“I will not take his money.”
Armstrong’s will had left the majority of his estate to his son and wife, with the residue to be split between the dependents of the men who died at Jacobsdal and the wounded survivors. The idea of Armstrong writing that, believing that doling out a little cash would somehow absolve him, had put Curtis into a rage that had led to him splitting a knuckle on a wall.
Of course, it wasn’t a little cash. Since son and wife had predeceased him, Sir Hubert’s bequest was now the bulk of his fortune, whatever might be left when the debts were paid. It was filthy, tainted money, but if the other mutilated men, the widows and orphans, didn’t know that, they could take it as some compensation for their losses. Curtis couldn’t.
“Don’t be too fastidious, my boy,” Sir Maurice said. “You wouldn’t want to put anyone else off claiming their share, now, would you?”
“I’m putting my share back in the pot for the others. Nobody will think twice, sir. I’m a wealthy man.”
Sir Maurice sighed pointedly. Curtis was a wealthy man in large part because his uncle had managed his inheritance since he had been orphaned at the age of two months. “I take a proprietorial interest in your prosperity, Archie. And at such time as you decide to meet a nice young lady and settle down, you will thank me.”
“I’m already thankful, sir. May I ask if you called me here to discuss this?”
“I didn’t.” Sir Maurice sat back and steepled his fingers. “I’ve a problem, and I wonder if you can help me.”
“With pleasure, sir. What is it?”
“I wouldn’t jump at it too quickly.” Sir Maurice gave a sour smile. “I suppose you’ve worked out how the Armstrongs knew you and da Silva were holed up in that absurd building.”
“Da Silva said someone in your office must have talked, sir. Someone telephoned Peakholme to give them everything I’d told you.”
“Quite.” Sir Maurice looked like he was chewing unripe gooseberries. “Someone sold da Silva to the enemy. I assumed the guilty party would become apparent. He hasn’t.”
“You don’t know who talked?” Curtis repeated, incredulously.
“No.”
“You do understand we could have been killed.” Curtis had to fight to keep a rein on his patience at his uncle’s calm tone. “If I wasn’t a left-handed shot, and da Silva wasn’t so quick-thinking—”
“I’m well aware of that. I don’t know who it was.”
“I think you need to find out before you send him on any further missions. Don’t you?” Curtis realised that he had half-risen from his chair, and his uncle was regarding him with a quizzical expression. He sat back down, managing a smile. “I feel strongly on this, sir. I killed two men to save the fellow’s life. I shouldn’t like that to be in vain.”
“Oddly enough, nor should I.” Sir Maurice tapped his fingers together. “My problem with da Silva is twofold. He’s got a damned nasty tongue, and he’s a coward.”
“He’s nothing of the kind!” Curtis was almost shouting, and this time he really didn’t care. “Good God, sir, how can you sit behind a desk and say that? He walked up to three men pointing guns in his face, unarmed—”
“Yes, unarmed,” Sir Maurice repeated. “He won’t learn to shoot, let alone carry a knife. I don’t suppose he’s ever raised a fist in anger. I grant you he’s got plenty of nerve, but he’s a physical coward. Most of his sort are, I believe.”
Curtis didn’t know if “his sort” meant Daniel’s race, politics or preferences, and he didn’t care. He held a deep affection for his uncle, but on this point, he could go to hell. “There’s all sorts of courage, sir. And if you’ve a better man in your office, I should like to meet him.”
Sir Maurice waved that away. “The point is, he can’t look after himself. And I can’t send anyone to look after him. Not just because there’s someone in my department that I can’t trust, either. I’ve tried to partner da Silva three times now, and nobody can stomach the blasted man.” He gave Curtis a slanting look. “Apparently, you can.”
“I’ve a thick skin, sir.”
“And a kindly nature.” Sir Maurice gave one of his rare genuine smiles. “You remind me of your mother sometimes. She had a soft heart for lame dogs too.”
“I do not,” said Curtis, revolted.
Sir Maurice leaned forward. “We both know you need something to do with yourself, Archie. I need someone I can trust. And da Silva needs someone at his back. I’ve work for him, and it may be dangerous. I dare say I shouldn’t ask this, and you may refuse if you don’t think you can tolerate the man any longer. But I’d like to offer you a job.”
Curtis left the office a few hours later, with a piece of paper bearing Daniel’s address.