Agent Of The Queen E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In the seventh book in the Windrush series, Jack is sent to infiltrate the Fenian Brotherhood, who are threatening to cause mutiny in the British Army.

The journey will take him from deepest England to Ireland and across the Atlantic to the United States and Canada. Jack discovers that another nation is using the Fenian cause for its own ends, and gets involved in battles and intrigue.

But what's most worrying of all is the involvement of Helen, Jack's old flame. What is she doing with the Fenians?

Leseprobe

Agent of the Queen

Jack Windrush Series – Book VII

Malcolm Archibald

Copyright (C) 2020 Malcolm Archibald

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2020 Next Chapter

Published 2020 by Next Chapter

Edited by Terry Hughes

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

For Cathy

Prelude

DARTMOOR, ENGLAND, NOVEMBER 1862

Ignoring the jagged splinters that thrust into his emaciated body, Markovic lay rigid beneath the rough planking of the cart, with filth dripping on him from above and the wheels jolting over the cobbles beneath. Clear above the pattering rain, he heard the wardens questioning the driver, their voices crisp and suspicious.

“Are you alone, driver?”

“Of course I'm bloody alone. You can see that.”

Markovic felt the slight jerk as a warden probed a pointed stick into the human excrement piled on the cart.

“What the hell are you doing?” The driver asked.

“Making sure nobody is hiding in there.”

“Good God, man, they'd suffocate, sure as death.” The driver sounded angry. “Let me pass, so I can dump this muck and get home.”

“You'd be surprised what some prisoners will do to try to escape Her Majesty's free hotels.” The warden shoved his stick in again and the steel tip penetrated the bottom boards of the cart. Markovic did not flinch as the point jabbed into his thigh.

“Right,” said the warden, withdrawing his stick, “on you go.”

Markovic hung on grimly as the cart lurched out of the prison gate, seemingly finding every bump and pothole in the track. He heard the wheels grind over the uneven road, with the driver alternatively cursing and singing, as the mood took him, until, after what seemed an eternity, the cart ground to a halt.

“Out you come.”

Markovic heard the nerve-shredding screech of iron nails on wood as the driver prised away the planks that held him in his mobile coffin. A blast of chill air welcomed the passenger to freedom, as the driver's rough hands grabbed his shoulders and hauled him out. He lay on the ground for a moment, stretching his cramped muscles, very aware that the reeking dung-cart with its hack of a horse was beside him, while the driver watched through impassive eyes.

“Here you are, Mr Markovic.” The driver did not offer to help his erstwhile passenger to his feet. “You said there would be a reward.”

Markovic spared a glance at the narrow compartment under the base of the cart in which he had travelled. “I am to meet people here.”

“There's nobody here yet.” The driver looked around. He had pulled the cart off the road to a small disused quarry, where wind-stunted trees wept rainwater into spreading puddles, and jagged rocks thrust upward to an uncaring sky. “Who's coming, anyway?” Broad-featured with suspicious eyes, he gripped a cudgel in his right hand. “If I get caught with you, I'll get the jail.”

“You won't get caught,” Markovic said. “I promise you. Here are my friends now.”

“Where?” As the driver turned to look, Markovic slipped both hands around his neck and twisted sharply until he heard a crack. He dropped the driver's lifeless body on to the ground as a soft hail came from the quarry entrance.

“Markovic?”

“That's me.” Markovic lifted the driver's cudgel. “Give me your name.”

“Reilly.”

“And who is with you, Reilly?” Markovic withdrew a pace to the shelter of the cart.

“Flaherty.” The second voice sounded as two men emerged from the shadows. Neither even glanced at the body of the driver. “Come on, Markovic. Here are some clean clothes for you.”

“I'll wash first,” Markovic said.

“Fine. We'll get you cleaned up and then we have work to do.”

“Take me to a river,” Markovic ordered. “Now!”

Flaherty shrugged. “As you wish.”

Markovic followed the two men over the wastes of the moor, keeping pace with them step for step even after his years of imprisonment. When they reached a small stream between two steep sloping banks, Markovic stripped naked. Gaunt to the point of starvation, his body was ridged and scarred, white with prison pallor. Indifferent to the biting wind and freezing water, he plunged into the stream, submerging himself entirely and emerging again, scrubbing at himself with sand from the river bed.

Only when his skin was red-raw did Markovic step out of the stream. “Clothes!” he demanded. He pulled on the rough trousers and jacket before hauling on the heavy navvy boots.

“Weapon,” he commanded. He took the revolver that Reilly handed him, automatically checked that the chambers were loaded and thrust it into the waistband of his trousers. “Now tell me how the war is progressing.”

“The war?” Reilly looked confused.

“The war in the Crimea,” Markovic replied. “I have been in kept in solitary confinement for years with the silent system. I have not heard any news.”

“That war ended six years ago, Markovic,” Reilly said. “The Allies captured Sebastopol.”

Markovic thrust out his chin, with the white scar above his left eye pulsating. “Did they, by God?” He touched the butt of his revolver. “Take me to the leader of the Brotherhood.”

Reilly grinned. “I heard you were keen.”

“I have an Empire to destroy.” When Markovic looked up, Reilly shivered at the cold madness in his eyes.

Chapter One

MALVERN HILLS, ENGLAND, OCTOBER 1865

“It's beautiful.” Mary Windrush stood on the terraced slope of the Herefordshire Beacon, looking down at the pass through the Malvern Hills. She grabbed her hat as a gust of wind threatened to blow it from her head. “Is that the house in which you grew up?”

“That's the house in which I grew up.” Nearly 14 years ago, Jack left Wychwood Manor under a cloud of illegitimacy. Now, a married man with a son, he was a captain in the British Army with three campaigns and other operations under his belt. “That's where my half-brother now lives, with his wife and my mother.”

“Shall we visit them?” Mary threw Jack a quizzical glance. “Surely they won't still bear a grudge after all this time.”

Lighting a cheroot, Jack took a long draw as the memories crowded into his brain. “I don't know,” he said. “William is not the most pleasant of men and, as for my mother…” He gave a wry smile. “My stepmother, rather. She said that if I ever set foot on Windrush ground again, she would cut off my allowance.”

“We no longer need an allowance from your mother,” Mary said. “You're no longer a penniless ensign. You're a captain with property and some money of your own.”

“Our own,” Jack corrected.

Taking Jack's cheroot, Mary drew on it, blew out smoke and gave a sudden, devil-may-care grin. “Come on, Captain Jack, let's bell the cat.”

“What?”

“Oh, did you not get educated at your fancy school?” Mary laughed. “Let's beard the lion in his den, let's singe the King of Spain's beard. Let's go and see what brother William says.”

“Brother William won't be pleased,” Jack said.

“All the more reason to meet him, then.” Mary passed back the cheroot. “I've taken a great dislike to your half-brother, Jack.” Slapping Jack's arm, Mary lifted the hem of her skirt and mounted Katrine, her brown mare. “Come along, Captain Jack.”

“You might regret meeting them,” Jack pointed out.

“I might,” Mary agreed cheerfully. “We won't know until we try.”

They negotiated the slope down to the pass, with Mary a few yards in front and Jack following on Cedric, his stallion. He felt the old familiar mixture of apprehension and excitement as if he were going into battle rather than merely riding to see his brother. While sheltering in the bitter trenches outside Sebastopol, sweltering in the Burmese jungles, facing the Pandies at Lucknow or confronting the Pashtuns of the Frontier, Jack had thought of his boyhood home; now he hoped the reality would not destroy his dreams.

“Come along, Jack.” Mary spoke over her shoulder. “You're hideously slow back there.”

“I'm coming,” Jack said.

The gateway to Wychwood Manor was the same as he remembered, if a little the worse for wear, with weeds easing beneath the stone tigers that surmounted the pillars guarding the driveway. Out of old habit, Jack leaned from his saddle to touch the pillars, as he had done as a child.

“For luck,” he explained, seeing Mary's quizzical expression.

“It's strange to think that you grew up here,” Mary stretched to copy him. “I always think of you as belonging to India rather than England.”

“I do, in a way,” Jack agreed. “I am as much Indian as English, anyway.”

Riding slowly to allow news of their arrival to reach the house, Jack reined Cedric in as they negotiated the final curve of the drive. He caught his breath as Wychwood Manor came into view. Once, Jack had thought this place magnificent, the equal of any ancestral home in England, which to his youthful mind meant the equal to anywhere in the world. Now, after service in Malta, Crimea and across India from the Frontier to Burma, Jack could see Wychwood for what it was, the dwelling place of a minor country gentleman, no more and no less.

The manor's central wing dated from the 14th century. From then on, a succession of Windrush owners had added whatever took their fancy over the following generations. The result was a sprawling building of contrasting architectural styles. Lawns that Jack remembered as stretching for many acres now appeared cramped in comparison to the grounds of the Indian palaces he knew so well.

“Wychwood Manor seems to have shrunk,” Jack commented.

“No, Jack. You have grown.”

Jack eyed the weathered Windrush arms that challenged all comers from above the main door. For the first 18 years of his life, he had imagined he would own this house until his stepmother told him that he was illegitimate, and his half-brother William was the true heir. Now he was returning as a visitor with his Eurasian wife.

“If they're unkind,” Jack murmured as he dismounted. “We won't stay long.”

“I have had British people being unkind to me all my life,” Mary said quietly. “I have grown thick skin.” As Mary slid off Katrine, a woman emerged from the side of the house with a hat holding her dark hair in place. She was singing softly, the words familiar to Jack, the marching song of the Royal Malverns, the regiment of his brother, father and ancestors.

“Always victorious

Glorious and more glorious,

We followed Marlborough through battle and war

We're the Royal Malverns, the heroes of Malplaquet.”

The woman stumbled over the last word, repeated it with as little success, said: “Oh, damn,” and looked up. “Good morning,” she said brightly and stopped. “Oh, good God!” Her right hand rose to her mouth. “Jack.”

“Good morning, Helen.” Jack gave a little bow. “May I introduce you to Mary, my wife? Mary, this is Helen, William's wife and the lady to whom I was once engaged.”

Jack expected the awkward pause as the women sized each other up. On one side was Helen, the attractive daughter of Colonel Maxwell, daring, yet calm in a crisis, a woman Jack had known during the Crimean campaign. On the other was Mary, the half-Indian daughter of a British officer, a woman who had endured many adventures with Jack during the Indian Mutiny.

“Mrs Windrush.” Mary was first to dip into a curtsey.

Helen responded with a little twitch of her lips as she glanced from Mary to Jack and back. “How do you do, Mrs Windrush? Imagine, three Mrs Windrushes all in the same house. What fun.”

“You're looking well, Helen,” Jack said. “You've hardly changed.”

“Thank you.” Helen dropped in a slight curtsey. “You are looking very well yourself.” She eyed him up and down. “You got your captaincy, I heard. William is a major now.”

“Is William at home?”

“He's in the stables, I believe.” Helen had gained about half a stone, which suited her well. Her mouth was tighter than Jack remembered, and she had tiny lines around her eyes, yet Jack could sense the old devil-damn-you spirit under her matronly veneer. “I'll send a servant to fetch him.” Helen signalled to a young lad who was watching from a safe distance. “Get the master! Tell him we have guests!”

The boy scampered away.

After her first extended look at Mary, Helen concentrated on Jack, holding his gaze. “Won't you come inside? One of the boys will care for your horses.”

“Thank you,” Mary replied for them both. “That's most kind of you.”

Jack found it strange to return to the outer hall with its Corinthian columns, oak panelling and an array of portraits of long-deceased Windrush men in their bold scarlet uniforms. He noted that a black curtain still hid the picture of Uncle George. “He married a native woman, according to the story,” Jack explained when Mary frowned at the curtain. “In reality, he became a dacoit in Burma.”

“Oh.”

“One of my men, Sergeant Wells, killed him.” Jack remembered those desperate days when he had been a young ensign enduring his first campaign.

“So this is where you grew up.” Mary looked around her as if trying to catch the essence of her husband. “I can nearly imagine you here, running up and down the stairs, shouting and getting into all sorts of mischief.”

“Actually, I spent most of my time at school.” Jack tried to shake away the ghosts of his past. “I was at home only during the holidays, and even then I was outside most of the time.” The inner hall was smaller than he remembered, with the furniture more worn and the light dimmer. Everything seemed less grand, drabber, almost colourless after the vitality of India. Were all homecomings like this after long service out East? Or was he merely torn between his two homes, England and India?

“What the devil are you doing here?” Two years younger but a stone heavier than Jack, William Windrush strode into his house with a frown on his face, his white shirt open and his arms bare to the elbows. Wisps of straw sticking to his trousers suggested he had been working in the stables. “I did not invite you, and I'm certain that Mother never would.” He glowered at Helen before looking away with a snort of contempt. “It's bad enough having blasted poachers infesting the place without bastards and half-castes.”

“Good morning, William,” Jack replied coolly. “Your wife has been very welcoming.”

“Is that so?” William's glare at Helen promised hot words when they were alone. “I'm sure you remember what Mother said when she threw you out, Jack.” William stood with his hands on his hips, half a head taller than Jack, master of all he surveyed. “She said the second you resign your commission or set foot on Windrush land, your money stops.”

“I remember.” Jack had to lean back to meet William's poisonous gaze. He failed to control his rising temper. “You made quite a name for yourself in the Crimea, William, basking in reflected glory. Now I hear that you swan about London, toadying to the nobs while the real soldiers do the fighting. What's the matter? Was one campaign one too many for you?” Jack had not come for an argument, but he would not allow his younger brother to bully him, especially with Mary present. He could almost feel the women watching, wondering what would happen next.

When William clenched his fists, Jack stepped back, prepared to defend himself and partially welcoming a confrontation.

“Boys, boys!” Helen stepped forward with her hands upraised. “Behave yourselves!” Despite her show, Helen's eyes were bright with mischief, and Jack knew she was enjoying the drama.

“If you were a gentleman, Jack,” William sneered, “I'd call you out, even if we do share my father's blood.”

“If you were brave enough to do so,” Jack replied, trying to force down his anger, ”I'd shoot you like a rabid dog.”

“What's all the noise?” Time had been kind to Mrs Elizabeth Windrush. She hardly looked a month older than she had when she banished Jack from Wychwood Manor some 14 years previously. Now she stood partway down the stairs, calm-faced and ready to take control. “William? Who are these people?” Mrs Windrush frowned when she saw Mary. “Who is this?” She looked at Jack, gasped and looked away quickly.

“Hello, Mother,” Jack said.

“I am not your mother.” Elizabeth Windrush pulled herself more erect. “Who is this dark woman, William?”

“This woman is my wife.” Jack kept his emotions under control. “Her name is Mary.”

“You inherited your father's tastes, I see.” Elizabeth Windrush stared at Mary as if at some mortal enemy.

“Only the best ones, Mother.” Again, Jack forced down his temper. He edged closer to Mary, who attempted to hold Elizabeth's gaze.

“Get this blackamoor out of my house, William,” Elizabeth Windrush commanded, turning away. “Instruct her to take my husband's bastard with her.”

Jack waited until his step-mother was three yards distant before he spoke again. “I thought you'd be pleased to greet your new neighbours,” he said. “You see, Mary and I have inherited the adjacent estate.” He saw Elizabeth Windrush falter. “The old Baird house of Netherhills.”

“Inherited?” William's voice sounded strangled.

“From my grandfather,” Jack said pleasantly. “My blood mother's father, don't you know.” He smiled at the shocked expression on William's face. “As neighbours, William, we'll be able to keep in touch. Mary and I intend to be frequent guests in my family home.”

“Get out of my house!” William raised his voice. “By God, I'll have the servants turn the dogs on you and your nigger woman.”

“You won't talk about my wife like that!” Jack's temper snapped. Without conscious thought, he swung a punch that caught William full on the mouth. As William staggered away, Mary took hold of Jack's arm and guided him out the front door.

“Enough now, Jack. We're not here to cause trouble.” She propelled him down the steps to the gravel path outside. “Come on now!”

Reluctant to leave a job half-done, Jack turned back, stabbing a finger towards his half-brother. “I won't forget this, William, I'm telling you! You'll not insult my wife again, by God!”

“Enough, Jack!” Mary hustled him away. “You're not a schoolboy any more.” She lowered her voice. “There are other ways.”

“What?” Blinded by his anger, Jack had failed to see the light in Mary's eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I said: 'There are other ways.' ” Mary gripped his arm. “We've been married for years, and I've never seen you like that before.” Her smile was sudden and unexpected. “That was as good a punch as any prizefighter's. Now, where are our horses?”

“I must apologise for my family's behaviour,” Jack started until Mary pushed him again.

“Don't be a pompous ass, Jack; you're not responsible for your family. Come on; let's get out of here.”

Back on his feet, William glowered at them silently from his front door as a trickle of blood ran down his chin.

Jack stormed past the belt of trees that screened the stable block, now anxious to get away from Wychwood Manor as quickly as he could.

“Lad!” Jack shouted as he entered the coolness of the stable. “Where are our horses?” He looked around, muttering: “Damn the boy, what's he done with them?”

“There they are.” Mary walked to Katrine. “Your Cedric is two stalls down.”

“Lad!” Jack roared again. He heard a rustle in the hayloft above. “Stop skulking up there and come and do your duty! Saddle our horses, you young scoundrel!”

“Jack!” Mary admonished him, “calm yourself!”

“This place makes me angry.”

“William made you angry,” Mary corrected.

“Not just William, Mary. Mother made me angry as well.” Jack raised his voice again. “Get down here, you young rogue, or I'll come up and it'll be the worse for you.”

“The poor lad's probably terrified of you,” Mary remarked. “Leave him alone. We can get the horses ourselves. Can't we, Katrine?” She soothed her horse, fondling its ears and blowing in its nostrils. “Yes, of course, we can.”

Halfway up the ladder, Jack paused. Expecting to see one of the stable-lads, he found himself staring into the wide eyes of a maidservant. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“What is it, Jack?” Mary asked, looking up curiously.

“Oh, nothing important.” Jack descended again. “Not our business. Come on, Mary, let's get away.”

* * *

“It's a funny thing,” Mary said as they lay in bed that night, “Helen rather enjoyed you punching her husband. I was watching her.”

Jack reached out for her, caressing the comfortable swell of her stomach. “I rather enjoyed it, too.”

“So, did I, Jack, so did I.” Mary slid towards him. “And tomorrow we see Netherhills, our new home.”

“As long as the neighbours are friendly,” Jack said, “we'll be all right.”

It had not been the homecoming of which Jack had dreamed. He hoped tomorrow would be better.

* * *

The gates of Netherhills, between their plain stone pillars, greeted them with a display of rusted neglect. Jack dismounted to push them open, fighting past the tangle of nettles that choked the entrance to the grounds. “I don't believe anybody has lived in this place for years!”

“We'll have fun putting it to rights.” Mary walked Katrine gently through the gates and on to the weed-infested driveway. “I'm quite excited to see our first English home.”

Jack said nothing, desperately hoping that Mary would learn to love Herefordshire as much as he did. Glancing across to her, he saw she was studying everything from the ancient trees to the blackbirds that chattered in sudden panic at this intrusion into their territory.

Jack grinned as a colony of rabbits scurried for shelter in front of them. “Poachers' paradise,” he said, “but grandfather certainly had good taste in timber.” He gestured towards the oak, elm, and beech trees that lined the drive.

“Come on, Jack, race you to the house!” Mary kicked in her heels and trotted around the final bend, stopping when Netherhills House came into view. “Oh, my word.”

“Indeed.” Jack reined in at her side. “Oh, our word. Grandfather Baird, what have you left us?”

With the front door securely locked and half-covered with ivy, vegetation growing from the gutters and weathered and peeling shutters at all the windows, Netherhills House looked neglected, an architectural orphan.

“It only needs love,” Mary said. “How old is the house, do you think?”

Jack surveyed the building style. “It's Georgian, I think, so not all that old; maybe 100 years at most.” He nodded to the Italianate tower that protruded two storeys above the bulk of the house. “I doubt the tower is more than 50 years young.”

“Come on, Jack,” Mary dismounted. “Let's explore. Will the horses be all right?”

“Leave them here. They won't go far.”

“You have the key?” Mary looked up in sudden alarm.

“I picked it up from the lawyers, remember?” On an impulse, Jack handed the key to Mary. “Go on – you first.” He watched as she opened the door, stepped into their house and stopped.

“Come on, Jack.”

They walked in together, side by side and hand in hand.

Despite the length of time that Netherhills had been empty, the house smelled sweet, although cobwebs hung heavy from every corner and the dust stood half an inch deep on each surface. Leaving the front door open, Mary and Jack explored slowly, unfastening the shutters to allow in light and with Mary making little comments in every room.

“This will be the withdrawing room. I can entertain here.”

“I don't know what I'll use this room for.”

“We'll have a piano in the corner there, and bookcases on three walls. Come on, Captain Jack, let's go upstairs.”

As they mounted the stone stairs, Mary patted the wooden balustrade. “This walnut will polish up nicely.”

“I can already see you as the lady of the manor,” Jack said.

Mary pushed open another door. “Now this, Jack,” she said, holding his arm tightly, “will be our bedroom. I want a four-poster bed in the centre and a cheval glass in that corner so that I can make sure I look my best each morning.” She stepped into the middle of the room. “I like this room with these big windows overlooking the grounds. We can happily make more babies here.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. Although he had no objections to the baby-making process, he was not sure if he wanted to add to their family. “Babies grow into children, which means the expense and worry of schooling for boys and marriage for girls,” he pointed out.

“And schooling for girls and marriage for boys, too,” Mary replied sharply. “I'm not having any girls of ours growing up uneducated, or allowing my sons to live without a wife to guide them.”

“I'll leave the schooling of any daughters in your hands,” Jack said at once.

Mary acknowledged his words with a nod.

“Somebody's been in here,” Jack said the minute they entered the west wing, from where the tower rose in Italianate splendour. Chairs stood in a circle around a burn-scarred table, while cigar butts and broken clay pipes littered the floor.

Mary frowned at this intrusion at her home. “And more than once, too. Vagabonds, do you think?”

“Vagabonds who smoke cigars?” Jack said. “Poachers perhaps; William mentioned he had problems with poachers. Well, whoever they are, they won't be back once we're in residence.”

“They'd better not come back,” Mary said grimly.

“Do you like your house, then?” Jack asked when they had completed their initial survey.

“I did not expect to find furniture.“ Mary swept a hand over the dust covers that shrouded the furniture. “And it needs a good clean and a lot of redecoration. We'll need servants, too.”

Jack nodded, quite happy for Mary to take over the running of the house. “One worry I have, Mary. Will you be all right here when I'm posted away again? My leave won't last for ever.”

“What do you mean, will I be all right here? I'm coming with you.” Mary lifted her chin. “I didn't marry you to rattle around in an empty house while you travel the world having fun.”

“If it is possible, then you shall accompany me.” Jack forestalled any looming argument.

Mary accepted her victory. “I shan't like leaving David behind, or any other children we may have.”

“If we're lucky, I might be posted somewhere in the British Isles.” Clearing a windowpane of dust and cobwebs, Jack saw movement outside. “I thought there were no servants left in this place.”

“That's what the lawyer said.”

“Then we have an intruder in the outbuildings. It'll be those blasted poachers. Wait here!” Bounding outside, Jack raced across to the modest stables and pushed open the unfastened door. “Halloa!”

Darkness closed around him, thick with dust. “Who's here?”

Jack was not surprised when there was no reply. Wishing he had a pistol with him, he shouted again. “Halloa! Is anybody there?” He heard the sudden scuffle of feet, turned and swore when somebody barged into him. Punching out, Jack felt contact and grunted as something slammed into his stomach, knocking him to the ground. He had a glimpse of a broad-shouldered man in moleskins running from the stables, but by the time he regained his feet, the man had gone.

“Jack?” Mary was running from the house.

“He got away from me.” Jack smiled ruefully. “I can catch Pashtun tribesmen on the most volatile frontier in the world, but I can't catch a single poacher in my own house.”

“Never mind,” Mary said. “Nobody's hurt, and I doubt he'll be back now we're here.” She looked around with her eyes gleaming. “Right then, Captain Jack, we have a house to put to rights, servants to hire and a statue of Kali to find.”

Jack flinched. “Why the devil do we want a statue of Kali? She's that Hindu goddess with a multitude of arms.”

“Exactly so,” Mary said. “And we're going to put her on the most prominent place we can find, facing Wychwood Manor.”

“Why?” Jack shook his head. “You're Christian, not Hindu.”

“I know that, and you know that,” Mary said, “but your beloved brother and his mother don't know that!” Her grin was pure mischief. “I told you there were other ways to get even with them.” She pointed to the Italianate tower. “And I want a large telescope up there, Jack, the biggest and best that we can get, for I'm going to spy on everything that your brother does. Call me a blackamoor and a nigger, will they? We'll see who sets the dogs on whom before this is over.”

“You might pick up a statue of Kali in London.” Jack hoped his wife would change her mind. ”We have a lot of travelling to do before we settle here and Hooky asked me to visit Horse Guards, remember.”

“Horse Guards.” Mary's expression of distaste said more than her words. “Stuff and nonsense, Jack. You're on leave! Colonel Hook had no right to ask that.”

“I know, but duty is duty.”

“We'll stay here tonight,” Mary told him. “I know it's not properly habitable yet, but we've survived a lot worse.”

Lighting a cheroot, Jack nodded. “I'm going for a stroll around the grounds while you familiarise yourself with Netherhills.”

“Yes, you keep out of my way.” Mary's eyes gleamed with the prospect of an empty house to organise from scratch.

Netherhills had 20 acres of badly overgrown land, with a tangle of undergrowth blocking access to a stone-built folly and dense weeds infesting what had once been smooth lawns.

We'll need a decent head gardener, with a couple of boys to help him, Jack thought to himself. He found he was enjoying planning out his grounds. Puffing on his cheroot, he frowned as he saw a definite trail through the long grass. “These damned poachers think they own the place,” he muttered to himself. “I would expect the odd poacher, but that looks as if it's a regular path.” Following the trail, he came to the dry-stone wall that marked the boundary of Netherhills and looked up in surprise.

The woman sat astride her horse with her bonnet at an acute angle and both hands on her reins.

“I thought I might find you patrolling your boundaries.” Helen's smile was as wide as Jack remembered. He noticed the triangular Tartar amulet around her neck, remembered her buying it in Balaclava and knew she wore it specifically for him.

“Is William with you?” Jack enquired, looking around.

“No.” Helen shook her head. “Is Mary with you?”

“She's planning out our house.”

“We're all alone then.” Helen fingered her amulet. “Like the old days in the Crimea.”

“It would seem so.” Jack waited to see what Helen wanted.

“I miss you, Jack,” Helen said quietly. “You told me once you'd show me the Malvern Hills and watch the dawn rise over Worcestershire.”

“That was a long time ago, Helen, before you married William.”

“William is not the man I thought he was.”

“You chose him.” Jack automatically drew back. The memory that Helen had left him for William still rankled, although he knew Mary was a better wife than Helen could ever be.

“I made a bad choice.” Helen seemed to hesitate. “Life here is so dreary. I'd do anything to alleviate the tedium, while William is not an attentive husband. He prefers young servant girls.”

Jack remembered the girl in the stable and the straw on William's trousers. “You can go riding,” Jack said. “Or meet the other wives of the area.”

“They have no life in them,” Helen said. “It's an endless round of visits with social tittle-tattle, Jack. I had no idea that life in England was so tedious. I wish I were back in the Crimea with you, or in India, or South Africa.” She stepped closer. “I tried not to laugh when you punched William.” When Helen smiled again, the years slid away, and she looked like the young woman Jack had once known. “We've been through some interesting times together, Jack.”

Jack took a deep breath, remembering the time of the great storm when Helen had stepped from a sinking raft as calmly as if she were shopping in Hereford. “We have, Helen, and now we are both married to other people.”

“I wish it were otherwise.”

Jack felt a confusion of emotions burst on him. He had thought he loved Helen until she crushed him by rejecting him in favour of William. Only when he met Mary had he realised that Helen had been a passing fancy. Even so, as he remembered the times they had shared, Jack could not prevent some of his old feelings from returning. “We can still be friends,” he suggested. He immediately regretted his words.

“Friends?” Helen dismounted, remaining on the opposite side of the boundary wall. “Thank you, Jack. You can't know how much that means to me.”

“As long as Mary doesn't mind.” Jack knew his hasty amendment was too late. “I'd better be getting back to her.”

“Already?” Helen gave a little pout. “After all these years you can only spare me two minutes? I thought you said we were friends.” She held her gloved hand across the wall.

“I'm also married,” Jack said softly. “There will be other times, Helen.”

“Yes,” Helen said as Jack turned away. “There will. I'll make sure of it.” She waved her fingers, smiling. When Jack looked back, she was still standing in the same place, watching.

Chapter Two

HORSE GUARDS, LONDON, OCTOBER 1865

“Make no mistake, Windrush, the Fenian movement is the most serious domestic threat that Great Britain has faced for the last half-century, more serious than the Chartists, and they were peril enough. If we can't depend on the army, what hope have we of keeping order in this country, let alone maintain the Empire?”

Jack nodded. When Colonel Hook had asked him to drop into Horse Guards during his home leave, he had thought it was little more than a courtesy call. Instead, an officious clerk had immediately ushered him into a quiet office on the upper floor where a dapper, intense man invited him to sit.

“My name is Smith.” The man wore elegant civilian clothes but spoke with the clipped, authoritarian tones of a man used to command. “I expected you last week.”

“I did not know you required my presence with such urgency,” Jack said, “or I would have come the day our ship docked.”

“Quite so. Now, Windrush.” Smith sat straight-backed on his chair with his gaze never wavering from Jack's face. “You will wish to know what this is all about and how you can help rectify the situation.”

“I had no idea things were so dire, sir. Please remember that I am on leave from India.”

“I am aware of your current circumstances, Windrush but, as I have indicated, the situation is extremely serious.” Mr Smith did not smile. “Our newspapers mock these Fenian people, and our Members of Parliament pretend not to take much notice, but behind the scenes, Windrush, behind the scenes, there are worried people in this country.” He lowered his voice slightly. “Why, Windrush, Palmerston himself has spoken to me at length on this subject, and I believe that even Her Majesty is concerned.”

Jack shifted uncomfortably in the hard chair. If Queen Victoria and Viscount Palmerston, the Prime Minister, were involved, he was dabbling in very deep waters. “I know very little about the Fenians,” he admitted. “I have been away from this country for some years.”

“I am fully aware of your activities, Captain Windrush.” Smith spoke in flat tones. “You joined the 113th Foot as an ensign in 1851, fought in the Burmese Campaign, then throughout the Russian War as a lieutenant and served in the Indian Mutiny with your present rank.”

Jack nodded. Smith spoke from memory, without recourse to notes.

“After the mutiny, Colonel Snodgrass disapproved of your choice of wife, and you left the 113th Foot.” Smith's eyes did not waver as he continued the story of Jack's career. “Colonel Hook sent you on a mission to find gun-runners on the Frontier, which mission led to you doing some useful work among the Pashtun tribes in the late rising.”

“Yes, sir,“ Jack agreed. “As you see, I have spent my entire career abroad. I know little about conditions at home.”

“Then allow me to educate you, Captain,” Smith said. “Tell me what you do know about the Fenians.”

Jack considered for a moment. “I have read brief pieces about them in the newspapers,” he said. “If I am correct, they are disgruntled Irishmen who want an Irish republic.”

“They are a bit more than that,” Smith corrected him. “The original Fenians were a semi-mythical force of Irish warriors some thousands of years ago. This new incarnation began in Ireland around 1857 and boasts a strong following among the Irish who emigrated to the United States and British North America. It appears to be a very formidable mass movement dedicated to – as they see it – freeing Ireland from British control.”

“Yes, sir.” Jack frowned. “If you'll forgive me, sir, but I am not political. I have scant knowledge of British and even less of Irish politics.”

Waiting for Jack to finish, Mr Smith continued: “I am aware of your lack of political knowledge, Captain, as I am aware of every aspect of your life.”

Jack felt increasingly irritated. “Why are you telling me all this, sir?” he asked.

“The Fenians are mostly of the lower orders.” Smith ignored Jack's question. “They are labourers, small tradesmen, factory workers and the like. I doubt there are half a dozen gentlemen in the entire organisation and, as such, they can never gain any political advantage in Great Britain.” Smith tapped his fingers on the desk as if emphasising his points. “Such people, as you are aware, could never stand for parliament.”

“Do these Fenians seek political advantage in Britain? I thought you said they sought an Irish Republic, which would, therefore, be outside the United Kingdom.”

“However, it is not the masses of Irishmen that concern us,” Smith continued, again ignoring Jack's intervention. “We can discount the ramblings of the illiterate and semi-literate classes. We are facing danger from two diverse but related fronts. One is overseas, and the other is in your territory.”

“My territory? India?” Jack hazarded. “I am not aware of any major threat in India since General Chamberlain dealt with the Warriors of God and the Bunerwals.”

“As I just indicated, the overseas threat is in North America,” Smith said. “Tens of thousands of Irishmen and men of Irish descent have joined the Fenian movement in the United States of America. There are threats to invade Canada, which our military people in North America will take care of.” His eyes remained disconcertingly direct. “The other threat is in your domain.”

“India?” Jack repeated, thinking: How will Mary react if I tell her I'm being posted back already?

“The threat is in the army itself,” Smith said.

Jack sat back in his chair with an overwhelming sense of relief. The room was small and stuffy, with a single small window to break the monotony of panelled oak walls. There were no books, no pictures, not even a map to dilute the sameness. There was only the clean oaken desk behind which Smith sat, with two armless, straight-backed oak chairs. Nothing else.

“I don't understand,” Jack said. “How could the army be a threat?”

Smith's expression did not alter. “Even since the time of King Charles II, Captain, the British Army and Navy have never been political. The officers and men swear allegiance to the reigning monarch, whoever that happens to be.”

Jack nodded. Apart from his oath of allegiance to the queen, he had no political attachments whatsoever. He could happily ignore whichever party wielded political power, Whig or Tory.

“The Fenians are interfering with the military being free of politics,” Smith said. “They have already infiltrated many regiments of the army and are fomenting mutiny.” His expression did not alter. “You may be wondering why I am telling you all this, Windrush.”

“I presume because a mutiny in the army could affect us all,” Jack said.

“Broadly, Captain, you are correct. On a more particular level, you have worked for Colonel Hook in the military intelligence branch in India and have experience of similar activities in the Crimea.”

“I am on leave, sir,” Jack reminded.

“You have seen the result of mutiny in the East India Company's army, Windrush. That mutiny cost the country a great deal of money.”

“There was a good deal of suffering as well, Mr Smith.” Jack thought it best to remind this chilly, dry man that people mattered more than money.

“That is another reason then, Captain, to ensure such a mutiny does not occur in the British Army.”

“I have served in the army for more than a decade, sir, without even being aware of any inclination to disloyalty among soldiers from Ireland. Indeed, sir, I have found them to be among the best men we have.”

“The officers of the mutinous sepoy regiments said the same about their men.” Smith's tone was dry.

Jack grunted, knowing that Smith was right.

“You will be aware that in 1797 mutiny spread across the Royal Navy, putting this country in considerable danger of invasion from France.”

“I am aware of that, sir.”

“Then you will be aware that only the actions of one man, Admiral Duncan, with intervention from the Admiralty, saved us.”

“Yes, sir. I am aware of the Battle of Camperdown.” Jack was growing impatient with this precise, cold-blooded man. “Could you tell me where I come into this situation, sir?”

Smith pressed his fingers together. “You are on leave, I believe.”

“Yes, sir.” Jack confirmed. “I have accumulated 17 months' leave from the army. I intend to show my wife around the country and settle some of our private affairs.”

“I am sure you will place your duty before your private pleasure,” Smith said. “To expand on my previous statement, it is fortunate you have experience in the less savoury aspects of military endeavour.”

Jack shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I prefer the more conventional aspects, sir.”

“Indeed?” Smith raised his eyebrows. “In that case, Captain, you should have remained with the 113th Foot. You had a choice between remaining a regimental officer and marrying a woman of whom your colonel disapproved.”

When Jack did not reply, Smith continued. “I want you to continue with your plans, Windrush. Take your wife on your tour of Great Britain by all means, but while you do so, I want you to visit various barracks to judge the feeling among the men. I will give you a list.”

Windrush sighed. “I'm not a natural spy, sir. I'd prefer you asked somebody else.”

“I'm not asking you, Captain. I am ordering you,” Smith said. “Your experience in clandestine work is highly unusual in the army, and impossible for a more conventional British regimental officer.”

“I could refuse,” Windrush said.

“You could,” Smith replied, “if you wished to rot as a half-pay captain for the remainder of your life.”

Windrush took a deep breath. “That's a direct threat.”

“Refusing a direct order is a court-martial offence, captain. Whatever the result, your career would be at an end.”

“My honour is at stake,” Jack said.

Smith's expression did not flicker. “I rather think that your honour is a precarious possession at best, captain. You acted the spy in the Crimea and India and married a Eurasian. In performing these actions, you sacrificed your honour.”

“I had little choice in the matter of spying in Crimea and India, while the choice of a wife is nobody's business but my own.”

“You also have little choice now,” Smith said. “You will act as a guest in the barracks to which I send you. You will locate any Fenian sympathisers, note the atmosphere in each place, speak to the men as well as the officers and send me a full report the following day.” Smith's expression remained unchanged. “If you are successful, Captain Windrush, you could be this century's Admiral Duncan.”

There is no help for it. “Yes.” Jack dropped the “sir”. He had lost all respect for Mr Smith, whoever he might be. “With the difference that people do not consider spies as honourable as fighting admirals.”

“We have already arrested several dozen soldiers who have joined this nefarious organisation,” Smith said. “Some we caught after they deserted, others were boasting while in drink.”

“Soldiers tend to talk when in drink,“ Jack said. “Mostly it's just hot air and braggadocio with young Johnny Raws trying to act as they think old soldiers should.”

“We have arrested non-commissioned officers with years of experience,” Smith countered. “These were solid men who have served with the army in various campaigns yet who still pledged allegiance to the Fenians.”

“That's a little unsettling.” Jack thought of Sergeant O'Neill, a man he had fought beside through Burma, the Crimea and the Indian Mutiny. He had trusted O'Neill with his life a score of times. “What are the Fenians offering, to turn such men away from their duty?”

“As I already said, the Fenians seek an Irish Republic.” Smith spoke without emotion.

“Is that even possible?” Jack wondered aloud.

“Less than 100 years ago, the United States of America was a disparate collection of squabbling colonies, and France a respectable monarchy.” Smith reminded him. “Now look at them. Anything is possible in the world of politics. Your job is not to think of the possibilities. Your job is to help prevent a mutiny in the British Army.” For the first time, Smith changed his stance, leaning forward on his hard chair. “How many Irishmen do you think there are in the British Army, Captain?”

“I have no idea, Mr Smith. Many thousands, I should think.” Jack thought of the Irishmen he had come across, from General Gough of Sikh Wars fame to the dare-devil redcoats who fought in the ranks.

“In 1830, before the Famine, 42.2 per cent of the army was Irish, and nearly 14 percent was Scottish.” Smith shook his head. “Not only did we have 15 regiments that were almost entirely Irish, but also so many Irishmen in regiments nominally from Scotland, Wales and England that they made up a significant proportion of their numbers. Even today, Irishmen comprise about a quarter of the army's strength, Windrush, and this disease of Fenianism seems to have affected many of them. The Prime Minister has mentioned the possibility of preventing any more Irish recruitment until we cure this sickness.”

“That's impossible!” Jack spoke without thought. “Some of our best soldiers and finest officers are Irish! What would we do without them?”

“We would do very badly, Captain Windrush. Very badly, indeed. That is why we are sending you, and others, to ensure that this nonsensical notion does not affect any officers.”

“Do you suspect that officers are affected, sir?”

“We do, Captain. Somebody must be organising things, and I cannot think that a mere sergeant, however good he may be in battle, has the ability to contact men across the regimental divide.” Smith leaned back again. “I'll have the list of barracks sent to your hotel with your written orders.”

“We're staying at Durrants Hotel.”

“I know where you are,” Smith said. “Goodbye, Captain Windrush.” Smith remained seated as Jack left.

* * *

The document was waiting for Jack when he returned to Durrants Hotel.

“Captain Windrush, sir!” Bowing obsequiously, the hotel clerk handed over a sealed package. “A gentleman left this parcel for you.”

“Thank you, Mr Blackley.” Jack lifted the thick parchment with its plain red seal. “When did it arrive?”

“You had hardly left the hotel, sir,” the clerk began, with another low bow, “when a gentleman handed it in. He said I was to hand it to you and nobody else, not even your wife.”

Smith sent that to me before our meeting, Jack reflected. He knew that I could not refuse his order.

“Is my wife in?”

Mr Blackley smiled. “Mrs Windrush is out with your son, sir.”

“Did she say when she would be back?”

“She did not say, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr Blackley.” Tucking the package under his arm, Jack made his way to their room. As always with Mary, everything was immaculate, so he threw himself into one of the two leather armchairs and broke the seal of the packet. There were two documents inside. One was a single sheet of paper on which a neat hand had written a list of barracks. The other was a short note. Jack looked again at the list.

Littlehampton Fort

Albany Barracks, Isle of Wight

Hereford Barracks

Berwick Barracks

He had expected more than only four and was grateful he could fit them into their itinerary without disrupting Mary's tour. At least Hereford was within a few miles of Netherhills. Sighing, Jack placed the list to one side and read his official orders, which repeated in brief form what Smith had said, with a small addition.

“Windrush

By now you will have some idea what I wish you to do. Visit every barrack in the enclosed list and write me a report on the general atmosphere. You have seen mutiny in the army and know the signs. Pay particular attention to the Irish officers and officers of Irish extraction. When you reach Berwick, report to Colonel Snodgrass of the 113th Foot. He will expect your arrival as a replacement for an officer who has transferred elsewhere.

Smith.”

The 113th Foot. Jack lowered the note. He had never expected to see them again, and now his leave was being curtailed before it had properly begun. What the devil would Mary say? Leaning back in the chair, Jack reached for a cheroot. It was only fortunate that Grandfather Baird had left him a second small property in Berwick. With luck, Mary would settle there while he was on regimental duty. With more luck, the regiment would remain in Britain rather than being sent to India or South Africa or some hell-hole such as Aden or Hong-Kong. Jack sighed again. He did not look forward to giving Mary his news.