Speak Its Name Read online

  It was the second part of his mission that was likely to produce complications. Mr. Smythe—of course that wasn’t his name, Scoville knew the gentleman’s name perfectly well, as did any Englishman who read the Times—had gently hinted that one of Scoville’s old acquaintances had been gathering useful information in Paris and would pass it along to his former Army chum in a little cafe in Vienna. The missive would be nothing much, only a few pages, small enough to tuck into a book or magazine. Not worth mentioning to any border guards, of course.

  It would have been nice to know the chum’s name. “You’ll recognise him from your days in the Service.” Lovely. Scoville had known a number of men when he’d worn the uniform of the British Empire. Many of them were dead. And some of those still among the living were not men he wanted to see again. “Smythe” claimed he could not reveal the contact’s identity because he did not know it; Scoville translated that to mean that he himself was not to know who he was meeting until they were face to face.

  That secrecy told him something about his current errand. Whatever this was about, it went well beyond what he had been led to believe would be expected of him back when he’d agreed to act as a messenger without portfolio. This was not just a matter of passing along “unofficial” official messages. When he started acting as a courier of secret materials gathered in foreign countries, presumably without the permission of the countries’ governments—that, however delicately one phrased it, was espionage. Espionage was not a healthful activity for a gentleman who preferred the quiet life.

  The connecting door to Darling’s compartment opened with a discreet click. “Good afternoon, my lord,” his man said. “A pleasant nap, I trust?”

  “Yes, thanks. All the better for it.”

  “Would your lordship prefer to go to the dining car, or shall I procure a menu?”

  Scoville yawned, considering, and decided he should be up and about. “The dining car, by all means. I need the exercise. You go on ahead and find a table for us, please. I’ll only be a minute.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Scoville rose and stretched. It had been a pleasant, uneventful trip and the scenery was interesting, a trip backwards in time. France had been charming in her springtime dress, but as they ascended into the Alps the land went back to winter’s drab white and brown. Now, with the train circling north of the highest elevations, spring was returning. He could see patches of land showing the first touches of green where the snow was beginning to melt away.

  But it was all just pictures from here inside the car as it rolled steadily across the countryside. Scoville was looking forward to standing on a floor that wasn’t swaying. He loved walking outdoors, especially in this season, with the scent of warm earth and spring rain.

  It did look fine outside, good weather for a postprandial cigar on the dining car’s rear platform. He patted his pockets, realised his cigar case was in his trunk in Darling’s compartment, and made a detour through the connecting door to fetch it. If the cuisine in the dining car was any portent of things to come, it wasn’t espionage that would put him at risk. The only danger he was certain to face was the tightening of his waistcoat if he lingered too long in the coffeehouses indulging in the fine flaky Viennese pastry.

  When he awoke some time later with a blinding headache, that idiot optimism was the last thing he remembered.

  ~

  As he made his way to the dining car, Jack Darling noted that two more passenger cars had been added during their stop in Munich, shortly after breakfast. All to the good, that. The additional corridors provided a few dozen yards more exercise to whet the appetite for a meal as good as or better than what they’d find at home. A word with the maitre d’ on their first afternoon aboard, with a sovereign tucked into the parting handshake, had ensured them a good table and prompt service. And, just as he’d expected, their usual table was ready and waiting.

  Jack perused the menu briefly. How the devil had they managed to make sauerbraten in a dining car’s cramped kitchen? Did some restaurant along the route marinate a tub of beef for them? No matter, he’d lay odds on that being his Lordship’s choice. Always eat the local dishes, Lord Robert said, otherwise what’s the point of travel?

  But what was keeping him? If Lord Robert said he’d be a minute, that was generally what he meant. It had been—Jack checked his watch—nearly ten minutes. That was not just unusual, it was unprecedented. And worrisome.

  Something was wrong. He’d known from the start, when Scoville returned from his meeting in Whitehall, that there was something different about this trip, something shady or dangerous. Jack had known Lord Robert far too long to miss the little signs that something was afoot.

  We’re on a train, he reminded himself as he stood and headed for the exit. What could possibly happen on a train?

  A train with two more carloads of strangers aboard.

  A lot could happen, and much of it bad. Jack managed to walk in a calm and composed manner to the end of the dining car and through the door to the next. Then he ran.

  ~

  Scoville took careful inventory of himself before attempting to open his eyes. His head throbbed, his face was pressed against something rough and slightly musty-smelling. And the floor rumbled. He needed to get himself up.

  But not just yet. He couldn’t even force his eyelids open, could not find the strength to move at all.

  The door squeaked a bit. Why had he not noticed that the door squeaked?

  “My lor—Dear God!”

  Nought to fear, Darling’s here. Scoville tried to say hello, but for some reason even that was too much for him.

  A hand touched his face very gently, sought the pulse at his throat. “Major—my lord, can you hear me?” The tone of Darling’s voice hardened. “Find a doctor—now! And bring me some ice!”

  Ah. Sergeant Darling had matters in hand. Somebody would be going for a doctor, double-quick, and hell to pay if one could not be found. Scoville swallowed and summoned resources enough to say, “At ease, Sergeant.”

  “My lord—what happened?”

  “Help—help me up, would you?” He opened his eyes, squinting at the brightness of the light, and raised a hand, heavy as lead, expecting Darling to pull him to his feet.

  Darling took his hand, but merely held on to it. “Best stay where you are, my lord,” he said firmly. “I’m told there’s a physician aboard, and he should be here shortly.”

  “Darling, don’t be an ass.” Scoville rolled onto his side, but a wave of pain and dizziness kept him there. “God damn.” Whoever had hit him might not have meant him to survive—or had not cared if the blow killed him. “I don’t know what happened. Didn’t see anyone. Help me up, damn it.”

  “I don’t believe you’re entirely yourself, my lord. And your head is bleeding. If you’ll just lie back, I’ll fetch a compress.”

  “I’m not a bloody invalid.” He felt like one, though. He wouldn’t swear that his skull hadn’t been split, but it was beyond embarrassing to admit that someone had been able to creep up on him.

  “No, my lord.”

  It was impossible to argue with Darling when he went all deferential, and therefore equally impossible to win an argument. “Very well, I’ll keep still. Bring on the bandages and barley-water.”

  “Yes, my lord. If you would lie back on this handkerchief—yes, thank you.”

  Scoville lay back with ill-expressed gratitude and let himself drift while Darling returned with a cool compress, which did reduce the throbbing pain and made the short wait for medical assistance more bearable.

  When he finally appeared, the doctor, a sensible Belgian, put three stitches in Lord Robert’s scalp, diagnosed a mild concussion, prescribed a day of bed rest, and advised him to find a physician in Vienna if he was not much improved the following morning.

  The doctor had barely left when the train stopped in Salzburg, and an Austrian Customs officer came through to inspect their passports. When the Customs man learned t
hat Lord Robert had not even seen his assailant, he offered his regrets that he could not hold all departing passengers on suspicion. Darling assured him that the intruder had fled without taking anything. On that inconclusive note, they were left alone.

  His lordship, denied the luxuries of the dining car, supped on tea, crackers, and boiled chicken in broth, with Darling hovering in solicitous attendance. Even that light meal was more than he could finish. Pushing away the half-empty bowl, he found a reclining position that kept the sore spot on his head clear of the pillows. “Well, Darling?”

  “My lord?”

  “That’s enough coddling for now, thank you. What I need is information. You said nothing had been taken—I assume that was to get Customs on his way as quickly as possible.” At Darling’s nod, he continued, “Then what was he after? Is anything missing?”

  Darling raised a hand. He stepped silently to the door, eased the lock back, and suddenly yanked it open. The corridor outside was empty. He peered out, looking both ways, then relocked the door. “Forgive the dramatics, my lord, but I’d rather be certain we don’t have eavesdroppers.”

  “The train does make a fair amount of covering noise,” Lord Robert said, matching his low tone. “So what did you find?”

  “Nothing was stolen, but we seem to have acquired this.” He held out an old-fashioned snuffbox. “It was in your trunk, tucked under your unmentionables.”

  Lord Robert took the box, a handsome item. Something of an antique, it had a tiny ivory panel set into the chased silver, the British lion rampant carved upon its surface. “He didn’t need to brain me to present this.”

  He started to flip open the catch with his thumb, but Darling quickly touched the box lid. “Best not, my lord. It’s full of cocaine.”

  “I could do with an analgesic,” he protested, but left it closed. “What the devil do you suppose this is in aid of?” The stuff was legal enough in England, but Scoville did not know, offhand, what the laws might be in the various countries they would be passing through, and he did not want to find out by running afoul of them.

  “If your assailant was a madman, I suppose it might be seen as an apology.”

  “What, he meant to make amends for braining me by leaving a painkiller?” Lord Robert would have laughed, but he had a feeling that would make the headache even worse. “I can’t believe we’re dealing with a lunatic.”

  Darling shook his head. “Nor can I. It might have been left by mistake—a delivery intended for someone else.”

  That was possible, of course, but it seemed unlikely. “For whom? I don’t believe there’s another private car on this train. And why knock me unconscious, then leave the item in my trunk? You weren’t gone long enough for him to have had time to put it there before he hit me. That was deliberate.”

  “Yes. Deliberate and foolish, my lord, and that’s what I don’t understand. He was able to enter my compartment undetected, from the corridor. Why didn’t he simply wait until you had also gone to dinner and the coast was clear—or at least step back into the corridor when you opened the connecting door?”

  Lord Robert sighed, letting his face rest against the cool linen of the pillow case. “Excellent questions, Darling. Would that I had an answer.”

  “Are you missing anything from your pockets?”

  Since his pockets, as well as his clothing, had been confiscated when Darling helped him into his pyjamas, Lord Robert could only shrug. “You’d know that better than I.”

  Darling nodded and returned with the little tray on which he kept the pockets’ contents. A few mixed coins of assorted nationality, a nail file, a comb, a Swiss soldier’s knife. And one wallet.

  “Contents intact,” he reported after checking, “Including cash. This is making less sense by the moment.”

  Darling frowned at the tray. “Another possibility is that he expected to be searched at some point and wanted to let you smuggle that object for him, since your luggage isn’t likely to be bothered. We might simply put it back and wait to see who comes looking now that we’ve passed the border.”

  “Mm.” There might be other possible explanations, but Scoville couldn’t gather his wits enough to define them, even to himself. He handed the snuffbox back. “I think we’ve had enough excitement for one evening. Lock the blasted thing in the briefcase and let’s get some sleep.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Darling disappeared into his compartment; Scoville heard some thumps and dragging noises. Darling popped back in, announced that he’d put their trunk in front of the door in the other cubicle, and blew out the lantern sconce on the wall beside the door. Then he returned to his compartment. Scoville reached over to turn out the light mounted beside his bed, but before he could do that Darling reappeared, carrying the mattress from his own cot.

  Scoville frowned. When Darling tossed the pallet onto the floor in front of the door to Scoville’s own compartment, his lordship saw that as absolutely unnecessary, and said as much.

  “I expect you’re right, my lord,” Darling answered. “But on the slim chance you’re mistaken, I’ll be comfortable enough here. Good padding and a nice thick carpet, as well—we’ve both slept rougher on campaign.” He added pillow and blanket to the makeshift bed and arranged himself upon it. With his body alongside the door to this compartment and his feet extending through the doorway to his own quarters, there was no way anyone would be traversing the space undetected—especially not in the dark. Before lying down, he added, “You will let me know if you require anything?”

  “I hardly think I’ll have the opportunity,” Scoville said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “I’m sure you will anticipate my every need.”

  “I do my best, my lord,” Darling said with a grin.

  Scoville wanted to heave a pillow at him. “Damn it, Darling, I don’t like this at all. You’re not a dog, to be sleeping at my feet.”

  “No, my lord.” He raised up on one elbow, his eyes even darker than usual, the cheerful expression wiped away. “I’m not a dog, or I’d sniff the bastard out. I’m just a man who’s damned angry at that swine slipping past my guard. If he comes back, I want first crack at him, and if I’m right here, I know I’ll get it.”

  “That’s my prerogative, wouldn’t you say?” Scoville hated the petulant tone of his voice—almost as much as he hated being managed. And he knew better. He knew he was in no shape to fight his own battles. That only made it worse.

  Darling didn’t answer his question. “The doctor did say that you might be out of sorts, my lord. From the concussion.”

  Scoville sighed. He didn’t have the energy to argue, and it was a stupid argument anyway, grossly unfair to berate a man for his loyalty. Darling was only doing his best, and wouldn’t he do the same if their positions were reversed? “Yes, and he’s right, damn him. Sorry, Sergeant.”

  “For what, my lord?”

  “Being an ass.” He turned the wick all the way down; the light wavered and went out. “Good night, Jack.”

  “Pleasant dreams, my lord.”

  “Same to you.”

  ~

  Jack settled himself in unexpected comfort on the well-padded mattress, waiting while Lord Robert’s breathing slowed and eventually shifted into a light, intermittent snore. He had nearly forgotten himself for a moment there. It would’ve been beyond bad form to confess that the incident had frightened him worse than an attempt on his own life would have.

  What would he have done if he’d returned to the car and found a dead body? To lose him without ever—

  No. That didn’t bear thinking about. That way lay nothing but frustration and distress. Better to think about pleasanter things, such as the day years before, in the steam and stink of a railway station in India, where Sergeant Darling had been sent to meet his new commanding officer, summoned in haste to replace an incompetent bully who’d had the good grace to take himself off in a fit of apoplexy. Darling had been prepared for another commander of the same sort—there were
so many of the type in the upper echelons. He had learned to deal with them by being efficient, correct, and opaque. He was prepared for any stupidity.

  He had not been prepared for Major Scoville. In the first place, the man barely looked old enough to be wearing the uniform, much less experienced enough to take command. Slender and fair, with keen, sky-blue eyes, a longish face, and a strong chin, he was the most beautiful thing Darling had ever set eyes on. When Scoville saw the sergeant’s Army uniform, he smiled, and his face lit up like a sunrise.

  Darling curbed his reaction—he’d had plenty of practice at that—and presented himself to Major Scoville with all due formality. Over the next few months they found that they worked very well together, particularly after the young officer proved himself under fire.

  Despite his quiet manner, Scoville had a presence that his men responded to almost instinctively. He never blustered; he didn’t need to. He gave no quarter to insubordination or sloppiness, and when he had a soldier hanged for raping an Indian woman, the men knew he was deadly serious about discipline. The Major seldom raised his voice unless it was necessary to be heard above the sound of battle—but he faced battle unflinchingly, and he was one of those rare officers who never ordered a man to do something he would not do himself. They’d have followed him into Hell—and before their tour of duty was over, they had done just that.

  Darling was smitten from the start.

  But he was not stupid. Even when he perceived a slight irregularity in Major Scoville’s friendship with one or two other officers, he kept his own counsel and made certain that the Major’s private affairs remained absolutely private. Jack knew that it would be career suicide to make an improper advance toward his commanding officer without at least a hint, some indication that it would be welcomed. The invitation never came. Issuing one himself was something that could never be undone, and so he had not done it.

  He had hoped that the offer of employment after they mustered out had been a veiled invitation for something more, but he’d been disappointed. In ten years’ time, Lord Robert had not precisely made a secret of his preference for men, but he had never given the slightest hint that his interest extended to men outside his own class.