text: He threw the cup into the fireplace and before it hit the coals he had turned again to continue his pacing, unmindful of the sudden flare of brandy in the flickering flames. “Damn the man,” he repeated. “You say he was not at the meeting place as arranged. How long did you wait?” he snapped at the figure standing petrified before him in the gloomy study, looking to all the world as if he would rather be seated before his trembling knees gave way beneath him. “A very long time, Your Grace. I could wait no longer as the fog was getting thicker by the minute. It were all I could do to find my way home as it were, Sir.” Sir Matthew recovered himself and realised there was no point in venting his anger on the manservant. “Take yourself to the fire while I ponder the matter. It must have been cold outside.” “Aye, Sir, that it was. Thank you, Sir.” The man moved towards the fireplace and supplicated his palms to the warm glow. Sir Matthew strode to the large desk that dominated the room and sitting himself down he pulled open a drawer. Taking out an ornate wooden box, he placed it on the polished inlaid leather before him. A coat-of-arms adorned its top; a shield bearing a motif of crossed broadswords and the inscription “Honour before Glory”. Swinging open the heavy lid, he leafed through the papers inside and pulled out a beige vellum envelope that bore his name in a familiar script - Sir Matthew Sheridan, Marquis of Bath. Reading the letter for what must have been the tenth time was totally unnecessary. The words were indelibly burned upon his mind, but it gave him a chance to ponder the actions he must now take. The final line is the key. “I did what I could, Matthew, to bring Mary back with me but I have failed, and I cannot live with the shame of what I have done, or caused to be done, and you may think on me no more, neither as a brother, nor even as a man.” He put the letter down and, even though the air was still, he automatically secured it with a quartz crystal paperweight, at the same time rising to renew his pacing. The young fool had taken the whole matter far too seriously. Mary had left of her own accord, of that there was no doubt. Mark’s unthinking remark calling her “an old maid fit for naught but embroidery and lace” had not been meant for her ears, but hear it she did, none the less. It had spurred her to take the coach to Bristol and there to seek out the man who had once asked for her hand. The fellow was no good, seeking only to lay his hands on the fortune Mary might bring with her, and he had rightly sent the villain on his way. Sir Matthew cursed again under his breath. It had been over a week now that Mark had gone after her. No word was heard from him until the letter arrived two days ago. The news was not good. In words that seemed hastily written, Mark explained that he had located Mary and her lover in a seedy dockland tavern. Mark and the man had exchanged angry words and then - Sir Matthew clenched his right fist at the thought - then Mark had drawn his pistol and shot the fellow. The man had been popular and there were enough witnesses to the murder that even Mary could not have saved her brother from the vengeance of the mob. Mark’s escape was only secured due to his victim regaining consciousness for a few moments. It was long enough for Mark to take advantage of the distraction, and time also for the man to breathe his last in Mary’s arms. Sir Matthew slammed the clenched fist into his palm. The hot-headed young fool! But why had he not been at the rendezvous? The bag of guineas Oliver was to hand him would have seen him safely to the Americas and a reasonable life, at least until it was safe to return. A sob from the fireplace startled Sir Matthew out of his reverie. The lackey had sunk to his knees and held his face in his hands. “Oliver, what is it man? What troubles you? Is there something about this matter you have not divulged?” The servant looked up at his master, all but wishing the hearth would open and swallow him. “There is, Sir, there is.” Then he broke down sobbing again. Sir Matthew suppressed a desire to drag the man to his feet and shake the truth out of him. Instead, he watched the face highlighted by the fire’s glow distorted by the sobs and waited for Oliver to get a grip on himself. The sobbing subsided at last, and Oliver managed a stammer. “It were the fog, Sir. Quite thick it were. Then it cleared for a moment as the sun fought its way through and what I saw made my blood run even colder than it were already.” “What did you see man? Tell me at once,” Sir Matthew demanded. “There were a man, Sir. Hanging from a lamppost by the bridge. I could...I could swear it were the young master. I couldn’t look no more, Sir. I ran all the way home, fast as the bag of coin I carried would let me.” Sir Matthew sank to the chair behind the desk, his face a mask as he watched the flickering glint of firelight inside the crystal for a few moments. Taking the letter from under it, he tucked it into the envelope and tossed it back in the box. As the lid snapped shut, his eyes fell upon the family motto. He stared at it for a long while. Recovered now, Oliver dutifully put some more coals on the fire. He lit a lamp and drew the curtains across the window as the light faded and the day finally gave way to night.