Green Unpleasant Land

3. A Meeting at Dawn

The next day broke grim and grey. While Master Alex was still abed, tucked up between silken sheets, no doubt dreaming of damsels in need of rescuing from their virtue, I'd been hard at work ensuring the duel went without a hitch — and by hitch I mean the untimely slaying of England's foremost gentleman adventurer and renowned chasseur de skirt.

The meeting would take place on Hampstead Heath, near a small stand of elms across the way from the Royal Academy of Alchemy. If any of the blue-fingered potion-cookers were awake at that ungodly hour they showed no sign; the shutters were latched and still. Not one wisp of the usual strangely coloured vapours escaped the crooked chimneys.

The same could not be said for our opponent. The Comte de Artois stood a little way off across the dew-kissed meadow, resplendent in riding boots and cape. Perhaps it was just a trick of the chill air, but Artois appeared to steam with rage. He was accompanied by his towering batman Dravot, all gold teeth and glistening ebony muscle. If looks could kill, the guvnor would have been dead already. The Frenchie glared at his love rival with unconcealed loathing. All the better for us — with luck his simmering fury would cloud his senses, perhaps even his notoriously deadly aim.

Mercifully we had avoided that bane of all serious duels — a crowd of onlookers. Much of London was no doubt still snoring, possibly soaked in gin as per usual. Those few hardy souls present were either Fleet Street's finest or top-brass from the Casus Club, Pall Mall's premiere establishment for gentlemen of a heroic bent and deep pockets. If only the hoi polloi knew what I knew about some of these buggers, the outfit's reputation would slip a peg or two, I can tell you. It was the responsibility of the club's master-at-arms to load and prime the duelling pistols this morning.

I should make clear what I mean by 'pistol'. These were the muzzle-loading, flintlock variety, the archaic sort our forefathers carried at Waterloo and Balaclava — one shot was all they were good for, if that. Not even the toffs would be idiot enough to duel with revolvers, or worse still, those new-fangled automatics — though that's how I'm told the gentry conduct themselves in the Confederate States. But then both flavours of Yank have always been comfortable with a towering body count. The Mississippi must be chock-full with the corpses of well-ventilated colonial toffs. Perhaps Mr Darwin could use their swirling gene-pool as proving ground for his outlandish theories.

No, believe me, trusty old flintlocks were danger enough. Inaccurate at range, belching more smoke than a Whitechapel workhouse, but firing a lead ball powerful enough to blow a head clean off the shoulder — that's if you were fool enough to get in the way. Of course, if they were loaded with some less lethal projectile, they made just as much smoke and noise, without the deadly effect.

And now the hour of destiny had arrived. As I stood yawning in the damp mist next to my employer I began to have doubts. If events proceeded to plan no-one would buy the farm, or purchase any other plot of agricultural real-estate, for that matter. The problem with plans is they have a regrettable habit of unravelling. Oh well, too late to back out now. Here came the carriage containing the bigwigs from the Casus.

The cab pulled up behind a trestle table prepared by the junior members already in attendance. Out of this vehicle spilled the club secretary, a dour sawbones complete with bulging medical bag, and the master-at-arms. This last gent seemed less than keen to look me in the eye, which I took as a good sign. Next, club president Sir Percy Tiverton was helped down by his footmen, to be seated in a cumbersome wheeled chair provided for his comfort. The previous night's exertions weighed heavily on him. The wheels of his perambulator sank into the verdant grass, and there was much humphing and hawing to get him into position. Sir Percy never missed a good duel.