suddenly remembered one crucial detail. He had made a note of Bell’s instructions in his pocket book.
‘One moment, sir. Might it help to refresh the adjutant’s memory if I showed him a written record of our conversation last night?’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Harris.
George took the pocket book from inside his tunic, opened it at the relevant page and showed it to Harris. It specifically referred to ‘four aimed shots a minute’ and was dated the previous day.
‘Well, you must have misheard the adjutant,’ said Harris, less sure of himself now, ‘because I told him five aimed shots.’
‘Sir, I made this note as soon as Bell left the room. I could not have confused “four” for “five”.’
Harris turned to Bell. ‘Can you explain this?’
‘Sir … I… I’m certain I said five.’
George interjected. ‘Sir, perhaps you’re right and we should let a court martial decide. I’d be happy to produce the notebook as evidence.’
Harris considered the likely outcome of a trial, and decided not to risk it. ‘No,’ he said at last, through gritted teeth. ‘That won’t be necessary. Return to barracks, if you please. We’ll discuss this later.’
‘What about Penhaligon, sir? Is he still to be discharged?’
‘No. He can remain with the regiment.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said George, saluting before leading the recruits over to the picket line where they had tethered their horses.
Bell looked apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, sir. How was I to know he’d make a record of our conversation?’
‘He’s a sharp one, all right, and is going to be a harder nut to crack than I’d imagined.’
‘Sir, I know you’re keen to see the back of Hart as soon as possible, but can I make a suggestion?’
‘Please do.’
‘Instead of tackling the problem head on, wouldn’t it be better to take a leaf out of Sun Tzu’s book and play on Hart’s weaknesses?’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, according to a cousin of mine who was with him at Sandhurst, he has at least two …’
Chapter 3
Westbury Park, Gloucestershire, 23 January 1878
‘Hart, how good of you to come!’ said a smiling Sir Jocelyn Harris as he shook George’s hand in the doorway of his huge Palladian mansion. Given the rancour of their first meeting nearly five months earlier, the last thing George had expected was an invitation to Harris’s country seat. Yet their day-to- day relationship had improved dramatically since the confrontation at the firing range, with Harris complimenting him on his steady progress at drill, and George had decided it would be churlish not to accept the proffered olive branch. So here he was, shaking Harris’s hand and marvelling at the graceful proportions of the mansion’s great hall, a welcoming fire burning in the grate to George’s left.
‘Delighted to be asked, sir,’ said George. ‘What a beautiful house you have.’
‘Isn’t it?’ replied Harris, turning and beckoning to a waiting footman. ‘Andrews will show you to your room. We’re meeting for drinks in the drawing room at seven. See you then.’
George followed Andrews up one side of the sweeping double staircase to a charming set of rooms: a bedroom complete with four-poster bed, a bathroom and even a dressing room, and all with magnificent views of parkland studded with oaks. As Andrews was leaving, George asked him if he knew the identity of the other houseguests.
‘I know that Lord and Lady Fitzmaurice are expected,’ said Andrews. ‘Also Captain Bell, Colonel Alexander of the
Seventeenth Lancers and a young lady called Mrs Bradbury. She’s in the suite next to yours.’
As George lay in a bath so hot it reddened his skin, he tried to remember where he had heard the name Mrs Bradbury. Then it came to him. She was the beautiful young widow who had only been married six months when her Old Harrovian husband, a captain in the Royal Artillery, was killed in battle during
‘One moment, sir. Might it help to refresh the adjutant’s memory if I showed him a written record of our conversation last night?’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Harris.
George took the pocket book from inside his tunic, opened it at the relevant page and showed it to Harris. It specifically referred to ‘four aimed shots a minute’ and was dated the previous day.
‘Well, you must have misheard the adjutant,’ said Harris, less sure of himself now, ‘because I told him five aimed shots.’
‘Sir, I made this note as soon as Bell left the room. I could not have confused “four” for “five”.’
Harris turned to Bell. ‘Can you explain this?’
‘Sir … I… I’m certain I said five.’
George interjected. ‘Sir, perhaps you’re right and we should let a court martial decide. I’d be happy to produce the notebook as evidence.’
Harris considered the likely outcome of a trial, and decided not to risk it. ‘No,’ he said at last, through gritted teeth. ‘That won’t be necessary. Return to barracks, if you please. We’ll discuss this later.’
‘What about Penhaligon, sir? Is he still to be discharged?’
‘No. He can remain with the regiment.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said George, saluting before leading the recruits over to the picket line where they had tethered their horses.
Bell looked apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, sir. How was I to know he’d make a record of our conversation?’
‘He’s a sharp one, all right, and is going to be a harder nut to crack than I’d imagined.’
‘Sir, I know you’re keen to see the back of Hart as soon as possible, but can I make a suggestion?’
‘Please do.’
‘Instead of tackling the problem head on, wouldn’t it be better to take a leaf out of Sun Tzu’s book and play on Hart’s weaknesses?’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, according to a cousin of mine who was with him at Sandhurst, he has at least two …’
Chapter 3
Westbury Park, Gloucestershire, 23 January 1878
‘Hart, how good of you to come!’ said a smiling Sir Jocelyn Harris as he shook George’s hand in the doorway of his huge Palladian mansion. Given the rancour of their first meeting nearly five months earlier, the last thing George had expected was an invitation to Harris’s country seat. Yet their day-to- day relationship had improved dramatically since the confrontation at the firing range, with Harris complimenting him on his steady progress at drill, and George had decided it would be churlish not to accept the proffered olive branch. So here he was, shaking Harris’s hand and marvelling at the graceful proportions of the mansion’s great hall, a welcoming fire burning in the grate to George’s left.
‘Delighted to be asked, sir,’ said George. ‘What a beautiful house you have.’
‘Isn’t it?’ replied Harris, turning and beckoning to a waiting footman. ‘Andrews will show you to your room. We’re meeting for drinks in the drawing room at seven. See you then.’
George followed Andrews up one side of the sweeping double staircase to a charming set of rooms: a bedroom complete with four-poster bed, a bathroom and even a dressing room, and all with magnificent views of parkland studded with oaks. As Andrews was leaving, George asked him if he knew the identity of the other houseguests.
‘I know that Lord and Lady Fitzmaurice are expected,’ said Andrews. ‘Also Captain Bell, Colonel Alexander of the
Seventeenth Lancers and a young lady called Mrs Bradbury. She’s in the suite next to yours.’
As George lay in a bath so hot it reddened his skin, he tried to remember where he had heard the name Mrs Bradbury. Then it came to him. She was the beautiful young widow who had only been married six months when her Old Harrovian husband, a captain in the Royal Artillery, was killed in battle during
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