‘But it’s exciting,’ Eddie pronounced, smiling at his uncle, whom he much admired.
‘It’s good for me, for my career on the paper,’ George admitted. ‘I am standing in for the chief royal correspondent, who is suffering from a bad attack of gout. He has trouble walking and is in great pain.’
‘You must tell him to remove all acidic food from his diet and to eat alkaline food,’ Esther remarked. She then added, ‘No red meat and no alcohol. I can give you a list, if you wish, George.’
Her middle son shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t dare pass it on,’ he answered with a laugh.
Harry said, ‘I have always been aware you know an awful lot about food, but I would like that list, Mother. If you’d make it for me, please. It’s useful information for a chef.’
‘Of course I will,’ Esther responded, wondering what he had done with the same list she had given him several years ago.
Once the discussion had finished about the trip to Scotland, the men spoke about politics, comparing Gladstone to Salisbury. They also wondered about the Queen’s long residency in Scotland, plus other matters to do with the royal family.
As they parted, they were all still talking, and James walked away from the Montague mansion with a smile on his face. His family meant so much to him. Yet he couldn’t help thinking about Irina. He was so drawn to her, so wanted to be in her company. Since the trip to Hull he was beginning to realize he was fascinated by her exotic beauty. This posed a dilemma for him because he was not sure how she felt about him.
Perhaps he would find a way to assess her feelings next week. He had invited her for dinner and he couldn’t wait to see her again.
SIXTEEN
Peter Keller’s favourite restaurant was called Chez Simone and was named after the owner’s wife. She came forward to greet them as they walked in; hurrying behind her was her husband, Gaston.
The couple greeted them effusively. Peter responded in perfect French, which he had learned at boarding school.
As Gaston led them to one of the best tables in a quiet corner, James glanced around. He had forgotten how charming it was, the decor similar to a French country kitchen, according to Peter.
After giving each of them a menu, Gaston said, ‘I shall return with a small token of our appreciation.’ He had spoken in English for James’s benefit, but usually he and Peter conversed in French.
Settling back in the chair, James said, ‘I’d forgotten how cosy and cheerful this place is, and very French.’
‘Don’t forget how good the food is too,’ Peter answered, glad that he had invited James here and not taken him to one of his other preferred watering holes.
James and Peter both chose sole meunière and steamed vegetables, but promised Gaston they would let him select a special dessert for them. This brought a smile to the proprietor’s face as he hurried towards the kitchen.
Gaston had poured each of them a glass of champagne and, as they sipped it, James and Peter talked about various matters. Henry Malvern had put his cousin Percy’s betrayal behind him, and moved on. He was a man who refused to dwell on the past. Soon, however, James leaned closer to Peter and said in a quiet voice, ‘To pick up about Malvern’s again, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think we’ll soon be facing problems in the Property Division.’
Peter was so startled he sat gaping at James without saying a word. Finally he found his voice. ‘But the Property Division is showing up very well on the books. I know Edgar Robinson recently audited them. Obviously he didn’t see anything wrong.’
‘And you won’t either, and neither will Mr Malvern. But the Hull expansion, and my own long-term dream, means that I study the real-estate markets very diligently. Soon there is going to be a fall in the prices of houses, flats, and especially shops. As for warehouses, they’ll be selling at rock bottom. Especially those on the docks in the East End.’
Peter was troubled; he sat shaking his head, a stark expression in his eyes. Eventually he said, ‘How can you be sure of this, James; how do you know it’s going to happen?’
‘I told you. I study the markets. Imports and exports are lower and continue to drop, although so very slowly it’s not that noticeable at the moment. Houses in Wimbledon, Kensington and in the Hampstead area will start dropping, losing in value. But it’s the warehouses on the docks that will suffer. And we own quite a few. Don’t forget that.’
‘Oh my God, we do! When are you going to tell Mr Malvern? And what are you going to do about our property holdings?’
‘Hopefully Mr Malvern will see the sense in selling a few buildings. Certainly I shall attempt to persuade him to go along with me. If we retrench a little we will protect ourselves.’
Peter frowned. ‘How do you focus in on all this? I think you must have some kind of spirit helper whispering in your ear.’
James couldn’t help grinning. ‘I have a pair of eyes and a strong gut instinct. That’s what works for me. I’ve seen a drop in retail sales in my favourite store, Fortnum and Mason. And we are a little down on sales in our arcades in London. Not in Leeds and Harrogate because the North is doing well. Now, because exports are down, manufacturers are producing fewer goods, which means some workers have been laid off. I know there are a lot of people in need of money. And then there’re the farmers. Their profits are down for the same reason. People are skint, can barely afford the necessities of life. England may look booming but it is in the doldrums.’
‘I’ve just lost my appetite for dessert,’ Peter muttered, staring at James. ‘So how is the Malvern Company going to survive this, might I ask?’
‘I don’t know yet, but I’ll come up with a few ideas. I think we can weather the oncoming storm.’
After leaving Chez Simone, James and Peter walked through the streets of Soho. They’d talked longer than planned and it was later than they’d intended: they would have to go to the second show at the music hall. But they didn’t care – they were young and often stayed up late, and the shows were always great at any time.
They were still talking about the difference between the North and South of England and how the North seemed to continue to prosper no matter what, when Peter exclaimed, ‘Look! That little street over there. It’s a shortcut. I’ve taken it before. It will save us time, and we’ll get to the music hall much quicker.’
James followed the direction of his gaze. ‘You know best, since you frequent this area more than I do. So come on then, let’s go.’
The two men crossed the road and entered the street. James realized at once that it was dark, more like an alley, narrow and quite long. He wished there were street lamps.
There were no other pedestrians; it was empty. They walked on at a steady pace, their steps sure despite the pitch darkness.
Suddenly Peter grabbed James’s arm. ‘Don’t look round. Keep walking. I believe there’s somebody following us.’
‘Why follow us? It could be someone walking slowly, that’s all,’ James replied. However, his mind instantly went on total alert. He became fully aware of his surroundings.
‘Two men,’ Peter said in a low voice. ‘It might be ordinary folk or it could be thieves thinking we’re an easy target. When I say now, I want you to swing around to face them with your hands up, as if you’re ready to punch them. Before they hit us.’
‘I understand. Go on the attack at once.’
‘Yes. And I’ll be in the same position. I’ve studied martial arts and I have a few good manoeuvres.’
‘Got it. We’ll take them by surprise.’
‘Let’s walk a few more steps and then we’ll make our stand when I say the word.’
James did as Peter said, although inside he was now feeling nervous, remembering the bruisers who had attacked him and his childhood friend Dennis several years ago. Denny had died from his wounds.
‘Now!’ Peter hissed and swung around.
James followed suit.
They were facing two men dressed entirely in black, barely visib
le in the dark alley. They were close on their heels. Probably ready to assault them, but Peter’s unexpected swivel and his lurch forward had taken the men by surprise. He ran towards the bigger of the two men, shouting tauntingly, ‘Come on. Come and get it.’
The heavy-set man took the bait and headed for Peter. The other assailant was not far behind but was panting heavily, seemed less robust.
Just as the first attacker drew closer, ready to punch Peter and start to fight, Peter kicked his right leg in the air. The front of his heavy boot hit the man in the crotch, and very hard. Right on the mark, Peter thought.
The man screamed and bent double, clutching himself, still crying out in pain.
His partner, infuriated, made a dash for James, who was standing to one side. But James had been taught how to fight by his uncles.
He moved swiftly, dodged the punches and skipped out of range. The two men danced around each other. Then James saw his chance. He managed to give his assailant a sudden right-handed punch on the jaw. He kept on punching until the man went down. But the man jumped up quickly, unexpectedly full of vigour, fighting mad.
He attempted to tackle James, but Peter intervened and pulled the mugger away, smashing him on his shoulders and the back of his neck and head. The man crumpled.
Just at that moment, there was the sound of a woman screaming, and then a man’s voice shouting, ‘Police! Police!’
James glanced down the alley towards the Soho end and saw the couple. They were agitated and gesturing wildly. Then the man ran towards James, obviously determined to help. Before he reached them, the sound of police whistles heralded the arrival of the two coppers on the beat, doing their nightly rounds.
The bruiser Peter had kicked in the groin still lay in a huddled heap on the cobblestones, doubled over and holding himself, groaning. His partner in crime was slumped against a wall. At the sight of the bobbies carrying truncheons and running hell for leather down the alley, he slid down onto the cobbles and covered his face with one arm, trying to protect himself.
When the policemen came to a stop, one of them looked intently at James. Frowning, he stared again, peering at him in the darkness.
‘Mr Falconer?’ He spoke hesitantly, as if uncertain. ‘Surely it can’t be you? Surely not.’
James was as surprised as the police officer and stepped closer. ‘I’m afraid it is, Sergeant Owen. And here you are, come to my rescue yet again.’ He stretched out his hand, and the sergeant shook it. It was the same officer who had dealt with a street attack on James three years before.
‘This is my new partner, Constable Jerry Cookson. Soho is now my beat.’
James shook hands with Cookson and introduced Keller. ‘So, what’s happened here, Mr Falconer? It looks as if you’ve been subjected to an assault.’ The sergeant raised a brow.
James nodded. He then stepped towards the man who had come to their aid after shouting for the police. ‘Thank you,’ he said, glancing at him, offering his hand.
The young man took it. ‘It’s the least I could do. I wanted to get them.’
Turning back to Sergeant Mick Owen, James explained who the young man was and how he had come running down the alley wanting to assist, to help rescue them.
Sergeant Owen inclined his head. ‘Brave of you to do that,’ he observed. ‘Not many would intervene in the middle of a melee like that. May I have your name and address, please, sir? Just as a witness.’ He pulled out his notebook as he spoke.
‘My name’s Billy Watters, sir.’
Sergeant Owen was taken aback. ‘Not the Billy Watters, the lightweight boxing champion?’
‘That’s me.’ The young champion grinned.
‘Good heavens!’ the sergeant exclaimed.
James said, ‘I thought I knew your face, but I couldn’t quite place you. Nice to meet you.’
The young man said, ‘And you too, Mr Falconer. Look, I left my wife standing at the far end of the alley. I’d like to go to her, take her home.’ He gave Sergeant Owen a questioning look. ‘Is that all right?’
‘Yes, go and look after your wife. You might be called as a witness at their trial. My constable will take your details.’ He glanced at the two assailants, inert on the cobblestones. ‘And thank you for being a good citizen.’
‘I’ll be available, Sergeant Owen.’ He looked at Constable Cookson and smiled. The bobby nodded, his expression friendly. He had always admired the boxer.
‘So what happened here, Mr Falconer?’ the sergeant asked.
‘Keller and I had left a Soho restaurant, Chez Simone, and Keller, who knows the area, suggested we take a shortcut down this alley.’ James glanced at Peter. ‘You can explain the rest, Keller.’
Peter did so. The two policemen listened carefully. When the story was told, Sergeant Owen asked, ‘And neither of you knows these two assailants?’
‘I’ve never seen them before,’ James answered.
‘And I haven’t either,’ Peter Keller said firmly. ‘They’re total strangers.’
Constable Cookson said, ‘Were you targeted?’
‘I don’t believe so,’ Keller answered.
‘And I don’t think so either,’ James agreed.
‘So you were spotted leaving a good restaurant and followed by these two thieves, in all probability, who thought you were easy prey. Is that it?’ Sergeant Owen asked, a worried look in his eyes.
There was a moment of silence. James shrugged. ‘I think that is the only possible scenario. We’re both presentably dressed, obviously had a bit of money on us, and they tracked us down here. That was our mistake and might have been a serious one, if Peter hadn’t sensed their presence and come up with a plan.’
‘And there was great luck that Billie Watters saw the attack and was courageous enough to get involved,’ Peter remarked.
Sergeant Owen nodded vehemently. ‘It was a woman screaming that caught our attention. We were nearby.’
‘And we heard a man yelling for the police and so we ran,’ Constable Cookson explained.
‘We’d better cuff these two,’ the sergeant announced. He and the constable did so.
The two attackers were then propped up against the wall, and the sergeant addressed them. ‘You’ll be taken to jail in the police wagon when it comes. You will be tried in a court of law. I am now charging you with assault and battery, with intent to rob. Give me your names.’
Neither man spoke. The sergeant stood waiting, notebook in hand. ‘Your names!’ he finally shouted, a snarl in his tone.
‘Sid Puller,’ the heavy-set man muttered.
His partner said, ‘Johnny Clark.’
‘Give me your addresses,’ Sergeant Owen demanded.
‘We live on’t bleeding streets,’ Puller replied. ‘We ain’t rich, yer knows.’
The sergeant glared at them and stepped away. He beckoned to the constable and said, ‘Go to the station and come back with a police wagon. These two need to be behind bars. They’re not going to talk.’
‘Right away, Sergeant.’
Mick Owen added, ‘I’ll wait here with Mr Falconer and Mr Keller. It’ll be nice to chat for a few minutes. But make it quick, Cookson.’
Once they were alone, Sergeant Owen frowned at James. ‘Don’t use this shortcut ever again, and don’t go down dark streets. They are dangerous. London is the greatest city in the world and it draws people. Good folk, yes, come to enjoy it. But there are bad people, as well. A city like this is a magnet for people from all over the world these days.’
‘We know that, Sergeant Owen,’ James said. ‘We’ll be careful.’
‘That’s good to know. Beware of those who are very bad – foreigners who head here, such as the crooks, criminals, and the anarchists out to make trouble – and especially look out for thieves.’ He glanced at the two handcuffed assailants. ‘Like these two.’
SEVENTEEN
On their way home, James Falconer and Peter Keller agreed not to mention the events of the night before, or talk about it between
themselves in the office. It would cause too much chitter-chatter. Also, they did not want Mr Malvern to hear about it because it would undoubtedly upset him. So they put their heads down the next morning and got on with their work, dismissing all thoughts of their assailants, now in police custody.
By four o’clock in the afternoon James felt tired, and his neck and shoulders ached. He was not used to throwing punches and dodging around like a boxer. It was unlike him to leave the office early, but he felt weary and needed to be at home.
Walking down Piccadilly on this lovely July afternoon helped him. He adjusted his posture in an effort to stand taller, and made his way to Half Moon Street. Once inside the flat, he relaxed, took off his jacket, and sat down with The Chronicle in the living room.
His hand ached and he rubbed it, closing his eyes for a moment, reliving the rush of adrenaline he had felt on realizing they were being followed. He still carried the scar of the street attack that Sergeant Owen had referred to, which had cost his childhood friend his life. London was a violent city, but he was troubled by this second attack. James’s thoughts turned for a moment to Hull.
Opening his eyes, he read the front page and flipped to the inside. He did not look for his uncle’s by-line because he had only just left for Scotland. Uncle George was joining the press corps on their jaunt to Balmoral to cover the arrival of the Prince of Wales.
Leaning back in the comfortable armchair, James let the paper drop on the floor and closed his eyes again, his thoughts on the Queen’s heir.
He had always had a soft spot for their future king and shared his uncle’s opinion that Prince Albert Edward had never been treated properly by his mother.
Seemingly she blamed her son for her husband’s premature death after he caught a chill.
Not valid, his uncle had said at the time, and they both still believed this to be the truth.
Unexpected knocking on the front door of the flat caused James to jump up and walk across the room. When he opened the door, he was totally taken aback. Standing there was Irina, looking lovely in a russet-coloured day dress and a matching hat, a vibrant silk shawl hanging from her arms. She had a bright smile on her face.
In the Lion's Den Page 11