A MATTER OF HONOUR

A MATTER OF HONOUR

Roger was furious now.
His face was red.
His anger boiled.
His wife had already tested his patience with her endless preparations and now she had vanished with Cuthbertson of all people. Just after the first dance no less.
It made him look ridiculous.
Clearly it would have been noticed and no doubt become fodder for gossip and innuendo over the coming days.
Of all the men in the regiment, Cuthbertson was the most loathsome.
Roger had never had any time for him.
The man abused every privilege afforded to him and brought disgrace upon the regiment, yet somehow consequences never seemed to reach him. His scandals were always quietly buried whilst his victims were persuaded into silence
His father saw to that.
Sir Reginald Spalding Cuthbertson was considered a man of honour.
At least publicly.
Hero of some forgotten skirmish in some forgotten corner of the Empire where sepoys had paid for glory with their blood whilst he and others collected medals, glory and titles. Now a Lieutenant Colonel, confidant of powerful men and regular guest at Sandringham, he possessed influence extending far beyond the regiment.
His son knew it.
And exploited it ruthlessly.
He borrowed money he never repaid.
Ruined careers without consequence.
Humiliated husbands for sport.
There was no ambition behind it.
No purpose.
He simply enjoyed exercising power.
The dancing had gone well.
Too well.
Emily had accepted the first dance.
Then another.
She knew Roger was watching.
Part of her enjoyed it.
Roger could be overbearing, controlling and difficult. The attention of a handsome officer, particularly one with Cuthbertson's charm, had been flattering.
She knew his reputation.
Every officer's wife knew his reputation.
Yet she convinced herself she could handle him.
When he suggested stepping outside for fresh air she agreed.
That was her mistake.
The garden beyond the ballroom lay quiet beneath the moonlight.
A hedge maze sheltered a small pergola from view.
At first the conversation remained pleasant.
Then Cuthbertson moved closer.
Emily immediately realised she had misjudged the situation.
She attempted to leave.
He blocked her path.
His smile remained.
Only now it seemed different.
Predatory.
When he finally revealed his intentions, she refused him.
Firmly.
Politely
Repeatedly.
He ignored her.
The further she resisted the more determined he became.
Finally, he slapped her hard across the face.
He was determined to have her whichever way it came.
Eventually resistance gave way to shock, fear and humiliation.
When it was over she sat staring into the darkness.
Cuthbertson rose calmly and adjusted his clothing.
For a moment Emily thought he might apologise.
Explain.
Say something.
Anything.
Instead, he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth.
Then he tossed it at her with disgust.
The cloth struck her shoulder and fell into her lap.
"Clean yourself up, whore."
He sneered the words with contempt.
The words landed harder than the slap.
Cuthbertson buttoned his trousers and adjusted his waistcoat.
He brushed grass from his sleeves.
Straightened his cuffs.
Then walked away without another glance.
Emily sat motionless long after he had gone.
She refused to cry.
She would not give him that satisfaction.
Yet tears came anyway.
When Cuthbertson emerged from the darkness, he found Roger searching anxiously amongst the guests.
The concern on Roger's face amused him.
As did the anger.
"Lost something, old boy?" he asked casually.
Roger stared at him.
Cuthbertson smiled.
"Your wife perhaps?"
The smile widened.
"You really should keep a closer eye on her."
Roger's expression darkened.
Cuthbertson adjusted his waistcoat.
"She seemed rather eager for an evening stroll."
A few nearby officers exchanged uncomfortable glances.
The implication was obvious.
The smile remained fixed upon Cuthbertson's face.
Roger felt something cold settle inside him.
Cuthbertson gave a small shrug.
"Still, I imagine she'll turn up eventually."
Then he walked calmly through the great French doors and back into the ballroom.
Roger stood frozen for a moment.
Then he ran.
"Emily!"
No answer.
"Emily!"
A faint voice drifted from the darkness.
"Roger..."
He followed it.
The pergola emerged from the shadows.
His wife sat alone.
One puffed sleeve had slipped from her shoulder.
Her carefully arranged hair had partly fallen free from its pins.
The front of her gown was creased and stained with grass.
Her eyes were red.
She had been crying.
For a moment Roger simply stared.
"Emily?"
She looked up at him.
Relief flashed across her face.
Then shame replaced it.
"Roger..."
She reached towards him.
Her hand trembled.
"Please..."
She wanted to explain.
To tell him she had made a terrible mistake.
To tell him she had trusted the wrong man.
To tell him she had not understood what was happening until it was too late.
But the words would not come.
Nothing came.
Only tears.
Roger followed her gaze.
A handkerchief lay discarded in the grass.
The meaning escaped him entirely.
All he saw was a wife who had disappeared with another man and now sat weeping in the darkness.
Something broke inside him.
He turned.
"Roger..."
This time her voice sounded desperate.
He did not stop.
He strode back towards the ballroom.
Fast.
Purposeful.
Terrifying.
The music still played.
Couples still danced.
Laughter still echoed beneath the chandeliers.
Cuthbertson stood near the refreshments with his two companions, clearly enjoying the attention of his audience.
Roger saw the smiles.
The laughter.
The smug satisfaction.
A steward passed carrying a heavy crystal decanter full of port.
Roger snatched it from the tray without slowing.
One of Cuthbertson's companions noticed him first.
His smile vanished.
Too late.
Cuthbertson turned.
Roger swung.
The crystal decanter smashed into the side of Cuthbertson's head with a sickening crack.
For a fraction of a second nobody moved.
Blood, teeth crystal and port wine exploded across the polished floor.
Cuthbertson's body seemed to collapse in stages.
His legs folded first.
Then his shoulders.
Then the rest of him followed.
Momentum carried him across the polished timber floor where he slid several feet before coming to rest in an untidy heap amongst broken glass, profuse bleeding and spilled wine.
One of the wingmen reacted immediately.
"YOU BASTARD!"
He lunged forward.
Roger still clutched the broken neck of the decanter.
The man never saw it coming.
Roger slashed instinctively.
The jagged crystal tore across the side of the man's face.
He screamed.
Blood sprayed across his white collar and the epaulettes of his jacket as both hands flew to the wound.
The cut stretched from the corner of his jaw almost to his ear.
His knees buckled and he collapsed trying desperately to catch a nearby table as he fell, howling in shock and agony.
A woman shrieked.
Another fainted outright.
The orchestra stopped playing mid-note.
For a brief moment silence hung over the ballroom.
Then chaos exploded.
Guests scattered.
Stewards rushed forward.
Officers surged from every direction.
Some moved immediately.
Others hesitated.
More than one secretly felt a measure of satisfaction seeing Cuthbertson finally receive what many believed he had long deserved.
Roger barely saw them.
His vision had narrowed to a red tunnel of fury.
He would have gone for Cuthbertson again.
Half a dozen officers threw themselves upon him before he could take another step.
He fought like a madman.
Punching.
Kicking.
Struggling.
The remaining wingman managed to force his way through the crowd and drove a clenched fist into the side of Roger's head.
The room spun.
The noise became distant.
As darkness crept into his vision Roger saw only two faces.
Emily.
Standing pale and motionless near the ballroom entrance.
And Lieutenant Colonel Cuthbertson, His face a mask of disbelief and murderous rage as he stared at the broken wreckage of his son lying motionless upon the floor.