Chapter 1: Trial By Class
“By the left, quick march!” shouted the sergeant and the platoon stepped forward in good order. “Left, right, left, right, watch your distance there, Private Higgins!”
Lieutenant Charlamagne Griffon paced the men as they ran through their evolutions on the quadrangle of the Grenadier Guards in Aldershot. They moved from column to line into square and back again, never missing a step. He was proud of his men in their red jackets and tall bearskins. They were marching out as infantry but were in fact a specialist sharpshooter unit and more used to skirmishing than marching with the main body of men.
They carried the pattern 1853 rifled musket as did all the men in the regiment, the difference being they carried the shorter-barrelled cavalry version as it was easier to use when on the move. As skirmishers, they wore a green uniform and a Kepi in combat to make them less obtrusive, which got them the nickname of Crap-hats from the rest of the regiment.
Charlie Griffon was the son of Delores and Richard Griffon. Richard was a publican and Delores a music hall performer. They had both died when he was sixteen in an accident when a steam carriage boiler exploded. He had used his inheritance to buy a commission in the guards.
He was known as a fair officer by the men, he got the best out of them by pure leadership and not asking them to do anything he wouldn’t do himself. Unfortunately, not all the officers in the guards were like him, which was a weakness of the system that still allowed commissions to be bought. One in particular stood out to Charlie as a particular bad apple. Captain Stanford Barrington-Brown, son of General Archibald Barrington-Brown, had no leadership qualities, was afraid of his men and felt he had to lead by intimidation. Charlie despised him.
The drills finished, Charlie dismissed his men and told them to be ready that afternoon at two o’clock to spend time on the ranges. Shooting practice was a core exercise in their training routine and Charlie not only wanted accuracy but speed as well.
He returned to the officer’s mess and dressed for lunch helped by Etherton, his batman. Meals were formal affairs run with strict protocol. Lunch during the week required a Number two dress uniform without stock. He dressed and made sure he was perfectly shaved and squeaky clean before descending the stairs to the dining room where he joined the other junior officers over a pre-lunch glass of sherry.
“Hello Charlie,” Lieutenant Francis Leatherby called.
The two had been friends since they were ensigns which was surprising seeing they came from completely different backgrounds. Francis was from a long line of military men and had soldiering in his veins. He commanded the third platoon.
Charlie joined him where he stood with two other men.
Lieutenant Paul D’Eath, Fifth Platoon, and Ensign Graham Smith, also from the fifth were amiable companions at any time.
“Roast beef today,” Smith squeaked, he had a particularly high voice even though he was shaving.
Charlie laughed, “It’s Tuesday, it’s always roast beef on Tuesday.” He turned to the other two, “What have you planned for this afternoon?”
Paul grimaced.
“Route march, twelve miles full kit.”
“Ouch, who did you upset?”
“BB decided we weren’t working hard enough.”
“Is he going?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“What about you, Francis?”
“Shooting range for us and BB will be attending.”
Charlie felt sorry for them, having BB as the commanding officer of your brigade couldn’t be easy.
Charlie’s commanding officer was the amiable Captain Rodrigues Valencia-Smythe, mother Spanish, father English who was a wing commander in the air corps commanding a squadron of armed dirigibles. As long as Charlie’s men were up to or exceeding his standards, he left him alone to run his platoon as he saw fit.
Lunch was splendid, substantial and took an hour and a half. Charlie had to hurry to get into his fighting greens and make it to the ranges in time to greet his men.
He had them form up in their fighting pairs. One would be shooter, the other spotter, then they would change over. The targets were set to four hundred yards, which was approaching the maximum accurate range for their weapon.
3 Platoon were on the next, shorter, firing butts. Targets were set at one hundred yards, and they fired in volley. Francis stood at the line shouting orders. Charlie grinned, his skirmishers never needed the timing called out, they were the elite, and they knew it.
Suddenly there was shouting from the other range and Charlie realised Barrington-Brown was throwing one of his infamous tantrums. He looked across and saw Francis stood in front of his captain, rigidly at attention. He couldn’t hear what was said but it was in front of his men and was obviously a reprimand. Francis snapped a salute, spun on his heal and marched off. Charlie could practically feel the heat of his embarrassment.
Barrington-Brown went to a group of soldiers that must have been the cause of the spat and pointed down the range. Charlie couldn’t believe his eyes or his ears, the wind had changed, and the order blew across, “Get down there and stand beside the targets!”
The men looked terrified but dare not refuse a direct order from the captain. They put down their guns and marched the hundred yards to the targets and stood beside them.
The captain then had the other half of the platoon take the firing position.
“Standing fire, three rounds, commence!”
Charlie set off across the range to the other butts and as the men raised their guns, he shouted, “Cease fire, stand down!”
Barrington-Brown spun on him and met him halfway. “What do you mean, countering my orders to my men.”
“Are you insane? You are putting your own men’s lives at risk!”
“They will learn to shoot straight if it kills them! But that has nothing to do with you Lieutenant Craphat.”
“The safety of the men in this regiment is every officer’s first priority!” Charlie shouted, angry to his core.
“How dare you!” Barrington-Brown shouted back and raised his swagger stick as if to strike him.
Charlie reacted without thinking.
“What on earth possessed you to punch him on the nose?” Captain Valencia-Smythe said as Charlie stood at attention in front of his desk. He was under arrest and sergeants stood either side of him.
“I just reacted when he raised his stick to strike me, Sir.”
“Did he strike you?”
“No, he never got the chance.”
“Unfortunately, that puts you firmly in the wrong. If you had hit him after he had struck you, you could have claimed self-defence. As it is, you bloodied his nose first.”
“But he was putting his men in danger–”
“That’s a separate thing and he will be reprimanded for it, but you struck a senior officer, breaking his nose, and you will have to face the consequences for that.”
“Court martial?”
“I’m afraid so, he is insisting, and his father is bound to get involved as well. If he does, it will not go well for you.”
The court martial was a disaster for Charlie. The general used his influence and made sure his people made up the board. They turned it into ‘oik’ verses the establishment. Charlie’s lack of breeding and family history were brought out and waved as examples of the perils of allowing the hoi polloi access to the officer class. No breeding, therefore, no manners and not officer material. He didn’t stand a chance and his career was left in tatters.
He had no option but to resign his commission before they cashiered him.
Dressed in civilian clothes, he carried his bag across the quadrangle towards the gate. Captain Valencia-Smythe had done him the courtesy of not having him escorted off the base. He had never felt lonelier in his life. He suddenly became aware of footsteps behind him that caught up and fell into step off his left shoulder.
He looked around and saw it was Etherton his batman, also dressed in civies.
“What are you doing?”
“Coming with you.”
“What?”
“I resigned as well, and they let me go.” That was unusual as ordinary soldiers didn’t normally have that option. Charlie guessed that Etherton had something on somebody, probably someone on the records office. Charlie was about to say something about that when Etherton nodded ahead and said, “We’ve got a farewell committee waiting for us.”
Charlie looked ahead and his anger rose, stood by the gate a huge self-satisfied smirk on his face, was Barrington-Brown with a couple of his cronies.
“What does he want?” Charlie growled.
“To gloat probably. He has forced a better officer out of the service, and he must be proud of himself,” Etherton growled back.
Charlie suddenly had an epiphany and stepped forward with more confidence. As he approached his nemesis, Barrington-Brown called jibes and voiced loud insulting remarks.
Charlie ignored him and carried on walking until he was outside the gate. “Am I off government property?” he said to the guard.
“Yes, Sir,” the guard said, suppressing a grin.
“Barrington-Brown!” he called, “You are a cad and a coward, you only pick on those that cannot fight back and hide behind your ass of a father who is a moron to have fathered a withered prick like you.” He followed that up with a very insulting gesture.
The captain went a bright red, almost verging on purple and stepped through the gate onto the pavement shrugging off the grasp of one of his friends. Charlie smiled and stepped up until he was within arm’s length. He made a show of peering at BB’s face.
“I did a really good job on your nose; it makes you look like the absolute twat you are.”
There was a guffaw from behind Charlie as Etherton heard that and the sentry snorted. It was all too much for Barrington-Brown who stepped forward and slapped Charlie across the face. The laughing stopped.
“That is an insult I cannot accept,” Charlie said into the ensuing silence, “I demand satisfaction.” He slapped Barrington-Brown lightly across the face, “My seconds will call on you.”
“You cannot challenge me. It is forbidden for officers to duel.”
“You are absolutely right, it is. But thanks to you and your moron of a father I am no longer an officer, and it is only forbidden for officers to duel or accept a challenge on Defence Department property. However, if you look down you will see that you are stood on a public pavement, which if I remember correctly, belongs to the parish of Aldershot. Charlie looked at the other two officers, “For the sake of the regiment I hope you make sure he turns up because it will be all over the broadsheets if he doesn’t. I have several friends who are reporters.” The last was an outright lie but would get their attention.
The look on Barrington-Brown’s face kept him and Etherton amused for days. He enlisted a couple of acquaintances he had in the town to act as his seconds and the duel was set for Saturday morning in Manor Park.
In the interim, he had several visits from officers trying to persuade him to call it off and a lawyer who tried to maintain the challenge had been issued on army property. Charlie was ready for that and had the sworn affidavits of two bystanders who swore that it had all happened on the public pavement. To prove his point, he produced a copy of the town plans for the area around the camp that clearly listed the pavement as the property of the parish.
He chose pistols as the weapon and borrowed a beautiful pair of duelling pistols from Francis who collected guns. The French percussion cap pistols were beautifully made with decoratively etched ten-inch, forty-five calibre, smooth bore, octagonal barrels. Mahogany stocks with carved grips finished them off. They were perfectly balanced and accurate up to a good ninety feet in the right hands.
The morning came and as the sun rose, the two men were stood back-to-back, loaded pistols in hand and held at the ready.
“Do you know, I didn’t think you would show up,” Charlie said. “Glad you did though, I’m looking forward to this.”
The Master of Ceremonies stepped forward,
“Gentlemen, on my mark you will step forward ten paces to my count, turn and fire. One shot each, if neither score a hit, the guns will be reloaded, and we will repeat the exercise up to three times or until one of you is hit. Is that all clear?”
“Absolutely, dear boy,” Charlie said, he didn’t hear anything from behind him, so he assumed his adversary had nodded.
“Are you ready?”
Both said they were.
“Prepare to step on my count, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.”
Charley turned and looked at his opponent twenty steps away who already had his pistol levelled. BB pulled the trigger with a jerk. The ball whistled past Charlie’s left ear.
“Shoot in haste, repent at leisure,” Charlie muttered as he brought his pistol to bear. He didn’t rush and he ignored the look of horror on the Barrington-Brown’s face. He took careful aim and squeezed the trigger gently. The action was like butter and the ball flew straight and true, hitting Barrington-Brown’s right arm in the elbow. His pistol fell from nerveless fingers, the lower arm hung by a strip of skin, the joint shattered by the heavy-calibre ball. A doctor rushed forward and wound a tourniquet around what was left connected to his shoulder.
Charlie walked over to the now prone man.
“I believe honour has been satisfied,” he said to the Master of Ceremonies. Then he looked down at BB who was barely conscious, ‘I don’t believe you will be able to stay in the army with only one arm which is good news for everybody.”
He passed his pistol to one of his seconds, who returned it with its bloody twin to the table. They would be properly cleaned before being returned to Francis who was with several officers who had been watching. Charlie joined them. “Anyone for breakfast? Toni’s is expecting us.”
Chapter 2: Beware The Ice Maiden
“I think we should consider a road trip,” Charlie said to Etherton as he covertly looked out of the window of their rented rooms. There was a man across the road dressed in dark clothes with a bowler hat. He was leaning in a doorway pretending to be just loitering while watching the door to their building.
“You want me to go down and have a ‘word’ with the gentleman?” Etherton said after a quick glance.
“No, he is probably watching to see if we leave. Go and see if there is anybody watching the back of the house.”
Etherton left the room, stopping at the dresser to extract a rose from a vase of cut flowers and crossed the corridor to the door opposite theirs. He knocked and it was answered by the old lady who lived there.
“Mrs Marchant, would it be possible for me to have a look out of your window?” he asked politely.
“What do you want to do that for?” Mrs M said grumpily.
“We are thinking about moving rooms to this side of the building and want to compare the view.”
She looked at him suspiciously, but he smiled his nicest smile and presented her with the rose he had hidden behind his back. Her eyes lit up and she eyed him coyly. “Alright but wipe your feet.”
He crossed the room and looked down at the road behind the house.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she said.
“Took your time,” Charlie said as Etherton came back in the room.
“Had to listen to Mrs M rabbiting on and have tea with her.”
“Is the back of the building watched?”
“No but it doesn’t do us no good, there isn’t a back door.”
“We don’t need one, get the bags.”
Charlie led them downstairs to the ground floor then towards the back of the house.
“Down here,” he said as he opened a door to reveal a staircase down into the cellar.
A gas light provided dim illumination. The cellar was large and contained the central boiler for heating the house. It was gas fired now but, in the past, had been coal fired.
“This way,” Charley led him around the boiler to the rear of the room.
“Pull that crate over,” Charlie said, looking up at the ceiling.
Etherton grinned as he realised what Charlie was looking at and positioned the crate below it. Charlie stepped up and fiddled with some bolts before giving the hatch a hard shove. It swung up and over the balance point, revealing the blue sky above.
Charlie jumped and caught the edge, pulled himself up and out.
“Come on, throw the bags up.”
Etherton tossed him the bags then climbed on the crate. He was shorter than Charlie but had no trouble grabbing the edge of the hatchway and pulling himself up. He closed the hatch after him.
Charlie had moved to the road and peeked around the corner of the blind alley which the coal hole was at the end of.
“All clear, come on.”
“Where are we going?” Etherton asked as they emerged from the road into Colbourn Street and Charlie hailed a steam carriage.
“Waterloo Station please, driver,” Charlie called as they boarded.
“Then where?” Etherton asked impatiently.
“Southampton and a ship to Alexandria.”
“Alexandria Egypt?”
Charlie nodded.
“Why Egypt?”
“A land of opportunity.”
“Oh, I see.” Etherton didn’t but he was content to wait and see what happened. Then he had a thought. “Do you have enough money to pay for the passage?”
“Just, I sold my commission, but it will almost clean us out. Still, it will be better than dodging General BB’s private detectives.”
The general had set a bunch of thugs that called themselves private detectives onto Charlie after the duel. The general had written to him saying he would pay for ending his son’s career. Getting out of the country seemed the best way of avoiding a beating at best and assassination at worst.
The steam carriage chuffed and rattled its way to Waterloo where they boarded the first train to Southampton. Etherton visited the Thomas Cook office on the station and got tickets on a mail steam packet that left the next day.
The second-class carriage was mostly empty. They took seats away from their fellow travellers so they couldn’t be overheard.
“This is a stopper, Wimbledon, Surbiton, Weybridge, Woking, Guildford, Basingstoke, Winchester and Southampton. Will take three and a half hours to get there,” Etherton said as he read the timetable.
“That’s no problem, we aren’t in a hurry. We will stay at the George and Dragon near the docks tonight and join the ship tomorrow around mid-morning. Here I got you a present.”
Charlie handed Etherton a box which was surprisingly heavy. He flipped the catch and opened the lid. Inside, nestled in red velvet, were a pair of pistols.
“Forty-five calibre, eight-inch rifled barrels, percussion cap, walnut stocks.”
“Nice, they are for me?”
“Yes, a thank you for staying with me.”
“I don’t need a reward for that,” Etherton said slightly miffed.
“It’s not a reward, think of it as a gift to a friend.”
That mollified him somewhat and he took one of the pistols out and weighed it in his hand.
“Proper man stopper.”
He turned it to catch the light and read the maker’s name.
“Reynolds, good maker.”
He quickly loaded the pair and slipped them into his pockets, closed the lid of the box before slipping it into his bag on the overhead shelf.
The guard came round. “Tickets please.”
“Is there a buffet car?” Charlie asked.
“Nope not on this train. Margaret will be round with the trolley in about thirty minutes. She has tea, sandwiches and cakes.”
The stations passed, people got on and off and they watched for any bully boys. They arrived in Southampton four minutes late without incident and made their way to the hotel.
“You have room thirty-three on the top floor, stairs are over there. Bathroom is at the end of the corridor; toilet is next door,” the porter told them from behind the desk when he put the key on the counter as Charlie signed in. He made no effort to help them or show them the way.
The room was barely large enough to contain two beds, so they stowed their bags and went down to the bar to get something to eat.
Charlie ordered himself ham, eggs and fried potatoes, Etherton, baked cod and boiled potatoes, there was a bowl of broccoli and carrots in the middle. Two pints of Strong’s best bitter washed it down.
The beds were better than army cots, but that was all that could be said apart from being vermin free. They slept well as soldiers can do almost anywhere and were up in time for a breakfast of bacon, sausage, fried bread, mushrooms, fried eggs and toast washed down with mugs of coffee strong enough to wake the dead.
The RMS Douglas was a steamer of intermediate size owned by the Post Office, that carried cargo, passengers, and mail on a regular run from Southampton to Alexandria. She was coal fired and smoke wound up from her single funnel, showing she was ready to go. They checked in their luggage at the desk then walked up the gangplank where they were met by a steward who showed them to their cabins.
The relationship between Charlie and Etherton was complicated in civvie street as far as Etherton was concerned. Charlie kept trying to treat him as an equal which, just ain’t right, Etherton thought as he unpacked his bag. He planned to use the voyage to re-establish the natural order.
“No time like the present!” he said to his reflection in the mirror and left his unpacking to go to Charlie’s cabin. He knocked and walked in to find him holding up a pair of trousers in one hand and a shirt hanger in the other.
“It’s all right, Sir, let me take care of that,” he said firmly taking the trousers and hanger from him. “Why don’t you go up on deck to enjoy the view as we cast off and leave me to sort things out.”
Charlie looked at the untidy mess that was his wardrobe and down at his case that was still half full. He knew when he was beaten especially as Etherton had that, you-are-in-my-way look he had used when he was his batman.
“Um, yes, some fresh air would be good,” he said, making the best of his defeat. Etherton smiled at his back as he left.
As he walked the promenade deck, he pondered what just happened. Etherton had been somewhat uncomfortable since the dual. He hadn’t smiled much no matter how much of an equal Charlie had tried to treat him. Now he was in his room doing what he had done in the army and seemed as happy as a sand boy. Very odd, he thought to himself.
The other passengers stood along the rail waving to people on the dock to say farewell. He joined them and felt the vibration through the deck as the engine started. The triple reciprocating engine turned the big propeller slowly. He couldn’t see it but imagined a tug was pulling the bow away from the dock so the Douglas could break free of the land and enter her element on the open sea.
He was looking along the backs of the passengers when a very shapely ankle caught his eye. He followed it up to the hem of a plain dark grey dress that hung to the middle of a nicely-shaped calf. A coat hid the rest of the body, but out of the top flowed shining, luxuriant, chestnut brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Going all the way?” a man’s voice said from beside him. He turned to see an older man with a handlebar moustache.
I hope so! Charlie thought, but said, “Why, yes I am.”
“Fascinating place, full of Arabs of course, can’t trust them as far as you can throw them, but fascinating all the same.
“Have you been there before?”
“Certainly, practically live there. Professor William Cumberland, archaeologist to the king.”
“King? King George?”
“Oh no, old boy, King Muhammad Ali of Egypt. I run the museum in Cairo. What do you do?”
“I am a military man, or rather I was, now I am available for hire. Basically, looking for adventure.”
“Well, that’s honest at least. Are you interested in going on expeditions?”
“Why yes, absolutely.”
“I will put the word around, there are always expeditions to somewhere or another. Here is my card, let me know where you are staying after you get there.”
Charlie didn’t believe for a minute that the old boy would, but he couldn’t afford to pass up any opportunity, so he pocketed the card and turned back to look along the rail. She had gone and he never got to see her face.
“Oh well,” he sighed.
Etherton had his room organised and clothes stowed. He was sat at the desk when Charlie returned cleaning his guns.
“No need to do that,” Charlie said.
“Yes, there is, they are in an awful state, you never could clean a gun properly.”
Charlie had to admit he was right; he had never been much of an armourer whereas Etherton was not only an expert at all things mechanical, but a crack shot with any type of rifle as well.
“I sharpened your knife; you should carry it.”
The knife was a nine-inch blade, clip point dagger with a shagreen wrapped grip and brass crossguard. A superb fighting knife which could also be used for chopping or food preparation when you were in the wilds. Charlie had tried to get the army to issue them for the skirmishers, but they had refused saying the bayonet was all they needed.
He needed to dress for dinner. On such a small ship everyone ate in the same place. The only difference in status being the proximity to the captain. He bathed, shaved, and dressed in a tuxedo. His athletic build shown off nicely by the tailored fit and the cummerbund neatly hid his knife. He examined himself in the mirror. “Very nice,” he said.
That got a snort from Etherton who knew that Charlie’s main sport was chasing women, and he wasn’t particularly bothered about their marital status. Any single women should look out and any husbands that neglected their wives should look out too.
The dining room was already busy when Charlie walked in, Etherton on his heel. They parted, Charlie making his way to the tables designated for club, one layer below first, and Etherton to where he was comfortable, with the steerage passengers and servants.
Charlie found his name card and settled into his chair greeting the other five passengers at the table cheerfully before scanning the menu card. As soon as he was settled a steward came and offered him a choice of white or red wine. Charlie asked for a white to start with as it would match the appetiser better than a red.
His fellow diners were a family of three, the Williams from Cardiff. Rosalind and Barry with their child Gwen. Gwen was a pouty thirteen-year-old who seemed to resent even having to breathe the same air as everyone else and constantly tried her mother’s patience. The other couple were Americans from New York, Wilma, and Edward Goldstein.
The Goldsteins were retired and travelling the world. They would visit Alexandria, Cairo and Gisa for the antiquities which, for them, were the pyramids and the sphynx. Barry Williams was moving to Egypt to help with the railway system. He was an engineer and a specialist in infrastructure. He had been made an offer he couldn’t refuse even if it meant incurring the wrath of his daughter.
As Charlie sipped his soup, he scanned the room and soon spotted the professor who was sat at the captain’s table along with a woman that could only be his wife. To his other side sat a young woman who, at first, looked rather plain with severely pulled back hair and tortoiseshell round glasses. Her dress didn’t help as it was demure and concealing.
Charlie took a second look and as she turned her head to reply to something the person next to her said, the light struck her hair showing it in its full chestnut glory. He looked past the glasses and realised she had fine-boned high cheekbones and a slightly exotic look with almond shaped eyes.
“The girl at the rail,” Charlie muttered to himself.
“What was that?” Goldstein said.
“Oh, sorry I thought I recognised the girl on the captain’s table.”
Wilma leant forward. “She is pretty but doesn’t make the best of herself.”
Charlie looked at her in surprise. “You know her?”
“We met; we were stood next to each other at the departure. Such a nice girl.” She pronounced that as ‘noice goil’. “She is a curator, which is no profession for a lady. If I was her mother, I vay! I would have her married to a doctor or banker.”
“Did you get her name?”
“What and have you chase her all around the ship?” She looked at Charlie who looked right back, she shrugged, “You will chase her anyway. Her name is Imelda Birchwood.”
“Thank you,” Charlie said politely.
Edward leaned conspiratorially towards him and said, “Good hunting, my boy, if I was forty years younger. I vay, I could chase the girls.”
“Silly old fool, the only girl you ever chased was me and I let you catch me,” Wilma chided. The banter flowed between them as only a couple who had been together for years could.
Charlie waited until the meal was over and the tables removed to make a dance floor. What could be loosely described as a band assembled at one end and a bar opened at the other. Chairs were placed around the perimeter.
Imelda sat with the professor and his wife. Her correct upright posture told of a finishing-school education. Her foot bobbed in time with the music. Charlie studied her, the severely pulled back hair and glasses disguised fine features and delicious lips. She had lovely almond-shaped, dusky brown eyes which hinted at a mixed ancestry. Italian or maybe Arabian. The shoulder pads in her jacket disguised her shoulders but there was no mistaking the swell of her breasts beneath the white cotton blouse.
She must have sensed him looking because she turned her head and boldly looked him straight in the eye, then she gave him, what could only be described as a bold, lingering once over. It sent a shiver down his spine as she looked him up and down. Her expression didn’t change as she looked away.
In for a penny, he thought, and walked across the dancefloor to where she sat. The band had struck up a waltz.
“Would you care to dance, Miss Birchwood?”
She looked up at him. “You can dance, Mr Griffon?”
Touché. “You will never know unless we try.”
Imelda smiled. “Then we had better find out.”
Her smile was dazzling and when she stood, she was only a couple of inches shorter than him. He bowed to the professor and his wife, who looked at him primly – was it disapproval?
They waltzed, twirling to the latest Viennese tune, they were easily the best dancers on the floor and the band responded. Soon they were the only ones as the rest stood aside to watch.
The tune ended with a flourish, and they spun to a stop, red faced and slightly giddy. The crowd clapped in appreciation, so Charlie sketched an extravagant bow then twirled Imelda to a curtsy.
“Will you join me for a drink?” Charlie said as he led her from the floor.
“That would be nice, a glass of spritz please.” He deposited her at a low table and went to the bar to order. He returned empty handed, she looked at him curiously.
“They will bring them. Is this your first trip to Egypt?”
“Oh no, I have been the professor’s curator for five years now.”
“So, you know your way around Cairo.”
“Yes, from that, it sounds like this is your first trip.”
“It is indeed. Where would a good place be to stay?”
She looked at him curiously, “Did you leave England in such a hurry you didn’t book a hotel?”
“I must admit we did.”
“We?”
“My man Etherton and me.”
“You have a man?”
“Yes, he was my batman in the guards.”
“Aah, an ex-military man.”
Their drinks arrived saving him having to explain that.
“I will be looking for employment in Cairo, expedition work, security or similar.”
She cocked her head to one side and gave him a calculating look.
“You come with your man, I assume.”
“Why yes! He is a sharpshooter in his own right.”
She finished her drink and stood causing him to jump to his feet.
“Thank you for the dance and the drink, but it is time for me to retire,” she bobbed a slight curtsy, “good night, Mr Griffon.”
He didn’t know what to say except to thank her for her company and wish her good night. Her eyes when she looked at him seemed to smoulder.
“Damn she’s a cool one.”
The next four nights were the same, his determination to seduce her matched and even beaten by her ice-cool ability to keep him at arm’s length. His dreams turned erotic, and his frustration grew but he wasn’t tempted by another.
The arrival at Gibraltar was a relief, the ship would stay overnight to give the passengers time to go ashore. Charlie and Etherton went shopping for rifles and visited Bramley and Cox on Main Street.
“Gentlemen, what can I do for you this fine day,” Augustus Bramley asked as they entered the dimly-lit shop that smelt of gun oil and metal. The walls were lined with racks of muskets and sporting guns. The best of which adorned the wall behind the counter. Shelves of game pouches, powder flasks and leather carry bags gave an underlying scent of polished leather to the atmosphere.
“My colleague and I are in need of rifles. What do you have?”
“Do you require accuracy at range?”
“Yes, with shorter barrels to make them easier to carry.”
Bramley smiled knowingly. “I have just the thing.”
He went to the back of the shop and returned with a long wooden box which he placed on the counter. He reverently opened the lid and lifted out a Westley Richards Cavalry Carbine.
“I have a pair of these. They have thirty-three-inch Whitworth rifled barrels, chambered to .451 calibre and will take either a cylindrical lead or a hexagonal lead-alloy bullet. Either are accurate out to six hundred yards or further if you are a trained sharpshooter.”
“These are not new,” Etherton said as he took the gun and examined it minutely, opening the breech to check the facings
“You are an armourer?” Bramley said.
Etherton nodded.
“Then feel free to strip it down, you will find it is in factory-fresh condition.”
Etherton took him at his word and helped himself to the tools in the box. He soon had the gun broken down and was examining every component.
Charlie left him to it, his old friend was never happier than when he was up to his elbows in oily gun parts.
“Do you have cartridges for them?”
“I can supply two hundred made-up cartridges, half with cylindrical ball and half with hexagonal.”
“What is your price?”
“For two with cartridge, sixty pounds.”
Etherton finished reassembling the gun and said, “That is the new price, this one has done a couple of hundred rounds looking at the barrel wear and I bet it’s the better of the two.”
“I think forty pounds for the two is a fair price,” Charlie said.
Bramley winced and replied, “I cannot do that fifty-five is the best I can do.”
Charlie took a deep breath and let it out slowly through pursed lips, he sighed, “I could go to forty-five.”
Bramley looked at him with a smile and said, “We know where this ends, shall we agree on fifty-pounds?”
Charlie held out his hand and they shook.
“That used up most of our remaining cash,” Charlie said when they were in the privacy of his cabin, “we will need to find a job sooner rather than later when we get to Cairo.”