Small Change 03: Half A Crown

by Jo Walton

  “Belonging to a seditious organization is very far from nothing,” he said. “Being engaged to one of the leaders of that organization is very far from nothing. But perhaps you didn’t know that?”

  “What?” I asked, genuinely confused.

  “Come and sit down,” he said, in a much gentler voice. I walked over to the desk and sat where he indicated. The redhead sat beside me, and Penn-Barkis sat on the other side of the desk. “Perhaps you didn’t know that the British Power movement, also known as the Britain First movement, was a seditious organization?”

  “Not until the riot,” I said. “But I’m not a member.”

  “Are you the member of any Ironsides group?” he asked.

  “No,” I confessed, as if it was a failing.

  “But you went along to the rally.” Again, his voice took on that “more in sorrow than in anger” tone.

  “I already went through all this at Paddington,” I said, looking at the redhead, who looked back blankly. “I went to the rally thinking it would be good clean patriotic fun.”

  “At Paddington you said that Elizabeth Maynard was engaged to Sir Alan Bellingham,” the redhead said. “Now we know you are engaged to him yourself. Can you explain this?”

  I must have looked horribly guilty, because of course I couldn’t explain it sensibly. “I’m not engaged to him,” I said. “He did propose to me, but I haven’t given him an answer. For one thing I wanted to talk to Miss Maynard.”

  “Sir Alan certainly seems to think you’re engaged. He hasn’t put an announcement in the papers, but he’s been telling everyone at his club,” Penn-Barkis said.

  “I don’t intend to marry him,” I said, which is what I should have said in the first place. I decided to be honest. If everyone talks in the end, why wait? “The fact is that Betsy, Miss Maynard, didn’t want to marry him either, and she asked me to lead him on so that he would stop bothering her. I was doing that. Neither of us want to marry him.”

  Both men looked extremely skeptical. “And why would that be?” the redhead asked.

  “Because we don’t like him,” I said.

  “Could you expand on that a little?” Penn-Barkis asked, leaning forward and folding his fingers together. “Why don’t you like him?”

  “He has that beard,” I said. “And besides, there’s something I just don’t like about him.”

  “Would that be his connection with British Power?” the redhead asked.

  “I don’t like that either, but I meant something more subjective.”

  “You’re very anxious to distance yourself from him,” Penn-Barkis put in.

  Clearly, I thought, Sir Alan was right when he said he might have got in too deep with the British Power thing and need protection, but any protection Uncle Carmichael might have offered would have come too late. “I’m telling the truth,” I said.

  “So how did you and Miss Maynard come to be associated with him, if neither of you like him?” the redhead asked.

  I looked at him incredulously. “Her parents like him. They pretty much insisted she spend time with him. We didn’t have much choice in the matter.”

  “And why do her parents like him? Would that be for his political connections, or for his financial ones?” Penn-Barkis asked.

  “I think Lady Bellingham is a friend of Mrs. Maynard’s,” I said. “And Sir Alan does something with Mr. Maynard, probably financial. I don’t know. I expect Mr. Maynard is explaining it all to someone even now.”

  “No doubt,” Penn-Barkis said, steepling his fingers again. “Well, and what is Commander Carmichael’s connection with British Power?”

  “None,” I said. “He was asking me about it after the riot.”

  “What did he ask you?”

  “What you asked me. Why I went, how the riot happened, that kind of thing.”

  “When the riot began, you were right in front of the rostrum. Why were you there, exactly, rather than somewhere else?” Penn-Barkis asked.

  “Sir Alan said that the best music would be there. And he was right, the singer was awfully good, before he started inciting the riot.” I thought that might have been the wrong thing to say, because they exchanged significant looks.

  “Had you heard him sing before?” the redhead asked.

  “No, never.” I was sure of that.

  “Not in a nightclub? He used to sing in the Blue Nile from time to time,” he persisted.

  “I’ve never been to the Blue Nile,” I admitted, and I really did feel guilty, because I hated to sound so unsophisticated. “Sir Alan had offered to take us there after the rally, but that never happened.”

  The two men exchanged a glance. “To return to your so-called uncle, your guardian, Commander Carmichael,” Penn-Barkis said. “Do you know of any seditious or criminal activity of his?”

  I immediately thought of Mrs. Talbot and the words I’d overheard. “No,” I said, quickly, hoping he couldn’t read my face.

  “And how long have you been aware of his homosexuality?”

  “What?” I asked, absolutely flabbergasted. “Uncle Carmichael? Homosexuality?” But in all the years I’d known him I’d never seen him with a woman, or heard so much as a hint of one, I thought. I’d always assumed he was married to his job. I thought of his embarrassment at Aunt Katherine’s question, and how absolutely wrong it had felt.

  “He and his servant have an intimate relationship,” Penn-Barkis sneered. “You didn’t know?”

  “No,” I agreed. “I had no idea.” Jack. It made sense of all kinds of things. I was revolted. I screwed my face up, feeling as if I had a bad taste in my mouth.

  “So what criminal or seditious activities were you in fact aware of?” Penn-Barkis asked, while my lip was still curling.

  18

  “Drink, Carmichael?” Tibs said, as they wiped the makeup off. The Duke of Windsor had been whisked away, and General Nakajima swallowed up by a group of other Japanese. He sounded quite different speaking Japanese; no longer relaxed and American but vehement and Oriental. “I could certainly do with one.”

  “Yes, a quick one,” Carmichael said. “Somewhere round here? Or I’ve got a car waiting.”

  “There’s quite a nice pub just down by the river, one with a garden where we could sit outside and watch the boats,” Tibs said. “It’s one of Guy’s haunts, I’ve been there with him. Poor Guy. His wife’s having an affair, you know, and he’s dreadfully cut up about it.”

  “Poor Guy,” Carmichael agreed.

  “At least we’ll never have that kind of problem!” Tibs said, with a conspiratorial smile.

  “I suppose not,” Carmichael said, wincing inwardly, and wishing he hadn’t agreed to a drink.

  Tibs led the way out of Broadcasting House and down along the Embankment. “On the whole, I think that went quite well,” he said. “Lots of surprises, but we more than held our end up.”

  “I’m convinced the Duke of Windsor is in with the British Power lot. He made my skin crawl to listen to him,” Carmichael said.

  “Women and weaklings,” Tibs said, as they reached the pub, the Moon Under Water. “That won’t go down well with Mark. I hope you’re keeping a close eye on him.”

  Carmichael stopped just outside the door of the pub. “I thought we were,” he said. “But I don’t know who authorized him to appear on that program. Oh, I don’t doubt Bannon asked him in all innocence, I know Bannon, but it would have needed approval from the Ministry of Information, and they should have asked us. The problem is that he has a lot of friends and we don’t know how long he’s been planning this.”

  “He’s a bit prominent to arrest on the off chance,” Tibs said. “Hold on a minute while I get them in.”

  The interior of the pub was dark after the evening sunlight outside, and Carmichael blinked for a moment as Tibs made for the bar. “Just a half for me,” he called. It seemed a nice enough place, quiet on a Sunday evening, some old men playing dominoes in one corner and a few younger men standing by the bar.r />
  “Guy!” Tibs said, delighted. “I half wondered if you’d be here.”

  “Tibs!” Sir Guy replied, with equal enthusiasm. He sounded drunk.

  “Sir Guy,” Carmichael said, warily, coming up to the bar and putting out his hand. Sir Guy Braithwaite was the Foreign Secretary, a position he had held for the last two years, since the death of the previous Foreign Secretary, Richard Francis, in a hunting accident. He had been knighted the year before in the Birthday Honours, and was widely seen as a rising star. The Farthing Set tended to be close-knit and didn’t give many opportunities to rise. Sir Guy was fast on his feet and made himself useful. Carmichael had done his background checks and knew he had the right background, Eton and Cambridge, but not much money or influence. His father had been no more than a diplomat, not even rising to ambassador.

  “Commander Carmichael,” Sir Guy said, shaking his hand. “How nice to see you off duty. I assume you’re off duty, as you’re in a pub.”

  “I’ve been in pubs often enough in the line of duty, but I am off duty tonight,” Carmichael said. “Tibs and I have just been on the telly.”

  “And we need a drink!” Tibs said. “I’ll get them, and let’s sit outside.”

  “Is it warm enough?” Sir Guy asked, draining his glass. “I don’t normally sit out until June.”

  “It’s a mild night,” Carmichael said.

  Sir Guy got up and led the way out to the little garden, which was deserted. “Nobody else thinks it’s warm enough,” he said, sitting down on a chair with his back to the water. “Leave room for Tibs where he can see the boats, that’s why he wants to be outside. If he can’t look at a horse, he wants to look at a boat. He’s always been the same.”

  “Have you known him a long time?” Carmichael asked, taking another chair. The Thames was very low, and nothing was visible on it at the moment except a little lighter moored on the south bank.

  “I was his fag at Eton,” Sir Guy said. “I didn’t know him much after that, until we were both in politics. He was older than me, and it seems to matter so much more at that age. At Cambridge—well, at Cambridge we were all ready to make a new world. This isn’t quite the world I signed on for, if you want to know, but you have to make the best of what you’ve got.” He stared vacantly at nothing. “My tutor at Cambridge was a wonderful chap,” he confided.

  Tibs reappeared, carrying three large whiskies, which he put down on the table.

  “I said a half,” Carmichael said, and sighed ruefully.

  “You deserve a proper drink after all that,” Tibs said.

  “Did Bannon put you through it?” Sir Guy asked, sympathetically. “He really grilled me the last time he had me on. It’s worse than taking questions in the House!”

  “The Duke of Windsor was on with us, and I’m not sure he wasn’t talking sedition,” Tibs said, sipping his whisky.

  “I think he was,” Carmichael said. “I don’t have any proper evidence, or he’d be in the Tower, but it’s a pattern of things, how he was talking, what he’s been doing, that riot.”

  “What did he say?” Sir Guy asked.

  “He said that some great countries became less great when they were run by women and weaklings,” Tibs said. “Mark won’t like that.”

  “Mark won’t like that at all. There are people slowly starving in the death camps of the Reich for saying considerably less than that.” Sir Guy shook his head. “Still, he was the King, you know, even if he wasn’t crowned. We can’t just pack him off to be made into soap like Joe Bloggs.”

  “We can’t just let him go around saying whatever he wants, either. Carmichael thinks he’s involved with a conspiracy.”

  “Do you?” Sir Guy looked at Carmichael intently, suddenly seeming almost sober. “Why?”

  Carmichael couldn’t tell them about Abby. The trouble with knowledge, he thought, just like power, was applying it in the right place with the right degree of force. “He’s supposed to be under tight watch by the Watch,” he said. “How did he come to be on This Week without anyone asking me, or even telling me? Then is it a coincidence that we have a riot at an Ironsides rally just before he arrives? He has connections with this British Power thing. I’m sure of it. He was saying the same things the British Power spokesman said. And the thing that worries me the most is that he is the Duke of Windsor, he was the King of England, even if only for five minutes, never mind all that old nonsense about Queen Victoria. The fact is that he knows people and has old connections and we don’t know where they run. A lot of people will agree to do things for him because of who he is. He knows top people in organizations. I’m not saying they’re traitors, even if he is; I’m saying they’re his friends, and they’ll do him a favor.”

  “I put a bit of a spoke in his wheel by mentioning the new Gravesend facility!” Tibs said, and giggled. “British death camps for British Jews!”

  “Oh honestly, Tibs,” Sir Guy said, disgustedly. “Do grow up. Three of the most powerful men in the country ought to be able to have a serious conversation without one of them giggling like a girl.”

  “I’m glad you agree we need to clamp down on the Duke of Windsor,” Carmichael said, in the awkward silence. “Do you think one of you could talk to the Prime Minister about it?”

  “I will, tomorrow,” Tibs said. “And as soon as this peace conference nonsense is open, we’ll pack him back off to Bermuda. Wednesday, isn’t it?”

  “The procession is Wednesday—and we’re essentially shutting off Central London for it, nobody will be able to be there who hasn’t been checked six ways from Sunday,” Carmichael said. “The actual conference opens afterwards, with a speech from Her Majesty, followed by formal speeches from the major delegations. The whole thing’s being televised.”

  “I hope the Jap general doesn’t come out with the kind of thing he was spouting tonight,” Tibs said, taking a large gulp of his whisky. “Britain and Japan should divide America between them. I didn’t know where to look.”

  “Not such a bad idea,” Sir Guy said. His glass was empty.

  “Maybe worth consideration, but not to say it out loud and frighten the horses! And he said he knew we had the bomb.”

  “We can’t keep that secret forever. The Germans already know,” Sir Guy said. “I told you those Japs were trouble. We want a pretty big buffer zone there, I think. They’d be taking it all if they could, Burma, Malaya, India even. We need as big a Scythia as we can talk them into.”

  “He was certainly talking as if he had no discretion at all,” Tibs said.

  “Shall I get the other half?” Sir Guy asked.

  “I really should get home,” Carmichael said.

  “Wife waiting for you?” Sir Guy asked. “My wife, Marjorie, she doesn’t like it when I’m late. Wonderful woman, Marjorie. I have two sons too, Philip and Benedict. Wonderful boys. At Eton now, of course.”

  “Commander Carmichael is a confirmed bachelor, just like me,” Tibs said.

  “Lots of you buggers in politics. But there’s no need to rush off then, Carmichael, stay and have the other half,” Sir Guy urged.

  “I do have somebody waiting at home,” Carmichael said, standing. He had said all he wanted to say to these men. He wanted to be home, to be shut away from the world, away from conspiracies and innuendos and the problems of power.

  “Well, then,” Sir Guy said. “Nice chatting with you like this. Doesn’t make any difference if it’s a man or a woman, I suppose, keeping them waiting.”

  “How unbearably tolerant you are,” Tibs said, and rolled his eyes at Carmichael, who stood.

  “I’ll see both you gentlemen soon, no doubt,” he said. “Goodbye, thanks for the drink, Tibs.”

  He walked back to where his car was waiting. “Home,” he said to the driver, luxuriating in the word.

  The guard at the door of his flats looked uncomfortable. “Any problem, Mike?” he asked.

  “Not here, sir, but I’m hearing reports of riots at different places around the country.
Bristol, Liverpool, Newcastle.”

  “That’s all we need,” Carmichael said. “Thanks, Mike, I’ll check into that.”

  “Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” Mike said, and opened the door.

  Carmichael took the stairs two at a time. He felt overheated and exhausted. Jack greeted him at the door with a whisky. “I saw the program,” he said, and hugged him.

  “How did I look? Not making a frightful fool of myself?”

  “You did very well, I thought,” Jack said. “Do you want this, or should I make you a cup of tea?”

  “I had a whisky with Tibs and Sir Guy, after. It was ghastly. I’d love some tea, though. Thank you, Jack. You drink that whisky, now you’ve poured it.”

  Jack went off to the kitchen, and Carmichael went into the sitting room and sat down with a sigh. He was just taking his shoes off when Jack came back with the tea tray. “That was quick!”

  “I had it ready too,” Jack said. “Mrs. Maynard phoned. Twice. The second time she sounded very agitated.”

  “I don’t suppose she said what was wrong?”

  “No, just asked for you and asked if you’d call her back urgently.”

  Carmichael sighed, and dropped his shoes onto the carpet. “The stupid woman didn’t call when Elvira was arrested in the riot, and now she wants me urgently and it’s probably something ridiculously trivial about dinner on Tuesday or what flowers Elvira’s going to carry to be presented.”

  “I think you’d better call her, P. A.,” Jack said, hovering in the doorway. “She really did sound bothered.”

  “She always sounds bothered,” Carmichael said, but he was reaching for the receiver even as he grumbled. All of the things that might have happened to Elvira went through his mind as he dialed, from falling through ice, unlikely on a mild evening in April, to being burned up in a fire.

  Mrs. Maynard snatched up the phone on the first ring. “Commander Carmichael?” she asked. “Oh, I’m so glad you called. The most ridiculous thing has happened. Elvira has been arrested again, and so has my husband. They came and took them away just after dinner.”