‘The devil he did! What will the Cabinet have to say to that?’
‘Lord knows! They’ll recall him, I expect, just like they did poor old Dyer in India after the Amritsar trouble years ago.’
Kenyon nodded gloomily. ‘It’ll be a rotten show if they do. It seems to me that our only hope now is a few stout fellows with real guts like that. By hanging twenty he’s probably saved at least a hundred from being killed in street fighting.’
‘You haven’t heard anything from South Wales, have you?’
‘No—why?’
Archie lowered his voice. ‘Well, that’s one of the worst danger spots, and I had it from a man I know that there was an organised rising there last night. He says that some sort of Soviet have seized control in Cardiff.’
‘Do you think his information is reliable?’
‘Ah, that’s where you’ve got me. I wondered if you’d heard anything, that’s all.’
‘Nothing except that business about the income tax collector, and that the miners are sabotaging the pits, but they’ve been doing that on and off for months past.’
They wandered into the smoking-room and ordered a couple of dry sherries. Then Archie began to give his general views on the situation. They were not cheerful views and after a little Kenyon asked him what he meant to do.
‘Well, I’ve got a little place in Gloucester—only a glorified cottage, you know, but my cousin is Chief Constable of the county, so I thought I’d go down there for a bit, and take on any job of work he cares to give me; London will be no fit place to live in for the next few weeks.’
Kenyon nodded. It looked as if they would all have to get out soon if they meant to save themselves. His thoughts flew to Ann. How would she fare in London if the food supply broke down and there was really desperate fighting? He simply must get hold of her somehow, if only to persuade her to chuck her job and go back to Orford while there was still time.
Preoccupied with these thoughts, he said good-bye to Archie rather hurriedly, but on his way through the hall old Lord St. Evremond stopped him.
‘Have you heard?’ he asked.
‘No, sir—what?’
The old man nodded portentously and sank his voice. ‘The King is dead—died at five o’clock this morning.’
‘Good heavens, sir! that is bad news—especially at a time like this.’
‘Yes, he was a great man too. Far greater than the bulk of the nation realise. He devoted his whole life to the service of his country and did a tremendous lot of good. It is an incalculable loss.’
‘It is,’ Kenyon agreed, ‘and its effect on the public is bound to make things worse.’
‘Oh, they won’t let it out until this business has blown over. That would never do—my information is strictly private, of course.’
‘I see—but they can’t hold the funeral over indefinitely—and how do we know that this business is going to—er, blow over?’
Lord St. Evremond gave an indignant grunt. ‘Why, of course it will, my boy. We’re British, ain’t we? I hope you don’t suggest that we should let a lot of out-at-elbows Communist fellahs run the country—eh? We’ll jug ‘em. Yes, sir! jug ‘em, and if necessary shoot the lot!’
‘Well, I hope you’re right,’ said Kenyon mildly, and the old peer shambled away to spread his strictly private news elsewhere.
As Kenyon made his way up St. James’s Street his thoughts were mixed. The King’s death—Communists—and Ann. ‘She was a Communist herself theoretically, but that was only stupid non-sense gleaned from the adolescent debating societies at Cambridge. One of half a dozen ways of blowing off excess of youthful steam. Probably, though, it partially explained her turning against him. How the deuce could he get hold of her again?’
A familiar figure caught his eye as he crossed Piccadilly to Albemarle Street. Veronica sailing gaily along with a swing that displayed her supple figure and enchanting ankles to the admiration of the passers-by.
‘Hi!’ he called. ‘Hi!’ as he hastened after her. A sudden inspiration had flashed into his mind.
‘Hell’s bells! it’s you!’ She turned as he caught her up. ‘I thought it was a street accident at the very least.’
‘Where are you off to?’ he asked.
‘Home, lovie—to fill my foul carcass with whatever cooked meats the chef offers us for lunch.’
‘Well,’ he paused opposite the entrance of the Berkeley, ‘what about a cocktail first?’
‘Angels defend me!’ she exclaimed in a loud voice, apparently to the street at large. ‘The Millennium is come—my brother offers me a drink!’
‘Do try not to be such an ass—I want to talk to you.’
‘Ha, ha! I thought there was a catch in it somewhere. But a drink’s a drink, and talking costs nothing, so lead me to it, my most noble lord.’
In the lounge the maître d’hôtel himself, imperturbable as ever in this crash of empires, hurried up to them.
‘We are not lunching today,’ Kenyon told him, ‘but you might send the cocktail man and some writing-paper—will you?’
‘I take your order myself His teeth flashed in a quick smile. ‘The cocktail man—he is gone!’
‘Gone where?’ demanded Veronica with surprise.
The man gave an expressive shrug. ‘I do not know, m’lady—many of my waiters become frightened and they run away to Italy—but I tell them they are fools. If they are not safe in England they are not safe anywhere. What cocktail would you prefer?’
Kenyon gave his order and turned quickly to Veronica. ‘Look here—I want your help.’
‘Now, Kenyon darling, let’s be quite clear. If it’s money, for goodness’ sake cancel the drinks—I haven’t got a cent.’
‘It’s not,’ he reasurred her. ‘But you remember those flowers that came back last night?’
‘Tra-la-la! Do I not, my red-headed Lothario.’ Veronica rocked backwards and forwards in an ecstasy of mirth.
‘Yes, I know you thought it devilish amusing—anyhow, you were right—the girl turned me down.’
Veronica’s mirth changed to a quick sympathy. ‘Poor sweet!’
‘You see, she’s found out about the handle to my name, and she’s sore that I didn’t tell her in the first place.’
‘And why didn’t you, pray?’
‘Because she’s only somebody’s secretary … oh, I know that sounds rottenly snobbish … but I picked her up in the train going to Ipswich.’
‘Kenyon, you idiot! Why can’t you confine your affairs to women in your own set? I know half a dozen who are dying to have an affair with you.’
‘I dare say you do—but that is beside the point as I happen to be crazy about this particular girl.’
‘Don’t tell me we are going to have prayers in the village church “to guide the footsteps of our young master” and, “HEIR TO DUKEDOM MAKES A RUDDY FOOL OF HIMSELF” in all the papers?’
‘Certainly not—I haven’t gone quite mad. But I do want to get on speaking terms with this girl again.’
‘Then it’s the young suburban Miss who must be batty, my dear—most of them would give their eye-teeth to be ruined by a real live lord—she must be gone in the head—!’
‘She’s not gone in the head, or a suburban Miss—on the contrary, she is damnably attractive, and I want you to be a darling and meet her.’
‘What!’ Veronica sat up as though she had been stung. ‘Lord love us! the man is mad!’
‘Shut up!’ said Kenyon sharply, ‘that piercing voice of yours can be heard from here to Leicester Square.’
‘All right, darling—don’t get irritable, send for a spot more gin to help me to recover from the shock.’
‘Sorry, my dear—I’m a bit nervy, I’m afraid!’ He gave the order and turned back quickly. ‘Will you write a note saying how much you’d like to meet her, and ask her along to cocktails tomorrow night?’
‘What, at home? Herbert would have a fit!’
‘No he won’t, he’s too damned bus
y packing up the art collection and rushing it off to the bank.’
‘Are you really serious about this, Kenyon?’
‘Yes, honestly. It’s the only way I can think of to break down this absurd class-consciousness of hers—in every other way she’s a perfect darling.’
‘But is she really presentable?’
‘Absolutely—I promise you. She wouldn’t be at her best among a lot of smarts, because she has not acquired the gift of chattering like a parrot, and her Billingsgate is definitely poor—but I wouldn’t dream of asking you if I thought there would be any sort of gêne. Her uncle is a country parson—you know the sort of thing.’
‘Do I not!’ Veronica sighed resignedly. ‘But I thought better of you, Kenyon. I expect she is the most deadly bore—dull, dowdy and dumb!’
‘No, she isn’t. You’ll find her charming if you’ll only show a little bit of that nice generous nature that you persist in hiding under a flow of trashy wit.’
‘Hark at the boy!’ she mocked him; ‘never mind, give me the paper. Now what do you want me to say?’
‘Oh, anything you like, provided that you make it clear that you really want her to come. Her name is Ann Croome, by the way.’
Veronica nibbled the end of her pen for a moment, and then covered two sides of a sheet of paper with her rapid scrawl.
‘How’s that?’ she asked, handing the result to Kenyon.
‘Marvellous!’ He folded the sheet of paper and thrust it into an envelope. ‘Now just address it and we’ll send it off right away.’
‘There!’ exclaimed Veronica when it was done, ‘see how I cover your shameless amours with the cloak of my spotless purity—come on, let’s eat.’
When Ann received the letter some nine hours later she was on the point of going to bed after a long and tiring day. Mr. Crumper lived at Teddington, and for some reason unexplained, although it was rumoured that there had been sabotage in one of the principal power-stations of the line, the electric trains were only running at half-service. He had taken the delay and discomfort of his morning journey out of Ann.
She read the letter through slowly, and then something impelled her to glance through the window.
‘Nation shall fight against nation—Brother against Brother—and the Strongest shall go down into the Pit.’ The harsh words of the strange man in the train came back to her with renewed force, for there through the clear glass, low in the heavens and curiously misty, hung the slender curved sickle of the fateful August moon.
6
The Exodus from London
The following morning Kenyon received a summons to the headquarters of the United British Party, and there at twelve o’clock he interviewed certain prominent members of the House. Two Cabinet Ministers were among them.
They informed him of the Government’s decision that the Mid-Suffolk by-election was to be called off—at least for the time being. Kenyon naturally protested, as his recent tour of the constituency had convinced him of the certainty of his election; but they told him that the Government was determined to prevent meetings of any kind which might lead to riots and disturbances—and an election without meetings was unthinkable.
Forced to accept their decision, Kenyon informed them that as he was now a free agent he would volunteer at once for the mounted branch of the Special Police, but they asked him to refrain. Owing to the enormous pressure of business his services would be much more valuable in some administrative capacity. So he agreed to hold himself at their disposal.
Other business was discussed by the Party Chiefs before he left the meeting, so he found himself in the privileged position of attending the deliberations of a little group of men who, if not the actual Cabinet, were perhaps the most important political body after it. The information which he gathered was first-hand and authoritative.
The King’s death was a baseless rumour. The banks would definitely reopen on Monday, and the assignats which they proposed to issue would receive Government backing, thereby converting them into legal tender.
A serious split had occurred in the Cabinet over the question of Martial Law. A strong minority were for proclaiming it immediately throughout the kingdom, but the Labour, Liberal and weaker Conservative elements were averse to placing such power in the hands of the military. They instanced the highhanded action of the Scottish Commander and even suggested his recall. At that the Secretary of State for War had intimated grimly that if the old Tiger went, he would go too.
Glasgow had then been thrown on the television screen in the Cabinet Room, and except for sentries and Special Police the principal streets were seen to be quiet and orderly. The Minister for War had pointed out that the General’s action, together with a rigid enforcement of the curfew, had been solely responsible for the restoration of order; and urged a general proclamation of Martial Law in view of the desperate situation in South Wales.
Television had then been switched on to Cardiff, but the receiving screen remained blank, and it was evident that the transmitters there had been damaged, yet the Prime Minister would not give way and they had adjourned at eleven-thirty without reaching any decision on the point.
The naval situation was also causing bitter controversy, and the Secretary for the Dominions had stigmatised the action of the First Lord in recalling the disaffected ships to their home ports as ‘H’ay cowardly compromise calculated to do endless ’arm.’ Nor was his truculence pacified by the specious reasonings of the lawyers and schoolmarms among his colleagues who assured him that the ships were under-armed and that they feared a general mutiny in the Fleet.
The affair of Canvey Island made the Home Secretary irritable and nervy. The previous night he had ordered the Special Branch to round up three hundred and fifty of the leading Communists in London and intern them there, but the Reds had proved to be better organised than he knew. In the early morning the big convoy of police vans had been ambushed in the marshes when nearly at their destination. A horrible mêlée had ensued, and after a desperate fight against automatics, razors and sawn-off shotguns, the police had only succeeded in getting about half their prisoners on to the island. The rest had got clean away, and the Home Secretary was acutely conscious that only his personal jealousy of the War Minister had prevented him applying for the proper escort of troops and armoured cars which would have prevented such a disaster.
The Prime Minister likewise had a special worry of his own, for, without consulting him, the Prince had paid a visit to the Air Ministry and arranged for the dispatch of about forty planes to unknown destinations. The Minister of Air refused all explanations and offered his resignation, but as he was one of the few really popular figures among the masses the Prime Minister felt that this was no time to accept it. His Royal Highnesses action was in the highest degree unorthodox, and the Prime Minister resented it accordingly, but faced with the duty of reprimanding him he felt an exceedingly strong desire to postpone the interview.
His Royal Highness was proving difficult in other ways too, apparently. With tireless energy he motored or flew from place to place, and wherever he went they knew him to be in constant consultation with important pople who represented every shade of feeling. The only potentates whom he resolutely refused to interview were the principal members of the Government. He declared that authority had not been delegated to him, and therefore he was not prepared to take the responsibility of lending his countenance to their decisions. On the other hand the Prime Minister, the Chancellor of the Exchequer and the Home Secretary knew that he was in constant touch with the Secretaries of War, Air and the Dominions. The situation rankled.
Another nebulous but potent figure outside the Cabinet hovered on the Prime Minister’s horizon. Lord Llewellyn with his great private organisation of Greyshirts, formed it was said without political aims, but for the maintenance of law and order under established Government. The Prime Minister detested the autocratic Llewellyn, and had the gravest suspicions regarding his middle-class volunteers though it was denied t
hat they were in any way associated with the Fascists. However, Llewellyn having offered his legions as additional Special Police the Prime Minister had been compelled to accept them under pressure from his more belligerent colleagues, and official status was to be given to the Greyshirt army that evening.
The last and most disquieting piece of news which Kenyon learnt before he left the meeting was that the mutinous sailors from Portsmouth were now marching on London, not as a mob, but in well-disciplined formation, determined to lay their grievances before the Government.
The information had come through just as the Cabinet were breaking up after a five-hour session, and the Dominions Secretary had made the cynical but practical suggestion that the Prime Minister and First Lord should go to meet them. ‘’Ave a word with ‘em,’ he had urged as he lit a fresh cigar. ‘Talkin’s your big line—and the boys are only a bit excited, they don’t mean no ’arm!’
The Prime Minister, however, preferred that troops should be ordered out from Aldershot to head the sailors off and there, for the moment, the situation rested.
As Kenyon drove back to Grosvenor Square he was struck by the strange, unusual aspect of the streets. It might have been Sunday or some sort of bank-holiday. Less than half the ordinary number of buses were running, and there was hardly a trade van to be seen. Many shops were closed, and in front of others little knots of assistants stood chatting on the pavement. Some people were hurrying to and fro with unusual energy, others occupied the street corners in small groups—evidently swapping the latest rumours. There also seemed to be an unusually large proportion of a class alien to the West End in normal times. Gaunt, pale-faced workers in threadbare clothes, slouching along in little batches. Blue-coated police and Specials were dotted about in couples every hundred yards or so.
When he entered the residential district he was astonished by the activity which had invaded the quiet streets of Mayfair. Large private cars were being loaded up with trunks and boxes, and from many houses the more valuable possessions were being stowed into furniture vans.
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