anything of that, I need to be sure that you won't kill Darcy, no matter what he knows or says.'

Lawyer Macleod thought for a moment. He knew Bentley now had the upper hand.

‘If Darcy has a slack mouth he must expect to pay for it. Business is business. If the Darcys of this world try to make fools of their betters they must be stepped on, and stepped on hard. Who could say what it might lead to if the likes of Darcy were allowed to play fast and loose with men of standing and be seen to get away with it? Would you still want to be seen doing business with me, Bentley, if I didn't stop Darcy's mouth. If I let people see he could walk all over me?'

Bentley knew that the lawyer was now his. Macleod wasn't talking, he was negotiating because he knew he was beaten. All that was left was to try and get the best terms he could. Well, thought Bentley, no harm in that, and maybe it was all for the best. After all, he wanted Macleod in one piece and working well. Yes, maybe it was better that way. If he made it too hard for him, perhaps even broke him, what use would he be? Bentley took his time. He knew now that he could afford to.

Bentley reflected. Macleod was right about Darcy in one way. Darcy was no good as a lawyer. But that was all right because within six months, a year at the most, he could stop playing at being one. Bentley was pleased that his little bit of theatre had so completely taken in someone as sharp as Lawyer Macleod. Bentley's mind turned to another matter. Darcy alive, yes, but what about Darcy with a neat hole in him? Nothing fatal of course, just a neat hole. That might be no bad thing, no bad thing at all, and it could kill two birds with one stone. If Macleod could be made to wound Darcy to order, in a duel say, it would prove that he had Macleod just where he wanted him. Secondly it would make a point to Darcy. Bentley knew that Darcy had been jockeying for a better position in the matter of the new business venture, and Darcy might indeed be the fool Macleod rated him if he had thought he could keep his little intrigue a secret. Yes, that would all fit together nicely. Macleod would put a hole in Darcy and afterwards Bentley would visit him and make it quite clear that his little scheme was known and if he tried anything like it again the next pistol ball he took would be straight in the back of his head.

Macleod waited patiently. He knew Bentley was working out what he would demand and he was prepared to let him take his time. Negotiation, even on such an unimportant matter as the killing of a coxcomb, never benefited from being hurried. Bentley was nearly ready. He was considering the one final detail. A wounded Darcy was one thing, a dead Darcy was quite another. A dead Darcy would need to be replaced and that would take time and there wasn't time. Bentley's problem was, how good a shot was Macleod these days? Could he be relied upon to put a hole in Darcy in the right place, the shoulder say, or the lung? Stomach wounds were unpredictable, anything might happen with a stomach wound. Could Macleod be relied upon to put a ball in Darcy without killing him? It was a tricky proposition.

‘A wound perhaps? What if you just wounded him?'

‘Shoot a man in the body and he can die just as surely as shooting him in the head. It may take longer and be more painful that's all. You saw that as much as I in the war. Men brought in with wounds that looked nothing at all and they were screaming in days and dead in a week. Others came in with their legs blown off and finished up with stumps, but alive. If I kill him I'll make it clean.'

‘What about a chest shot? A ball in the lung can be dealt with,' he paused, ‘especially if the doctor's ready for it.' He continued in a matter of fact way. ‘It's amazing what doctors can do these days compared with twenty years ago. Why, Professor McDonald told me only the other day that he is quite sure that one day they will find a way of controlling even things like smallpox. It's just theory of course and, between you and me, it'll never happen. He was just talking things up and trying to get a donation out of me for his research. But he's right in one way. They can do things now that would have seemed miracles when you and I were soldiering.' Bentley thought for a moment and then an idea struck him. Oh my, he loved it when things came together. Yes sir, he just loved it. ‘In fact, if McDonald was persuaded to be the doctor at the duel and he was told that the likely outcome was a chest or shoulder wound, I do believe he'd be just the man to make sure no lasting damage was done. If McDonald could have a wounded man up and about before too long, not fully mended of course, but maybe able to travel, why I might believe he was just the sort of medical man I should be making a fair-sized donation to. When I have confidence in a man I'm prepared to back that confidence with cold cash. Yes indeed, a donation and a handsome one.'

Macleod became impatient of Bentley's rambling and broke into his visitor's monologue.

‘Well, man, what's it to be?'

Bentley's voice was flat and firm. He leant forward.

‘A chest shot.'

It was his final offer and Macleod knew it. It was Bentley's turn to sit back and wait now. He, like Macleod, fully accepted that negotiations needed time to reach a conclusion satisfactory to both parties. The lawyer's brain turned. If Darcy really was important to the American Government he couldn't kill him. But was he important? He knew Bentley had powerful friends and not a few connections in or close to the Government. So far as he knew, Bentley had no personal or business reasons for protecting Darcy. But Darcy had to be stamped on. Perhaps Bentley's suggestion had merit. Duels were frowned on now, and a killing, even an honour killing, could become a messy business if it became too public.

‘It'll only work if he shoots face on. It's no good if he stands sideways to fire.'

‘Why?'

‘Because if he's standing face on when my ball goes into his chest it will either go through him or lodge and if he's lucky it won't cause any real problem. But if he's side on it could go through the lung and maybe go on to hit his heart or some vital artery. I couldn't say where it might finish nor that it wouldn't be fatal.'

Bentley considered.

‘And there's no way round that? Couldn't you reduce the charge, lessen the penetration?'

Macleod laughed dismissively.

‘Have you forgotten everything you were ever taught in the army, man? If I reduce the charge enough to do that it would mean loss of accuracy, and if the ball strayed it might go anywhere. Hell, it might hit him on that thick head of his and bounce off and then the fool might even get a shot at me. No, the only sure way is for him to stand face on. Do you know if he has fought a duel with pistols before?'

Bentley shook his head.

‘No, but I would doubt very strongly that he has.'

‘Then he'll almost certainly stand side on, it's the natural stance for shooting. Only duellists stand front on. If they get hit they want the ball to lodge or go through.'

‘And if he stood face on you could do it, for sure?'

Macleod threw the blanket off his legs and kicked the footstool to one side. He pulled off his night-cap, threw it down onto the blanket and stood up.

‘Come, I'll let you judge for yourself.'

Macleod picked up the lamp from the table and led the way out of the library. They went through a door under the main staircase and down some stone steps. Below the house was a large cellar that had once been, among other things, the wine store, but now had been converted into a shooting gallery. Macleod put the lamp on a table, took off his dressing gown and hung it on a hook in the wall, lit a taper, then walked around the cellar lighting lamps set on the walls. He returned to the table and began to prepare a pistol. He nodded to a box on the table amongst the bits and pieces. It was about six inches by four and two inches deep. It contained flints.

‘Empty that box and take it down to the other end of the gallery.'

Bentley looked at the box then at Macleod.

‘What for?'

‘This is business, Bentley, so think like a businessman. If I tell you I can hit Darcy in the chest and not kill him, are you just going to take my unsupported word for it?'

Bentley understood Macleod's point.

‘I guess not.'

They both knew there was only one way to be sure.

‘Then take the box.'

Bentley picked up the box, emptied out the flints, then walked slowly down the gallery. When he turned, the distance between them was about the same as in a duel and Lawyer Macleod was already pointing his pistol at him. Bentley felt a cold sweat form on his brow. No one knew of his visit to Macleod's house and Macleod had already guessed that was the case. There was no one in the house except that idle old French cook and even if she wasn't deaf he was sure she would be loyal. Darcy may have been a fool to think he could outmanoeuvre me, thought Bentley, but I must be a bigger fool to put myself so easily at the wrong end of Macleod's pistol. Macleod was pointing the pistol and waiting. On the other hand, thought Bentley, if Macleod was going to kill me I would be dead already. He was sure Macleod wouldn't have had any scruple about shooting him in the back. He called out.