Three chandeliers hung from the ceiling of the ballroom: a main one in the centre flanked by two slightly smaller ones. The thousands of beautifully crafted pieces of crystal caught the light of the candles and cast it into a thousand coruscating rainbows. Huge gilt-framed oil paintings adorned the walls, depicting scenes of naval battles, and rich drapes of red velvet hung across the windows. All of this magnificent opulence paled into insignificance, however, once contrasted with the gathering.
There were perhaps two hundred people in the ballroom, with a fairly even split between men and women and a broad range of ages from sixteen to eighty, with debutantes, midshipmen and sons of financiers at one end of the scale to dowagers, financiers’ fathers and admirals at the other. Ornately uniformed footmen stood at the doorways while waiters moved amongst the guests with trays of drinks. The women wore magnificent full-skirted dresses of silk and velvet and fluttered fans, while the men were clad in full-dress naval uniform or civilian evening wear: black trousers or pantaloons, white waistcoats and cravats, and tail-coats. In the middle of the floor dancers moved about with slow and sedate steps, going through the intricate patterns of a quadrille to the strains of a full orchestra. A heady odour pervaded the room, a cocktail of scent, pomade and sweat.
The hostess, Lady Grafton, stood close to the door where she could greet her guests. A nod of acknowledgement was neither more nor less than etiquette demanded for Killigrew, but after excusing herself from the guests she was talking to she came across to greet him in person. She was in her late twenties, a handsome, Junoesque woman. ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, sir…’
‘Killigrew, your ladyship. Christopher Killigrew, lately of Her Majesty’s paddle-sloop Tisiphone.’
‘Ah, yes. Admiral Killigrew’s grandson. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.’
She offered him a gloved hand and Killigrew took the tips of her fingers lightly in his, bowing low with practised elegance. She received his bow with a curtsey. ‘The honour is all mine, ma’am.’
‘I understand you are recently returned from the Tropics, sir?’
‘Yes, ma’am. The West Africa Squadron.’
‘And you are in good health?’
‘Never felt better, ma’am.’
‘I’m so pleased to hear it. You must excuse me, I have other guests to greet. I do hope we shall have a chance to get to know one another better.’
‘Indeed, ma’am.’ As he watched her move on, he decided that a worse fate could befall a man than to find himself in her bed. Nor would it do his career any harm, provided the lady’s husband did not actually catch him there.
He helped himself to a champagne flute from a passing footman and surveyed the gathering, looking for someone he recognised. He was used to such gatherings, having attended balls and levees at various governors’ mansions and suchlike in the far-flung outposts of the Empire, and he usually felt at ease. But now he was strangely uncomfortable. He had only been back in England for a few days and he was still adjusting to shore life, where the threat of an encounter with slavers at any moment did not provide that added frisson of constant excitement. This isn’t real, he found himself thinking, and then caught himself. It is real – it’s just a very different reality from the one off the Guinea Coast.
It was not a question of which he preferred – he was equally at home in both – but after two years at sea he was due for a rest. He told himself to relax and enjoy the evening. But not too much: there was work to be done. The Tisiphone had gone to Woolwich to have her boilers replaced, and the crew had been paid off. Killigrew was on half-pay until he could find himself a berth on a new ship, and for that he needed the interest of an influential patron. He was in no hurry to do so, but he did not want to spend the rest of his life ashore.
‘Hullo, Killigrew. Out of rig?’
Killigrew was not dressed in uniform. He had been in uniform for two years now and, keen to wear something different for a change, had used some of the money from being paid off to purchase himself some new evening clothes: black trousers, white waistcoat and a mulberry tail-coat, the muslin cravat at his throat knotted with careless elegance.
He turned and saw Tremaine standing there, now dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant. Both he and Killigrew had undergone the examination shortly after they had arrived back in England. Tremaine had stayed on board the Tisiphone as far as Woolwich, where he had been examined by Standish, newly promoted to post-captain (by God, there was no justice) and two other captains on board a ship of the line. Bearing in mind his own strained relations with Standish, Killigrew had thought it prudent to leave the Tisiphone at Portsmouth, and had undergone his own examination on a ship anchored in Spithead.
‘How did your examination go?’ Tremaine asked him coyly, obviously wondering if the fact that he was in civilian clothes meant he had failed.
‘Not bad,’ said Killigrew. ‘You’ll never guess who was on my panel.’
‘Who?’
‘Captain Crichton.’
‘Good God! Not “Nose-Biter” Crichton?’
Killigrew was of above average height, but Crichton had towered above him when he had leaned over him to address his questions during the examination. Killigrew’s examination for midshipman had been a simple enough affair: he had been made to write out the Lord’s Prayer from memory before the doctor had told him to take off his clothes and jump over a chair, after the completion of which task he had been given a glass of sherry to congratulate him on being in the navy. But the examination for lieutenant was a much more serious business.
‘You are the officer of the watch, sir,’ Crichton had said. ‘It is blowing fresh, and you are under double-reefed topsails and t’gallants. Mark that! The captain comes on deck and asks how the wind is. You make the proper response. He then puts his hand into his pocket and produces a small leather case. Mark that! He opens it and presents you with a cigar. Now, sir – quick – which end would you put into your mouth? Quick! Which end?’
‘The twisted end of an Havana, sir, and either end if a cheroot,’ Killigrew had replied without hesitation.
‘Right, by gad, sir! You have presence of mind. I have no further questions to ask.’
‘Did you pass?’ Tremaine asked him now.
‘With flying colours, apparently.’
‘Why, that’s capital!’ Tremaine pumped him vigorously by the hand. ‘Not that I ever doubted you would, of course.’ He lowered his voice and raised his glass to his lips: ‘So come on, Killigrew. See anything you fancy?’ he asked before sipping.
Killigrew smiled. ‘I’ve not yet looked.’
Tremaine grinned. ‘Miss Spencer’s here tonight.’
‘Oh, Lor’!’ groaned Killigrew. He had already encountered Miss Spencer at a dinner-dance a couple of nights earlier, and found her to be a tedious, simpering ninny, an increasingly common breed these days.
‘Don’t you like her? She’s very pretty. And her father owns half the cotton mills in Lancashire.’
‘What would I want with cotton mills?’
‘It’s not the mills, it’s the income that comes with them.’
‘If I wanted a good income I’d’ve gone into trade myself, as you well know. God knows, Uncle William is always pressing me to swallow the anchor and become managing director of his company. Anyway, I’m not here to find a prospective wife. It’s a posting I’m interested in. There are a lot of influential people here tonight, ’Stace, so make sure you’re on your best behaviour if you don’t want to swallow the anchor prematurely.’
Tremaine adopted a tone of injured innocence. ‘Don’t I always? I’ve got my eye on Mrs Fairbody.’
Killigrew arched an eyebrow. ‘A married woman?’
‘A widow. Still young, mark you, and deuced pretty. Her husband died of the Bengal flux a year ago. She’s only just out of mourning. But her father’s as rich as Croesus, so the suitors are going to be queuing up. Fortunately I’ve already arranged to have the fifth waltz with her.’
‘How very enterprising of you. And does she fit her name?’
‘See for yourself.’ Tremaine nodded to where a blonde woman wearing a pink silk ball gown was surrounded by admiring beaux, like a first-rate ship of the line at anchor with tenders, gigs and bumboats swarming round her. ‘A lovely creature. I must congratulate you: your taste is impeccable. Good luck to you.’
‘Would you like me to introduce you?’ Tremaine said, clearly out of politeness and terrified that Killigrew would say yes.
‘No, thanks. I wouldn’t want to cramp your style. You know what they say: two’s company, three’s a crowd.’ And seventeen is a positive mob. ‘Have you seen Old Charlie?’
‘Rear-Admiral Napier? I think he’s by the fireplace in the library saloon with all the other old bores.’
‘Old fogies they may be, ’Stace, but they’re also very influential.’
Killigrew took his leave of Tremaine and made his way to the library saloon. There were no ladies present, just the older men – senior naval officers, financiers and politicians – seated in armchairs around the fireplace smoking fat cigars and drinking brandy or whisky while pontificating.
Sir Joshua Pengelly – a short, stocky, bow-legged man and the owner of a successful shipping company – was holding forth. ‘Palm oil!’ he declared. ‘That’s the thing. It’s one of the biggest crops on the African coast. If we can persuade the tribes to stop warring with each other and selling their captives as slaves, and instead to devote their energies to the production of palm oil, why, then we’ll have the whole problem of slavery licked. And it’s a sound investment, too. These days everything’s steam powered, and engines need lubrication. You mark my words, if you’ve got some spare money and any sense at all, you’ll put it all into palm oil.’
‘It’s a nice idea,’ said the host of the evening as he stood with his back to the fire, his hands clasped behind his broad backside, inadvertently lifting the tails of his coat into a tuft like the plumage of some strange but dowdy bird. ‘But you’re ignoring the basic laws of economics. Demand creates supply. If you want to end the slave trade, you have to cut off the demand, and that means abolishing slavery in Brazil, Cuba and the United States. A task which is quite beyond the powers of our government.’
As a young man, Sir George Grafton had made his fortune in the China Trade, shipping opium from the Honourable East India Company’s estates into the Celestial Kingdom in exchange for tea. It had not been easy. The Chinese, ignorant heathens that they were, seemed to object to having opium smuggled into their country, and the British government in London was slow to understand what was obvious to every trader in Canton: the Chinese needed a sound drubbing to show them who was in charge. So Grafton had left the China side of his business in the competent hands of his junior partner and retired to Britain, where he had bought himself a safe seat in Scotland in a by-election. He had never visited the constituency – it was a dismal, dreary place, by all accounts – but that had not mattered, since all the landowners wealthy enough to possess a vote there lived in London, so it was in that great city he had had his campaigning done for him.
Once safely ensconced on the government backbenches, he had been perfectly placed to lobby for what Britain’s trade needed: war with China. The Celestials were a backward people, having spent the last two hundred years living in peace and creating great works of art: they were no match for the steamers and shell-guns of the British Expeditionary Force. After much slaughter, the Chinese had been forced to sign the Treaty of Nanking, opening five ports to Western trade and ceding Hong Kong to the British.
After that Mr George Grafton esquire had become Sir George by dint of his generous contributions to the coffers of the Whig party, and the mercantile shipping company Grafton, Bannatyne & Co, had gone from strength to strength, winning lucrative government contracts to run prison hulks and convict ships to transport thieves, Irish rebels, Chartists, trade unionists and other such undesirables to the penal colonies in Australia.
Sir George Grafton was one of the Whigs’ ‘nautical’ members of parliament, although his only qualification to speak on naval matters was the fact that he had most of his money invested in merchant shipping. But with the Whigs in power it was necessary for Killigrew to cultivate the patronage of men like Grafton, no matter how offensive he found their politics.
‘Only because Palmerston takes such a high-handed attitude,’ said Sir Joshua. ‘It’s all very well being right all the time, but sometimes it helps not to be so self-righteous about it. It doesn’t win friends. It’s not that there aren’t plenty of people in those countries who are as opposed to slavery as Wilberforce ever was. But every time they try to speak out, the vested interests just wrap themselves up in their flags and say that the anti-slavers are grovelling to us British.’
‘Quite right too,’ said Grafton. ‘So they should. Damned foreigners.’
‘Yes, but perhaps they don’t quite see it that way.’ Pengelly glanced up, saw Killigrew, and at once rose to his feet. ‘Why, it’s young Christopher, isn’t it? Oh ho, but not quite so young any more, eh? Glad you could make it, Kit. Forgive me if I don’t get up, my damned gout’s giving me blue murder these days. Sir George, may I present Mr Christopher Killigrew?’
‘Sir George.’ Killigrew acknowledged the MP with a cautious nod.
Grafton nodded absently without even glancing at him.
‘Pull up a chair,’ said Pengelly. ‘Get yourself a drink.’ He waved across a footman, and indicated Killigrew.
‘Whisky, please,’ said Killigrew. The footman nodded and hurried off.
‘You know Sir Charles, of course,’ continued Pengelly.
‘Bless my soul, of course I know Kit Killigrew,’ said Rear-Admiral Sir Charles Napier, KCB, GCTS, KMT, KSG, KRE, MP. He was sixtyish, a portly man with a double chin and scraggly grey bushy sideburns. He was in full dress uniform, decorated with the Order of the Bath, the Grand Cross of St George of Russia, and the insignia of the Second Class of the Order of the Red Eagle of Prussia. This brave display was in sharp contrast to the thick dusting of snuff on his tail-coat.
He looked like a genial, harmless old buffer, which was exactly what he was: a genial, harmless old buffer who had once taken on three French ships of the line in nothing more than a gun-brig, delaying them long enough for the rest of the English fleet to catch them; a genial, harmless old buffer who had fought as a sailor of fortune in the service of Queen Maria of Portugal against the usurper Dom Miguel, defeating his navy at sea and then – fancying himself an amateur general – giving his army a sound drubbing by land; and a genial, harmless old buffer who less than seven years earlier had exceeded his orders in dictating his own terms to the Viceroy of Egypt.
‘Killigrew was one of the snotties on board the Dreadful during the Syria campaign; and a damned useful aide-de-camp ashore. Blew up the magazine at Acre, so he did; and when I landed with my men the next day, we found Killigrew here sitting amidst the smoking ruins with the Dreadful’s schoolmaster and a couple of others, taking tea as coolly as if they were on the lawn at the Naval Academy! Good to see you, Killigrew. Still only a mate?’
‘Recently promoted to lieutenant, sir.’
‘Why, congratulations! Splendid stuff! Not before time either, I might add.’ As the footman returned with Killigrew’s whisky, Napier ordered another round of drinks to celebrate. ‘Got yourself a posting yet?’ he asked at last.
‘Not yet, sir.’
‘Well, we’ll have to see what we can do,’ Napier said with a wink which was meant to be encouraging.
Killigrew smiled, although he did not welcome the thought of Napier’s patronage as much as he felt he ought to. Despite his respect and admiration for the rear-admiral, Killigrew knew that Napier was not popular at the Admiralty, partly because of his eccentric ideas on abolishing the flogging of seamen and encouraging the building of steam vessels, but mostly because of his tendency to air them at every available opportunity.
‘Kit’s just back from the West Africa Squadron,’ said Napier. ‘He can tell us all about how to suppress the slave trade from the sharp end. Can’t you eh?’
Killigrew smiled tightly and glanced down into his glass. ‘One tries to do one’s duty.’
‘If you want my opinion, the West Africa Squadron is no more than a waste of men and money,’ said Grafton. ‘I intend to bring a private members’ bill to the House of Commons to have the squadron disbanded.’
‘Abolish the West Africa Squadron?’ spluttered Napier. ‘My dear sir, if you abolish the West Africa Squadron, who will suppress the slave trade? Surely you do not suggest that we leave it to the French or the Americans?’
‘No man opposes the evils of slavery more vigorously than I,’ said Grafton. ‘But one must face facts. It is forty years since we declared the slave trade illegal and our navy set about suppressing it. Have they succeeded? Not at all. If anything, the West Africa Squadron’s attempts to suppress it only make it worse for the slaves. Did you know, when slave ships find themselves pursued by a navy vessel and have no hope of escape, they throw their slaves overboard to drown, in order to dispose of the evidence?’
‘And you would let such men carry on their trade unhindered, sir?’ Killigrew was careful to keep his expression mild, although inside he seethed with rage at the very suggestion. ‘Believe me, sir, if you saw such a thing happen you would feel very differently about it.’
‘Ah, but you’ve been too close to the issue to consider it objectively,’ Grafton said with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘Such decisions are best left to wiser heads here in England—’
Napier slammed down his glass. ‘Stuff and nonsense.’ Grafton blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard me, Sir George. Stuff and nonsense is what I said, and stuff and nonsense is what I meant. By God, if there’s one thing I’ve grown heartily sick of during my time as a member of parliament, it’s pompous asses blethering on about subjects of which they are clearly in utter ignorance. Nothing but fools and idiots, sir!’
‘Sir Charles! I must protest.’
‘You must protest? You must protest? After I spent five years listening to damned fools taking up issues not because they believed in them, but because they knew that by backing them they could promote their own careers? Pursuing half-baked policies drawn up in complete ignorance of the maladies which they sought to remedy—’
‘I can see you are a passionate man, Sir Charles. But you must understand that there is no place for passion in the art of government. These things must be considered logically, in the cold light of reason. If there were no West Africa Squadron, the slavers would have no reason to throw the slaves overboard.’
‘Yes,’ said Killigrew, rising to his feet. ‘Then they could go on to sell their cargoes into a lifetime of slavery in the Americas and reap rich rewards from the vast profits. Is that your solution, Sir George?’ he demanded heatedly.
Pengelly quickly stood up and took Killigrew by the arm. ‘This is all very interesting, gentlemen, but if you’ll excuse Mr Killigrew and myself, there is someone present I’m keen to introduce him to. I’m sure we can resume this debate at a later date. At the Gresham, perhaps.’
Grafton nodded grudgingly, clearly annoyed at being prevented from having the last word, and at having to concede it to a young whippersnapper like Killigrew at that.
Killigrew turned to where Napier sat. ‘Sir Charles.’
‘We must have dinner sometime,’ said Napier.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Killigrew left Grafton out of his leave-taking, in a calculated snub which he knew he would later regret, although for now he was too angry to care.
Hobbling on his gouty foot Pengelly steered him out of the library saloon and back into the ballroom. ‘Sorry to drag you away, Killigrew,’ he said. ‘Between you and me I was really rather enjoying that. I think you and Sir Charles had Sir George squarely on the ropes. But I couldn’t afford to let you ruin your career for the sake of my own entertainment, now could I?’
‘No, sir. I’m obliged to you for your timely intervention. I must apologise to Sir George for my outburst…’
‘Good Lord, I hope not. Grovel to that pompous ass? You’ll do no such thing. Let the matter rest. He’ll have forgotten all about you come tomorrow morning; and there are plenty of other people who can help you in your career. Now, I wasn’t lying when I said there was someone I wanted you to meet. You remember my daughter Eulalia?’
‘Eulalia? How could I forget?’ I still have her teeth marks in my arm.
‘Well, she’s here tonight, and I just know she’s eager to renew your acquaintance…’ Pengelly gazed around the throng and then shook his head. ‘Damn it, where’s the girl got to? You wait here and I’ll see if I can find her.’ Pengelly plunged into the crowd and left Killigrew to sip his whisky in peace.
But peace was never something Killigrew seemed to be able to enjoy for long. He looked up and saw Tremaine heading towards him from one direction and Mr Spencer heading towards him from another, with his simpering ninny of a daughter in tow.
‘Killigrew, have you seen Mrs Fairbody?’
‘Good evening, Mr Killigrew,’ said Mr Spencer. ‘My daughter was wondering if she might have the pleasure of the next dance?’
Miss Spencer giggled and fluttered her eyelashes over her fan at Killigrew.
‘Of course she may,’ he said, taking her by the hand. Then he put her hand in Tremaine’s and gently pushed them both towards the centre of the floor. Mr Spencer gaped and turned puce, at a loss for words. The orchestra struck up a lively polka, and Miss Spencer shrugged and gripped Tremaine tightly, sweeping him around the floor. Tremaine mouthed curses at Killigrew over her shoulder. Grinning, Killigrew shook his head and slipped through another door before Mr Spencer could find his tongue; or before Tremaine could pester him about Mrs Blasted Fairbody, for that matter.
The French windows were open so he went outside and stood on the terrace, leaning against the stone balustrade which faced across the ornamental gardens. The cool night air was fresh after the tobacco fug of the library saloon and the sweaty atmosphere of the ballroom, so he stood there a while, sipping his whisky and smoking a cheroot, reflecting.
It went against the grain for Killigrew to toady to anyone, but he had chosen the navy as his career and that was an end to the matter. He had every intention of retiring on an admiral’s pension, and he knew that in order to achieve his aim he would need patronage. If that meant toad-eating the likes of Sir George Grafton, then it was just too bad. He had made his bed; now he had to lie on it. When he had achieved flag-rank, he could start working to make sure that men were promoted because of merit rather than patronage.
He thought about the West Africa Squadron. Glad as he was to be given a break in England, part of him still wished he was back there chasing slavers. He did not like leaving a job unfinished, and even after two years he felt he had hardly made any impact at all on the slave trade. Perhaps Grafton was right; perhaps the West Africa Squadron was a waste of time…
‘Excuse me, you haven’t seen Christopher Killigrew, have you?’ he heard Mr Spencer’s voice ask someone in the room behind him.
Killigrew hurriedly drained the last of his whisky and vaulted over the balustrade, landing lightly in the flower-bed below. He slipped behind a yew hedge and made his way through the shadows to the gazebo. He was about to sit down on the bench when he perceived someone already sitting there in the darkness. ‘My apologies. I was unaware that this gazebo was already occupied…’
‘Sit down,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘There’s plenty of room for two.’
‘May I ask what you’re doing out here all alone?’
‘The same as you,’ she responded. ‘Hiding.’
He smiled, and sat down on the bench opposite her. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he was less than devastated to recognise his co-fugitive as Mrs Fairbody. He raised his cheroot to his lips and was about to puff on it when he hesitated. ‘I… er… hope you do not object to the smell of tobacco.’
‘Not at all. As long as it’s reasonably good quality.’
‘Oh, the best,’ he assured her. He tucked the cheroot in the corner of his mouth and stood up to bow. ‘Christopher Killigrew at your service, ma’am.’
She stiffened. ‘Not… Kit Killigrew?’
He frowned. He did not know many women in England, and if he had inadvertently slighted her in some far-flung port he was sure he would have remembered. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t believe I have the pleasure of your acquaintance.’
‘Perhaps not; I was wondering if you still had my teeth marks in your arm.’
He stared; he may even have gaped. ‘Eulalia?’ They both stood up and hugged each other. ‘Kit! After all these years. How long has it been?’
‘Eleven years?’
‘Eleven years.’ They parted and she put her hands on his arm, holding him at arm’s length so she could look him up and down. ‘And look at you now. Quite the young gentleman.’
‘And look at you. A friend of mine pointed you out to me earlier as Mrs Fairbody. I never guessed for a moment that it was you.’
‘Tush! And after you told me that you’d love me for ever.’
He held up a hand. ‘I refuse to be held accountable for anything I said below the age of twelve. I was still a minor, don’t forget. Anyway, you were the one who got married.’
‘Only after you ran away to sea.’
After the deaths of his parents, Killigrew had been raised in the austere environment of Killigrew House under the stern eye of his grandfather. Rear-Admiral Killigrew had never approved of his son marrying a foreigner, and to him Kit was the product of that unnatural union. If he could have left the care of his grandson to the Naval Benevolent Society he would have done, but there was no question that the society could be lumbered with one more orphan when the child had a well-off grandparent still living.
Kit had hated Killigrew House. His grandfather was as much of a martinet in his own home as he was reputed to have been on board his ships, and Killigrew had often been beaten for playing with the children of the local fishermen. Then, shortly before Kit’s fifth birthday, the Comte Duchargny – an impoverished nobleman who had been forced to flee his native land during the terror of the French Revolution – had turned up on the doorstep of Killigrew House offering his services as a private tutor. The Rear-Admiral had accepted, reasoning that an aristocratic tutor was just what was needed to instil discipline in the unruly child, and Kit’s education in all the gentlemanly studies – Greek, Latin, French, fencing and dancing – had commenced.
The comte’s methods had been unconventional to say the least. Even though he was in his sixties, he remained nimble and spry, and in the midst of a bout with epées he would shoot questions at his young pupil. If Kit answered incorrectly, then the comte’s blade would slip under his guard and give him a stinging blow. Nowadays Kit often joked that he had had a simple choice between becoming fluent in the Classics or becoming an adept swordsman, and he still could not hear Latin verbs conjugated without instinctively reaching for a sword.
But he had liked the old comte. What his grandfather had never known, because he had never taken the trouble to find out, was that the comte was an old friend of Kit’s father. As a young man, the comte had been one of those liberal nobles who had renounced their aristocratic privileges one fateful night in 1789, little imagining what it would lead to. Four years later his parents had been beheaded in the Place de la Guillotine and the young comte had barely escaped the same fate. He had served with the French Royalist forces against Napoleon, but when the French monarchy had been restored in 1814 it had been too much of a return to the bad old days of the Ancien Regime for his liberal tastes. He had become a soldier of fortune and it had been while fighting for Chilean Independence he had met Captain Jack Killigrew.
The comte told Kit stories about his adventures with his father in Chile, Brazil and Greece, and in an effort to explain the principles they had been fighting for he had introduced him to works by Rousseau, Wollstonecraft, and Burke. Then, when Kit was twelve, his grandfather had found a copy of Thomas Paine’s The Rights of Man in his room. After a brief enquiry, the comte – seventy now – had been sent packing.
Kit had always been terrified of his grandfather, but his rage at his tutor’s dismissal finally gave him the courage to stand up to his grandfather and the two of them had had a blazing row, the ancient naval officer versus the precocious twelve-year-old. The only thing they were both able to agree on was that they could no longer live together under the same roof, no matter how wide that roof might be, and that since Kit was now old enough to join the navy as a first-class volunteer, it was high time he did so. Killigrew had been relieved just to get out of the oppressive atmosphere of his grandfather’s house. Certainly it had never been a home to Kit, and since that day he had had no communication whatsoever with his grandfather. Nor had he ever looked back.
‘Still in the navy?’ asked Eulalia.
He nodded. ‘I’ve just been promoted to lieutenant.’
‘Congratulations. You know, even after all these years, I still find myself sneaking a peek at Papa’s copy of the Naval Gazette to see if you’ve been mentioned.’
‘And have I?’
‘Not since that business in China. I was so proud! When I went back to school the next term I took the cutting to show all my friends. They refused to believe that I’d known Midshipman Killigrew, the hero of Chingkiang-fu. And then, after that, nothing. Where’ve you been all these years, Kit?’
‘After China I was posted to the West Africa Squadron for two years. I’ve only just returned. What about you? Who was this Mr Fairbody? Or would you rather not talk about it?’
‘Oh, I don’t mind. It’s over a year since he passed on. This is only the second time I’ve been in Society since I came out of mourning; it’s funny, rather like having to go back to square one in snakes and ladders. I think Papa wants me to get married as soon as possible. I can’t think why, Mr Fairbody left me… comfortable, so it’s not as if I’m an imposition on him.’
‘You’re still young. You should get remarried.’
‘Oh, I dare say I shall, some day. But not the moment I come out of mourning. It’s all right for you men. You’re not expected to get married until you’re thirty or so. It’s different for us women, Kit. For us it’s straight out of school and into marriage.’
‘You didn’t care for Mr Fairbody?’
‘Heavens, did I make it sound like that? Peter was a good husband. He was Father’s choice rather than my own, but I didn’t protest.’
‘Handsome?’
She grinned mischievously, her teeth shining white in the gloom. ‘Devilishly. But… oh I do envy you, Kit. You’ve been off to see the world, gone to places I can only dream of or read about.’
‘You could too, you know. If Mr Fairbody left you a moderate legacy, what’s to stop you from travelling?’
‘I expect I shall. I just need to pluck up the courage, that’s all. That’s why I don’t want Papa to rush me into getting remarried. You know, I get the feeling he’s already got someone in mind for me.’
‘Yes,’ said Killigrew. ‘And I think I know who.’
‘You do?’
He nodded. ‘I was talking to him earlier. He said there was someone he wanted me to meet and asked me if I remembered you.’
She laughed. ‘That’s so like Papa. Childhood sweethearts reunited.’
‘Would that be so terrible?’
‘Oh, Kit! Don’t take this the wrong way, but… I’m just not ready to dedicate the rest of my life to a man. Don’t tell me you came here looking for a wife?’
He shook his head. ‘As you said yourself, I’m a little too young to be worrying about marriage. It’s a ship I’m after.’
‘Ah. I’ve heard it said that naval men were married to their ships. That’s why I’m not sure I want to marry a naval officer. No offence intended. But if and when I do get remarried, I don’t intend to share my husband with three thousand tons of wood and a thousand horny-handed seamen.’
‘Perhaps you should think about marrying the captain of a gun-brig. That way you’d only have to share him with a few hundred tons of wood and ten dozen horny-handed seamen.’
She laughed. ‘You would not by any chance be in line for a posting to command of a gun-brig now, would you, Kit?’
He grimaced wryly. ‘Right now I’m not even in line for the command of a dinghy. Still, perhaps we could go riding together next week? Catch up on old times?’
‘I didn’t know you were a horseman.’
‘Oh, I’m never happier than when I’m in the saddle. Shall we say Friday morning?’
‘Hyde Park?’
‘Where else?’
‘It’s a little public, isn’t it? Some people might get the idea that you’re courting me.’
‘Would that be so bad? If you’re serious about not wanting to get married, it might help discourage some of your more ardent beaux if they think they’re out of the running.’
‘You are keen to get the bit between your teeth, aren’t you?’
‘I just thought that since you’re not in any hurry to get married, and I’m not in any hurry to get married, we could not be in a hurry to get married together.’
She smiled. ‘All right. Friday it is. Nine o’clock?’
‘Better make it half past ten. I have an appointment at nine.’
‘Not with some other woman who’s not in any hurry to get married, I trust?’
He shook his head. ‘Not unless she’s a fellow of the Ethnological Society.’
‘Did you say “Leopard People”?’ Professor Llewelyn glanced up from behind the desk and pushed his spectacles back on to the bridge of his nose with a forefinger.
‘I know it must sound crazy…’ Killigrew told him apologetically.
‘Believe me, young man, when you’ve studied ethnology as long as I have, then nothing sounds crazy.’ Llewelyn picked up the fat, dusty tomes which lay under his desk and carried them across to an empty bookshelf. They had titles like Seven Months with the Temne, Mating Rituals of the Kissi and Up the Niger by Canoe. When he had placed them all on the shelf, he stood and stared at the spines, tapping a pen against the side of his nose.
‘Let me see, I think I recall reading something somewhere about leopard people. Professor Phillpotts would have been the chap to ask. He was the real expert on West African cultures. Especially the Mende. In fact, now that I think about it, I seem to recall he said something about investigating the local myths and superstitions last time he left for the Guinea Coast. Unfortunately he never came back.’
‘You mean he…’
‘Died? Good Lord, no. Nothing like that. No, while he was on the steam packet he met some gypsy girl who was travelling to Spain with a circus and fell in love with her. Extraordinary behaviour. His wife was most upset. No, the last I heard of him, he was taming lions somewhere in central Europe.’
‘The leopard people, Professor,’ prompted Killigrew.
‘Hm? Oh, yes. Let me see now, the Mende. Here we are: Gimson’s Encyclopaedia of the Peoples of Africa, Volume Two. When in doubt, turn to Gimson, that’s what I always say.’ He riffled through the pages until he came to the entry he sought. ‘Here we are: “the Mende is a large tribe which lives in the interior of Africa near the Guinea Coast. They are a handsome, negroid people” – have you ever noticed how these books never described a people as being ugly? – “who exist in a quasi-feudal society at a primitive stage of development. One interesting feature of their culture is the prevalence of secret societies…’
Killigrew had never heard of a culture which did not have some kind of secret society. In China they had the Triads, in India they had the Cult of Thuggee, and in Europe and America there was Freemasonry. ‘What sort of “secret societies”?’ he asked.
‘It doesn’t say. Presumably because they’re secret, hm? Ah, here we are: “Another interesting facet of Mende culture is the belief that certain people have the power to transform themselves into leopards through witchcraft. These leopard people are said to use parts of their victims to make borfima, magic potions which render the users rich and powerful. There exist in Mende societies witch doctors known as Tongo Players. These men claim the power to identify leopard people in their human form, using primitive and ornate rituals. It is believed that deaths caused by real leopards are ascribed to the handiwork of the leopard people and that the Tongo Players take advantage of this superstition to dispose of unpopular members of the community. When an individual is identified as a human leopard, he is beaten severely and then burned to death.” That’s all it says, I’m afraid.’
‘Sounds like the witchfinder general of Jacobean times,’ said Killigrew.
‘Yes, they’re a primitive people, aren’t they?’
‘Civilisation is relative in my experience, Professor. What must they think of the white men who come in ships to kidnap their people and carry them away by force across the great ocean to a life of eternal slavery?’
‘Yes, but they’re just ignorant. Where did you hear of the leopard people?’
‘From one of the recaptives on a slaver I was bringing in as a prize. The master’s mistress bit me in a fight, and when one of the slaves heard about it she started talking about leopard people, and how the woman must be destroyed. The next thing I knew, the woman who bit me hard had had her skull smashed in and her bed set on fire.’
‘Good heavens. She wasn’t a negro, this captain’s mistress, was she?’
‘Yes, as it happens she was.’
‘How extraordinary.’
‘Not really. It was a pretty savage fight. Life and death, that kind of thing.’
‘No, I mean the master of this slave vessel taking a negress as his mistress.’
‘African women are no different from European women, in my experience, barring the colour of their skin.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. You’re aware, of course, that in the bush these people often go around…’ Llewelyn looked about surreptitiously, as if worried that someone might overhear him, although as far as Killigrew could tell they were the only two people in the room. ‘…completely unclothed. Including the women. The negro may be similar to the Caucasian anatomically, Mr Killigrew, but up here?’ He tapped his forehead. ‘They must exist in a state of permanent – if you’ll forgive the expression – physiological arousal.’
‘You’ve never been to Africa, have you, Professor?’
‘No. But I’ve read all about it. In books.’
‘If you had, you might find it so humid that you’d feel more comfortable wearing fewer clothes than we are accustomed to wearing in our more temperate climes. It’s the Garden of Eden, Professor, where man lived in healthy innocence, taking no shame in the human form until he partook of the fruit of knowledge.’
‘I’m afraid that’s one fruit I’ve eaten too much of ever to get back to Eden, Mr Killigrew,’ Llewelyn said wistfully.
‘I fear you may be right, Professor. Thank you for your assistance. It’s certainly been an… educating experience.’
‘Not at all. Glad to be of service. You’re not going back there, are you?’
‘To Africa? Well, I don’t have any plans as such yet…’
‘If you did learn anything more about these beliefs, I should be grateful if you could let us know about them if you return.’
‘If l return?’
‘Well, you might decide you’re so happy living in primitive bliss in the Garden of Eden that you never want to leave,’ said Llewelyn. ‘On the other hand, you might die of yellow fever. They don’t call Africa the white man’s grave for nothing, you know.’