McNaughten--An Historical Novel by Sian Busby

Author:Sian Busby [Sian Busby]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781907595875
Publisher: Short Books
Published: 2011-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

A SPORTING CLUB, PICCADILLY,

LATER THAT EVENING

In which Mr. Cockburn learns a great deal about the game of billiards.

The Chief Whipper-in had been most specific in directing Mr. Cockburn against making contact with Mr. James Oswald, the Liberal Member for Glasgow, in respect of the matter of Mr. Drummond’s shooting; but he had applied no such proscription to that gentleman’s near-neighbour, Alexander Johnston, the Liberal Member for Kilmarnock, Dumbarton, Renfrew, Rutherglen, Port Glasgow, &c., District of Burghs. Cockie, therefore, finding himself awake at four, five and six of the morning, spent but a little of one of those fitful hours in composing a letter inviting the gentleman – whom he knew to be in town – to a game of billiards at one of those obscure clubs at the back of Pall Mall, and instructed his valet to deliver it at once.

He was immensely gratified to discover an acceptance by return of post, sitting upon his breakfast tray, when Hatchett brought it to him some hours later.

Sandy had been labouring under a dejection of spirit, far more oppressive than the comparatively insipid bouts of ennui that those of a Romantic disposition must periodically endure. Having slept badly (at one stage awaking with the image of himself hanged before a great crowd that bayed shame and disgrace and pelted him with filth and pebbles), he had lain in bed until a quite late hour, pulling the distempered bed-sheets about him as the relentless church bells tolled beyond his bedroom window. The destruction of Polly’s letter had failed to exorcise the old ghosts; indeed, the action had only succeeded in making him more regretful than ever that the past could not be revisited and undone. He was unable to disabuse himself of the understanding that this would be another day upon which he would achieve nothing and nothing would be changed – save that he would grow older, sadder, more disgusted with himself, &c., &c., – and he succeeded in that state until shortly before mid-day, when his man Hatchett finally opened the curtains on one of those gray, bleak London Sundays that seemed never to end, and set down the newspapers together with the tray bearing some coffee, two lightly boiled eggs, and the note from Mr. Johnston.

“There’s a great deal in the Observer about Mr. Drummond’s shooting,” Hatchett informed him. “Apparently a Recruiting Sergeant had spied McNaughten hanging about outside the Treasury a short while before, and informed a police officer of the same.”

“Really?”

“And a nephew of Mr. Drummond’s had sight of his uncle’s wound at the counting-house moments after the incident and took it to be a burn. Apparently the gent’s coat-tails caught fire. Curious affair, ain’t it, sir?”

“Most curious.”

Sandy, whose mind naturally inclined towards conspiracy, could salvage nothing of any great surprise, merit or interest from the newspapers. He tossed the Observer aside and let his eyes pass over the handwritten cover of the note from Mr. Johnston.

“Will you be taking your constitutional today?” inquired Hatchett, returning for the tray a short while after.

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