Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [111]
With some grimness Richard replied. “He certainly has.”
“Well, it’s no meant for a shooting glove!” said Jamie Waugh in righteous indignation. “It’s a fancy glove that—one of a pair, and far too much decoration on it for shooting with. I mind it fine, and the chap that bought it.”
Richard found a seat and dropped very gently into it. “Do you? Tell me what happened.”
“Well; in comes this fellow ordering gloves, and as fussy as a flea in a bathtub over the pattern, and that Patey has to do the gold, and—”
“What did he look like?”
The glover thought. “Kind of fancy-looking—no offence, sir, if he’s any relation. Yellow hair, and an awful tongue in his head.”
“In aurum coruscante et crispante capillo,” said Richard unexpectedly, and gave a kind of a smile as Waugh stared at him. “Have you ever seen him before, Mr. Waugh?”
“Never. Nor since. He’s not a native of these parts.”
“No. Go on.”
“Well, when it comes to the bit, he hasn’t the price of a full pair on him, and we had a bit of an argument. However—as you’ll understand, sir—he’s not the sort of person it’s just easy to cross. He paid a bit—just some silver, and left his address, and said he’d accommodate me by taking one glove and collecting the other when he sent the money. I knew it was a tale,” said Mr. Waugh with some reminiscent anger, “but he had such a manner on him—”
“I know,” said Richard. “And has he ever sent the money?”
Jamie Waugh went and rummaged in a cupboard, returning with the twin of the embroidered glove. “No. There it is. No one’s come for it.”
“Would you permit a man of mine to watch at the back of your shop till this man arrives? I’ll pay you, of course.”
Surprise showed on Jamie’s face. He hesitated, then shrugged. “Just as you like, sir,” and was about to shut the book when Richard stopped him. “Just a moment. What address did your yellow-haired man give?”
Waugh peered along the crabbed entry. “It’ll be a false one, belike … Address … Address—oh. Here we are. Aye, it’s false, I’m afraid. ‘Castle of Midculter, County of Lanark,’ it says.”
Richard got up suddenly. “And the name?”
“Well, now. He didn’t give his own name, just the name of the man he was to send to pay for the gloves. Devil, where is it? Oh, here. ‘Richard Crawford, third Baron Culter.’ How’s that for impudence? A lord, no less. Man, you can’t trust a soul nowadays. When did you say your man would be here?”
Whatever bitter self-mockery lay behind the impassive face, Lord Culter showed none of it. He said coolly, “I shan’t require now to send anyone … I have made the mistake of underrating my friend,” and, laying a gold piece on the table, added, “No one will come for the gloves now. Keep them both, and look on the sale as discharged. Now: there was some talk of ham … ?”
But with all that, the man was only human. He didn’t return to Stirling that night, but buried anger and disappointment in the Skinnergate, under rashers and eggs and ale and good company; and Jock Merton said, sotto voce, that gentleman or no, he was damned if the fellow wasn’t good value at a party and could hold his liquor like a fisherman: a statement that Mariotta, and perhaps even the Dowager, would have been astonished to hear.
It was late when he left. They were loth to let him go, and he might have been overpersuaded to stay but for Jamie, who had spent the evening making up for lost ground and achieved the full cycle, as Culter mounted his horse, by descending the stairs in one airborne step. Richard waited only to make sure the glover was unhurt, then waved and set off.
He had no notion of arriving at any of the houses known to him at Perth with a thick head in the middle of Christmas. After a little thought, he directed the mare to the Castle, where he could command a bed for a few hours and set out for Stirling at the crack of dawn next day.
It was no fault of his that the English army at Broughty Fort also set out that night, with malicious intent, on a punishing raid of the neighbourhood. He was wakened at five in the morning by the crash of emergency and, driven by duty, set out to