The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
collapsed on a bench, and the three followed me and closed the door.
“Now,” says Sapten, folding his arms, “who are you?”
There was no question of brazening it out, any more than there was hope of making a run for it. My only chance lay in talking my way out of the noose—not that the three grim faces offered any encouragement. But anyway, here goes, thought I, reminding myself that there’s no lie ever invented that’s as convincing as half-truth.
“Gentlemen,” I began, “believe me, I can explain this whole fearful business. You’re quite right; I am not Prince Carl Gustaf. But I most solemnly assure you that these past few days I have had no choice but to pretend that I was that man. No choice—and I believe when you have heard me out you will agree that the true victim of this abominable hoax is my unhappy self.”
“Like enough,” says Sapten, “since you’ll certainly hang for it.”
“No, no!” I protested. “You must hear me out. I can prove what I say. I was forced to it—dreadfully forced, but you must believe me innocent.”
“Where is the Prince?” burst out Hansen. “Tell us that, you liar!”
I ignored this, for a good reason. “My name is Arnold—Captain Thomas Arnold. I’m a British Army officer”—and my idiot tongue nearly added “of no fixed abode”—“and I have been kidnapped and tricked into this by enemies of Strackenz.”
That threw them into a talking; both Grundvig and Hansen started volleying questions at me, but Sapten cut them off.
“British Army, eh?” says he. “How many regiments of foot guards have you?—quick, now.”
“Why, three.”
“Humph,” says he. “Go on.”
“Well,” says I. “It’s an incredible tale … you won’t believe it …”
“Probably not,” says Sapten, whom I was liking less and less. “Get to the point.”
So I told it them, from the beginning, sticking as close as I could to the truth. My brain was working desperately as I talked, for the tale wouldn’t do entirely as it stood. I left Lola Montez out of it, and invented a wife and child for myself who had accompanied me to Germany—I was going to need them. I described my abduction in Munich, without reference to Baroness Pechman, and related the Schönhausen episode exactly as it had happened.
“Otto Bismarck, eh?” says Sapten. “I’ve heard of him. And young Starnberg—aye, we know of that one.”
“This is unbelievable,” exclaims Grundvig. “The man is plainly lying in everything he says. Why, who could …”
“Easy, doctor,” says Sapten. “Unbelievable—yes.” He pointed at me. “He’s unbelievable, too—but he’s sitting here in front of us.” He nodded to me. “Continue.”
Thank God there was at least one cool head among them. I went on, relating how I came to Strackenz, how I had gone through the farce in the Cathedral, how de Gautet had tried to murder me, and how I had killed him in fair fight at the top of the Jotun Gipfel that morning. Sapten’s icy eye never left my face, but Grundvig kept giving exclamations of incredulity and horror, and finally Hansen could contain himself no longer.
“Why did you do it? My God, you villain, why? Have you no shame, no honour? How could you live, and commit such a monstrous crime?”
I looked him full in the face, like a man struggling with tremendous emotion. (I was, and it was funk, but I tried to look as though I was bursting with wrought-up indignation and distress.)
“Why, sir?” says I. “You ask ‘why’. Do you suppose I would have consented to this infamy—have played this awful masquerade—unless they had compelled me with a weapon that no man, however honourable, could resist?” I gave a mighty gulp. “They held my wife and child, sir. Do you realise what that means?” I shouted the question at him, and decided that this was the time to break down. “My God, my God!” I exclaimed. “My precious jewels! My little golden-headed Amelia! Shall I ever see thee again?”
It would have had them thumping on the seat-backs in any theatre in London, I’ll swear, but when I raised my head from my hands there was no sign of frantic applause from this audience. Hansen looked bewildered and Grundvig’s long face was working with rage; Sapten was filling his pipe.
“And Prince Carl Gustaf—where’s he?” he asked.
I had thought, at the beginning, that eventually I might bargain with them—my life for the information—but now instinct told me that it wouldn’t answer. Sapten would have hanged me on the spot, I’m sure—anyway, it wouldn’t have suited the character I was trying desperately to establish. In that, I saw, lay my only hope—to make them believe that I had been a helpless victim of a dastardly plot. And God help me, wasn’t it true?
So I told them about Jotunberg, and the plans for disposing of Carl Gustaf. Grundvig clasped his temples, Hansen exclaimed in horror, Sapten lit his pipe and puffed in silence.
“Aye,” says he, “and then what? This fellow tried to murder you—you killed him, you say. What did you propose to do next?”
“Why—why—I hardly knew. I was distraught—my wife and child—the fate of the prince—I was half-mad with anxiety.”
“To be sure,” says he, and puffed some more. “And this was all played out, you tell us, so that this Otto Bismarck could start to build a German Empire? Well, well.”
“You’ve heard what I’ve told you, sir,” says I. “I warned you it was incredible, but it’s true—every word of it.”
Grundvig, who had been pacing up and down, spun on his heel.
“I for one cannot believe it! It is impossible! Major, Erik! Would anyone but a madman credit such a story? It is not to be imagined!” He glared at me. “This man—this scoundrel—can you believe anyone as infamous as he has confessed himself to be?”
“Not I, for one,” says Hansen.
Sapten scratched his grizzled head. “Just so,” says he, and my heart sank. “But I suggest, doctor, and you too, Erik, that there’s a question to be asked. Can either of you—” and his bright eye went from one to the other—“looking at this fellow here, a man who we know has successfully imposed himself for two weeks on a whole nation—can either of you, in the face of the fact, suggest a better story than he’s told us?”
They stared at him. He nodded at me.
“There he is. Account for him.” He knocked out his pipe. “If he has lied—then what’s the true explanation?”
They babbled a good deal at this, but of course there was no answering him. My story was enough to defy imagination, Sapten agreed—but any alternative must be equally incredible.
“If we can accept that a doppelgänger of the Prince’s can take his place for two weeks—and we know that has happened—then I for one can accept anything,” says he.
“You mean you believe him?” cries Grundvig.
“For want of evidence to disprove his story—yes.” My heart fluttered up like a maiden’s prayer, “You see,” says Sapten grimly, “it fits. Haven’t we been starting at every German shadow this twenty years back? You know that, Grundvig. Isn’t fear for the security of our duchy the reason we’re here? What are we Sons of the Volsungs for?” He shook his head. “Show me a hole in this fellow’s tale, for I can’t see one.”
At this they went into a frantic discussion, which of course got them nowhere. Baffled, they turned back on me.
“What are we to do with him?” says Grundvig.
“Hang him,” snaps Hansen. “The swine deserves it.”
“For