Alexander Kent - Second to None

Lafargue, as usual, was expensively dressed, his coat and breeches cut by one of London ’s leading tailors, but the clothing could not completely disguise the signs of good living which made him appear older than his fifty-eight years. Sillitoe on the other hand had never changed; he was lean, hard, as if anything superfluous or wasteful had long since been honed away. A good horseman, he was said to exercise regularly, his secretary panting beside him while he outlined one or another of his schemes. He was also a swordsman of repute. For Lafargue it made the comparison even more difficult to accept. Sillitoe was the same age as himself.

Sillitoe was motionless, watching something below, perhaps the carriages wending their way towards Fleet Street, perhaps merely waiting for something. Lafargue saw that the doors were once more closed; Spicer had departed. As senior clerk he was invaluable, and although he appeared to be very dull he never missed the slightest nuance or inflection. Even here, at Lincoln ’s Inn, which Lafargue considered the very centre of English law, there were some things which should and must remain private. This conversation was one of them.

He said, “I have studied all the deeds available. Sir Richard’s nephew Adam Bolitho, once known as Pascoe, is deemed the legal heir to the Bolitho estate and adjoining properties as listed…” He stopped, frowning, as Sillitoe said, “Get on with it, man.” He had not raised his voice.

Lafargue swallowed hard. “However, Sir Richard’s widow and dependant, the daughter, will have some rights in the matter. They are supported by the trust instituted by Sir Richard. It may well be that Lady Bolitho will want to install herself at Falmouth where she did, in fact, enjoy a conjugal residency at one time.”

Sillitoe rubbed his forehead. What was the point? Why had he come? Lafargue was a celebrated lawyer. Otherwise neither of us would be here. He controlled his impatience. Lafargue would act when the time came. If it did…

He looked across at the other buildings, the small green expanses of parks and quiet squares, and saw St Paul ’s. Where the nation, or a select few, would gather to pay homage to a hero. Some with genuine grief, others there only to be seen and admired. Sillitoe had never understood why any sane man would volunteer to spend his life at sea. To him, a ship was only a necessary form of transport. Like being caged, unable to move or act for himself. But he had accepted that others had different views, his nephew George Avery among them.

When they had last met he had offered him a position, one both important and, in time, lucrative. Sillitoe never threw money to the winds without proof of ability, and his nephew was a mere lieutenant, who had been passed over for promotion after being taken prisoner by the French; he had been freed only to face a court martial for losing his ship.

Any other man would have jumped at the opportunity, or at least shown some gratitude. Instead, Avery had returned to his appointment as Sir Richard Bolitho’s flag lieutenant, and must have been with him when he had been killed.

He said flatly, “And what of Viscountess Somervell?” He did not turn from the window, although he heard the intake of breath. Another lawyer’s ploy.

“In the eyes of the law, she has no rights. Had they been at liberty to marry…”

“And the people? What will they say? The woman who inspired their hero, who displayed courage when most would fall back in despair? What of her part?”

He knew Lafargue would think he was referring to Catherine’s bravery and strength in the open boat after the shipwreck; he was intended to. But Sillitoe was seeing something very different, something which had preyed on his mind and had never released him since he and his men had burst into the house by the river. Bruised and bleeding, stripped naked and with her wrists tied cruelly behind her back, she had fought her attacker. Sillitoe had held her against his body and covered her with a sheet or curtain, he could not remember what it had been or the exact order of things. His men beating her attacker, dragging him down the stairs, and then those moments alone with her, her head against his shoulder, her hair beautiful in disarray.

A nightmare. And he had wanted her. Then and there.

“The people? Who listens to the people?” Lafargue was regaining his self-control. His old arrogance.

Sillitoe turned his back on the city, his face in shadow.

“In France they listened. Eventually!”

Lafargue watched him, sensing the bitterness, the anger. And something else. He recalled Catherine Somervell coming here to consult him, at Sillitoe’s suggestion, on a matter of purchasing the lease of a building where Bolitho’s estranged wife lived, at her husband’s expense. Belinda Bolitho had been horrified to discover that her home was owned by the woman she most hated. A woman scorned.

Lafargue’s eyes sharpened professionally. No, there was far more to it than that. He watched Sillitoe, dressed all in grey as was his habit, move swiftly to the opposite side of the room. He had the ear of the Prince Regent, and when the King, drifting in madness, eventually died, who could say to what heights he might not rise?

Lady Somervell… he had thought of her as Catherine just now, which showed that he was unusually overwrought… was the key. Lafargue remembered her entering this room. She had walked straight towards him, her eyes never leaving his. To call her beautiful was an understatement. But a symbol could be soiled, and envy and spite were well known to Lafargue in the world of law.

They had praised Nelson to the skies, and those who had cried out the loudest had been the biggest hypocrites. A dead hero was safe, and could be remembered without anxiety or inconvenience.

Edward Berry, Nelson’s favourite flag captain, had once quoted, God and the navy we adore, when danger threatens but not before.

Napoleon was said to be in retreat; it might soon be over. Not like the last time. Truly over…

How soon after that would those same people turn on the woman who had defied society and protocol for the man she loved?

He ventured, “If Lady Somervell were to remarry… Her husband was killed in a duel, I understand.”

Sillitoe sat down abruptly. Everyone knew about Somervell, a gambler and a waster who had used much of Catherine’s money to extricate himself from debt. A man who had plotted with Bolitho’s wife to have his mistress imprisoned and transported as a common thief. One of Bolitho’s officers had called him out and had mortally wounded him. He had paid for it with his own life.

I would have killed him myself.

How much did Lafargue really know?

He would know, for instance, that the post of Inspector General had once been Viscount Somervell’s. Another bitter twist.

“I think it unlikely.” He tugged out his watch. “I must leave now.”

Lafargue asked, too casually, “And how goes the war?”

Sillitoe glanced around the room. “I shall see the Prince Regent this afternoon. He is more concerned with the army than the fleet at this moment. As well he might be.”

Lafargue stood. He felt unusually drained and could not explain it. He said, “I have received an invitation to the memorial service at St Paul ’s. The cathedral will be crowded to the full, I have no doubt.”

It was a question. Sillitoe said, “I shall be there.”

“And Lady Somervell?”

Sillitoe saw the double doors open silently. Perhaps there was a hidden bell, some sort of secret signal.

“She has been invited.” Their eyes met. “Privately.”

It told Lafargue nothing. He took his hat from the clerk, and sighed. It told him everything.

Unis Allday walked slowly around the small parlour, making certain that everything was as it should be. She knew she had already done it several times, but she could not help it. Beyond the open door she could hear voices, the only two customers at the Old Hyperion inn. Auctioneers from the sound of them, on their way to Falmouth for tomorrow’s market.