As Morton started up the steps of the Guards Club, someone in a little knot of men lingering about the wrought-iron gates called out to him.
“From the continent, sir?”
Morton turned in surprise, not understanding.
“Have you news?” asked another.
“Oh, nay,” replied Morton. They must have hoped he was a military man carrying word from Europe. “Is something afoot?”
“Bony's afoot, that's what,” replied one of the men.
“Oh, aye?” Morton was startled.
“He's crossed the frontier, that's the word.”
As Morton recalled the rumour in The Times, several of them nodded sombrely. They seemed to be of all walks-gentlemen, apprentices, tradesmen, even domestic servants sent to wait for word to bring to their employers. Morton experienced a moment of fellow-feeling with this random group of Englishmen, all sharing the same thoughts and fears.
“Well… God bless them, gentlemen,” he said.
There was even a ragged little cheer.
“Aye, God bless them!”
“The Duke and all who serve!”
In the vestibule of the Club there was a different atmosphere as well, an electric charge that seemed to hover in the air. The porter had a look of almost unbearable self-importance and various military men of different ranks stood about without any apparent purpose, talking to each other in solemn voices. The camaraderie displayed in the street did not extend to Morton here, however. Once it was clear he had no new information, that he was not a member, and that he only wanted to speak to Colonel Rokeby, he was sent off to his usual little waiting-room without further ado.
This time Captain Pierce made no appearance, and Rokeby kept Morton waiting a very long time indeed. The porter went first to see if the Colonel was available, and returned with the message that he was expected directly. A weary while later, Morton was informed that the Colonel had in fact arrived and would see him “after luncheon.” This was, apparently, a leisurely meal, and Henry Morton was made to recognise just how little consideration he or any policeman was due as it dragged slowly on somewhere deep within the exclusive confines of the building. But Morton was patient, and had slipped his Byron into his pocket in anticipation of delay, so that when Rokeby finally made his languid appearance at the door of the waiting-room, he was able to rise with an appearance of equanimity and affably bid him good morning-or was it now afternoon?
Fitzwilliam Rokeby stood tall, erect, and resplendent in his glittering scarlet and gold. He regarded Morton with silent, heavy-lidded hauteur.
“I am enquiring into the death of Mr. Halbert Glendinning,” Morton told him. “His activities on the day he died are of particular interest to me, and I am informed that he went out to meet you early that morning.”
Morton gazed at the officer in apparently cheerful expectation of his ready response.
Rokeby had a thin cigar in one hand, and with extreme deliberation he raised it to his lips. After a long puff, he slowly lowered it again.
“I did meet the man. But there was no duel, and I never had the misfortune to see him again.”
“What precisely led to this encounter, Colonel?”
Another long pause, and application to his cigar. Then Rokeby very coolly and precisely said: “Anything that might have passed between Mr. Glendinning and myself was a private matter between two gentlemen, and no concern of yours.”
Morton looked down at the single ring he wore, turning it on his finger as though it were the most interesting thing in the room. Even in anger his hands did not tremble. Then his gaze snapped back up to Rokeby. “Colonel, let me be perfectly clear. A man died in peculiar circumstances on the same day on which you tried to shoot him. Do not take what passes between us in this room lightly.”
Rokeby became very still. “Do you suggest-?”
“I suggest nothing!” broke in Morton. And then more evenly: “I merely do my duty, and at this moment I am looking into the activities of Mr. Glendinning on the day of his death. You dueled with him-men from Bow Street witnessed it. For that alone you could be brought before a Magistrate. But I have no intention of doing so unless you refuse to cooperate. Do you refuse?”
This was a bluff, and Rokeby did not answer but only regarded Morton with those famously cold and steady eyes. An image flashed before Morton of those same eyes staring at him down a gun barrel.
Morton took silence for acquiescence. “There was a dinner here, at this Club, where Mr Glendinning took offence at some remarks of yours. What was said?”
All of Rokeby's responses were prefaced with long, contemptuous pauses. “In fact,” he eventually said, “I have no notion what led that gentleman to consider himself offended. I believe him to have been some manner of fool.”
“Did you not make light of the name of Miss Louisa Hamilton?”
Just a flicker of expression might have traveled across Rokeby's mask of a face. He drew on his cigar. “If ever I had occasion to speak that lady's name,” he replied, “it will have been with exactly as much gravity as it deserved.”
“Then you did offer such insult before Mr. Glendinning?”
Rokeby stared unflinchingly at Morton. “The first time I ever laid eyes on that fop, Glendinning, he was standing at twenty paces' distance, shaking like a leaf. He was not present at any dinner in this Club. And if you have come here to suggest otherwise…” Rokeby stopped, seeming suddenly to check his temper. Killers could not afford such emotions-if they could afford any emotions at all.
But Morton's own anger was rising. “If I have come to suggest otherwise, what, Colonel? Would you challenge me to a duel? I will arrest you if you do.”
“Gentlemen,” Rokeby said, “have only to do with other gentlemen.”
“Of course.” Morton was unable to keep an edge of mockery from his reply. “And how do gentlemen deal with insults from their inferiors? They thrash them, is that not it? I can be found at Jackson's in Bond Street every Thursday night… Colonel.”
And without allowing Rokeby either the last word or any further demonstration of his indifference, Morton brushed rudely past him and strode out.