The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
with a grammar some years before.
However, there was an obvious way of solving the mystery, so I took myself off to Wine Office Court and looked up William Greig & Sons. I half expected they would send me about my business, but no; there was as much bowing and scraping and “Pray to step this way, sir” as if I had been a royal duke, which deepened my mystification. A young Mr Greig smoothed me into a chair in his office; he was an oily, rather sporty-looking bargee with a very smart blue cutaway and a large lick of black hair—not at all the City lawyer type. When I presented my letter and demanded to know what it was all about, he gave me a knowing grin.
“Why, all in order, my dear sir,” says he. “A draft for £500 to be issued to you, on receipt, with proof of identity—well, we need not fret on that score, hey? Captain Flashman is well enough known, I think, ha-ha. We all remember your famous exploits in China—”
“Afghanistan,” says I.
“To be sure it was. The draft negotiable with the Bank of England. Yes, all in perfect order, sir.”
“But who the devil is she?”
“Who is who, my dear sir?”
“This Gräfin what’s-her-name—Landsfeld.”
His smile vanished in bewilderment.
“I don’t follow,” says he, scratching a black whisker. “You cannot mean that you don’t have the lady’s acquaintance? Why, her man writes to you here …”
“I’ve never heard of her,” says I, “to my knowledge.”
“Well,” says he, giving me an odd look. “This is dam—most odd, you know. My dear sir, are you sure? Quite apart from this letter, which seems to suggest a most, ah … cordial regard, well, I had not thought there was a man in England who had not heard of the beauteous Countess of Landsfeld.”
“Well, you’re looking at one now,” says I.
“I can’t believe it,” cries he. “What, never heard of the Queen of Hearts? La Belle Espagnole? The monarch, in all but name, of the Kingdom of Bavaria? My dear sir, all the world knows Donna Maria de—what is it again?” and he rummaged among some papers—“aye, here it is ‘Donna Maria de Dolores de los Montez, Countess of Landsfeld’. Come, come, sir, surely now …”
At first the name meant nothing, and then it broke on me.
“De los Montez? You don’t mean Lola Montez?”
“But who else, sir? The close friend—indeed, some say more than friend—of King Ludwig. Why, the press is never without some fresh sensation about her, some new scandal …” and he went on, chattering and smirking, but I never heeded him. My head was in a spin. Lola Montez, my Rosanna—a Countess, a monarch in all but name, a royal mistress by the sound of it. And she was writing to me, offering me hard cash—plainly I needed more information.
“Forgive me, sir,” says I, breaking in on his raptures. “The title misled me, for I’d never heard it before. When I knew Lola Montez she was plain Mrs James.”
“Oh, dear me, my dear sir,” says he, very whimsical. “Those days are far behind us now! Our firm, in fact, represented a Mrs James some years ago, but we never talk of her! Oh, no, I daresay not! But the Countess of Landsfeld is another matter—a lady of quite a different colour, ha-ha!”
“When did she come by the title?”
“Why, some months ago. How you should not …”
“I’ve been abroad,” says I. “Until this week I hadn’t seen an English newspaper in almost a year. I’ve heard of Lola Montez’s doings, of course, any time over the past three years, but nothing of this.”
“Oh, and such doings, hey?” says he, beaming lewdly. “Well, my dear sir, your friend at court—ha-ha—is a very great lady indeed. She has the kingdom under her thumb, makes and breaks ministers, dictates policies—and sets all Europe by the ears, upon my word! Some of the stories—why, there is an article in one of the sheets calling her ‘The Modern Messalina’”—he dropped his voice and pushed his greasy face towards me—“and describing her picked bodyguard of splendid young men—what, sir, hey? She goes abroad with a guard of cuirassiers riding behind her coach, sets her dogs on whoever dares to cross her path—why, there was some unfortunate who didn’t doff his cap, sir—flogged almost to death! True, sir. And none dare say her nay. The King dotes on her, his courtiers and ministers hate her but go in fear and trembling, the students worship her. For luxury and extravagance there has been nothing like her since La Pompadour, they say. Why, sir, she is the nine-day wonder!”
“Well, well,” says I. “Little Mrs James.”
“Pray, sir!” He pretended distress. “Not that name, I beg you. It is the Countess of Landsfeld who is your friend, if I may be so bold as to remind you.”
“Aye, so it is,” says I. “Will you tell me what she wants of me, then?”
“My dear sir,” says he, smirking. “A matter of ‘the most delicate’, is it not? What that may be—surely you are in a better position than I to say, eh? Ha-ha. But you will be going to Bavaria, I take it, to hear the particulars ‘from her own lips’?”
That was what I was asking myself. It was unbelievable, of course: Lola a queen, to all intents—that was wild enough. But Lola seeking my help—when our last encounter had been distinguished by the screaming of abuse and the crashing of chamberpots—to say nothing of the furore at the theatre when she had seen me among her betrayers … well, I know women are fickle, but I doubted if she remembered me with any affection. And yet the letter was practically fawning, and she must have dictated the sense of it, if not the words. It might be she had decided to let bygones be bygones—she was a generous creature in her way, as so many whores are. But why? What could she want me for—all she knew of me was my prowess in bed. Did the maîtresse en titre want to instal me as her lover? My mind, which is at its liveliest in amorous imagination, opened on a riotous vision of Flashy, Pride of the Hareem … but no. I have my share of conceit, but I could not believe that with the pick of all the young stallions of a palace guard, she was yearning for my bonny black whiskers.
And yet here was a lawyer, authorised on her behalf, ready to advance me £500 to go to Munich—ten times more than was necessary for the journey. It made no sort of sense—unless she was in love with me. But that was out of court; I’d been a good enough mount for a week or so, no doubt, but there had been nothing deeper than that, I was certain. What service, then, could I perform that was so obviously of importance?
I have a nose for risk; the uneasy feeling that had come over me on first reading her letter was returning. If I had any sense, I knew, I would bid the greasy Mr Greig good-day and tell him to tear his draft up. But even the biggest coward doesn’t run until some hint of danger appears, and there was none here at all—just my uneasy instinct. Against which there was the prospect of getting away from my damned relations—oh, God, and the horrors of accompanying the Morrisons into Society—and the certainty of an immediate tidy sum, with more to follow, and sheer curiosity, too. If I did go to Bavaria, and the signs were less pleasant than appeared at present—well, I could cut stick if I wanted. And the thought of renewing acquaintance with Lola—a ‘warm’ and ‘friendly’ Lola—tickled my darker fancies: from Greig’s reports, even if they were only half true, it sounded as though there was plenty of sport at the Court of Good King Ludwig. Palace orgies of Roman proportions suggested themselves, with old Flashy waited on like a Sultan, and Lola mooning over me while slaves plied me with pearls dissolved in wine, and black eunuchs stood by armed with enormous gold-mounted hair-brushes. And while cold reason told me there was a catch in it somewhere—well, I couldn’t see the catch, yet. Time enough when I did.
“Mr Greig,” says I, “where can I cash this draft?”