by Ken Follett
"She warned me not to let him take any liberties," Nora replied.
"So you were ready for him, so to speak."
"Yes."
"And if Augusta had said nothing, would you have behaved the same way?"
Nora looked thoughtful. "I probably wouldn't have slapped him--I wouldn't have had the nerve. But Augusta made me think it was important to take a stand."
Maisie nodded. "There you are. She wanted this to happen. She also got someone to tell the count you were easy."
Nora was amazed. "Are you sure?"
"He told me. She's a devious bitch and she has no scruples at all." Maisie realized she was speaking in her Newcastle accent, something that rarely happened nowadays. She reverted to normal. "Never underestimate Augusta's capacity for treachery."
"She doesn't scare me," Nora said defiantly. "I haven't got too many scruples myself."
Maisie believed her--and felt sorry for Hugh.
A polonaise was the perfect dress style for Nora, Maisie thought as the dressmaker pinned a gown around Nora's generous figure. The fussy details suited her pretty looks: the pleated frills, the front opening decorated with bows, and the tie-back skirt with flounces all looked sweet on her. Perhaps she was a little too voluptuous, but a long corset would restrain her tendency to wobble.
"Looking pretty is half the battle," she said as Nora admired herself in the mirror. "As far as the men are concerned it's really all that matters. But you have to do more to get accepted by the women."
Nora said: "I've always got on better with men than women."
Maisie was not surprised: Nora was that type.
Nora went on: "You must be the same. That's why we've got where we are."
Are we the same? wondered Maisie.
"Not that I put myself on the same level as you," Nora added. "Every ambitious girl in London envies you."
Maisie winced at the thought that she was looked up to as a hero by fortune-hunting women, but she said nothing because she probably deserved it. Nora had married for money, and she was quite happy to admit it to Maisie because she assumed that Maisie had done the same. And she was right.
Nora said: "I'm not complaining, but I did pick the black sheep of the family, the one with no capital. You married one of the richest men in the world."
How surprised you would be, Maisie thought, if you knew how willingly I'd swap.
She put the thought out of her mind. All right, she and Nora were two of a kind. She would help Nora win the acceptance of the snobs and shrews who ruled society.
"Never talk about how much anything costs," she began, remembering her own early mistakes. "Always remain calm and unruffled, no matter what happens. If your coachman has a heart attack, your carriage crashes, your hat blows off and your drawers fall down, just say: 'Goodness me, such excitement,' and get in a hansom. Remember that the country is better than the town, idleness is superior to work, old is preferable to new and rank is more important than money. Know a little about everything, but never be an expert. Practice talking without moving your mouth--it will improve your accent. Tell people that your great-grandfather farmed in Yorkshire: Yorkshire is too big for anyone to check, and agriculture is an honorable way to become poor."
Nora struck a pose, looked vague, and said languidly: "Goodness me, such a lot to remember, how shall I ever manage?"
"Perfect," said Maisie. "You'll do very well indeed."
2
MICKY MIRANDA STOOD IN A DOORWAY in Berwick Street, wearing a light overcoat to keep out the chill of a spring evening. He was smoking a cigar and watching the street. There was a gas lamp nearby but he stood in the shadow so that his face could not easily be seen by passersby. He felt anxious, dissatisfied with himself, soiled. He disliked violence. It was Papa's way, Paulo's way. For Micky it always seemed such an admission of failure.
Berwick Street was a narrow, filthy passage of cheap pubs and lodging houses. Dogs rummaged in the gutters and small children played in the gaslight. Micky had been there since nightfall and he had not seen a single policeman. Now it was almost midnight.
The Hotel Russe was across the street. It had seen better days, but still it was a cut above its surroundings. There was a light over the door and inside Micky could see a lobby with a reception counter. However, there did not appear to be anyone there.
Two other men loitered on the far pavement, one on either side of the hotel entrance. All three of them were waiting for Antonio Silva.
Micky had pretended to be calm in front of Edward and Augusta but in fact he was desperately worried about Tonio's article appearing in The Times. He had put so much effort into getting Pilasters to launch the Santamaria railroad. He had even married that bitch Rachel for the sake of the damn bonds. His entire career depended on its success. If he let his family down over this, his father would be not only raging but vengeful. Papa had the power to get Micky fired as minister. With no money and no position he could hardly stay in London: he would have to return home and face humiliation and disgrace. Either way, the life he had enjoyed for so many years would be over.
Rachel had demanded to know where he was planning to spend this evening. He had laughed at her. "Never try to question me," he had said.
She had surprised him by saying: "Then I shall go out for the evening, too."
"Where?"
"Never try to question me."
Micky had locked her in the bedroom.
When he got home she would be incandescent with wrath, but that had happened before. On previous occasions when she had raged at him he had thrown her on the bed and torn off her clothes, and she had always submitted to him eagerly. She would do it yet again tonight, he felt sure.
He wished he could feel as sure of Tonio.
He was not even certain the man was still living at this hotel, but he could not go in and ask without arousing suspicion.
He had moved as quickly as possible, but still it had taken forty-eight hours to locate and hire two ruthless toughs, reconnoiter the location and set up the ambush. In that time Tonio might have moved. Then Micky would be in trouble.
A careful man would move hotels every few days. But a careful man would not use notepaper that bore an address. Tonio was not the cautious type. On the contrary, he had always been reckless. In all probability he was still at this hotel, Micky thought.
He was right.
A few minutes after midnight, Tonio appeared.
Micky thought he recognized the walk as the figure turned into the far end of Berwick Street, coming from the direction of Leicester Square. He tensed, but resisted the temptation to move right away. Restraining himself with an effort, he waited until the man passed a gas lamp, when the face became clearly visible for a moment. Then there was no doubt: it was Tonio. Micky could even see the carroty color of the side-whiskers. He felt relief and heightened anxiety at the same time: relief that he had Tonio in his sights, anxiety about the crude, dangerous attack he was about to make.
Then he saw the policemen.
It was the worst possible luck. There were two of them, coming down Berwick Street from the opposite direction, helmeted and caped, their truncheons hanging from their belts, shining their bull's-eye lanterns into dark corners. Micky stood stock still. There was nothing he could do. They saw Micky, noted his top hat and his cigar, and nodded deferentially: it was none of their business what an upper-class man might be doing loitering in a doorway--they were after criminals, not gentlemen. They passed Tonio fifteen or twenty yards from the hotel door. Micky fidgeted in frustration. Another few moments and Tonio would be safe inside his hotel.
Then the two policemen turned a corner and were gone from sight.
Micky gestured to his two accomplices.
They moved fast.
Before Tonio reached the door of his hotel, the two men seized him and bundled him into the alley alongside the building. He shouted once, but after that his cries were muffled.
Throwing away the remains of his cigar, Micky
crossed the road and entered the alley. They had stuffed a scarf into Tonio's mouth, to prevent his making a noise, and they were beating him with iron bars. His hat had fallen off, and his head and face were already covered with blood. His body was protected by a coat, but they slashed at his knees and shins and his unprotected hands.
The sight made Micky feel ill. "Stop it, you fools!" he hissed at them. "Can't you see he's had enough?" Micky did not want them to kill Tonio. As things stood, the incident looked like a routine robbery, accompanied by a savage beating. A murder would create a great deal more fuss--and the policemen had seen Micky's face, however briefly.
With apparent reluctance the two thugs stopped hitting Tonio, who slumped to the ground and lay still.
"Empty his pockets!" Micky whispered.
Tonio did not move as they took from him a watch and chain, a pocketbook, some coins, a silk handkerchief and a key.
"Give me the key," Micky said. "The rest is yours."
The older of the two men, Barker--humorously known as Dog--said: "Give us the money."
He gave them each ten pounds in gold sovereigns.
Dog gave him the key. Tied to it with a small piece of thread was a slip of card with the number 11 scrawled on it. It was all Micky needed.
He turned to leave the alley--and saw that they were being watched. A man stood in the street staring at them. Micky's heart raced.
Dog saw him a moment later. He grunted an oath and raised his iron bar as if to strike the man down. Suddenly Micky realized something and grabbed Dog's arm. "No," he said. "That won't be necessary. Look at him."
The watching man had a slack mouth and a empty look in his eyes: he was an idiot.
Dog lowered his weapon. "He'll do us no harm," he said. "He's two sticks short of a bundle."
Micky pushed past him into the street. Looking back, he saw Dog and his companion taking off Tonio's boots.
Micky walked away, hoping he would never see them again.
He turned into the Hotel Russe. To his relief the desk in the little lobby was still unoccupied. He went up the stairs.
The hotel consisted of three houses knocked together, and it took Micky a while to find his way around, but two or three minutes later he let himself into room number 11.
It was a cramped, grimy room stuffed with furniture that had once been pretentious but was now merely shabby. Micky put his hat and cane on a chair and began to search quickly and methodically. In the writing desk he found a copy of the article for The Times, which he took. However, it was not worth much. Tonio either had copies or could rewrite it from memory. But in order to get the article published he would have to produce some kind of evidence, and it was the evidence that Micky was looking for.
In the chest of drawers he found a novel called The Duchess of Sodom which he was tempted to steal, but he decided it was an unnecessary risk. He tipped Tonio's shirts and underwear out of the drawers onto the floor. There was nothing hidden there.
He had not really expected to find it in an obvious place.
He looked behind and underneath the chest, the bed and the wardrobe. He climbed on the table so that he could look on top of the wardrobe: there was nothing there but thick dust.
He pulled the sheets off the bed, probed the pillows for something hard, and examined the mattress. He finally found what he wanted underneath the mattress.
Inside a large envelope was a wad of papers tied together with lawyers' ribbons.
Before he could examine the documents he heard footsteps in the hall.
He dropped the bundle and stood behind the door.
The footsteps went past and faded.
He untied the ribbons and scanned the documents. They were in Spanish, and bore the stamp of a lawyer in Palma. They were the sworn affidavits of witnesses who had seen floggings and executions at Micky's family's nitrate mines.
Micky lifted the sheaf of papers to his lips and kissed them. They were the answer to his prayers.
He stuffed them into the bosom of his coat. Before destroying them he had to make a note of the names and addresses of the witnesses. The lawyers would have copies of the affidavits, but the copies were no use without the witnesses. And now that Micky knew who the witnesses were, their days were numbered. He would send their addresses to Papa, and Papa would silence them.
Was there anything else? He looked around the room. It was a mess. There was nothing more for him here. He had what he needed. Without proof, Tonio's article was worthless.
He left the room and went down the stairs.
To his surprise there was a clerk at the desk in the lobby. The man looked up and said challengingly: "May I ask your business?"
Micky made an instant decision. If he ignored the clerk, the man would probably just think he was rude. To stop and give an account of himself would allow the clerk to study his face. He said nothing and went out. The clerk did not follow.
As he passed the alley he heard a feeble cry for help. Tonio was crawling toward the street; leaving a trail of blood. The sight made Micky want to throw up. Disgusted, he grimaced, looked away and walked on.
3
IN THE AFTERNOONS, wealthy ladies and idle gentlemen called on one another. It was a tiresome practice and four days of the week Maisie told her servants to say she was not at home. On Fridays she received people, and there might be twenty or thirty during the course of an afternoon. It was always more or less the same crowd: the Marlborough Set, the Jewish set, women with "advanced" ideas such as Rachel Bodwin, and a few wives of Solly's more important business acquaintances.
Emily Pilaster was in the last category. Her husband Edward was involved in a deal with Solly about a railway in Cordova, and Maisie assumed it was on the strength of that that Emily called. But she stayed all afternoon and at half-past five, when everyone else had gone, she was still there.
A pretty girl with big blue eyes, she was only about twenty years old and anyone could tell she was miserable, so Maisie was not surprised when she said: "Please can I talk to you about something personal?"
"Of course, what is it?"
"I do hope you won't be offended but there's no one I can discuss it with."
This sounded like a sexual problem. It would not be the first time that a well-bred girl had come to Maisie for advice on a subject she could not discuss with her mother. Perhaps they had heard rumors about her racy past, or perhaps they just found her approachable. "It's hard to offend me," Maisie said. "What do you want to discuss?"
"My husband hates me," she said, and she burst into tears.
Maisie felt sorry for her. She had known Edward in the old Argyll Rooms days and he had been a pig then. No doubt he had got worse since. She could sympathize with anyone unfortunate enough to have married him.
"You see," Emily said between sobs, "his parents wanted him to marry, but he didn't want to, so they offered him a huge settlement, and a partnership in the bank, and that persuaded him. And I agreed because my parents wanted me to and he seemed as good as anyone and I wanted to have babies. But he never liked me and now that he's got his money and his partnership he can't stand the sight of me."
Maisie sighed. "This may sound hard, but you're in the same position as thousands of women."
Emily wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and made an effort to stop crying. "I know, and I don't want you to think I'm feeling sorry for myself. I've got to make the best of it. And I know I could cope with the situation if only I could have a baby. That's all I ever really wanted."
Children were the consolation of most unhappy wives, Maisie reflected. "Is there any reason why you shouldn't have babies?"
Emily was shifting restlessly on the couch, almost writhing with embarrassment, but her childlike face was set in lines of determination. "I've been married for two months and nothing's happened."
"Early days yet--"
"No, I don't mean I expected to be pregnant by now."
Maisie knew it was difficult for such girls to be specific, so
she led her with questions. "Does he come to your bed?"
"He did at first, but not anymore."
"When he did, what went wrong?"
"The trouble is, I'm not sure what's supposed to happen."
Maisie sighed. How could mothers allow their daughters to walk up the aisle in such ignorance? She recalled that Emily's father was a Methodist minister. That did not help. "What's supposed to happen is this," she began. "Your husband kisses and touches you, his doodle gets long and stiff, and he puts it into your cunny. Most girls like it."
Emily blushed scarlet. "He did the kissing and touching, but nothing else."
"Did his doodle get stiff?"
"It was dark."
"Didn't you feel it?"
"He made me rub it once."
"And what was it like? Rigid, like a candle, or limp, like an earthworm? Or in between, like a sausage before it's cooked?"
"Limp."
"And when you rubbed it, did it stiffen?"
"No. It made him very angry and he slapped me and said I was no good. Is it my fault, Mrs. Greenbourne?"
"No, it's not your fault, though men generally blame women. It's a common problem and it's called impotence."
"What causes it?"
"Lots of different things."
"Does it mean I can't have a baby?"
"Not until you can make his doodle stiff."
Emily looked as if she might cry. "I do so want a baby. I'm so lonely and unhappy but if I had a baby I could put up with everything else."
Maisie wondered what Edward's problem was. He certainly had not been impotent in the old days. Was there anything she could do to help Emily? She could probably find out whether Edward was impotent all the time or just with his wife. April Tilsley would know. Edward had still been a regular customer at Nellie's brothel last time Maisie spoke to April--although that had been years ago: it was difficult for a society lady to remain close friends with London's leading madam. "I know someone close to Edward," she said cautiously. "She might be able to shed some light on the problem."
Emily swallowed. "Do you mean that he has a mistress? Please tell me--I must face the facts."
She was a determined girl, Maisie thought. She may be ignorant and naive but she's going to get what she wants. "This woman isn't his mistress. But if he has one she might know."
Emily nodded. "I'd like to meet your friend."