Ричард Вудмен - Beneath the aurora

'Sir ... sir, I beg you ... my mother ...'

He had looked desperately at Frey and then lapsed into a sobbing quiescence from which Drinkwater had been unable to rouse him. In the end he had abandoned the attempt.

'I am taking you to my house,' he had said. You will be held there for the time being.'

'Is that a good idea, sir?' Frey had asked, speaking for the first time, his face bleak with suppressed emotion.

Drinkwater had nodded. 'For the time being, yes. You will look after him until after I decided what is to be done.'

Night had fallen when they crossed the Thames. The light of a young moon and the gleam of the lamps mounted on the parapet of London Bridge to illuminate the carriageway shone on the white expanse of the frozen river.

'Stap me,' Frey had said, breaking the dolorous silence, 'I wish I'd my paint-box!'

On arrival at the house in Lord North Street they had hustled Templeton quickly inside and upstairs to the bedroom which Bardolini had once used.

'Leave us a moment,' Drinkwater had said to Frey, after he had dismissed the impassive Williams, and Frey, with a glance at the trembling Templeton, had done as he was bid.

Downstairs, the manservant had ushered Frey into the withdrawing-room. Frey settled before a roaring fire quickly conjured by Williams, who poured him a glass of oporto. The young lieutenant sat and stared at the magnificent portrait above the fireplace, marvelling at the skill of the artist. The lady was fair and beautiful and her lovely face seemed to glow in the imperfect candlelight. He had no idea who she was, nor what her relationship had been with Captain Drinkwater. He had had no idea, either, that Drinkwater possessed such a house; the knowledge seemed another mystery to add to the sum of extraordinary occurrences of recent weeks. He wondered whether Drinkwater would vouchsafe him some further explanation when he came downstairs. He knew that Captain Drinkwater had, from time to time, some connections with secret operations and felt that the death of James Quilhampton had elevated Frey himself to the post of confidant. For the moment he was lost in admiration of the work of Mr George Romney.

So abandoned to contemplation had he been, that Drinkwater startled him. 'She was the Countess of Dungarth,' Drinkwater had explained, helping himself from the decanter. 'The wife of the former head of the Admiralty's Secret Department. This was formerly his house. Your health, Mr Frey. Now tell me what is troubling you.'

Frey had been recalled to the present. 'That man, sir.'

'Templeton? What about him?'

'Shouldn't we turn him over to the constables? If what you say is true, he is guilty of treason, of trafficking with the enemy...'

'You are concerned he might escape, that the bedroom is no Newgate cell, is that what's troubling you?'

'Yes it is, in part.'

Drinkwater had sighed. 'I owe you something of an explanation, my dear Frey. You are the only man I can trust in this matter and it must be settled quietly. Forgive me, it is an imposition I would rather not have laid upon you.'

Drinkwater had then related to Frey an account of the arrival of secret intelligence from Naples and of the subsequent disappearance of Bardolini. He told of the sabotage in the Vikkenfiord, of his belated suspicions, of the too pat pressing of the Americans and the mischief they had wrought under Malaburn.

'It was an assumed name, I think, and a flash one, a punning which might have spelled the end for all of us.'

'What do you think he intended to do, if he had not let go your anchor?'

'To set us on fire when we were conveniently close to the American ships and he and his accomplices could escape in a boat. Had he lain low in the hold, he might just have achieved it. He was a resourceful fellow, this Mal-a-burn, he staked a great deal on chance and he nearly won…'

Drinkwater did not wish to dwell on how close his own laxity had come to promoting this course of events, nor on what he owed to Thomas Huke whose unnecessary death would reproach him for the rest of his life. The two men were lost in silence for a moment, contemplating what might have happened.

'And Templeton?' Frey had prompted at last. It did not seem to be over until Templeton was dealt with.

Drinkwater stirred and poured another glass for both of them.

'There has been enough blood spilled in this whole wretched business. We have both lost a friend in James, and only you and I know of Templeton's guilt. Let us sleep on it.' 'But he might escape from that room.'

'He might murder us in our beds, it's true, and if he does escape,' Drinkwater shrugged, 'well, what does it matter? It's over now.'

'But why , sir? I don't understand.'

"Twas a temptation more than he could bear. Consider the matter.' Drinkwater sighed; his conversation alone with Tem­pleton had borne out all his suspicions and answered most of his questions. 'Templeton is an intelligent fellow,' Drinkwater went on, 'skilled, dedicated. For years he toils miserably upwards in the sequestered corridors of the Admiralty, a world of internecine jealousies between pettifogging minds. He finds himself close to secrets of state, unlocks some of them with his ability to decrypt reports at speed. He learns from Lord Dungarth, and later myself, of his true worth, yet he is paid a pittance. He is surrounded by glory and yet not one iota is reflected upon him. You are an artist, Frey, a man of, what did he call me? Of sensibility; surely you can see how such a life could corrode a proud spirit and leave him vulnerable to seduction?'

Frey had stirred uncomfortably, but held his tongue.

'Templeton, I suspect,' Drinkwater went on, 'was as much led astray by Malaburn's gold as Malaburn's promise of a new life. D'you think Templeton was a high Tory or the member of a Corresponding Society, a secret republican? For him America means opportunity, another chance away from our world of privilege and patronage, of jobbing and perquisites, of the eternal English kow-tow . I didn't have to ask him if this is true, though I have spoken to him of it. I know it myself; I feel it in my bones, and so, if you're honest, do you.

'No, leave Templeton to his conscience, and the workings of providence. He can do no harm now.' Drinkwater had paused, then said, 'This is a damnable war. It has lasted all my adult life. Quilhampton joined me as a midshipman and was shot to pieces. Now we have a new generation, boys like little Fisher weeping over cats, but bred to war, inured to war like me. I am weary of it, sick to my very soul, Frey, and I am burdening you unreasonably with my confession.' Drinkwater smiled, and his face was oddly boyish.

'Not at all,' Frey said uncertainly, 'not at all. I recall something Pope wrote ...'

'What is that?'

' "Sir, I have lived a courtier all my days, And studied men, their manners and their ways; And have observed this useful maxim still, To let my betters always have their will." '

'So, you feel something of it too, eh?' Drinkwater smiled again. 'Anyway, my dear fellow,' he said, rising and stretching stiffly, 'I have asked for you to be given a step in rank. You will be a Commander before too long.'

'Is that to purchase my silence in the matter?' Frey had asked quickly, looking up.

Drinkwater laughed. 'Only incidentally. But yes, it binds you to the system and compromises you. Like marriage and family, it makes you a hostage to fortune.'

Drinkwater crossed the room and drew back the curtains. 'Good Lord, I thought it had grown warmer and blamed the wine, but it is raining outside.'

Frey became aware of the hiss of the deluge, then Drinkwater closed the curtains and faced him. 'I think it is time for bed.'

Frey tossed off his glass and stood up. 'Good-night, sir.'

'Good-night. I hope you sleep well.'