The FitzOsbornes in Exile

by Michelle Cooper

  “Oh, darling, you wouldn’t believe how busy I am,” she said. “Supervising the maids and sorting out the menu with Cook—not that she pays the slightest bit of attention to me, just says, ‘Yes, m’lady,’ and goes on with whatever she’d already planned—and then there’s invitations to answer, having one’s hair and nails done, dress fittings … Then luncheon out, usually, and in the afternoon, meeting friends at the Forum—my club, you know, far more modern than the poor old Alexandra Club, I suppose your aunt belongs to that one—or else a fashion show or an art exhibition, generally some charity thing, then tea, then it’s time to dress. Dinner, then a concert or the theater, then supper and going somewhere to dance—”

  The maid set biscuits and five sorts of cheese in front of us.

  “—and so by the end, one is simply longing to collapse into bed and never get up again!”

  I took a piece of the blue-and-white cheese, because I’d always wondered what mold tasted like, and discovered it was nicer to look at than to eat. So I had a wedge of Camembert with a buttery biscuit, which was glorious.

  “Not that I’m complaining,” Julia went on. “Heavens, when I think of how it was at home! Perishing of boredom, forbidden from doing anything interesting …”

  “But, Julia, you did lots of things!” I couldn’t help protesting. “You were always going up to London, or off on flying trips with Anthony.”

  “Only after I got engaged, and really only one proper flying trip—well, you know about that one—and Daddy had a fit when he found out. No, no, it’s much better being married,” she said, but in tones that made me wonder if she was trying to convince herself. Then she told the maid we’d have our coffee in the drawing room, and the coffee was black and deliciously bitter and came in gorgeous little pink-and-green Sèvres cups with a bowl of chocolate truffles.

  And now writing about all the scrumptious food Julia gave us has made me ravenous. Aunt Charlotte and Toby have gone to the Bosworths’ for a luncheon party (Veronica and I weren’t invited), Simon is in Poole, and Harkness the butler is at his sister’s wedding in Bristol, so the servants are having a bit of a holiday, except for the kitchen staff, who are frantically busy with Christmas preparations. (How odd, the idea that stirring the Christmas pudding or decorating the Christmas tree is just another chore on a busy servant’s list. I wonder if they look forward to it, and find it as much fun as we used to do? Although I may be romanticizing Christmas at Montmaray a bit. Last year’s was actually pretty awful, if I’m being honest with myself.) Anyway, due to the kitchen staff being rushed off their feet, we just had the nursery luncheon today, boring old shepherd’s pie and not much of it, either. It’s at least another hour till teatime, so I think I’ll go downstairs to try to find a biscuit and see what Veronica’s doing …

  Well! What Veronica was doing was GETTING ATTACKED BY THE CRAZED ASSASSIN! My hand is shaking too much to write neatly … and now Aunt Charlotte’s back, judging by the shouting. Yes, it must have been her car that I heard a moment ago. I’d better go …

  Later. I am now tucked up in bed and Barnes has brought in a pot of hot chocolate, “for the shock.” I explained that I’m not in shock anymore, and suggested she give it to Phoebe, who collapsed in hysterics again after the police left, but Barnes only pursed her lips and stalked off. Poor Phoebe. At last, there is silence … Except Henry and Carlos have just burst through my door.

  “Hot chocolate!” Henry cries. “I’ve only got a glass of warm milk with disgusting skin on top. I do think that’s unfair, considering. Are you writing everything down? You ought to use your typewriter and send it to the newspaper!”

  If I were typing this, I’d still be on the first line, searching for the full-stop key. (I’m teaching myself out of a book, but the keys seem to be arranged in a very illogical manner.) Henry has gone off to fetch my tooth mug so she can share my hot chocolate. No, she’s back. I’ve said they may stay, if they don’t disturb me. Now Carlos is drinking Henry’s no-longer-hot milk from my saucer, as quietly as he can. The skin of milk is plastered to his whiskers, and he’s shaking his head and pawing at his nose …

  Is it obvious I’m trying to put off reliving this afternoon’s terrible events?

  All right, here goes. So, I went down the staircase into the Marble Hall and was about to turn into the corridor that leads off the Hall, towards the dining room and the door to the kitchen stairs, when I heard Veronica’s voice. She was using the imperious tone she keeps especially for Simon.

  “How did you get in here?” she demanded.

  But Simon wasn’t due back till after tea, and he would’ve come in through the front door, as he always did. Who was she talking to? Without much thought to the matter, I charged on, round the corner, into the corridor—and then came to an abrupt, horrified halt.

  For there stood Veronica, her back to me, and there, a mere five feet away, was the Crazed Assassin, pointing a silver pistol straight at Veronica’s heart. Veronica’s head whipped round at the sound of my footsteps, her expression switching from anger to alarm when she saw me—as though only a threat to someone else counted. But I barely registered this at the time. The gun had such a mesmerizing effect that it was impossible to focus on anything but those two gaping, malevolent holes, one on top of the other, an ominous gleam discernible deep within their darkness. With a supreme effort of will, I jerked my gaze away, up into the face of the person who held the gun.

  “Why, it’s you!” I cried out.

  “Who?” asked Veronica—clearly not the most pressing issue at that particular moment, but I quite understood her curiosity.

  “It’s Rebecca’s roommate from Poole! She saw you that day we—”

  “Quiet!” barked the woman. Her voice was hoarse, and she was as tall as Veronica, though much broader in the shoulders. In her bulky overcoat, she might easily be mistaken for a man—had, in fact, been assumed to be one, by me, outside St. Margaret’s, and by all of us at Julia’s wedding reception. “But I don’t need to kill you,” the woman spat at me. “Just her.” And she tilted the gun barrels towards Veronica’s face.

  “Kill me? With that thing?” scoffed Veronica, nevertheless edging backwards. Her arm came up to shove me behind her, but I wasn’t having any of that. If Veronica was the target, it made sense for me to be in front. “I mean, it wasn’t very successful last time, was it?” Veronica went on as I tried to step around her arm. “You really ought to—”

  “Shut up! Shut up!” shrieked the woman. “Don’t tell me what to do!”

  How on earth could they have let her out of the clinic? I thought desperately. Anyone could see she was stark raving mad! But wait—what would that head therapist have done to calm her down?

  “Just a minute,” I said, raising my palm. “First, we need to explore exactly how you feel about Veronica.”

  Veronica looked at me as though I were mad, but at least the gun barrels lowered an inch or two.

  “I mean, why do you dislike her?” I asked the woman as I continued to struggle, surreptitiously, against Veronica’s restraining arm. “You haven’t even met her—well, not properly. Is it something Rebecca said about her? We ought to consider whether Rebecca was slightly … confused at the time.”

  “Oh!” cried the woman. “Oh, it’s not just her being a harlot! And a liar! And stealing other people’s husbands!” (Heavens, Rebecca really had gone completely round the twist.) “No, it’s her being a disgusting Red! Messing about with filthy Spanish hooligans! And disrespecting the Leader!”

  And, with a dramatic flourish, she tore open her coat lapel to reveal her black shirt, black breeches, long black boots—and shiny British Union of Fascists badge.

  “I … I didn’t even know ladies could be Blackshirts,” I said faintly. “At least … not with uniforms and everything.”

  “The Leader says that under Fascism, women will be valued and honored!”

  “Who’s … Are you talking about Mosley?” I asked.

  “The Leader
says every true British citizen, male and female, must fight for Britain! The Leader doesn’t want war, but he won’t back away from taking on the Russians! And beating them!”

  “Er … but Veronica’s not Russian,” I said. I was having difficulty following her logic, which was only partly due to the terrifying presence of the gun. I wondered if Mosley was as crazy as his followers, or whether he simply happened to attract people who were violently insane. Meanwhile, I could sense Veronica shifting from foot to foot beside me as she weighed up our options. The gun, if it was the same one Lord Astley had described, held two bullets and could only kill at fairly close range. Which was … what, five or six feet? More? Unfortunately, neither of us were wearing corsets or bulletproof silk vests. If we turned and ran, would we be able to get far enough away before she pulled the trigger? How good was her aim? I could tell Veronica was considering lunging forward and wrestling the woman to the ground. With the element of surprise, Veronica and I stood a fair chance against her—but who could say where the gun might be pointing if it accidentally (or otherwise) went off? Surely the best thing would be to keep her talking—perhaps we could actually talk her into surrendering.

  “That’s very interesting,” I said. “About, um, your Leader.” Veronica slid one foot forward and I caught hold of her sleeve. “Could you explain more about him being against war?” I went on, trying to keep my voice even. “I think that’s an awfully good philosophy, don’t you, being against violence?”

  The Crazed Assassin glared at me. “The Leader isn’t a coward, he’s a hero! He was in the last war, and he understands everything about—”

  Veronica suddenly made a tiny sound, almost a squeak, and clapped her hand over her mouth. “Yes!” she agreed loudly, dropping her hand. “Fascinating! Do go on about his ideas.”

  Over the woman’s shoulder, I saw what Veronica had seen, and my heart, hammering at twice the normal speed, seemed to stop altogether. Because in the paneled wall ten feet behind the woman, the dumbwaiter doors had just slid open to reveal Henry in full Girl Guide uniform, bow in hand, a quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder.

  “Get help!” I mouthed at her, trying not to move my lips too much. I was terrified the Crazed Assassin would turn and see what we were trying not to stare at. But Henry just dropped silently to the floor and began fitting an arrow to her bow. Behind her, the dumbwaiter platform descended without sound (and I blessed the footman who’d kept it so well oiled) while I frantically tried to think of a way to remove my little sister from this horrible situation.

  “—and get rid of filthy Jews and foreigners—” ranted on the Crazed Assassin.

  “Quite right, Britain’s much better off without those sorts of people,” said Veronica (fortunately, the Crazed Assassin was in no state to recognize sarcasm). “But don’t you think that sometimes, it’s better to take no action at all?” Veronica raised her voice, hoping Henry would take the hint. “Or to call on the authorities?”

  The dumbwaiter platform reappeared, supporting the curled-up figure of Carmelita Labauria, Javier’s ten-year-old sister, who climbed out and raised her own bow and arrow. I nearly groaned aloud. If anything happened to her, Javier would kill us. If there was anything left of us, that is, after we’d been shot to pieces by this crazy Fascist …

  “—keeping Britain racially pure, and eliminating all the bloody Reds—”

  There was an outraged exclamation from behind me, the voice of an angry child.

  The Crazed Assassin’s mouth hung open, but the flow of words ceased as she stared past me. Then the hand holding the gun jolted upwards, her fingers twitching.

  “Down!” cried Veronica, shoving my shoulder. We both dived to the floor, Veronica sliding far enough to grab the woman’s ankle and yank it sideways. There was a tremendous explosion somewhere above my head, and then assorted crashing noises. The Crazed Assassin fell to her hands and knees, and Veronica hurled herself across the woman, wrenching her wrist backwards. The gun clattered across the floor, trailing wisps of sulfur-scented smoke.

  “Don’t touch it!” I screamed at Henry and Carmelita, who’d dashed forward, bows raised. “And put those arrows down!” I twisted round to assess the damage and saw wave upon wave of Girl Guides pouring into the hall—through the front doors, around the staircase, even out of the White Drawing Room. Actually, there were only about half a dozen of them, but the uniforms made it seem like far more. I gaped at them, dumbstruck.

  “Don’t worry. No one got shot,” said Henry cheerfully. “Well, except for poor old Edward de Quincy.”

  The bust of our only ancestor of note, I saw, now lay in jagged shards across the floor. Veronica and Carmelita had forced the Crazed Assassin onto her front by then and were twisting her arms behind her back. I started crawling over to secure her thrashing legs, but then Phoebe appeared with a pile of towels, stared at the writhing black-booted figure on the floor, and began screaming. Luckily, Carlos had turned up and was quite willing to sit on the woman’s legs in my place while I attempted to calm Phoebe down.

  “Don’t worry. It’s not your brother!” I shouted over Phoebe’s wails and the Crazed Assassin’s strident and rather creative cursing.

  “Ana Luisa, the rope!” called Henry, and a tiny Basque girl hurried over. “We were in the folly, practicing knot-tying,” Henry explained as little Ana Luisa expertly looped a piece of rope round the woman’s wrists. “And then this man walked past, on his way to the house—but he went off the path, through the woods. Very suspicious, anyone could see that. So we tracked him—well, her—as far as the driveway. Then I told everyone to split up and use the side doors, and Carmelita and me went through the laundry room.”

  “And you didn’t think to tell any of the servants?” exclaimed Veronica, rubbing her face where the woman had just hit her.

  “We didn’t see any,” said Henry. “I think they were having their tea, and anyway, they’d just say we weren’t allowed to play in the house. And there was no point calling the police, they’d have to come all the way from Salisbury. You’d all have been dead by then.”

  “We could all have been dead, anyway, thanks to you waving those arrows around!” snapped Veronica. “As if it isn’t bad enough that you could have been hurt—I can’t believe you put these children in danger as well!”

  “We wanted to come!” protested Carmelita. “Anyway, that woman’s a Fascist. I heard her.” And all the Guides nodded ferociously, even the girls from the village. One or two looked as though they wanted to spit on the floor, but fortunately, they restrained themselves. A footman, alerted by Phoebe’s screams, then rushed in to help with the still-wriggling assassin, and he sent Henry to summon the other servants.

  “But, Sophie, you’re bleeding,” Carmelita said, pointing at my hand. It turned out I’d been injured by a sharp piece of Edward de Quincy, although I hadn’t even noticed till then. I picked up a towel from the pile Phoebe had dropped and wiped away the blood. The cut looked fairly shallow, but the Girl Guides made me sit down on the stairs, in case I fainted.

  “We haven’t done our first aid badge yet,” said one of them, frowning at my palm. “So I’m not sure what else to do.” Veronica, on her way back from telephoning the police, suggested that doing that badge before the archery one might have been more prudent.

  “But not as interesting,” said Henry.

  The police sergeant and two constables eventually arrived, and Phoebe started crying again, because she was worried they’d discover her Blackshirt brother had a criminal record and think that she’d let the Crazed Assassin in the house. But of course, the police didn’t care about that—it was perfectly obvious that anyone could have walked in, anytime he (or she) wanted. Who locks their doors in the country? So I patted Phoebe on the back a bit more and gave her my handkerchief. The police took the Crazed Assassin away, the maids swept up the remains of Edward de Quincy, and the Girl Guides were taken down to the kitchen for milk and biscuits. I made Veronica put some ice on her face,
and Barnes bandaged my hand, although it had already stopped bleeding. Then I ran up to my room for my journal, because I thought I should jot down as much as I could remember, in case the police needed a detailed statement later on. I had just sat down at the secretaire in the White Drawing Room when I heard the shouting—not Aunt Charlotte and Toby, as it turned out, but Simon and Veronica. A moment later, Simon flung open the door.

  “My God!” he cried. “Are you all right? I saw the police at the gates as I was driving in, and then Veronica told me … She said it was someone from Poole!”

  I closed my journal and went over to join him.

  “Yes, your mother’s former roommate,” I said. “It’s all right, no one was hurt.”

  “But someone could have been!” he exclaimed. “Veronica’s right, someone could have been killed! How could they have let her leave Poole like that? Why didn’t any of the staff realize she was dangerous? My God—why didn’t I realize?”

  He sank onto the sofa and stared at me, raking his hands through his hair.

  “I chose that place,” he said. “And I knew Mother was still obsessed with Veronica’s mother and … and still confused about everything. Why didn’t I think of that when we were trying to work out who might want to attack Veronica?”

  His hair was in total disarray by now.

  “I knew Mother was in Poole, and of course, it wasn’t her at the wedding—but how could I not have recognized that woman?”

  “I didn’t, either,” I said. “I looked and looked at those photographs, and I didn’t figure it out.”

  “But you only saw her once! I saw her three or four times, I had tea with her, and—Sophia, you’re injured!”