by Jo Walton
Carmichael considered his suggestion. “There are enough Watch-men who know her and who’d come along on something like that. I needn’t use anyone from the Inner Watch. Though I have some of our people watching the streets already, to let us know if she moves.”
“You could just order them to do it. And if they want to make you desperate enough to step outside the law, it’s better if you do it openly. Otherwise it’s a clear admission of guilt, and you’ll probably be lucky enough to swing for it while I’ll end up as a bar of soap.”
“They think she knows something,” Carmichael said. “Normanby said so. He said she’s holding out on something, and it’s something about me.”
“They’re lying, to get you to try exactly what you want to try.” Jacobson was at the end of his pacing space, with his back to the desk. He sounded impatient.
“I’ve been trying to think what she could know. I’ve been very careful. But there must have been something sometime that made her suspicious. I don’t know what it was or when it was. We’ve never talked about anything like that. I’ve tried to keep it all from her, the work side of my life. I wanted her to grow up with advantages. She’s going to Oxford, you know.”
“She won’t be going to Oxford if she’s in hiding. She’ll be going to Ireland, or maybe Zanzibar.” Jacobson came up short against the desk and stopped.
“She wouldn’t have to stay in hiding. Just for a day or two, until the Duke of Windsor is gone and everything has calmed down. That reminds me, hang on a moment. . . .” Carmichael reached for the phone and dialed. “Ogilvie?”
“Yes, sir,” Ogilvie said. “There are reports of more riots this morning, sir, and the press want to know what we’re doing.”
“Jacobson’s managing the riot situation,” Carmichael said. “What I wanted to say was, from now on, house arrest for the Duke of Windsor, Prime Minister’s orders. No visitors, no leaving the hotel except for the procession on Wednesday and the opening of the conference afterwards, and then closely escorted. No telephone, no outside contacts.”
“We haven’t turned up anything suspicious,” Ogilvie said. He sounded dubious.
“Prime Minister’s direct order,” Carmichael said.
“Yes, sir, right, sir. About the riots, are you sure—”
“Jacobson has that in hand,” Carmichael said, firmly. He put the phone down and looked at Jacobson. “I take it that’s correct?”
“I suppose so,” Jacobson said.
“What are you doing about them?”
“I’ve instructed local units to break up any that mention British Power or insult the Prime Minister, and arrest along the same lines as the Marble Arch riot, and otherwise to let peacefully demonstrating people alone. I’ve told the press there’s a difference between the affair in Sandwich, with broken windows and looted shops, and the peaceful business in Lancaster where people marched through the city center chanting ‘No British camps’ and ‘Free the Hyde Park martyrs.’ Quite honestly, we don’t have the manpower to clamp down on all of them, and it makes sense to leave the peaceful ones alone, especially when it does look as if people are finally getting unhappy about what’s going on.”
Carmichael hesitated. He wouldn’t have treated them quite like that. But he had given Jacobson the authority, and besides, there were more pressing problems. “All right. I’ll calm Ogilvie down about it later, after we’ve got Elvira safe.”
“You’d do much better to wait until they get tired of testing you,” Jacobson said.
“If she does know something, anything, and tells them, it could ruin everything. We have to get her out now.” Carmichael couldn’t understand how Jacobson could be so calm about it, not sharing his urgent need to act that made it difficult for him to sit in his chair as if everything was normal.
“If she knew something, why wouldn’t she have told them already? There are posters on every street corner telling you to dob in your neighbors because anyone can be an anarchist.” He rolled his eyes. “She’d probably have told them before this, and certainly when they asked. Everyone talks, after all, that’s why we have the teeth, and why we make sure anyone only knows so much.”
Carmichael touched his jaw automatically, on the left side, where the poison tooth was. He always worried that he would set it off by mistake, though he knew that to release it he had to press his jaw hard and bite down at the same moment, and then once released he had to bite it again to crack it and let out the poison. It was supposed to kill in seconds. “Elvira doesn’t have a tooth. And she’s an innocent eighteen-year-old girl, maybe she’s been to the pictures and seen the brave Nazis holding out against the evil commissars one too many times.”
“Much more likely that they’re lying,” Jacobson said. “She’s probably tucked away in a comfortable cell while they wait for you to incriminate yourself. Why else would Normanby out and out tell you they’re moving her to Finsbury?”
“I have to get her away. If she does know something, we have to find out what she’s told them. We could all be in a lot of danger if she does know something and she talks.”
“All right,” Jacobson conceded. “But will you at least do it openly, as it’s going to be clearly traceable to you anyway?”
“Yes. I’ll put together a scramble team. I’ll have to use our network of safe houses though, to put her in. But that doesn’t matter. As far as they’re concerned, I have her and she’s vanished. Then, when it’s safe again, she can reappear.”
Jacobson frowned, but said nothing for a moment. “Don’t take any more risks than you absolutely must,” he said at last.
“You don’t need to come. Aren’t you getting off early today?”
“I need to be home for sunset, but that’s after seven at this time of year. You shouldn’t go to rescue her yourself. Send someone reliable. Send Sergeant Richards.”
“I need to go in case someone needs to be overawed with authority,” Carmichael said. “And to tell you the truth, I need to go because I’m useless here; I can’t think about anything else and I can hardly keep still.”
“I hate to see you taking risks like this that endanger everything,” Jacobson said.
“I’ll be all right,” Carmichael said, reassuringly. “You go and look after your riots.”
“My riots instigated by agitators and my completely separate peaceful marches for change,” Jacobson agreed. “Good luck.”
He closed the door quietly behind him. Carmichael took a breath and looked at his Grimshaw print, the street fading off into the twilight, the solitary figure. Then he reached for the telephone again. “Miss Duthie? Send Sergeant Richards in to me.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “There have been a lot of calls, but nothing on your list.”
“Just send Sergeant Richards, then,” he said.
His list that morning consisted of the Prime Minister, Penn-Barkis, and the Home Secretary. Miss Duthie’s hesitation sounded clearly over the line. “You don’t want to speak to Sir Guy Braith-waite, then? He sounded urgent.”
“I’ll give him a call, thank you, Miss Duthie. Just send Sergeant Richards in as soon as he comes.”
He put down the receiver and took up the receiver on the other telephone. “Can I speak to the Foreign Secretary?” he asked. He gave his name, and waited for a moment, then heard Sir Guy’s plummy voice.
“Ah, Carmichael. Lovely having that drink with you last night. Pity you had to dash off. Maybe we could get together and have the other half sometime, eh?”
“Certainly,” Carmichael said. The door opened and Sergeant Richards came in. He came to attention. Carmichael waved him to relax and wait. He indicated a chair, but Sergeant Richards ignored it and stood at parade rest.
“Splendid, splendid,” Sir Guy was saying. “I just wanted to say, well, how about tonight? This evening, the same place? We can talk about the parade nonsense and all that.”
“Certainly,” Carmichael repeated. “That’s very nice of you, Sir Guy, I’ll look forward to it.”<
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“No, no, my pleasure,” Sir Guy said.
Carmichael exchanged unaccustomed parting pleasantries, and put the receiver down. He didn’t understand the exchange at all. His dealings with Sir Guy were usually strictly business. Was this a covert offer of support? Or no more than it seemed, an offer of a drink from a man who drank a lot? He looked up at Sergeant Richards, and kept looking up. He was a huge man, well over six feet tall, and broad shouldered in proportion. He had come to the Watch from a Guards Brigade, and he had never lost his military manner.
“Sergeant Richards,” Carmichael said.
“Sir,” Richards said.
“I want you to put together an armed scramble team, enough to stop a van transferring a prisoner from New New Scotland Yard to Finsbury. I’ll be coming with you. Get it ready to go at any moment, on my signal.”
“Yes, sir. How many men, sir?”
“Use your own discretion. I’m not expecting to have to fire, and in the first instance any shots should be aimed over heads. I’d like to have sufficient force with us that it doesn’t come to that. I want to look intimidating. They have a hostage, and we want them to hand her over.” Looking up at Richards, Carmichael felt anyone would be sufficiently intimidated.
“Yes, sir. Do we know their route?”
“We don’t. But we will have warning when they move. I have men in place.” Carmichael glanced at his third phone, the one he rarely used, which connected to the walkie-talkies his men used on operations.
“Might be better to be out there ready, rather than starting from here. Can we get the move signal on the radio, sir? If we take a radio car?”
“We could, sergeant, that’s a very good idea,” Carmichael said. The thought of going into action, of actually doing something, being able to move, was a tremendous relief. “Get that organized, call me when you’re ready, and I’ll come up. Tell the radio operator the number of our radio car so that she can route the call there.”
“Yes, sir,” Richards said, and turned to go. “It’ll be about ten minutes, sir.”
“Miss Duthie!” Carmichael called, as Richards opened the door. Miss Duthie appeared in the doorway, hesitating on the threshold.
“You called me?” she said, tentatively.
“Yes, I did. When Sergeant Richards calls, let that through. Keep holding everything else. And is there any chance of tea?”
“Oh yes, certainly, right away,” she said, and scurried off.
Carmichael could not bear the thought of starting to work on anything. He picked up the Times. “Revelations on Television” he read, and moved on. He glanced through the reports of the riots, which did seem to be much as Jacobson said. “What Has Brought the People to the Streets?” the headline asked, over a picture of a smartly dressed blond woman pushing a perambulator with a sign pasted to the side reading FREE THE HYDE PARK MARTYRS.
Miss Duthie returned with the tea, and a plate of custard creams. “I didn’t know if you’d eaten anything,” she said, putting them down.
He hadn’t, and he couldn’t face anything now, but he appreciated her kindness. “That’s very thoughtful of you,” he said. “I’ll be going out with Sergeant Richards. I don’t know if I’ll be back in today, but you can tell everyone I’ll definitely be here tomorrow.”
“I will,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been praying for Elvira. I keep thinking of how she was when you first started bringing her in, before we had this building, when we were still on Jermyn Street. And she’s grown up to be such a young lady. I do hope she’s going to be all right.”
“She will if I have anything to do with it,” Carmichael said, as cheerily as he could manage. “But you keep right on praying, Miss Duthie—who knows, it might help.”
“One feels so helpless,” she said, pouring the tea, and not looking at him. He realized she was blinking away tears.
“One does,” he said, gently. He took the tea.
“I suppose,” she said, “these people, these protesters who want to free the people arrested at Hyde Park, they feel the same as we do about Elvira. It’s always been criminals, before, or people associated with outrages, bombs and sabotage. But anyone could be caught up in something like that Hyde Park thing, someone’s daughter, or husband, or friend.”
“You’re right,” Carmichael said. “I expect that’s just what they do feel.”
“Do you think dear Mr. Normanby might be persuaded to change his mind?” she asked.
Carmichael sipped his tea and burned his tongue. “No,” he said, thinking of Normanby and the dog Fang. “I think he’s afraid to change his mind, in case he looks weak.”
“But it would be an act of strength, to admit to a mistake,” Miss Duthie said.
“You might see it that way, but he wouldn’t.”
“He ordered them sent off because the agitator called him a cripple, didn’t he, and that hurt him and made him angry. That was a mistake, and I suppose if he admitted that, he’d have to admit why he did it, and he’d have to face up to being hurt and angry about being crippled. I think it would be very brave to do that. And he is a brave man, a man who has done so much for the country over the years. I’ll pray that his eyes are opened by all these protests and that God gives him strength to face what he has to do.”
Her serene faith in both God and Normanby shook Carmichael. “Let me know when Sergeant Richards calls me,” he said.
She went back to her post, and he drank his tea and read the Times article about the delegates coming for the conference from so much of the world. At last, the telephone shrilled. “Everything’s ready, sir,” Richards said.
“I’ll be right up,” Carmichael said.
He put on his hat and coat, nodding at Miss Duthie in what he hoped was a resolute way. “Good luck,” she said. “Oh, the very best of luck!”
He ran up the stairs and found what seemed a procession waiting. There was a radio car, an armored van, two marked police cars, and one plain black Bentley. “How many men did you decide on, Sergeant Richards?” Carmichael asked.
“Enough to do the job properly, sir,” Richards replied. He was wearing a flak jacket, and he held one out to Carmichael. “Bullet-proof, sir?”
“Thank you, sergeant.” It wouldn’t fit over his coat, so he put it on underneath, like a waistcoat.
The convoy drove off and waited in Russell Square, on the most likely route. The wait was interminable. Every half hour, the radio car contacted the Watchtower briefly, to make sure everything was still in working order. Carmichael sat beside Richards in the Bentley, wishing he’d waited in his office. The flak jacket dug uncomfortably into his side. Passersby looked at them curiously, and one man walking a dog scurried off down a side street rather than pass them. “We’re not inconspicuous, sergeant,” he said.
“No, sir. Did you want to be, sir?”
That was unanswerable. “I suppose not,” he said.
Later, Richards asked, “When we have secured the hostage, where do we take her, sir? Back to the Watchtower?”
Carmichael started. “No, that won’t do. I’ll take her. But you’ll have to stop them following me.”
“Yes, sir.” Richards got out of the car and walked along the parked convoy, giving or adjusting orders. “That’s sorted, sir,” he said when he came back. “Constable Black will be moving up to be your driver, and I’ll stay and direct the operation. He’ll keep his eye out for anyone following.”
“Not Black,” Carmichael said. “Can I have Collins?” Black was driving one of the marked cars and Collins the other. The only real difference between them was that Collins was a member of the Inner Watch.
“If you prefer, sir,” Richards said. “I’ll tell them. Now when it happens, sir, if you don’t mind, you just stay in this car. You don’t need to get out unless I signal you, or anything happens to me.”
“Very good, sergeant,” Carmichael said. “I won’t come across you, this is your operation.”
“Yes, sir.”
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Richards got out and went over to Black, and then Collins. He went to the van and had a word with the men inside. Carmichael didn’t see how many were in there, but they looked crowded. Then Richards came back and folded himself into the driver’s seat beside him. “That’s all sorted, sir. Collins will drive you.”
“Well done, sergeant,” Carmichael said. They settled down again to wait. It was some time before a signal came from the radio car.
It all went with strange dreamlike precision, as the Yard van drove up Great Russell Street. It came on without hesitation, and as it came alongside the convoy, almost before Carmichael was aware what was happening, the Watch van skewed across the road in front of it, forcing it to a stop. The two marked cars immediately flanked it, and all of them were instantly bristling with armed Watchmen. Sergeant Richards got out of the Bentley, which hadn’t moved. “We want your prisoner,” he called. “Hand her over and nobody gets hurt. This is a Watch operation. Everybody out.”
Bannister got out of the Yard van, followed by three bobbies in uniform and Elvira, in a prison paper dress and with her hands cuffed behind her. He felt a huge wave of relief on seeing her. He felt hot tears prickle at the back of his eyes and blinked them away fiercely.
“Let me see your papers,” Bannister said, taking a step towards Sergeant Richards.
“You’re seeing our guns, matey,” Richards said, though Carmichael had given no orders against showing papers. “Now unless you want to see them a lot closer, like inside your head, stop right there and hand her over. We’re the ones who ask to see papers. Nobody messes with the Watch.”
Carmichael felt proud of him, of the Watch, of all of them. Not a gun barrel hesitated. Bannister looked around, then said something in a low voice to one of his constables, who gave Elvira a little push towards Richards. Richards didn’t take his eyes off Bannister. Constable Collins came up and put his jacket around Elvira and led her over towards the car where Carmichael was waiting. A huge snarl of traffic was building up behind them.