The Ghost of Waterloo Read Online Free PDF Page B

pits leaking into the drain, some by accident, others for deliberate disposal. And now there was the addition of rain, a rare enough event these days. He felt it falling through the grating above. Perhaps the drought was finally breaking.
    Suddenly, body waste was not the only thing he wished was not there.
    Farrell registered that there was a moving yellow light wavering above him. And now there were voices, two belonging to strangers – there should have been only one voice, if any. He moved to push away a lantern beside him and bit back a curse as a dislodged block of stone fell and smashed the lamp. He froze. But no one on the other side of the grille seemed to have heard; their conversation had covered his clumsiness.
    He caught only a few coherent words: ‘Where … going?’. That was a voice he didn’t know. Then came one that was familiar: something about a ‘glass’ and ‘rum’. Ah, this, muffled though it was, belonged to Dingle. He had a right to be there, on guard. And, thank Christ, he sounded quite calm, if oddly slurred.
    Then there was a new voice: ‘Honest … pass … ’
    After a silence, the voice Farrell had first heard, said, closer and quite clearly, ‘Get on with it, but be sharp!’
    The response was unwelcome – Farrell’s upturned face was thoroughly doused with a fresh shower, not of the rain, but rather a deluge – bittersweet and ammonic – of hot human urine. Farrell ducked and held his breath. He dared not move. Still, he looked on the bright side.
    The particularly bright side before him in those dark hours was the fact that he was surrounded by the last load of a treasure trove worth more than a man could earn in a thousand years. And some of it belonged to him. As he stoically received the golden rain, George Farrell wryly noted that the whole business was simply the result of what could be called another, earlier night on the piss!

Chapter Seven
    What a devil is the plot good for, but to bring in fine things?
    – George Villiers, 2nd Duke of Buckingham,
The Rehearsal
(1672)

 
    On that occasion, one evening during the previous month of August, the man called Dingle had found himself thirsty but soon emptypocketed in Mr Samuel Thornton’s George Street tavern, the Union, close to the army barracks.
    Dingle was a freed lag, one also free of moral restraint. To confuse his creditors, enemies and, naturally, the authorities, he answered to the forenames of either James or, if it served, Charlie. And his surname fluctuated between Tingle and Ingalls, as well as Dingle.
    He already had a head and belly full of rum and porter. To keep a clear brain he had at one time switched to drinking shrub, but soon decided that the sugar and fruit in this mixture (he was certain it couldn’t be the spirits within) were combining to befuddle him further.
    Now he had no money, and thus no chance of any drink at all – until a scatter of coins showered along the bar, stopping around his empty glass, and a voice behind him said quietly, ‘Have one for the road, then meet me outside in the lot. There are plenty more coins to come.’
    By the time Dingle turned, his benefactor was almost out the door, leaving him only with a glimpse of a stocky figure of middle height and the memory of an odd accent.
    Dingle ordered another rum and pondered. Who was the man and what could he want? Not a thief; it was obvious there was nothing to steal from a penniless man. A shirt-lifter? Well, Dingle could either flee or fight him. Or sell him what he wanted. No, he shook his head; it would have to be either of the first two options. Any road, why not find out? He settled his score, pocketed the change and went out to the nearby vacant ground, called Thornton’s Paddock. The stranger stood in half-shadow, lit only dimly by the lamp glow from a distant window and a weak tavern lantern.
    ‘Let us not waste time,’ the stranger said, and Dingle decided that the voice resembled, but could not be, that of the