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Mr Fitzjohn met his eyes for a moment, and then studied the head of his cane. ‘Yes, there is a difference,’ he said. ‘But my father once told me that the secret of a good duellist is to imagine that there is none.’
Peregrine nodded and picked up the flat case that lay on the seat opposite and opened it. A pair of plain duelling pistols lay in it.
‘You can handle ’em; they’re not loaded,’ said Mr Fitzjohn.
Peregrine lifted one from its bed, weighed it in his hand, and tested the pull. Then he laid it down again and shut the case. ‘Nicely balanced,’ he remarked.
‘Yes, they’re a first-rate pair,’ agreed Mr Fit
zjohn. ‘Hair trigger, of course. It’ll go off at a touch.’
The coach stopped in Great Ormond Street to pick up the doctor, who came out of his house almost as soon as the horses pulled up, and jumped nimbly into the coach. He had a black case under his arm, which Peregrine knew must contain the instruments of his profession. Oddly enough, the sight of it affected him more unpleasantly than the case of pistols had done.
‘You are in good time, gentlemen,’ said the doctor, rubbing his hands together. ‘It is a cold morning, is it not?’
‘Cold enough,’ said Mr Fitzjohn. ‘But it won’t be long before we are all of us drinking hot coffee in a place I know of hard by the Green.’
‘Myself, I never touch coffee,’ said the doctor. ‘I hold it to be injurious to the stomach. Cocoa, now – there is no harm in a cup of cocoa; I have even known it to prove in some cases extremely beneficial.’
Interested in his subject, and possibly with some notion of diverting Peregrine’s mind from the coming duel, he went on to discuss the effects of wine and tea on the human system, and was still talking when the coach arrived at the hamlet of Westbourn Green.
The meeting-place was at no great distance from the road; the coach was able to drive within sight of it over a field.
‘First on the ground,’ said Mr Fitzjohn, jumping down. ‘But we shan’t have long to wait, for it’s close on eight now. Unless, of course, our man has thought better of it. Perry, if there’s any offer of apology I shall accept it.’
‘Very well,’ said Peregrine, who was finding it increasingly difficult to talk.
He got down from the coach and walked beside his friend to the ground. The day, though dull, was by this time quite light. A sharp wind was blowing, and some scudding clouds overhead gave warning of rain to come. Peregrine thrust his hands into his pockets to keep them warm, and glanced up at the sky. He had rather an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach, but apart from that he felt curiously detached.
Hardly five minutes after their arrival another conveyance, this time a travelling chaise, drove into the field, and Mr Farnaby and Captain Crake got out.
Mr Fitzjohn, observing the chaise, was conscious once more of that faint feeling of unease. Unless he was much mistaken there was a box strapped to the back of the chaise, and although the vehicle was only drawn by a pair of horses with one postilion, it had all the appearance of being about to make a journey of some distance. His lips tightened; he began to suspect Mr Farnaby of having a sterner purpose than he had supposed possible, and determined, in the event of Peregrine’s receiving a mortal wound, to put every obstacle in the way of his opponent’s flight.
Both the new-comers were stamping their feet on the ground and slapping their hands on their arms, but Captain Crake soon came across the field to where Mr Fitzjohn awaited him, and after the briefest of greetings the pair set about the task of inspecting and loading the pistols. No second shot was to be allowed, so that only Mr Fitzjohn’s pistols (a very fine pair of Manton’s, ten inches in length in the barrels, and with steel sights) were loaded.
This done, Mr Fitzjohn rejoined Peregrine, and said in a low voice: ‘Twelve paces. You can’t miss, Perry. Let him have it!’
‘Yes, if I can I will,’ answered Peregrine, beginning to un button his greatcoat. ‘Do you advise fighting in this coat or without it?’
‘Without it,’ said Mr Fitzjohn, grimly surveying the very large mother-of-pearl buttons with which the coat was adorned. ‘I should have warned you to wear a black coat. Close it up to the throat, and remember not to stand square to the fellow, but give your side only, and keep your arm well in to it. And don’t lower it until Farnaby’s shot, Perry! Here comes the fellow now. You must salute him, of course, but I need not tell you that.’ He waited until this formality had been gone through, and then said: ‘Listen to me, Perry! Make up your mind where you mean to hit him, and don’t trouble your head with wondering where he means to hit you! Take your aim when I say “All’s ready,” keep your eye on the handkerchief, and when I let it drop, shoot! If you kill him I’ll get you away somehow.’
‘It sounds mighty desperate,’ said Peregrine, forcing his pale lips into a smile. ‘You’re a curst good friend, Fitz. Thank you, and – oh, well, just thank you!’
Mr Fitzjohn gripped his shoulder. ‘Breakfast in my lodgings afterwards,’ he said, and walked off to measure the paces with Captain Crake.
Peregrine buttoned up his coat to the throat, observing as he did so that Mr Farnaby, who was wearing black, had done the same. Mr Farnaby, after his salute, had not looked at him again. He seemed to be impatient, and kept calling to his second to make haste, and not keep them all standing in the cold. When called upon to leech he came at once to the spot, took the pistol Mr Fitzjohn handed him at half-cock, and stood with the muzzle pointed to the ground.
Peregrine was given the second pistol, and realised that the palms of his hands were sweating slightly. He wiped them on his pantaloons, took the pistol carefully (for the slightest touch would make a duelling pistol go off when set at half-cock, as he very well knew), and put himself into position.
The doctor turned his back, and the seconds retreated to a distance of eight paces. Peregrine was conscious of a sharp wind, ruffling his yellow locks; he fixed his eyes on Farnaby, trying to decide on some object on his dress to choose as his mark.
Mr Fitzjohn was holding up a handkerchief; it fluttered in the wind, a splash of white against a background of grey.
Then, before the word could be given, an interruption took place. A third coach, this time a heavy, lumbering affair, had driven up, and several men now jumped down from it, and came running towards the duellists, shouting: ‘In the name of the Law! Hold!’
Peregrine jerked his head round, heard a stifled oath from Farnaby, and the next minute was in the grip of a burly officer. ‘I arrest you the name of the Law!’ puffed this individual. ‘Attempt to break the peace! I shall have to take you before a magistrate.’
Mr Fitzjohn, who admitted afterwards that he had never been so glad to see a constable before, heaved one long sigh of relief, and said: ‘Oh, very well! Nothing for it, Perry; you had better put your coat on again.’
