Castle Orchard by E A Dineley

know the place? Pretty, that’s what I call it, but the streets were all over straw and crammed tight with the wounded, which didn’t do nothing for it. Took your mind off it, but it weren’t forever. Still, first impressions stick. Master were in this merchant’s house, once Major Wilder had come out and organised things, and there was a young girl with a big, pale plait right down to her hip and she were always laughing and skipping about. Though he didn’t never speak to her, I reckon she kept him alive. Peculiar time to come over sentimental but then he had the wound to the head, which probably accounts for it.
    ‘Now, if we were wintered in a place, when we got our orders to shift, the scenes when we was marching out . . . you wouldn’t believe it . . . women a-screaming and crying and jumping in rivers, pickets on the bridges to hold ’em back. ‘Twas all on account of the uniforms.’
     
    The weather continued hot. Arthur, having spent much of the previous night at a gambling club in Jermyn Street, lay propped up in bed on a profusion of pillows. It was approaching mid-afternoon and he had a headache. Emile tiptoed into the room with an armful of shirts and a newspaper.
    ‘Emile, when is it Quarter Day?’ he asked in world-weary tones, for in a night when thousands of pounds had passed before his eyes and through his hands, he had ended the winner of twelve guineas which, though it might pay the wages of a serving maid for a year, was not much to a gentleman.
    ‘Midsummer Day, sir, twenty-fourth of June, and there’s a gentleman to see you.’
    Arthur picked up the candlestick from beside the bed and threw it in the general direction of Emile, saying as he did so, ‘I know what is Quarter Day. Under my beleaguered circumstances, how could I not?’
    Emile picked up the candlestick and replaced it with studied care. He said, glancing at the newspaper, ‘Today, sir, is the twenty-third of June.’
    ‘Why then, I ought to be out and about. Sir John Parkes is to lend me his coach. I won’t take it all the way. I must find the money for posting some of the journey. I am not suited to the hurly-burly of public coaches. I need no clothes beyond a change or two of shirt. There is nothing and nobody at Castle Orchard. Who did you say was at the door?’
    ‘Mr Rampton, sir.’
    ‘Show him in then, don’t keep him waiting.’
    Emile, without going immediately to the door, said in his usual precise tones, ‘I think Sir John will not lend you his coach, sir. He is no more in a lending position. He is dead. It is in your newspaper.’
    Arthur sat up in bed, a look of the most profound horror on his face. Emile proceeded to usher in young Mr Rampton.
    Arthur said, ‘It is not, it cannot be true.’
    Mr Rampton, who had on a new coat and had hoped Arthur would notice it, asked, ‘What’s not true?’
    ‘That Sir John Parkes is dead.’
    ‘Oh yes, it is more than gossip, and Smythe has gone to France.’
    ‘Smythe killed him? Why not Allington? It’s Captain Allington who has gone to France. Tell me it is.’
    ‘No. They don’t mention Captain Allington, only Mr Smythe. The dual took place at Chalke Farm, wherever that might be, with not a soul there but the seconds and the surgeon, who could do nothing.’
    ‘Ah, but by this dastardly act I have lost two good friends. One is dead and the other gone to France.’ Arthur groped under his pillows for a handkerchief. For a while he wept uncontrollably. Rampton could think of nothing to say beyond remarking, to himself, a preference for France over the other.
    Arthur then jumped out of bed and pulled a handsome padded dressing gown over his nightshirt, displaying, as he did so, his pair of little thin legs.
    ‘Allington is to blame,’ he said. ‘Allington is at fault and my poor, good friend Parkes lies stone cold in some horrid place.’
    ‘But it was Smythe shot him. Smythe accused him of something or another and they say Smythe was quite right.