by Maggie Joel
He saw before his eyes the naked girl—a whore, of course—with blood spilling down her face, and he ran.
CHAPTER TWENTY
SUNDAY DAWNED SLUGGISHLY AND RELUCTANTLY, a faint greyish glow in the east being the only indication of the new day. The lamps in Cadogan Square were extinguished one by one by the elderly lamplighter, who now began the long journey home to his lodgings south of the river, and a muffled and solitary flower seller set up her pitch in the centre of the square. Just around the corner in the mews a few hardy robins squabbled for scraps and outside number 19 the kitchen cat yowled indignantly until someone grumblingly let him in. The church bells across the city had begun the call to Morning Prayer and Mr Jarmyn learnt that his office had been firebombed.
He listened in silence as an inspector of police in a damp coat which he had refused to remove and a limp moustache that seemed better suited to a vaudeville villain stood in his study solemnly relating the events.
‘Happened late last evening, sir. No one has as yet been apprehended, sorry to say.’ Here he paused. ‘I understand there has been unrest outside your offices in recent weeks? And that there was some kind of a disturbance right here at your house just a few nights ago?’
‘There was some unpleasantness on Monday evening, yes. My housekeeper dealt with it. And it is true we do appear to have attracted the attention of various public-spirited bodies at our offices. It is a fact of life, Inspector, that people will protest. And the factory owners, the mill owners, the directors of railway companies—the men, in short, who built this country, who created its wealth, who give these people their employment—we are, sad to say, an easy target for any grievance, real or imagined.’
‘I see.’ The inspector consulted a small pocket-book.
Here the conversation was temporarily halted as Mrs Logan came in carrying coffee on a tray, just as though the visitor were some acquaintance come to discuss an investment opportunity in the Americas and not an inspector of the Metropolitan Police here to announce that a man had firebombed the office. Lucas welcomed the interruption for it seemed commonplace, comforting, when the rest of his Sunday morning suddenly seemed neither. At a nod from him, Mrs Logan placed the tray on the table and wordlessly withdrew. He ignored the part of him that wished she would remain.
The coffee in a small silver pot steamed gently, releasing a delicate aroma but Lucas made no move to pour it out. The inspector’s coat, he noted, gave out a dank, wintery odour mingled unpleasantly with coal smoke and horses. He suspected that the coat and the limp moustache was a facade, that the eyes that watched him saw everything and his tirade earlier about the protestors now appeared faintly ridiculous.
‘There was a recent train crash, was there not, Mr Jarmyn,’ the inspector prompted, ‘on your own railway line, I believe?’
‘Certainly,’ Lucas acknowledged. The inspector was clearly pleased with himself for knowing about the train accident, though it was hardly a feat of detection, was it?—the crash and subsequent inquiry having been widely reported in all the newspapers. ‘Am I to understand that you believe the men responsible for this incident harbour some sort of personal grievance against us—against me? That they were deliberately targeting our office because of this accident?’
‘This is my belief, yes, sir. In my experience these things are rarely random events. There is always a reason. A rational man tends not to go to the trouble of making a home-made bomb and letting it off in a busy office building unless he has reason to.’
‘A rational man? You think this the act of a rational man?’
‘I do not presume to think either way, sir. My job is merely to apprehend the offender and ensure he is handed over to a court of law so that he can receive a fair trial. The rest is up to a jury. And perhaps a couple of the right sort of doctors.’
Lucas reached behind for a chair and sat down.
‘I find all this a little hard to take in,’ he said.
‘I dare say you do, sir,’ remarked the inspector in his tiresome world-weary way. ‘And you can think of nothing that might have led to this action? No injustice done? No affront or slight—no matter how small it may seem to you?’
‘It—no. As I have said, I am aware of nothing.’
‘I see, sir. Then no doubt whoever did this act is a madman, as you suggest, and it is simply bad luck he chose your premises on which to unleash his madness.’
‘But what of the damage? Was anyone hurt? I should go there at once.’ Lucas stood up, filled with a sense of urgency that had been curiously lacking when the inspector had first made his announcement.
‘As you wish, sir, though the place remains a crime scene for the time being. No one hurt so far as we can ascertain.’ The inspector took one last glance at his notebook then flipped it shut and put it away in his pocket. ‘A nasty business,’ he observed as though he wished to somehow prolong the interview when Lucas was anxious now to depart. ‘If you think of anything that might assist I’d be obliged if you’d let me know. Otherwise, thank you for your time, Mr Jarmyn, and I am sorry I had to disturb you on a Sunday with such unsettling news.’
And though he was impatient now to be off Lucas made himself wait at the window till the man had departed, which he did, though not without pausing to look up at the house for a long moment. A caped constable held open the door of a waiting carriage, the two horses stamping their feet and snorting restlessly, and then they did, at last, leave.
Someone had firebombed his office. The office his father had worked in, the railway his father had built. Lucas sat down again. He ought to feel outrage but instead he felt a flicker of fear. Someone had wanted to hurt him, had wanted to hurt his business, had targeted his family. He thought about the man who had come to the house demanding to see him the night of the dinner. Brinklow. Was it the same man? If he had spoken to the fellow that night might he have prevented what had happened? He ought to have given the man’s name to the inspector.
‘Lucas, why did you say such a thing to that man? It was untrue.’
Aurora stood in the doorway, in a gown of forest-green. The plush velvet hugged her thighs then flared out behind to a discreet train. It was a trick of the dress, surely—the styles changed so rapidly—but this woman was not the same person as the young bride who had stood at his side twenty years earlier. Her hand rested on the doorknob, lingering there, as though she had some business to be standing thus in his study, and he felt the fury rise in him.
‘Aurora. How long have you been standing there?’
She laughed, a little oddly. ‘Am I to announce my presence like a housemaid, in my own home?’
She came into the room, her eyes flickering from place to place as though seeing nothing and everything at once. A report was open on the desk and he fought the urge to close it and put it away somewhere.
He ignored her question.
‘And am I to be accused of lying in my own home?’ he said. She flinched at this but he turned away to face the window rather than look at her. Once he would have flayed his own skin rather than tell her a falsehood. Now it seemed that every second thing he told her was untrue.
In the street below the family from the house at the end of the mews were returning home from church, the husband tenderly holding his wife’s arm to guide her around a frozen puddle. Lucas averted his eyes, finding the scene distasteful. ‘And what exactly is this lie of which you accuse me?’
‘My dear, I was merely pointing out that a man attacks your office and you say you can think of no reason for it, you say you can think of nothing that might have led to this action—’
Her words mocked him whether she intended it or not and his fury doubled. ‘You believe I absolve myself of any guilt whatsoever? You think I am unaware that people were killed in that latest accident? That I do not know how many were injured?’ At the window Lucas observed the sunlight diminish before his eyes into a tiny white dot surrounded by dark and impenetrable mist. ‘You think I have, perhaps, forgotten?’
‘My father purchased this house,’ he went on, softly, making this remark to the street outside the window as he could no longer bear to look on the face that had once made him feel like the luckiest man alive.
‘My dear, I did not mean to suggest—’
‘His father—my grandfather—was an itinerant weaver who died in an East London slum. He died in poverty. My father was self-taught. An illiterate child from a workhouse who taught himself to read and write, who became a clerk in an office, who rose to be owner of a railway company. A boy from the workhouse!’
He paused. She knew the story but she listened silently.
‘And he made his fortune despite that. He purchased this house. And now we live in it. Our children have a tutor and attend lectures at Oxford University. Our daughter sits on committees and discusses ways to help the poor. My wife pays calls and takes afternoon tea. We are fortunate, are we not?’ He did not wait for her reply. ‘And it is the railway whence our wealth derives. No doubt you think I should close the railway? That I should lay off all those whose livelihood depends on it?’
She was shaken, he could see that. ‘You misrepresent me. I do not presume to understand the world of business. I merely observed that what you said to the policeman was not true and I wondered why that was—’
‘My honour—my family’s honour—is not in question. It is above reproach!’
He turned around at last to face her and saw her shock. It was there in the whiteness of her face, in the tremor that rippled through her, for she knew, of course, that his words were a reference to her own family, to the Kolarov Affair, a bungled Foreign Office incident involving the Bulgarian Embassy, some crucially mislaid ministry papers and an unfortunate leader in The Times that had put an untimely end to her father’s political career some thirty years earlier. The scandal had sent the Hon. Griffin to an early grave and plunged his widow and young daughter into a social abyss.
Aurora made no reply. Lucas was aware that her father’s downfall still shamed and embittered her and for this reason he never made reference to it. It was unworthy of him now to bring it up, cruel even, yet he felt nothing.
He did not see her leave as he was again studying the street below but he felt her absence in the room. After a long moment he quit the study and went downstairs, fetching his coat but, on failing to immediately locate his hat and gloves, he left the house without them.
Outside, yesterday’s snow had mostly melted but what was left had turned to ice and a wind was whistling down the mews. He paused on the doorstep as the wind whipped his face and stung his eyes and for a moment filled his senses so that he could no longer think.
‘Mr Jarmyn. Your gloves and hat!’
He turned around, dazed, to find Mrs Logan standing at the doorway. He looked down and saw the gloves and hat that she was holding out to him. He could think of no reply.
‘Your gloves and hat,’ she repeated, more gently this time. ‘You ought not go out in this weather without them.’
‘No. Indeed, Mrs Logan, you are quite right,’ and he allowed her to put them into his hands.
‘It might snow again,’ she added.
‘Yes. Yes, I believe it might.’ He smiled rather vaguely at her and placed the hat on his head and the gloves on his hands, then a slight frown creased his face as for a moment he was unable to recall exactly where he was going or with what purpose.
‘You were perhaps going to your club, Mr Jarmyn?’
His face cleared and he nodded.
‘Of course. My club. Thank you, Mrs Logan. Thank you,’ and he set off.
Only when he had walked the length of Cadogan Mews and turned the corner into the square and out of sight did Mrs Logan close the front door, smothering a shiver. She went silently up the stairs to his study and when she came down she was carrying Mr Jarmyn’s ivory-topped cane, which he had left behind. She brought it downstairs to the hallway and placed it carefully in the cane rack, giving the ivory handle a little polish with her apron then rearranging it so that it stood more upright. She stood back and, satisfied it was secured, returned to her duties.
And Dinah, who was standing at the far end of the hallway in the shadow of the staircase and who had watched, felt a flicker of unease in the pit of her stomach.
Mr Jarmyn did not, in fact, go to his club. When he reached the end of Cadogan Mews he hailed a passing hansom and instructed the driver to take him to Half Mitre Street in the City.
It was a bitterly cold morning and he was grateful to Mrs Logan for forcing his gloves and hat on him. Inside the hansom the windows were drawn up firmly yet his breath hung in the air before him. Ice had formed on the inside of the windows so that he could not see out without scraping a small hole with his gloved finger.
His cane. He had forgotten to bring his cane.
The hansom moved swiftly through Holborn and was soon turning into Half Mitre Street, at which moment the horse shied violently and Lucas was thrown forwards out of the seat, jarring his knee and cracking his elbow painfully. Outside he heard the crack of a whip and a curse from the driver as they were both flung about. A man’s shout followed and Lucas heard the panicked clatter of the horse’s hooves on the cobbles as someone attempted to calm it. It was eventually stilled and the door to the hansom was flung open and Kemp’s head was thrust in.
‘Jarmyn! Good Lord! Didn’t see it was you in there. Are you all right? A girl ran out in front of the horse and that damn-fool driver couldn’t control it.’
Lucas had by now righted himself. He retrieved his hat which had been knocked off and dusted himself off. His left knee throbbed painfully.
‘Quite all right, thank you, Kemp. The girl—’
‘Oh, not a scratch on her. Scooted off with never a backward glance. The urchins that inhabit these streets have as many lives as an alley cat, you know. They’re indestructible. Come, let us go inside, this cold air cannot be healthy.’
A constable was standing near the horse, loudly admonishing the driver of the cab.
‘A somewhat providential presence,’ Lucas observed, indicating the policeman.
‘Not at all. The fellow is stationed here. On duty outside our offices,’ and Kemp nodded to the constable, who returned his nod with a stiff salute.
He led the way up the front steps and, following him, Lucas paused and saw for the first time that the front door was smashed to pieces and that scorch marks surrounded the doorway and steps. Inside the front office walls and carpet were similarly marked and a powerful smell of smoke and burnt fittings assailed him. The drapes lay blackened and smouldering in a corner of the room. There was water damage too, where someone had attempted to quench the fire, and his foot squelched into the sodden carpet.
Good God, he thought as the realisation began to sink in that someone had wanted to burn his father’s company down.
Kemp gave the damage no more than a cursory glance as he led them up the stairs to the directors’ offices. It was only when they had gone through to his own office and he had closed the door behind them that he addressed his fellow director. ‘I presume, Jarmyn, that you have been visited by a representative of Her Majesty’s Metropolitan Police and are fully informed of the incident?’
‘I have been and I am.’
‘Sinclair was here, you know, when it happened.’
‘I did not know, no.’
‘Well, I gather the miscreant posed less of a threat than the police would have us believe. According to Sinclair it was little more than a disagreement.’
‘Dear God, Kemp, our doorway has been torched. Somewhat more than a disagreement, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I believe it is a question of relativity. Context.’
Lucas raised both eyebrows incredulously. ‘By whi
ch you mean that a firebombing of our office hardly compares to, say, an explosion in a factory resulting in the deaths of countless workers? Or indeed, to a railway accident with a similar outcome?’
‘Quite so.’
‘By the same token, then, a firebombing can hardly be compared to a dispute over an unpaid bill nor, indeed, to a near-accident in a hansom resulting in a slightly bruised knee? It is, in point of fact, a damned sight more significant.’
‘Don’t split hairs, Jarmyn. And I’m sorry about your knee. Do you require medical assistance?’
‘No, I do not. The knee—though undoubtedly it is bruised—was merely used to illustrate my point. You do take my point?’
‘Of course.’ Kemp perched on the edge of his desk and reached for the box of cigars that resided there, and procured two. He tore the end off of one and placed it in his mouth, offering the other to his colleague, who irritably shook his head. ‘Of course I take your point, Jarmyn,’ Kemp resumed. ‘There is no doubt as to that. But do you, I wonder, take mine? Which, in point of fact, is Sinclair’s.’ He lit the cigar and puffed contentedly once or twice. ‘The facts are these: Sinclair was here on his own working late, on measures, you understand, to improve the safety of the railway—’
‘What measures?
Kemp ignored this interruption, ‘—when he heard a commotion outside. Sparing little thought for his own safety, Sinclair ran out to discover the cause of the disturbance and found the front door smashed open, a lighted device burning on the carpet, drapes alight and the whole place filled with smoke. It was dark of course so no way to see anyone but he said there was merry hell going on outside in the street: shouts and running and he thought he was under attack.’
‘Good God, man, he was under attack!’
‘Sinclair did what he could to deaden the flames and a couple of constables turned up—too late to be of any use—and he was obliged to go off down to the police station and make a statement,’ Kemp went on, sitting back and puffing a number of times in silence. ‘And I should say that this so-called “bomb” was little more than a home-made affair consisting of a bottle of alcohol and a spill. Very primitive. It is entirely likely it would have caused no damage whatsoever.’