Death at Whitechapel Read Online Free Page B

He grinned in boyish pleasure. “Although I must admit that it is less India that summons me than the Inter-Regimental Tournament.”
    â€œAh, polo,” Charles said, tilting his glass. “The emperor of games.” The game in which so many British officers in India spent their idle hours—their long idle hours. “Is the tournament ground still at Meerut?”
    â€œIndeed,” Winston said. “Still stirrup-deep in red dust.”
    â€œAnd Sir Pertab Singh is still regent of Jodhpur?”
    â€œTo be sure. You know him, then?”
    Charles nodded. “Give him my regards, will you?” He himself had returned to India after a battle, to “tie up loose ends.” But that had been a long time ago. He changed the subject. “I understand that you are writing another book.”
    â€œThe War for the Waterway,” Winston replied. “It is much in my mind.”
    â€œI greatly enjoyed your last.” Charles rose, went to the shelf, and selected his copy of The Malakand Field Force. “I must say, I am impressed by your work—and by the reviews. As I recall, the Spectator hailed it as a minor classic. And the Prince has been praising it to everyone who will listen.” He extended the book. “Perhaps you will be good enough to autograph it for me.”
    â€œI should be delighted,” Winston replied, taking out a pen. “Given your heroism in the Sudan, I consider it a great honor.” He took out a pen and wrote swiftly in the book. “Your courage is spoken of in high places,” he said, as he handed it back. “With high praise.”
    Charles’s right brow went up and he regarded Winston curiously. He had not disclosed those events of his military life, not even to Kate. Where the devil had Winston Churchill heard of it? In India or Egypt, most likely, from one of his former comrades. He sighed, reflecting that the Army had always loved a rousing war story that exemplified the soldierly virtues of heroism, self-sacrifice, and all that rot. High places, eh? The remark might be merely Winston’s posturing—the young man was certainly prone to dropping great names on any occasion where he thought it might earn him attention. But it was also remotely possible that the tale had come from HRH, who seemed of late to have taken an interest in Winston’s career.
    The relationship between the Prince and the Churchills was long and full of intrigue. It was no secret that Albert Edward had long been, and perhaps still was, one of Lady Randolph’s many lovers. The late Lord Randolph—Randy, to his friends—had winked at that adultery but foolishly attempted to call the Prince’s hand on another, involving Randy’s brother, Blandford, and one of the Prince’s former paramours, Countess Aylesford. Randy, the most self-destructive man Charles had ever known, tried to use some of HRH’s indiscreet letters to force the Prince to help Blandford. But this treachery only brought disgrace. It was a long time before Lord Randolph and his wife were allowed to rejoin the royal entourage.
    Charles sat down, lit his pipe, and leaned back in his chair. “And just what,” he asked dryly, “have you heard about my ‘courage’?”
    Winston hesitated, as if drafting a response designed not to give offense. “Well,” he said carefully, “at the Battle of Abu Fahr—that would have been in ’85—they say a certain lieutenant of engineers led his detachment in a forlorn hope against the Dervishes’ flank after they had broken through the regiment’s square. The detachment was slaughtered, except for the lieutenant, but his bravery saved the rest of the regiment.” Then wonderingly, and almost as if talking to himself, he added, “They say he refused the Victoria Cross.”
    Charles drew on his pipe. He had heard, from acquaintances close to Kitchener, that Winston