Sheer vapouring, of course. As Prince of Wales, first gentleman of Europe (God help us), he was the bright particular star and pack leader of the genteel rabble assembled at Tranby Croft, Yorks, for the Doncaster races, and knew perfectly well that any serious breach of polite behaviour by a fellow guest, such as card-sharping, was bound to land on his mat. I reminded him of this tactfully, and added that I didn’t believe it for a minute. Some foolish mistake or misunderstanding, I said, depend upon it.
'No such thing!' He heaved his guts out of the chair and began to pace about. 'The young Wilsons and Green—aye, and that chap what’s-his-name—Levett—who is in Cumming’s own regiment, for heaven’s sake—all avow it. They saw him cheat! Coventry and Williams are in no doubt whatsoever. It’s too frightful for words!' He gloomed at me, all hang-dog German jowls. 'Can you imagine the scandal if it should come out—if it were to reach the Queen’s ears that such a thing had happened in … in my presence?' He took a step towards me. 'My dear Harry—you know about these things—what is to be done?'
One thing was plain—it wasn’t Cumming’s supposed sleight of hand (which I still couldn’t credit) that was putting him in a ferment, but that it had happened in a game presided over by His Royal Grossness, and whatever would Mama say when she heard that he’d been spreading the boards like Faro Jack. Tame stuff, from where I stood, compared to his whoremongering and general depravity, but if it had shaken him to the point where I was his dear Harry, he must be desperate. I’d steered him out of more than one scrape in the past, and here he was again, looking at me like an owl in labour. So, first things first.
'What does Gordon-Cumming say?'
'He denies it outright, of course—Williams and Coventry saw him before dinner, and—'
'You haven’t spoken to him yourself, then?'
He shuddered. 'No—and I dread it! You think I should not? Oh, if I could avoid it … how am I to face him—an old friend, an intimate of years, a fellow officer—a baronet, dammit, a … a man of honour …'
Aye, that’s a word we’ll hear more of before this is done, thinks I. 'Tell me, sir—these eagle-eyed youngsters … how much do they claim Cumming bilked ’em of?'
He goggled at me. 'What on earth has that to do with it? If a fellow cheats, what does the amount matter?'
'Something, I’d say. Now, I didn’t play either night, but my Elspeth said something about five and ten bob stakes, so it can’t have been much of a high game?'
'Heavens, no! A friendly game, to amuse the ladies—why, I set the bank limit at a hundred pounds, both nights—'
'So Cumming can’t have won more than a hundred or two, can he? Well, I don’t know what he’s worth— some say eighty thou' p.a.—but he has a place in Scotland, house in Town, half-colonelcy in the Guards, moves in the top flight, and I’ve never heard he was short o' the ready, have you?' He shook his head, glowering. 'Well, sir —would he risk his good name, his commission, his place in Society—good Lord, everything he counts worth while!—for a few wretched quid that wouldn’t keep him in cheroots for a year? Why, sir, it don’t bear looking at, even!'
And it didn’t. I’m ready to believe evil of anyone, usually with good cause, and especially of Sir William Gordon-Cumming, Bart, whose reputation I’d have been happy to blacken any day (I’ll tell you why presently), but this accusation made no sense at all. Quite apart from the mechanical difficulties of the thing, the paltry sums involved, and the ghastly risk he’d have been running, all of which I’d pointed out, there was my knowledge of the man’s character, which was that of a top-lofty prig with immense notions of his own dignity, who’d have regarded cheating as shocking bad form, and never mind dishonesty. No, it wouldn’t do.
But there was no persuading Bertie the Bounder of that. He was in such a funk about the possible scandal that sweet reason was lost on him, and those two duffers Coventry and Williams had convinced him that the evidence was overwhelming. How, they demanded, when I’d prevailed on the Prince to have ’em in so that I might hear their tale first-hand, could five intelligent young people be mistaken, not on one occasion only, but on several.
'Hold hard a moment,' says I. 'Let’s take it in order. Two nights ago, Monday, you played baccarat in the smoking-room after dinner. I was only in and out while you played, but as I recall you had three card tables pushed together with a cloth over them, to play at. Your highness had the bank—'
'Williams was croupier!' cries Bertie, eager to share the guilt.
'Only on the second night, sir!' says Williams. 'There was no croupier on the Monday.' Bertie scowled, but couldn’t deny it.
'At all events, there were two tableaux of players, one to your right, sir, and one to your left? Where was Gordon-Cumming sitting?'
They consulted about this, and decided he’d been in the left-hand group, or tableaux. Mrs Arthur Wilson, our host’s wife, had been first to the Prince’s left, then an empty chair (though they couldn’t swear it had never been occupied), then Berkeley Levett, then round the corner young Jack Wilson, the son of the house, and Gordon- Cumming next to him, with one of the Somersets beyond. Each staked individually, and took turns at handling the cards dealt to their side.
'How did they place their stakes, precisely?' I asked.
'With counters supplied by his highness,' says Coventry, looking at him as though he were an opium runner. 'I think I see the case yonder.'
Sure enough, there was a polished wooden box on the table, and Bertie opened it reluctantly to display the leather counters, all stamped with his feathers crest—brown ?10 chips, bright red fivers, blue oncers, and so on. Tools of the devil, I could hear the Queen calling them; they travelled with him everywhere.
'I take it everyone staked before his highness dealt?' says I. 'Pushing their counter—or counters—forward on the table? Then the cards would be dealt, your highness would declare the bank’s score, and then you’d pay out or rake in accordingly—is that so, sir?' Bertie gave a furtive grunt; he was hating this as much as I was enjoying it, I dare say. 'Well, then what happened?' They all stood mum, waiting on each other. 'Come along, gentlemen,' says I, getting brisk. 'Who saw whom cheating, and when, and how?'
It was like pulling teeth; they hemmed and hawed, or at least Coventry did, while Williams contradicted him and Bertie ground his teeth and flung his cigar in the fire. At last they got it straight, more or less. On the very first deal, young Jack Wilson had seen Cumming stake ?5, and then, looking again when their side won and the Prince was preparing to pay out, had seen to his astonishment that Cumming’s stake had magically increased from one red counter to three—?15 where there had been only ?5 before. He couldn’t be mistaken, because Cumming placed his stake on a piece of white paper which he used for making notes of the play. Young Wilson had thought it damned odd, and later, on the fifth or sixth deal (he couldn’t swear which), when their side had won again, he’d seen Cumming drop three red chips, furtive-like, on to the paper where there had originally been only one. He’d collected ?20, cool as dammit, and young Wilson had whispered to Levett, seated beside him, the good news that his colonel was working a flanker. Levett had sworn Wilson must be wrong, but had watched himself, and blowed if he hadn’t seen Cumming do the same thing again, twice. Once he’d added two ?5 chips, and the second time he’d added one, on both occasions after his tableau had been declared the winner.
Described like that, in detail, it sounded impressive, I had to admit, and the Prince regarded me with piggy triumph. 'There, you see, Flashman—two men, one in his own regiment, too! And both sure of what they saw!'
'You saw nothing out o' the way yourself, sir?'
'Certainly not. I was occupied with the cards and the bank.' True enough, he would be—but there was something damned strange which they’d evidently overlooked.
'If Cumming was cheating,' I asked them, 'why on earth did he use the brightest chips—the red fivers?' I indicated the open box. 'Look at ’em, they stand out a mile! And to make ’em even more conspicuous, he laid them on a white paper! Hang it all, sir, if he’d wanted to be caught he couldn’t have been more obvious!'
They couldn’t explain it, and Bertie said testily that what I’d said might very well be true, but it didn’t alter the fact that he’d been seen padding his stakes, whatever blasted colour they were, and what was to be done, eh?
I said I’d heard the stories of young Wilson and Levett, but what about the other three? Williams said that after the first night’s play young Wilson had told his mother what he and Levett had seen; Wilson’s sister and her husband, a chap called Lycett Green, had also been informed, and they’d resolved to keep an eye on Cumming the next night, Tuesday. Young Wilson had arranged for a long table to be set up in the billiard room, covered with
