It occurred to Troy that Burgess was the kind of bloke who’d never leave a party until physically thrown out.
Lady Troy was long abed, his father was postmidnight pottering in his study as was his wont, his sisters were in the kitchen giggling their way through the Calvados, he’d no idea where Rod was, and every other guest but Burgess had left at the witching hour. It occurred to Troy that Burgess was probably pissed, but he hardly seemed incapable.
They sat on the west-facing verandah in the last vestiges of summer warmth. Troy often listened to the foxes and the owls this way, but now he was listening to a man, who whilst certainly not without charm, struck him as an endless blabbermouth.
“Your brother tells me you’re a copper.”
“Cadet. Well, almost. I don’t start for a week or so.”
“Odd choice, if I may say so.”
“You may. You were a cadet yourself, I hear.”
“Oh, that was different.”
Burgess reached down for the brandy decanter and finding it empty set it back down, the silver tag clinking gently on the Waterford crystal. Troy did not offer to fill it up again.
“That was Dartmouth,” Burgess went on.
“I know,” Troy said. “There are rumours.”
“Oh fuck. Is there anyone in England who hasn’t heard? Completely untrue of course. I was not expelled for theft, although I think I’ll probably spend the rest of my life denying it.”
“What was it?”
“Oh, I dunno. General dissatisfaction, I suppose. Realising before it was too late that a life in uniform wasn’t for me. I was good at it. Passed everything with flying colours. I shone … that might be the word … I always have … that’s what I do, I pass exams with bugger all effort. I’ve never really failed at anything.”
There was a long, sigh-soaked pause that Troy would rather not shatter.
“Which … which is why I find this current feeling so odd. I feel I have not got off the ground since Cambridge. And that tastes remarkably like failure.”
“When did you leave Cambridge?”
“Oh, just now. In the spring. I’ve chased a couple of jobs. Eton wouldn’t touch me with a barge pole, and Tory central office passed on a glorious opportunity to hire me. Your father kindly took me on as a reviewer. A couple of other proprietors have been equally generous, and I’ve enough to live on quite comfortably. And I’m not a fussy man. I’m … I’m easily pleased. All I need to be content is wine, books, and the News of the World.”
Burgess’s own joke set him giggling, a high-pitched whine.
“Don’t ever let my old man hear you say you like the News of the World,” Troy said.
Burgess drew breath and continued as though Troy had not spoken.
“But … but I always thought my life would have taken off by now. And it hasn’t.”
“Dreams of flying?”
“We all have them. You too.”
“Maybe. I turned down Oxford a couple of years ago.”
“Bloody hell. How old are you?”
“Twenty next month.”
“Hmm … you look fifteen.”
“Usually I’m told I look twelve. Glad to make it into the teens.”
“And you turned down Oxford?”
“Open Exhibition, Christ Church.”
“I bet your old man was furious.”
“No. He heard me out, then asked what I might be doing next, as he was rich enough to keep me but did not think it good for my soul to be kept without working. I asked for a job on one of his papers and he sent me to the Post as the lowest of the low—court reporter.”
“Like Dickens?”
“Giant footsteps to follow in. And that sparked my interest, my taste for crime.”
“You want to be a beat bobby?”
“Well, you can’t trust a special like the old-time copper.”
Burgess giggled.
“No,” said Troy. “Of course I don’t want to be a beat bobby. I want to be a detective at Scotland Yard. I don’t mind being in uniform, but I’d be a damn sight happier if I had one that fitted. I tried it on just before you got here. I look like a weasel lost in a sack of spuds.”
“I used to get my Dartmouth cadet togs tailored at Gieves in Old Bond Street. They make uniforms for all our armed forces. Tell you what … if you’re doing nothing Monday morning, meet me there and I’ll introduce you to the old boys who stopped me looking like a weasel in a sack.”