'People like you to be something -

preferably what they are.'

John Steinbeck

DEAD MAN'S SWEETHEART

9

A small, chill wind blew across the graveyard. The sky was overcast and the air thick with moisture, although it was not actually raining. The black scar of the grave stood out vividly in the surrounding grass. Silent figures grouped themselves at intervals around it, as if reflecting their status and relationship to the man who was being buried.

Andy stood in the forefront of the chief mourners, with Jonesy close beside him. He had refused, point-blank, to come to the funeral unless Jonesy was allowed to take care of him. There was no way his uncle could force him publically to do otherwise, so he had no option but to comply with Andy's demands. Nonetheless, contact had been carefully supervised and, so far, they had had no chance for private conversation.

Now words were pouring from the black-cloaked priest who was conducting the service, but they meant nothing to Andy. The pain of loss was so great he could feel nothing, believe nothing – certainly not that it was Slim in the coffin being lowered into the ground by strangers. Where was Jess? He would never let anyone else bury Slim – Andy knew, with the intuitive understanding of one who loved them both, how strong was the bond which was being torn apart here. Please come! In his inner mind he could see the star-faced bay galloping impetuously into the crowd, the familiar figure leaping from the saddle, lean and graceful and more real in the dust and sweat of his working clothes than all these people in their funeral finery. Andy shut his eyes tight so no-one would see his tears.

When he opened them again, he thought, for a split second, his prayers had been answered. Across from his uncle's party, and rather set back from the grave itself, a small group of neighbours were gathered on a little hillock. Andy was only vaguely aware of them except for one figure standing at the back of the group with a young lady leaning on his arm - a man immaculately dressed in mourning black, his face shadowed by his hat, whose stance had a poised power and inherent danger that belied his conventional behaviour. He was the same height as Jess, with the same sense of tightly controlled energy about him, but - in looks – a total stranger. Andy dragged his gaze away, the mistake piercing him with even more grief because his longing was unfulfilled.

At last the interminable words came to an end and he was led forward, with his uncle and the woman, Catherine, to cast the first handfuls of earth on the coffin. The rattle of soil on wood seemed to drive steel into his heart, as if he had suddenly been enabled to feel at last - to feel a deadly and inescapable knife-thrust. Then it was over and they were moving back towards the road and the carriage which would carry him to what he must now call his home. Jonesy was still sticking close beside him, but for how much longer? Andy knew he would be whisked upstairs, away from all contact with anyone, as soon as he set foot inside that house again.

Jonesy must have known this too, because he caught hold of Andy's arm, halting his progress through the graveyard and the attendant mourners. Nathaniel Sherman turned, sensing some hitch in his organisation, and found himself confronted with an old man and a boy who seemed, impossibly, in some way to threaten him.

"With your permission, Mr Sherman," Jonesy said with impeccable but determined courtesy, "I'll say my farewells to Andy here." Unspoken was the knowledge that he would in no way be welcome at the wake.

Nathaniel inclined his head in consent, but stayed close to his nephew, not willing to risk any unhelpful outside influence. Jonesy took Andy by the shoulders and spoke gently: "You know you are cared for, boy – your ma and pa entrusted both of you to me from the day you were born. I've seen your brother grow to be a fine man. I see you can do the same. You have just one thing to remember – it's a promise and a challenge: always finish what you set out to do. It's all that matters now." He drew Andy close and gave him a long hug, then released him and limped away through the crowd of strangers.

Andy lifted his eyes to follow Jonesy and saw, on the edge of the crowd, the unknown man, watching them intently. Why did Jonesy say that? he thought bitterly. Why had he reminded him of Jess's promise now, when Andy needed him so badly and he was not there! Why were there only strangers?

# # # # #

On the porch of his residence, Nathaniel Sherman was receiving his guests, friends and neighbours, with appropriate decorum. A little behind him, Catherine Sherman-Gordon stood, exquisitely dressed to reflect her tragic bereavement, a widow before she had ever been a wife. She was a strikingly beautiful young woman, with a near-perfect figure and smooth magnolia skin set off by the burnished chestnut of her hair. The assembly for the funeral was not large. Nathaniel's nephew had made himself very popular during the short weeks he had been with them, but he was not well known in St Louis and there were fewer family and friends than there were neighbours and acquaintances. Nathaniel and Catherine were gracious but formal in their acceptance of condolences. The line of hat-doffing, hand-shaking people caused them both a wry inner amusement.

At one point, however, there was a small check in the proceedings. Their neighbour, Colonel Frobisher and his family were just approaching them when the man who was escorting Frobisher's eldest daughter drew to one side and said quietly, "Since I have not been introduced to the family, I will leave you now, Miss Eleanor. Please send to me if you require escorting home."

Eleanor Frobisher started in surprise and laid her hand firmly on the man's arm, preventing him from moving away, as was obviously his intention. "Papa?" she appealed to her father, who merely looked embarrassed. So Eleanor turned to her host and smiled winningly at him. "Mr Sherman, I am sure you would not wish to deprive me of my escort?"

Nathaniel smiled back at her. He wanted to keep on good terms with the Colonel – one never knew when this would come in handy. "Miss Eleanor, your needs and wishes are, of course, an entry into any social function." The words fell just short of sarcasm. No offence could be taken, but he was suddenly aware of a formidable piercing black frown from the man in question. Clearly this one was not one to be taken lightly.

Colonel Frobisher drew in his breath impatiently and said, "Mr Sherman, may I present Cain St John Warwick, an … acquaintance … of my family." The hesitation implied without a doubt that the Colonel was far from happy at this association of his daughter's.

"Your family name is, of course, well-known." Nathaniel extended his hand to the stranger and found it taken in a vice-like and inescapable grip.

A faint smile touched Warwick's lips, as if he was amused by the pain he was inflicting on the other man and the way social convention prevented his victim from doing anything about it. "My family," he responded frankly, "would probably prefer that I was not associated with the name." Nathaniel was impressed by the man's imperturbable public acceptance of a less than favourable reputation; he began to think hard.

Giving a small, formal bow, the stranger passed on to meet Catherine, who was already exchanging a feminine embrace with Eleanor Frobisher. Eleanor was saying to her: "Catherine, I am so sorry for your loss. He was a fine man. You must be devastated." She was watching the other woman carefully, but Catherine continued to look serious and a little withdrawn. Eleanor went on: "You must come and visit us when you feel able. We are very quiet at the moment, so there would be no offence against propriety."

Catherine looked over Eleanor's shoulder at her escort, who had so neatly been included in this reception. "Thank you, my dear. I am touched by your feelings at this time. But you have a guest." As she spoke, she took in aura of danger about the man – from the taut strength of his body to the hard planes of his face and the thin line of his lips, which the moustache accented so well. No wonder the good Colonel was wary! Especially as there was an undeniable attraction that most women would find hard to resist.

Eleanor smiled without humour. "Mr Warwick is not resident at our house." She turned slightly, inviting him to join in their conversation.

"I am grateful to be included in your gathering, as I appreciate of the hospitality of Miss Frobisher's family." Warwick removed his hat smoothly and bent gracefully over Catherine's extended hand, although his lips did not quite touch it. As he raised his head once more, wide black eyes ran a gaze over her which was almost, but not quite, impertinent in its thoroughness. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if he did not really believe his next words: "My condolences, Miss Sherman-Gordon, on the tragic end to your engagement."

Catherine inclined her head, lowered her eyes modestly as became a bereaved young woman, and murmured, "Thank you, Mr Warwick." As Eleanor and her escort passed on into the reception room, the look that followed them combined an aroused interest with the self-focused determination of one accustomed to have her own way in everything

Her aims apparently concurred with her uncle's inclinations, for, when the guests had all been greeted, he drew close to her and said softly, "That man, Caine Warwick – I want you to exert your charms, my dear. I would like him to accept our hospitality in the very near future." This, however, was easier said than done, for she found that Eleanor's escort stayed close at her side, attentively seeing to her every whim. He made no attempt to engage in conversation with anyone else and remained almost entirely silent until the departure of the Frobisher party. It was most frustrating.

# # # # #

Consequently, a number of incidents followed in rapid succession over the next few days.

Miss Sherman-Gordon was only too delighted to accept an invitation to accompany Miss Frobisher on a quiet drive into the country. It would not be appropriate for her to be seen driving about town, but the fresh air would be healthy and beneficial to her mood of mourning. When the carriage arrived to collect her, however, she found Eleanor Frobisher seated in solitary splendour and the equipage being driven by an elderly and highly conventional coachman. Their progress was sedate in the extreme, although Catherine could not believe that, with such a suitor to hand, Eleanor did not hope to meet him under cover of this drive.

In this her instincts were entirely right, but she was still astounded to suddenly find Warwick riding alongside the carriage. His approach had been so silent and unobtrusive even the coachman, who should have been keeping a look-out, did not appear to have noticed him. Where he had come from was a mystery, but there he was, astride a fine black Arabian-cross stallion which he rode with an almost absent minded skill, as the horse was clearly itching to stretch its legs in a flat-out gallop. Apart from a conventional greeting to them both, he remained as silent as he had the previous day. Only at the end of the drive, when he had dismounted to assist Catherine in her descent from the carriage, did he say quietly "It is unwise to drive unescorted, Miss Sherman-Gordon. Has your uncle no spare man who could accompany you?"

Catherine noted again the slightest hesitation before he spoke, which gave the impression that he had tailored his comments very personally to his listener. She looked at him and smiled. "Miss Frobisher had no escort either."

"Miss Eleanor can call on me." Although his face was entirely serious, she was sure he was laughing up his sleeve at the disapproval this would undoubtedly cause Eleanor's father.

"And may I do the same?"

"If you wish." He looked her up and down as he had at the reception, then transferred his gaze to the woman in the carriage. The hesitation was more pronounced this time before he added: "Provided, of course, I have no prior commitments."

Catherine went into the house sending up fervent prayers that Eleanor Frobisher would succumb to a sudden bout of influenza or be mysteriously called away to nurse an ageing relative on the other side of the continent. She was not at all sure Caine Warwick would ever be lacking in prior commitments and she was perfectly certain that, in any case, this was a man who would do exactly what he pleased when it pleased him. For all her beauty, Catherine was not sure he yet included her in those pleasures. She was annoyed at having to fall back on her uncle's hospitality in order to develop this intriguing acquaintance into something more intimate.

# # # # #

Nathaniel Sherman had more means of getting information than just relying on his niece and had already put one of his men to trail Warwick. The stranger, however, appeared to be living a quiet and blameless existence between the Metropolitan and the Frobisher residence, which was only a short way down the broad avenue from Nathaniel's own mansion. He rode out each morning and frequently returned escorting the eldest Frobisher daughter from her drives. He dined at various houses to which the Frobisher connection or his own family gave him entrance. He played an occasional game of cards at the hotel – but never for money. Altogether a totally innocent existence, yet, as the tracker responsible for following him commented after making his report: "There's something about him - I'd sooner step on a rattler than get across that man."

Nathaniel's further investigations into the antecedents of Caine Warwick served to confirm this assessment: his past contained a number of incidents whose violence or illegality suggested his present life-style was an assumed one, presumably to ingratiate himself with the good Colonel Frobisher.

It was Rueben Bradley who brought in the first confirmation of this, as a result of his own pleasure-seeking. He entered the familiar atmosphere of the opium den, intent only on greeting those he knew and obtaining the pipe he had come for. The room was shadowy, the gaming-tables and couches shrouded in a dim and smoky veil. Settling down to smoke, his ears were soothed by the faint click of the ivory cards which mingled with the almost silent flutter of their paper counterparts. He watched idly as the betting mounted on one of the tables and noted the covert interest of the other occupants of the room. A game of Hanging Horse was in progress and the interest was occasioned by the fact that one of the players was not Chinese.

More fool him! Bradley thought, wondering whether the owners were just softening this one up before stupefying and robbing him. It wouldn't be the first time such a trick had been played in dens like this – let the victim win easily at first, encourage him to smoke too much of his winnings, and then rob him blind and dump him in an alleyway somewhere.

After a while, though, it became evident that this was not a set-up but a serious gambling session. The apparent victim was no victim at all, but capable of playing the game at an expert level and, judging by the tallies mounting beside him, of holding his own and winning. He was also capable of knowing when to stop, as presently he bade a courteous farewell to his fellow players, cashed in his tallies and, casually rolling up the bills and stowing them in an inner pocket, strolled quietly towards the door.

Damn! Bradley thought, pulling himself hastily out of the creeping drowsiness he had been enjoying. He knew this man and he knew full well the reaction of Nathaniel Sherman if he did not follow up this contact. He paid hastily and went out into the night.

Bradley knew the back alleys down-town well enough, but trailing dangerous strangers was a job he usually delegated. There was, however, no chance of avoiding it now. Nor was there any way of avoiding the knife which he shortly found touching his neck as he edged cautiously round a particularly dark bend in the alley.

"I dislike being followed!" The cold voice had all the venom and threat of that rattlesnake to which its owner had already been compared.

"I'm Rueben Bradley – we met at Mr Sherman's place - the day of the funeral!" Bradley gasped, hoping the knife was not actually going to slice straight into his vocal chords as they moved in his throat.

"We met." The statement was flat and contemptuous. "I see no reason to extend the acquaintance." Bradley could no longer feel the knife, but he knew it was there in the darkness.

"No offence intended, Mr Warwick!" He gave the assurance hastily, knowing how little chance he had if the blade was thrust at him and, judging by what they had discovered of his reputation, how little provocation Warwick would need to use it. "I was hoping to invite you for a drink. I know Mr Sherman is interested in meeting you again."

"Mr Sherman knows where I'm staying." The knife-blade flicked in an impatient gesture, catching a glimmer of light as it did so. Get on your way! it clearly said - a sentiment which its owner echoed: "After you, Mr Bradley."

The walk through the remainder of the dark alley was the longest Bradley had ever taken. It was some time before he realised that Caine Warwick had simply vanished silently into the shadows.

# # # # #

An invitation to dine at the Sherman residence arrived at the Metropolitan Hotel first thing the following morning. It was accepted promptly, but, although entirely courteous, Caine Warwick proved almost as uncommunicative at the dinner table as he was in the drawing room.

Over the next few days, Miss Catherine Sherman-Gordon was accompanied on her daily drive by an escort mounted on a black stallion. As befitted her mourning situation, conversation was strictly limited. Late in the evening on these days, Nathaniel Sherman's private poker game acquired a new player. Caine Warwick played a skilful but almost entirely silent hand, speaking only when he had to bid or call.

At the end of one of these sessions, Nathaniel turned to his latest recruit with an invitation: "I am sure life at the Metropolitan is unbelievably dull for a young man. May I offer you the hospitality of this house for a while?"

Caine Warwick regarded him thoughtfully for a moment with that cold, black gaze, then inclined his head silently in acceptance.

Notes:

The game, Hanging Horse, is a precursor of modern Mah Jong. I'd love to have Jess playing this favourite game of mine, but as far as I know, it was not played in the modern form until much later in the century. The same game turns up in one incident in Wish you were there.

The title of Part 3, Dead Man's Sweetheart, comes from A. E Housman's haunting poem, Is my team ploughing?