Like Moths to a Flame by Margaret P.
(With thanks to my betas, Terri Derr and Suzanne Lyte)
Chapter Four (2016—Words: 2,728)
What the hell was the matter with him? He didn't usually take things too far.
Ramming his hat on his head, Scott began to walk back to his hotel. The sun was still in the sky. Maybe the exercise would help him decide what to do next.
When he reached the bottom of the hill, he veered off the direct route. Despite what Katie said—and what she still hadn't said—he'd go back in the morning. Early. If she'd see him, he'd delay his return. If not…well, there wasn't any point hanging around if she wasn't going to talk to him. He damn sure wasn't going to beg. He'd catch the first train back home as originally planned. The possibility left an uncomfortable lump in his gut. It wasn't going to happen; she'd cool down after a few hours.
He stopped to look in a tool shop window. The ranch needed more hammers and saws for building a dam on Springwater Creek. They'd order through the local hardware store, but it was better to check out the actual item than rely on a catalogue drawing. The shop had closed for the day so he couldn't handle the tools, but the cheaper ones they'd been considering looked poor quality. He'd tell Murdoch and Johnny to stick with the brand they knew.
He walked on. San Francisco was always changing. As he admired the architecture, he began to feel better about things. Tomorrow he and Katie would start afresh and have a proper conversation without interruptions. Everything would be all right again.
Forcing his mind to think of other things, he turned up Montgomery, walking towards Sacramento Street as he calculated in his head the amount of wire they'd need to fence off the portion of Lancer's eastern boundary bordering government land. They couldn't afford to do it in timber. Even though there were problems with the current barbed wire and the Cattlemen's Association predicted better varieties in the near future, it could still be worth going ahead now. Any cattle pastured on the east range lately seemed inclined to wander; not without assistance, but that was hard to prove when there was no fence and—as in some other situations—no witnesses.
"Lancer!"
Scott looked about him to see who had shouted. He was on the corner of Montgomery and Bush, right outside The Occidental. Sir Bertram Halford hailed him from the top of the entrance steps. He raised his hand indicating Scott should wait, shook hands with a police officer stationed by the door, and hurried down to the pavement.
"I'm glad I spotted you. I'm headed to the California Theatre to meet Wexford. Walk with me."
"I'm tired Halford. I'm going back to my hotel for an early night."
"I won't keep you long."
Scott thought about refusing, but good manners got the better of him. It wouldn't take him much out of his way, and it wasn't far to the theatre. He fell into step with the baronet, and they strolled west along Bush Street.
"I'm supposed to meet Wexford at his club, but the playhouse is on the way. I expect he'll still be there." Bertie loosened his tie. It was warmer than usual for the time of year. "I'm told it gets a lot hotter than this."
"It does, though San Francisco gets the sea breezes. It's hotter inland."
"In that case you won't mind if I borrow Katie to help me shop for more suitable clothing. I'm in San Francisco for at least a month, and then I travel east. Quite apart from the heat, I'm told I'm overdressed."
"I'd say so." Scott kept his expression neutral and his eyes straight ahead. Halford didn't need to know he'd looked just as out of place two years ago, and the man could take a flying leap before Scott would agree to him spending time with Katie. "But I'm sure your friend Wexford can fix you up."
Halford stared at him, and then changed the subject. "So are you still heading back to your ranch tomorrow?"
"I'll either catch the ten o'clock or the five past two train." Scott tried to sound casual, but evidently he didn't succeed.
"Ah, you've hit a rocky patch with the lady. Bad luck."
After the way they'd parted mid-afternoon, Scott wasn't in the mood to pretend friendship. He didn't answer.
"A lover's tiff is never pleasant. You'll have an early start tomorrow then."
"Not particularly. I usually get up at six—the price of being a working man."
Out of the corner of his eye Scott could see Halford weighing up whether his comment had any underlying criticism. He must have decided the signs weren't good, and cut to the chase. "I have a suspicion we got off on the wrong foot, Lancer."
"I'm sure you won't lose too much sleep over it." Scott kept walking, quickening his stride; the sooner this conversation was over the better.
"No, not normally, but for Katie's sake…" Halford matched Scott's pace.
Scott glanced sideways and smiled inwardly. Halford looked hot and uncomfortable, and from the frown on his face, he wasn't used to being spoken to in this way. Well, tough luck.
"I've done a lot of thinking since we saw each other this afternoon…I think you should know Katie and I have only ever been good friends."
"Thank you, but she has already told me that." Scott fixed his gaze on the theatre in the distance. He was more interested in Halford's future intentions than his past ones. Katie was fond of him. If, under pressure from the Eliots or simply by some whim of his own, Halford decided to actively pursue her... Scott didn't want to think about it. He'd felt secure in Katie's affections two weeks ago. Now he didn't want to put them to the test. "Isn't that your friend Wexford up ahead with his leading man—what's his name—Bellingham?"
Halford looked down the street as they came level with the first billboard on the theatre wall. It was about seven o'clock. There was still traffic on the road, but not a lot of people on the pavement. Wexford and Bellingham were walking together, arm and arm. With his free hand Wexford was gesturing with energy. They passed a lamp post on the street corner where two workingmen in shirt sleeves and boots were chatting, and then they almost disappeared from view as the workingmen stubbed out their cigarettes and began walking in the same direction.
"I believe you're right. I've under estimated Wexford's enthusiasm for his supper." Halford chuckled and checked his pocket watch for the time. "You're welcome to…What the blazes?"
"Hey, stop!" Scott yelled as he and Halford started to run. The workingmen had grabbed Wexford and Bellingham from behind. Punches were flying from both sides as Scott and Halford tried to get past a dray turning left into Bush Street from Grant.
By the time they reached the fight, it had moved into a side alley. The four men were still laying into each other. Wexford was holding his own, but Bellingham was older and not as fit. He fell to his knees, arms over his head, as Scott and Halford entered the alley. One of the men, with a black beard, kicked Bellingham in the ribs. Scott spun Blackbeard around by the shoulder and planted a fist in his stomach.
Halford went to help Wexford; the man he was fighting was a head taller and twice as wide. While Blackbeard was doubled over, Scott saw Halford bring his cane down across the other man's back; he followed through with a lead hook and a push. Evidently, baronets learned street fighting as well as Queensbury rules.
But Scott had no time to think more about it. Having regained his breath, Blackbeard fought back. He rammed Scott with his elbow and caught him in the jaw with an upward fist. Scott staggered back into the wall.
"You're on the wrong side. They're fucking mollies."
Seeing double, Scott spat and lurched forward. "I don't care what they are. You don't attack a man from behind." He threw a punch, missed, and then ducked as Blackbeard did the same.
Coming up, his head clearing, Scott landed another punch squarely on Blackbeard's jaw, sending him crashing into garbage cans and the wooden crates stacked in behind. Then drawing his arm back ready to throw a right cross he strode forward. Blackbeard spat blood into the stream of vegetable peelings spewing from the overturned bins, and came up with something in his hand.
"Leave it, Lancer." Halford suddenly appeared side-on between Scott and Blackbeard. He held one hand up in front of Scott, and nearly got a fist in his face for his trouble. His other arm was outstretched with cane pointed where it would cause most pain if Blackbeard advanced another inch. "And you, sir, put that lump of wood down. Hear the whistle? The local constabulary is on its way."
Blackbeard stepped back, panting and glaring, but he dropped his weapon. Using the heel of his hand to staunch blood seeping from a cut at the corner of his mouth, Scott bent down and retrieved his hat, while Bellingham started to get to his feet. A little way down the alley Harry Wexford had the other stranger pinned to the wall, arm wrenched high behind his back and face pressed into the brickwork.
Halford lowered his arms. He straightened his shirt cuffs and tie, and brushed a little dirt from his sleeve. "Release your friend, Wexford. He looks ready to cooperate."
The man grunted. Wexford let him join Blackbeard just as the police officer from outside The Occidental rounded the corner.
"What's going on here?"
"Nothing to concern you, Officer Ryan; just a little misunderstanding. It's all settled now." Halford leaned casually on his cane and smiled at the lawman.
"What are you talking about, Halford? Those two attacked Wexford and Bellingham from behind—unprovoked. We saw them do it." Scott dragged his fingers through his hair and replaced his hat. What was Halford playing at?
"I told you, mister. Them two are sodomites. They deserved a good thrashing for cavorting in public. You should have heard what they were saying to each other. Make ya sick."
Scott pointed at Blackbeard, angrily. "Shut up. They weren't bothering you. Nothing gives you the right to bushwhack them."
"Well, sir, technically you are correct, but…" Officer Ryan looked toward Bellingham and Wexford, taking in their appearance.
"But nothing." Scott had a horrible feeling the victims were the ones about to be punished.
"Under the circumstances, I think everyone should accompany me back to the station and give their statements. The sergeant can sort out what happened and whether any crime has been committed."
"Now Officer Ryan, is that really necessary?" Halford tore his eyes away from a perplexed-looking Wexford to re-join the conversation. "I'm sure no one directly involved wants to pursue this matter or spend a night in jail." The others nodded or muttered agreement.
"Well, Sir Bertram, I know you're an innocent party as I was talking with you myself not ten minutes ago, but your friend there seems intent on pressing charges, and these fellas have made a mighty serious allegation against the other two."
"All a misunderstanding, I'm sure." Halford put his arm around the officer's shoulder as though they were comrades of long-standing, and threw Scott a look that told him very clearly to shut up. "Now I can vouch for every gentleman here, except these two." He pointed his cane at Blackbeard and friend. "Mr Lancer was with me, and, as he says, we came to the rescue after the fight broke out. I've known Mr Wexford for several years. He is a writer of plays and sonnets, adored on the London stage by thousands, and now about to enchant the public of San Francisco—very reputable, very reputable indeed. And this fellow, I believe, is the famous thespian, Claud Bellingham, from your own fair city."
Blackbeard's friend stepped forward. "It don't matter who that toff says they are, that one was still making up to the other like they were a man and a woman—'Kiss me, my dearest, before we part.' Downright disgusting. I hate Nancy-boys."
Halford looked between Wexford and Bellingham and then huffed out a laugh as they grinned sheepishly; something the man said had clearly clicked with them all at the same time. Swinging around to face their accusers, the baronet smiled broadly. "Kiss me, my dearest, before we part. Who knows what the future may bring?' Lines, my dear sir. To be precise, lines spoken by Captain Andrews to his sweetheart in the play, Like Moths to a Flame." Then before the man could respond, Halford turned back to the policeman. "May we speak privately, Officer Ryan?" He drew him out of the hearing of Blackbeard and friend, but Scott could still catch his words. "The play opens at the California Theatre on Thursday, and as I, and a number of prominent local gentlemen, have financial interest in its success…" He raised his eyebrows and said no more.
Officer Ryan looked uncomfortable. "Well, your lordship, if it could be proved that Mr Wexford and Mr Bellingham were merely practising lines on their way home, perhaps there would be no need to take the matter further."
Halford beamed his approval and raised his voice so all could hear. "Excellent. I knew you were a man of reason, Officer Ryan. Mr Wexford, do you by chance have a script to prove what I say is true?"
Wexford recovered a script from where it had fallen in the gutter when they were first attacked. He flicked over a few pages and pointed out the relevant speeches. "I apologise, officer. I was not satisfied with the way Mr Bellingham was delivering his lines. It must have been when we passed these gentlemen that I was demonstrating the emotion I wanted him to convey. I didn't consider what anyone overhearing us might think—an easy mistake to make. We don't want to press charges."
"Well, I'll be. That's exactly what Captain Andrews says to Miranda." Officer Ryan took the script over to the two workingmen. "Look."
"If that's settled then, can I go home to my wife?" Claud Bellingham inspected a hole in the elbow of his jacket with a frown and then rubbed his ribs. "Tonight's extra rehearsal was already making me late for supper."
"You're married?" Blackbeard looked aghast.
"Six years next month with three beautiful daughters and, God-willing, a son on the way." Bellingham swept a bow. Then he tweaked his moustache and winked. "Believe me, my good fellow; my mastery with the ladies is not only on the stage."
"Well, damn, maybe we did make a mistake." Blackbeard exchanged looks with his friend, and then offered his hand. "No hard feelings?" His friend followed suit, to Wexford as well as Bellingham.
"No hard feelings at all." Wexford clapped Blackbeard on the shoulder. "In fact, if you gentlemen would care to attend our little play, I could arrange tickets for Saturday's performance, one for each of you—and the fair lady of your choice, of course. I'll leave them for you at the ticket office tomorrow. You too Officer Ryan if that wouldn't be breaking any rules?"
Apparently, it wouldn't be. Scott was incredulous at how it all turned out, but he didn't want to spend the night at the police station any more than the others did. If the victims were content to let things ride, so be it.
Even so, he couldn't bring himself to think well of Halford for his part in gaining their freedom. As Scott walked back to his hotel alone, he mulled over what had happened and what had been said. The rights and wrongs of the situation didn't seem to matter to Halford. All he'd been worried about was smoothing over troubled waters, making the problem disappear to protect his investment. The last thing a new play needed was to have its playwright-cum-director and leading man jailed just before opening night, and for such a reason. Even if released, the scandal could ruin the play's chances of success. But was it ethical? And did Katie know her friend was so…slippery?
Notes:
1. This story is number 14 in the Eliot Series and follows Of Mice and Scott Lancer, 2016. It also has links to Circumstances, 2015, and From Highlands to Homecoming, 2015.
2. This story stems from the Lancer TV series created by Samuel A. Peeples and written by him and others. It includes references to events, characters or dialogue mentioned in: The Homecoming (Pilot movie)/ The Highriders, Series 1, Episode 1; Legacy, Series 2, Episode 10; Zee, Series 2, Episode 2.