Mr. American

  'Not since before your great encounter with him and Blake. I've wondered, once or twice, what he thought about us - since the engagement was announced. I half expected to have him over here, roaring at me, but he must have decided to treat the whole thing with lofty disdain. Once upon a time I'd have felt rather peeved, but now I'm just relieved.'

  Christmas Day, when it came, was the customary mixture of orgy and anti-climax; presents were piled under a tree in the hall, with the younger people squealing and rioting while their elders watched indulgently - Poppy received a rubber hot water-bottle from an anonymous admirer, and belaboured Arthur with it indignantly - huge quantities of turkey and plum pudding were consumed, and remarkable quantities of port drunk; Mr Franklin walked bare-headed through the grounds in the bleak afternoon, smoking a cigar, and feeling at peace with himself and the world. Peggy, taking her duties as chatelaine seriously, and full of preparations for the party that was to follow in the evening, had banished him briefly, and he was content to escape from the hullabaloo for half an hour. He stood at the end of the path, just where he had stood with Sir Charles three months earlier, looking across the misty fields to the far woods, with the orange sun half-hidden behind them, and felt mellow with rather too much port and a great deal too much turkey. He was rather looking forward to the evening, and the party; the younger set's diversion he could join in for a limited period and in moderation, comforted by the knowledge that tomorrow they would mostly have gone, and life would return to something like normal. Whatever normal was going to

  be; not much more than a month, now, and he'd be married, and cruising in the Caribbean, and from that his thoughts naturally strayed to Peggy as she remained so disturbingly in his imagination, as she had been that night, smiling lazily up at him, sensual and intoxicating. Consequently he was puffing slightly more quickly on his cigar when he was aware of a figure approaching through the dusk, and saw that it was Samson.

  He had been across to Castle Lancing for a look-round, and to collect any late mail which might have arrived. There was only one envelope, and Mr Franklin wondered idly as he turned it over why Samson had bothered to bring it to him out here, instead of waiting till he returned to the house. Then he saw the postmark, 'Windsor', and when he opened the envelope he understood. It was a Christmas card from the King and Queen; Samson, with his shrewd sense, had guessed that probably no royal card had been sent to the Claytons, and was sparing his master any possible embarrassment. Mr Franklin was both surprised and gratified as he looked at the hand-written wish for a merry Christmas, and was properly impressed by royalty's impeccable taste as he examined the design, which reflected that happy sense of the appropriate for which the British have always been noted. It depicted, in funereal colours, the reception of Sir Tristram by King Arthur at the Round Table, with Sir Lancelot standing by, presumably to render assistance if required, and was, according to the manufacturers, Messrs Raphael Tuck, from a painting in his majesty's possession.

  'All quiet at home?' he asked, as they walked back towards the house.

  'Yes, sir. I saw Jake, and he says he's keeping an eye on things. But everything's all right,' added Samson, who had a quiet humour of his own. 'He said there was a gentleman called and inquired for you yesterday, but nothing else.'

  'Who was it, did he say?'

  'No, sir, Jake didn't know him, and he didn't leave a card. Good evening, sir.'

  As they neared the side-entrace Samson touched his hat and effaced himself towards the back of the house, Mr Franklin slipped the card and envelope into his coat pocket thinking, what about that, a Christmas card from the King, and an observer would probably have noticed a complacent smile as he pushed open the side-door to the passage. Who'd have thought. .. and he stopped dead, his hand on the door-knob.

  'Don't be an absolute fool! If that's all you came to say you'd have been better staying away. You can't '

  It was Peggy's voice, harshly interrupted by another that sent the hairs rising on his neck in anger: Lacy's.

  'I'm not the one who's behaving like a fool! You are! Thinking about marriage to this - this bloody outsider! You don't know who he is, you don't know the first dam' thing about him, you don't know what the hell you're doing!'

  'I know one thing about him!' Peggy's voice was like steel. 'And that is that he's a gentleman, which you most obviously are not! And it is none of your business - '

  `Of course it's my blasted business! D'you think I'm going to watch you throw yourself away on some Yankee guttersnipe? Some damned hobbledehoy from God knows where? You must have taken leave of your senses! Well, I'm not standing for it, d'you hear? You're not marrying him, and that's that!'

  The new Mr Franklin came within an ace of thrusting open the door, striding into the passage to the little cloak-room from which he realised the voices were coming, taking Lord Lacy by the collar, and dragging him out of the house. But the old Mr Franklin stopped him, a hand gripping the half-open door, one thought in his mind: would Peggy want to know that he had been a witness to their argument? She would not. Obviously Lacy had done what she feared he might do, come round 'to roar' at her, as she had put it; it might be unpleasant for her, but knowing her as he did Mr Franklin was certain that she would want to get rid of him in her own way, with the least possible embarrassment. If she wanted to tell him about it afterwards -that could be the time for taking Lacy by the neck. The impudent bastard! To come round hectoring at her - maybe she was right, and he was a little mad. He stood, still hesitating, and he would have been far more than human if he had not stayed where he was. He had to, the fellow might turn violent - and Peggy was speaking again, in a lower tone, controlling her rage.

  'You had better go at once. Or would you rather I brought Mark, or my father? No, the servants should have the job of throwing you out. Now, will you go, or be kicked out?'

  'I'll go when I've. .. when I've said what I've got to say, damn it! And when I've heard some-s-s-some s-sense from you!' Lacy was beginning to stutter in his fury; hearing the hysterical quiver in his voice Mr Franklin braced himself to intervene quickly.

  'You're raving,' said Peggy curtly. 'I advise you to go and put your head under a cold tap. But do it somewhere else.'

  From the sound of her voice he could tell that she was leaving the cloak-room. Lacy shouted 'No!' and his footsteps came after her. 'No! Peggy!' Suddenly there was a different tone in his voice; from braying and hectoring it was sounding in anguished entreaty. 'Peg, please! Wait! Damnation, woman, will you stand still? I ... oh, Christ, Peg, I'm sorry! Please listen to me! I didn't mean to yell at you - my God, you're the last person I want to yell at! But I've been half-mad over all this! Can't you see it? I love you, you stupid bitch! Don't you understand me? I love you, Peg!'

  'Then you have a most peculiar way of showing it.' Peggy's voice was still cold, but not in dismissal.

  'Well, what the hell d'you expect? You fling yourself at this bloody hooligan - this nobody! D'you want me to dance at your bloody wedding, and throw confetti, for Christ's sake? When I know it's just bloody spite and mischief, and - '

  'You impertinent, insufferable ... oh!' Peggy's words ended in an explosive sound of outrage. 'You actually have the effrontery to suggest that you - or any thought of you - has anything to do with my marrying Mark Franklin! Why, you... you conceited oaf! You think you're the only person on the face of the earth with the least importance, don't you? You can't conceive that to some people you may simply not matter at all? That some people are not thrown into raptures by fat, ugly, red-faced boors with ridiculous walrus moustaches who have been used to going into screaming tantrums ever since they were three years old, and who think they must always have their own way -

  'Stop it! Stop it, Peg! I'm not bloody well fat! And I'm trying to explain, blast you! If I lose my temper, it's because you won't listen, because you've done this idiotic thing when you know I love you, and always have! And I can't bear to think of you throwing yourself away - '

  'Oh, sh
ut up!' snapped Peggy. Just for once, use your intelligence - if you have any. You're so impossibly selfish, you never even bother to think about other people - '

  'I do, Peg! About you, I swear I do!'

  `You don't. It never occurs to you that I may have wishes, and feelings, does it? You don't seem to realise it's possible that I might not only not want to marry you, but that I might want to marry someone else? Of course, I know it's incredible that any woman in her right mind could fail to be won by the oustanding charms of the great Lord Lacy, who not only chases fat trollops all over the place - '

  'That's a lie! I didn't - '

  'Poppy's a lie, is she? Care to call her in and ask her? She's in the drawing-room, you know. Oh, she doesn't matter. Don't you see, Frank, whatever you may think, I want to marry Mark Franklin? Not you! It may be a dreadful shock, but I don't love you - '

  'You do! You did! And, dammit, I love you - '

  'All right, so you say! I'm sorry, but you'll just have to get over it. I don't love you, so you may as well pull yourself together and stop behaving like a spoiled child! Now, will you please go - and leave me alone? You'd better go by the side door, unless you want everyone to know what a fool you're making of yourself.'

  'I will not go by the bloody side door! Please, Peg .. .

  The angry, pleading voice faded up the passage, and Mr Franklin could see in his mind's eye Peggy walking swiftly, head up, and Lacy lumbering behind - in Mr Franklin's imagination he was dressed in hunting pink and flourishing a crop -growling frantic protestations. Well, she'd given him his come-uppance, sure enough, the impudent scut. Given him more of an explanation than he deserved, too; still, they'd known each other since they were children (Mr Franklin felt an unhappy twist of jealousy at the thought), and Peggy undoubtedly knew the best way of handling the brute - better than summoning assistance and creating a nasty public scene. He was glad he'd heard it, and felt no shame about eavesdropping; he'd had the satisfaction of hearing Peggy confirm her own feelings for himself, for one thing - and she'd never know he had overheard, unless she chose to mention the incident herself. He'd perfectly understand if she didn't; better she shouldn't, really ...

  Mr Franklin went in cautiously, and listened. With any luck Peggy, on reaching the hall, would have sailed straight across to the drawingroom, which would be full for afternoon tea; Lacy couldn't follow her there, so presumably he would gnash his teeth for a minute, nonplussed, and then make off through the front door. Several minutes had passed; the coast ought to be clear by now.

  Mr Franklin walked up the passage, round the corner, and on to the entrance leading to the hall. Directly opposite, through the half-open drawing-room door, he could see the throng at tea; the sounds of conversation and laughter drifted faintly to him. But there were no sounds to indicate that the hall was occupied, until, just as he reached the entrance, Lacy's voice sounded harshly from the direction of the front door.

  ‘.. and so I've told her, and I don't see why the devil I shouldn't!'

  And pat on its heels, Sir Charles's clipped tones, hard with anger: 'There is the door! Use it! Good afternoon!'

  Mr Franklin stopped abruptly, just out of sight. Plainly there had been a brief sequel to what he had overheard earlier, the principals being Lacy and Clayton this time. Short, sharp, and conclusive by the sound of it, and not to be improved by his own presence. So he stopped, waiting, expecting to hear some foot-stamping and door-slamming as his lordship took his leave. He would wait where he was until Sir Charles was out of the way, too.

  Footsteps came from the back of the hall. Samson was coming out of the servants' door beyond the stairs, glancing towards the front door, and then hesitating as he noticed Mr Franklin patently loitering within the side-corridor. Mr Franklin's hand was already rising to gesture discretion at his servant, when another voice was heard, again from the front door, and Mr Franklin froze in sheer disbelief.

  'Oh,' it said, in tones of mild surprise. 'I'm sorry, gentlemen. Hope I don't intrude. My name's Logan. I understand there's a Mr Mark Franklin staying in this house.'

  The silence that followed the polite inquiry could have been no more than a second. To Mr Franklin it seemed like a year. And then, involuntarily, he had taken two paces into the hall, to confirm with his own eyes the unbelievable, the impossible, news that the voice had conveyed.

  To the left of the front door stood Sir Charles, slim and erect, turning from the newcomer to look in Mr Franklin's direction. To the right of the door, Lord Lacy - not in hunting pink, but in perfectly respectable tweeds -was standing with his fists clenched at his sides, his heavy face set in a furious scowl, glaring uncomprehendingly at the figure on the threshold. It was a small man, thin and wiry, in a long drab coat, holding a well-worn bowler hat across his middle. His face was narrow, and bore a straggling dark moustache; above a high forehead was thin, untidy hair with a wisp falling to his brow; the little man brushed it back, and then his eyes fell on Mr Franklin and brightened in recognition.

  'Why, and there he is!' The voice was quiet, almost diffident, and unmistakably American. 'Hullo, there, Mark.'

  Mr Franklin stood in silence, aware that Sir Charles was staring at him, waiting for an explanation; he was conscious too of Samson silently hovering at the back of the hall. But all his attention was on the small, shabby figure on the threshold, the mouth with its wry smile beneath the moustache, the bright, dark eyes fixed on his own. It was Lord Lacy who broke the silence, characteristically.

  'Another damned Yank!' he snorted. 'This will be the bloody best man, no doubt!'

  He brushed rudely past the little man, and vanished into the dusk, his boots crunching across the gravel. The little man turned his head curiously to look after him, and then turned back to Mr Franklin.

  'Maybe you don't remember me,' he said. 'Logan. Harvey Logan.'

  Mr Franklin, outwardly unmoved, was aware that his heart had started to race. His nerves had always been good, but where a sudden physical emergency, an attack, or an impending blow, would have found him reacting instinctively, the sight of the slight, unobtrusive figure of a man who had been dead for several years, and dead many thousands of miles away in another world, seemed to have stiffened his muscles. At last he spoke.

  'Yes,' he said. 'I remember you.'

  'That's fine,' said the little man, and waited, glancing from Mr Franklin to Sir Charles, and then to his bowler hat. Sir Charles, after waiting in vain for Mr Franklin to proceed with the courtesies, said quietly: 'Perhaps, Mark, you would care to take Mr ... Logan into the study. I'll see that they send you in some tea.'

  He moved aside, with the slightest of inclinations of his head to Logan, who blinked and said: 'Why, that's most kind of you, sir. Much obliged, I'm sure.' His pleased smile followed Sir Charles across the hall, the drawing-room door closed, Samson had faded into the back of the hall, and Mr Franklin was left alone with his visitor, the length of the hall between them. For a moment neither spoke. Then:

  'Well, Mark.' Logan came forward a pace or two, slowly, his hands toying with the rim of his bowler. 'Long time, uh?' He was surveying Mr Franklin with quiet, curious amusement. Abruptly Mr Franklin came to life, strode to the study door, and threw it open. 'In here,' he said.

  Logan walked slowly across, as though he were rather stiff, and careful in his movements. 'I declare you've put on a little weight,' he said, and passed into the study. Mr Franklin followed him and closed the door, standing with his back to it. Logan moved into the room, looking round at the comfortable, well-worn leather of the furniture, the water-colours on the walls, the fire glowing in the grate, the crystal vase of hothouse flowers on the polished table, nodding in approval.

  'Pleasant room,' he said, and bent to sniff the flowers, sighing appreciatively. 'Very pleasant. Fine house, too. That would be Sir Charles Clayton, wouldn't it? Thought it was. He looks a real nice gentleman. Very polite. Who was the other bastard?'

  'He's a lord. Lord Lacy.'

  'You don't say!'
Logan straightened up from the flowers, and placed his hat on the table. 'A lord, eh? Well, now, it's as well I'm not heeled, or I just might have put a shot through the middle of a lord's big black head.' He turned towards Mr Franklin, spreading his hands, palms outward. 'But I'm not heeled.' He smiled. 'Guess you're surprised to see me, though?'

  'Since when were you called Logan?' said Mr Franklin.

  'Since I was born,' said Logan amiably.

  'Then how come everybody called you Curry?'

  'Professional name. Called myself after Big Nose George. Remember him? Oh, no, he'd be a bit before your time, I guess. Yes, I took his name. But then, when I read in the papers a few years ago that Kid Curry had got himself killed over at Glenwood Springs ...' Logan shrugged and smiled. 'Well, I thought: why not? Let him rest in peace. So I just became Harvey Logan again.'

  'I read about it in the papers, too,' said Mr Franklin. 'Didn't believe it, much. But if it wasn't you who got killed at Glenwood, who was it?'

  'Search me.' Seeing Mr Franklin's look, Logan smiled disarmingly. 'I mean it, Mark. You know me, I never hold out on things like that. They were a new bunch I was with - and not much, between ourselves.' He chuckled reminiscently. 'We blew this train at Parachute, Colorado - you never seen such a mess! Why, it almost made Cassidy and Sundance look like professionals! Yes, sir.' He shook his head. 'Posse got after us, I lit out for Wyoming - next thing I know the Pinkertons are claiming they got Kid Curry. Well, you know what lawmen are like. They get one of the gang, and they want to pretend it's the big fish. Who's going to contradict 'em? Not Harvey Logan. Mind if I sit down?'