Death at Balfefield Abbey

Chapter 16, London, 1901

Darley alighted from a hansom cab in Piccadilly intent on concluding a matter of business at his club. A heavy frost was in the air and the gas streetlamps had little impact on the dark, sulfurous fog. The multitude of lights from horse-drawn omnibuses and cabs remained a murky yellow, as they passed in the gloom. People walked quickly; shoulders hunched against the penetrating chill of the evening air.

"Well, I never. Fancy meeting you here, Captain."

Darley recognized the owner of the melodic, Welsh voice even before he put on a reluctant smile and turned around. The speed of recognition was also due, in part, to an uneasy premonition of this encounter. For several days now, he felt he was being watched and followed. Shadows and shapes had gathered in the corner of his eye and though not fully formed were just on the brink of recognition. However, whenever he turned to look, they seemed to have just slipped out of vision around a corner or into a doorway.

"Corporal Parker. Well, they say if you stand anywhere in London for long enough, you're bound to bump into everyone you've ever known."

"Do they now? You remember old Turnbull here, I'm sure."

"Of course, I do. What brings you both to London and this part of town?"

"Looking up old acquaintances you might say." Parker's speech and countenance maintained its customary familiar manner, but Darley detected a hard, almost threatening undertone. "Come for a drink with us, Captain. We can talk of old times."

"Perhaps on another occasion. I'm late for an appointment."

Turnbull was tall and broad. When he stepped closer, Darley began to feel physically cornered and swallowed the temptation to flee. Conspirators, even ex-conspirators, feel bound to each other, like occupants of a prison hulk.

"We could call to your house in Mayfair tomorrow afternoon, if that suits you better?" said Turnbull with naked sarcasm. "It's only a short walk from here."

"But then why put off to tomorrow, eh, Captain?" chimed Parker maintaining his faux geniality. "There's a cozy little pub down the street that would suit our purposes admirably."

"Lead the way," said Darley with resignation.

The public house was loud with music from a standup piano and busy with the chatter of drinkers. They managed to find a table in a corner where people's backs and the surrounding noise served to provide the trio with their own private cocoon. Turnbull and Parker sat on either side of Darley. The three remained silent until drinks had been brought to their table by a young boy.

"What's this all about?" asked Darley. By now he felt no compulsion to continue with the pretense of bonhomie.

"We've noticed you've been getting quite a reputation since you came back from Africa," said Parker. "Turnbull here is an avid reader of the society columns and says you're never out of the newspapers. It seems no social gathering is worthy of mention unless you're in attendance. In fact, that's how we found you. A mention of your favorite club. We just waited until you showed up."

"Please get to the point," said Darley sharply.

"Now, now, there's no need for ill-temper, is there? We're just a couple of old acquaintances who take some pride and a great deal of pleasure in your rapid rise in society. You're quite the upcoming man about town, aren't you? A mansion in Mayfair and a pretty young wife."

"What of it?"

"Well, there's you, getting on so well in the world, and then there's Turnbull and me, your old brothers in arms who don't have a pot to piss in, so to speak. You see, Captain, we can't help noticing the disparity in our respective fortunes and feel a sense of injustice about it all."