Bernard Cornwell - Gallows Thief

The tall servant was trapped between his duty to the club and his fellow-feeling for another soldier, but his loyalty to the Seraphim won. He let go of the front door and flexed his hands as if readying for a fight. 'I'm sorry, sir,' he insisted, 'but they'll only tell you to make an appointment.'

'Then I'll wait here till they do tell me that,' Sandman said. He went to the small fire and stretched his hands towards its warmth. 'My name's Sandman, by the way, and I'm here on behalf of Lord Sidmouth.'

'Sir, they don't permit waiting,' the servant said, 'but if you'd like to leave a card, sir, in the bowl on the table?'

'Don't have a card,' Sandman said cheerfully.

'Time to go,' the servant said, and this time he did not call Sandman 'sir', but instead approached the visitor with a chilling confidence.

'It's all right, Sergeant Berrigan,' a smooth voice cut in from behind Sandman, 'Mister Sandman will be tolerated.'

'Captain Sandman,' Sandman said, turning.

An exquisite, a fop, a beau faced him. He was a tall and extraordinarily handsome young man in a brass-buttoned black coat, white breeches so tight that they could have been shrunk onto his thighs, and glistening black top boots. A stiff white cravat billowed from a plain white shirt which was framed by his coat collar that stood so high that it half covered the man's ears. His hair was black and cut very short, framing a pale face that had been shaved so close that the white skin seemed to gleam. It was an amused and clever face, and the man was carrying a quizzing-glass, a slender gold wand supporting a single lens through which he gave Sandman a brief inspection before offering a slight and courteous bow. 'Captain Sandman,' he said, putting a gentle stress on the first word, 'I do apologise. And I should have recognised you. I saw you knock fifty runs off Martingale and Bennett last year. Such a pity that your prowess has not entertained us at any London ground this season. My name, by the way, is Skavadale, Lord Skavadale. Do come into the library, please,' he gestured to the room behind him. 'Sergeant, would you be so kind as to hang up the Captain's coat? By the porter's fire, I think, don't you? And what would you like as a warming collation, Captain? Coffee? Tea? Mulled wine? Smuggled brandy?'

'Coffee,' Sandman said. He smelt lavender water as he went past Lord Skavadale.

'It's a perfectly horrid day, is it not?' Skavadale asked as he followed Sandman into the library. 'And yesterday was so very fine. I ordered fires, as you can see, not so much for warmth as to drive out the damp.' The library was a large, well-proportioned room where a generous fire burnt in a wide hearth between the high bookshelves. A dozen armchairs were scattered across the floor, but Skavadale and Sandman were the only occupants. 'Most of the members are in the country at this time of year,' Skavadale explained the room's emptiness, 'but I had to drive up to town on business. Rather dull business, I fear.' He smiled. 'And what is your business, Captain?'

'An odd name,' Sandman ignored the question, 'the Seraphim Club?' He looked about the library, but there was nothing untoward about it. The only painting was a life-size, full-length portrait that hung above the mantel. It showed a thin man with a rakish good-looking face and lavishly curled hair that hung past his shoulders. He was wearing a tight-waisted coat made of floral silk with lace at its cuffs and neck, while across his chest was a broad sash from which hung a basket-hilted sword.

'John Wilmot, second Earl of Rochester,' Lord Skavadale identified the man. 'You know his work?'

'I know he was a poet,' Sandman said, 'and a libertine.'

'Lucky man to be either,' Skavadale said with a smile. 'He was indeed a poet, a poet of the highest wit and rarest talent, and we think of him, Captain, as our exemplar. The seraphim are higher beings, the highest, indeed, of all the angels. It is a small conceit of ours.'

'Higher than mere mortals like the rest of us?' Sandman asked sourly. Lord Skavadale was so courteous, so perfect and so poised that it annoyed Sandman.

'We merely try to excel,' Skavadale said pleasantly, 'as I am sure you do, Captain, in cricket and whatever else it is that you do, and I am being remiss in not giving you an opportunity to tell me what that might be.'

That opportunity had to wait a few moments, for a servant came with a silver tray on which were porcelain cups and a silver pot of coffee. Neither Lord Skavadale nor Sandman spoke as the coffee was poured and, in the silence, Sandman heard a strange intermittent squeaking that sounded from a nearby room. Then he detected the clash of metal and realised that men were fencing and the squeaks were the sound of their shoes on a chalked floor. 'Sit, please,' Skavadale said when the servant had fed the fire and gone from the room, 'and tell me what you think of our coffee.'

'Charles Corday,' Sandman said, taking a chair.

Lord Skavadale looked bemused, then smiled. 'You had me confused for a second, Captain. Charles Corday, of course, the young man convicted of the Countess of Avebury's murder. You are indeed a man of mystery. Please do tell me why you raise his name?'

Sandman sipped the coffee. The saucer was blazoned with a badge showing a golden angel flying on a red shield. It was just like the escutcheon Sandman had seen painted on the carriage door, except that this angel was quite naked. 'The Home Secretary,' Sandman said, 'has charged me with investigating the facts of Corday's conviction.'

Skavadale raised an eyebrow. 'Why?'

'Because there are doubts about his guilt,' Sandman said, careful not to say that the Home Secretary did not share those doubts.

'It is reassuring to know that our government goes to such lengths to protect its subjects,' Skavadale said piously, 'but why would that bring you to our door, Captain?'

'Because we know that the portrait of the Countess of Avebury was commissioned by the Seraphim Club,' Sandman said.

'Was it, now?' Skavadale asked mildly. 'I do find that remarkable.' He lowered himself to perch on the leather-topped fender, taking exquisite care not to crease his coat or breeches. 'The coffee comes from Java,' he said, 'and is, we think, rather good. Don't you?'

'What makes the matter more interesting,' Sandman went on, 'is that the commission for the portrait demanded that the lady be depicted naked.'

Skavadale half smiled. 'That sounds very sporting of the Countess, don't you think?'

'Though she was not to know,' Sandman said.

'Well, I never,' Skavadale mouthed the vulgarity with careful articulation, but despite the mockery his dark eyes were very shrewd and he did not look surprised at all. He lay the quizzing-glass down on a table, then sipped his coffee. 'Might I ask, Captain, how you learnt all these remarkable facts?'

'A man facing the gallows can be very forthcoming,' Sandman said, evading the question.

'You're informing me that Corday told you this?'

'I saw him yesterday.'

'Let us hope that the imminence of death makes him truthful,' Skavadale said. He smiled. 'I confess I know nothing of this. It is possible that one of our members commissioned the portrait, but alas, they did not confide in me. But, I am forced to wonder, does it matter? How does it affect the young man's guilt?'

'You speak for the Seraphim Club, do you?' Sandman asked, again evading the question. 'Are you the secretary? Or an officer?'

'We have nothing so vulgar as officers, Captain. We members are few in number and count ourselves as friends. We do employ a man to keep the books, but he makes no decisions. Those are made by all of us together, as friends and as equals.'

'So if the Seraphim Club were to commission a portrait,' Sandman persisted, 'then you would know.'

'I would indeed,' Skavadale said forcefully, 'and no such portrait was commissioned by the club. But, as I say, it is possible that one of the members commissioned it privately.'