'Act well your part,
there all the honour lies.'
Alexander Pope
CALLING IN OBLIGATIONS
8
Exile
Andy paced restlessly up and down the big, second floor living room assigned to him. He had lived an active, outdoor life for all of his nearly thirteen years and being confined to this apartment, however spacious, was gradually driving him insane. He had always longed for the freedom to see what lay beyond the horizon, but he had never thought he would find out this way. The walls and the furnishings seemed to press in on him, stifling him with their luxurious opulence. He knew now how Jess must often have felt when the mere security of the relay station became a chain dragging on his spirit. But he was not going to think about Jess – about the absence - about the silence – he could not! Then there leapt into his mind what the woman had said, Catherine, who claimed she would have been his sister and that she was there to comfort him and share his grief. Perched on the edge of his bed, she had come to wish him goodnight when she remarked: "It's such a shame Matthew had no one close to him, just living with an old man and some hired ranch hand, no fit companion for a man like him. No wonder he valued you so much!" Her beautiful face smiled down at him, but the smile was a practised one and there was no warmth there to solace Andy's coldness. She had dismissed Jess as if he had never mattered to Slim, never meant anything in the family of the relay station. And Andy knew, without a shadow of a doubt, Slim would never have talked about Jess like that. What he was not mature enough to realise was that a man in love does not necessarily spend time praising his best friend to the woman of his choice. Bereft as he was of Jess's support, Andy had rejected outright this ill-phrased appeal to his emotions. He had turned his back, burrowed into the bed and pulled the covers over his head. But there was no escape from loneliness, even in sleep.
Colonel Frobisher was accustomed, when on furlough at his St Louis residence, to retire to bed early. It was with some surprise, therefore, that he heard, at around 10 o'clock one night, the sound of his door-knocker being applied actively to his front door. Presently his butler appeared, bearing a calling card on a silver salver. Frobisher frowned. The man knew well enough that he did not accept callers without appointment and he certainly did not make appointments at this time of night!
"Excuse me, Colonel," the man explained, "I thought you ought to see this, given the message, sir." His butler had served for a long time as his orderly and knew much about his master which others did not.
The Colonel took the card. On one side was simply printed the name "Caine St John Warwick" and, below this, a coat of arms on the left and on the right an irregular red circle, like a drop of blood. On the back was handwritten, "With regard to Cold Stone Canyon, at the request of JH."
Man and master looked at each other. The Colonel said "He gave his word and I trusted him."
"Not a man to break his word, sir," the butler responded. "Least, not what I saw of him."
"No-one else knows about this," the Colonel flicked the card impatiently between his fingers. "Where else would this man, Warwick, get his information?"
"It does say at his request, sir." When there was no response, he added, "Shall I tell Warwick to come back tomorrow with a proper appointment?"
"No," the Colonel said after more consideration. "Better have him in now and find out what the devil he wants!" He paced rapidly back and forth across his study, a process which he had always found calmed his nerves and cleared his thinking. He had a feeling that he was going to need clear nerves for this encounter.
In a short while the door of the study opened and he heard his man saying, "This way, sir." If he was using "sir", he must accord the visitor a certain social standing. On the other hand, the last professional news Frobisher had heard of associated with the name "St John Warwick" was the break-up and imprisonment, in the closing stages of the war, of one of the Confederate army's most notorious and deadly raiding patrols. After that, there had been rumours, but no definite information about what those men and their leader might or might not be doing in civilian life.
"Mr St John Warwick, sir."
The visitor walked into the room with the taut economy and grace of a hunting wolf. Though he was impeccably dressed in formal clothes – white silk shirt, tailored pants and cut-way tail coat with a discreet grey stripe – and although he was, ostensibly, unarmed, there was something about him which made the Colonel wish very much that he had a trusty sabre to hand. The man had not yet removed the soft, grey hat he was wearing and his face was in shadow, although the light caught a silver and red gleam just below the brim.
"Good evening, sir. I apologise for disturbing you at this hour. It was good of you to agree to admit me." Somehow this perfectly polite greeting, delivered in low, courteous tones, seemed to imply that, if he had not been admitted, serious damage to property and person would have resulted.
Colonel Frobisher looked down at the card in his hand, debating whether to raise the question of the message or allow the visitor to approach it in his own fashion. When he looked up again, the stranger had politely removed his hat. Frobisher found himself looking at one of the hardest and coldest faces he had ever seen. The lean planes of the bone might have been carved out of ice, the lips frozen in a thin, menacing line, the wide, black eyes staring with death in their gaze. The only colour or movement about him was the glitter of the tiny earring, disturbed by removal of his hat. And from all this, it was clear that, whatever else he wanted, this man had not come to negotiate over any knowledge he might have.
"We seem to have an acquaintance in common," the Colonel said drily.
"Possibly more than one," Warwick agreed, his voice still low and unthreatening.
"And you appear to be in possession of certain information?"
"I am in possession of a lot of information, Colonel."
"Spare me the preliminaries and get to the point!" Frobisher snapped out. "I dealt with an honourable man to whom I have a deep obligation. What have you to do with this?"
"I'm glad you think him honourable, sir – obviously unlike your opinion of myself. That is most satisfactory!"
Frobisher stared at him in amazement. His own integrity made it hard for him to believe any man would deliberately accept a dishonourable reputation, although he knew full well such men existed. They did not usually, however, turn up in his study at this time of night.
The stranger was standing utterly still, watching him intently with a total focus that involved every fibre of his body: the wolf was poised to spring, but preferred to face down his enemy by sheer will-power combined with something which Frobisher correctly identified as a certain reckless impudence. A feeling of familiarity swept over him. He'd seen someone react like this before in a highly dangerous and unpredictable situation. He took a risk.
"The initials on this card are JH. Only he knows what happened to the Appaloosa stallion."
Warwick nodded appreciatively and told him. When he had finished, he added, "I'm reliably informed, however, that the man you mentioned has returned to Texas."
"Have it your own way!" The dazed Colonel grasped his hand and shook it vigorously, still hardly able to believe his eyes. "I'm not sure what the aim of this is?"
"The aim is to make sure even those who know me very well will not easily recognise me." Warwick paused before demanding abruptly, "I need to test that now."
Frobisher tensed and rapped out "You always did have the devil's own nerve!"
"Sometimes it's necessary. It is necessary now and I give you my word that I will explain why as soon as I have more information myself."
"Very well." The Colonel pulled the bell-cord to summon the butler and, when he arrived, ordered; "Tell Miss Eleanor that she is required in the study, please." They waited in silence until the lady in question joined them.
# # # # #
Coming into the study, Eleanor Frobisher was surprised to find her father had company. He introduced the man with him by name but gave no other explanation. Instead he questioned his daughter on certain historical records which she had been helping him collate. She assumed this must be the reason for the nocturnal visit, but the very hour made her uneasy. So did the presence of this man, who, after bowing a greeting, ran an almost insolent look over her before turning away to stand silently, one hand resting on the mantelpiece, his gaze on the embers of the fire. Without doing or saying anything, he nonetheless conveyed a sense of tightly leashed, hungry power that was most disturbing. After a while, he moved, perhaps finding the fire too hot, and stood behind the desk, his back almost turned to their continuing conversation.
"Papa, can I speak with you in private a moment?"
"Will you excuse us, Mr Warwick?" The Colonel guided his daughter out of the room. In the small room across the corridor, he looked down at her and asked: "What's troubling you?"
"You remember on the last southern posting of yours? You had a Confederate scout marking trail for you – to Cold Stone Canyon."
"Don't pretend you don't remember his name, Eleanor" He was fully aware that his daughter had formed a rather more intimate connection which had certainly passed the exchange of names.
"Jess Harper." She tossed her head defiantly. "Pa, your visitor, Mr. Warwick – they're so different, but there's something – not when he's facing you, he doesn't like anything like Jess then - but when he turns his back …" She had spent more than enough time looking at the back of him, the way his hair grew into his neck, the set of his broad shoulders, the line of muscle under his shirt which tightened and relaxed as he rode in front of them.
"And what do you think?"
"Well, if I hadn't seen his face, I'd say it was the same man," she responded definitely.
"Indeed. Let us hope that most other people do not have your powers of observation, my dear," her father told her drily. "And what would you do now, to protect his identity?" He knew what she had done in the past, responding to the extremity into which the ill-fated expedition had led them.
"I'll keep my mouth shut," Eleanor said without hesitation, "and I'll do what he wants me to."
When they re-entered the room, the subject of their conversation was standing looking out of the window. As they approached, he turned his head to look over his shoulder at them and Eleanor was torn by the memory of how he had looked at her in just such a way, not often, but enough.
"Jess! It is you, but I'd never have guessed unless – "
"Unless you happened to know me rather well." Even his voice was different. The husky tones now had virtually no trace of his Texan drawl, just a definite Southern accent. He might have been any one of the many opportunistic men flocking into the city.
"What do you want?" father and daughter asked simultaneously.
"Two things." He turned to Eleanor and said bluntly: "I need your help in making the acquaintance of a neighbour of yours, Miss Catherine Sherman-Gordon."
Eleanor stiffened. "Is it personal?"
His lips tightened sardonically. "Not in the way you mean. At least, I hope not!"
"She's very beautiful."
"So I gather. You'll have to risk it. I wouldn't ask if there were any other way to get to her."
They looked at each other for a long moment, then Eleanor nodded. "All right, I'll help, I trust you."
"Oh, don't do that. Caine Warwick is thoroughly unreliable!"
"And the second thing?" enquired the Colonel, deeming this conversation had gone far enough.
"I need to gate-crash an event to which I believe you have been invited."
"What event?"
"A funeral."