by Tom Hourie
Sarah seemed about to protest, but stopped when I kicked her ankle. Two red spots appeared on her cheeks as she reached awkwardly for her beaded handbag beneath the cloak that covered our manacles. Her hand emerged with a five pound note a moment later and the gray man placed a typewritten form in front of us. “Sign here and here,” he said, pointing an ink-stained finger at spaces on the bottom of the form.
He inspected our signatures when we were done and looked back up at us. “Almost finished,” he said. “There are two final questions the law requires me to ask. Is either one of you married?”
“No,” I said.
“No,” Sarah said.
“Are the two of you related in any way?” the man asked.
“No,” I said.
“Most certainly not,” Sarah said.
The man took a rubber stamp from beneath the counter. “Then by the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife,” he said, as he brought the stamp down on the typewritten form with a loud bang.
Chapter XVI
A Rear Exit - On The Run – The Kinescope
“What?” Sarah gasped. She then turned and gave me a look that that somehow managed to combine rage with dismay. “Would you please stop kicking my leg?” she hissed.
“Overcome with emotion,” I said to the gray man.
“Quite understandable,” he said, handing the marriage certificate to me.
“Sir, I wonder if I could impose on your good nature?” I continued. “My wife and I would like to avoid certain persons who wish to thwart our love. Is there a way we could get out of here without being seen?”
“It would be most irregular, but I suppose you could leave by the staff entrance on
Old Brompton Road.” “Thank you for your understanding,” I said.
Once outside, we had to wait while a noisy elevated train passed by, its diamond-stacked locomotive followed by a series of small carriages whose steel wheels clattered noisily along the overhead line.
“Is there anything else you can do to ruin my life? Whatever shall I do?” Sarah wailed when the din had died down.
Not ‘what will we do?’ but ‘what will I do?’ This girl was starting to get on my nerves with her complaining. At least nobody had used her as a punching bag.
“What we need is a moment to collect our wits,” I said. “Did he say this was
Old Brompton Road?” “Of course it is.”
“I think I know where we can go.”
The marquee on the Old Brompton Road Kinescope had changed since my arrest. The double bill was now shared by Backward Bob and someone called The Amazing Doctor Hades. We exchanged my tickets for two seats in what turned out to be a converted music hall that smelled of beer, sweat and tobacco.
The lights had just gone down and the narrow screen began to flicker with silent black-and-white newsreel images. The first story was about army trials of a new rapid-firing gun in the air over Salisbury Plain. The weapon looked to have been based on the Gatling design with six barrels revolving around a central shaft. It was mounted in a gondola slung beneath the black gasbag of a rigid dirigible whose pointed nose and curved tailfins made it look more like a predatory fish than a creature of the air. The first clip showed the balloon slowly maneuvering into position above a rusty steam engine with a large bull’s-eye painted on its boiler. The next shot was from inside the dirigible’s gondola where a khaki clad soldier began to crank a handle on the right side of the weapon causing an impressive burst of fire to erupt from its rotating barrels. The next image was of the now-destroyed steam engine overlaid with the white-lettered words “SCATTER OUR ENEMIES AND MAKE THEM FALL.”
The next story featured a crew of maintenance personnel placing decorations along Birdcage Walk in preparation for Her Majesty’s upcoming Silver Jubilee. A caption card explained that this was the route her Majesty would travel to address the Houses of Parliament.
The concluding item dealt with the after effects of a bomb that had detonated near the London Stock Exchange. Shots of broken windows were followed by a clip of Sir Osgood Wellesley, leader of the British League of Fascists followed by a title card which quoted him as saying the attack was the work of “laborites, communists and Jews.”
“Are your wits collected yet?” Sarah whispered.
“Give it a rest,” I said, as sepia titles announced The Further Adventures of Backward Bob.
The opening scenes of the film looked strangely familiar to me. I suddenly realized I was watching a highly-stylized version of one of my own attempts at seducing Hope Buchan. Instead of my usual sweatshirt and jeans, my on-screen doppelganger wore a white shirt whose standup collar was encircled by a loosened bow tie. Movie Hope wore a high-collared silk blouse and had her hair tied up by a satin bow. She was cooling herself with a patterned lace fan which also served as a weapon to ward off my double’s attempts to kiss her averted cheek. The scene ended when she purposely knocked a cup of cocoa into movie Bob’s lap, causing him to jump up and fan his hands at the spreading liquid stain on his crotch.
“It serves you right,” read the on-screen title. “You should know better than to trifle with a lady’s virtue.”
“But Later that day” read the next card which irised to a scene showing Hope sitting on a damask upholstered two-seater couch next to a mustachioed man with brilliantined dark hair who I recognized as Professor Ross Percival, my thesis adviser. Movie Ross was slowly undoing the satin bow that held Hope’s hair in place while leering at her melodramatically.
“Don’t you feel guilty, betraying your young man like this?” read the title.
“Do you mean Robert?” the next title read. “He is a mere boy, not a man like you.”
Mercifully, the film stuck in the projection gate at this point, the image froze and bubbled on the screen and the air in the Kinescope began to smell slightly acidic. I was grateful for the interruption, but my fellow movie patrons were not.
“Now we’ll never find out what bleeding ‘appens,” said a man in a cloth cap.
“Same fing what always ‘appens,” said his companion. “Our Bob will end up wiv’ egg on ‘is chivvy. Serve ‘im right for being a total berk.”
Sarah seemed to share my sense of relief, but for different reasons. “I feel I have seen the actor playing Backward Bob before,” she said. “Surely it cannot have been in the West End. No legitimate performer would appear in such a low spectacle.”
There was a sound of doors opening and closing at the rear of the theatre. The man in the cloth cap looked around. “What ‘av you been up to now?” he asked his companion. “Got to be six or seven Rozzers back there.”
Sure enough, all exits were now guarded by blue-helmeted policemen who seemed to be waiting for orders. In the meantime the film screen had been retracted. A pimply-faced man in a dinner jacket appeared on stage to apologize for the delay in the program. He announced that The Amazing Doctor Hades had kindly volunteered to appear earlier than scheduled and would the audience please be patient while the stage was being re-set.
There was a series of heavy, thumping sounds from behind the curtains which eventually opened to reveal a man in a scarlet-lined cape standing beside a coffin-like cabinet whose door was fastened by a large brass padlock. The magician’s face was in shadow, but as soon as I heard his distinctive raspy intonation, I recognized Schrödinger, owner of the calico cat.
Schrödinger asked if anyone in the audience had the courage to experience the terrors and delights of his patented mind-reading apparatus. He got no takers, possibly because everyone had turned to look at the projection booth whose window had begun to emit billowing clouds of acrid white smoke.
Ever the trouper, Schrödinger carried on with the show. “Let’s try something different today,” he said, pointing to Sarah and me. “Instead of one volunteer, why not have two? You two love birds come on stage.”
We had no choice. It was either Schrödinger or the waiting police. We were still handcuffed so we must have made a
n awkward sight as we climbed the narrow stairs to the stage.
Schrödinger tried to carry on with the usual theatrical patter, demonstrating the cabinet’s solidity and so on, but nobody was paying attention. Finally, he shoved us inside with me behind and Sarah in front, saying the magical words. “Sod it. Just get in the bloody thing.”
The cabinet door closed forcing Sarah backwards so that her buttocks were pressed against my crotch.
“Remove yourself at once,” she said.
“Remove myself? It’s all I can do to breath,” I said.
A trap door opened beneath us and we fell downward onto some kind of a padded mat beneath the stage ending up in a tangled heap surrounded by clouds of ancient dust that had us both sneezing. A moment later there was the sound of the trap door re-opening and we moved aside just in time to avoid being hit by Schrödinger who landed on the mat with catlike grace and pulled an electric torch from somewhere beneath his cape. We followed its flickering light though an obstacle course of discarded theatrical bric a brac, up a set of rough wooden stairs and out a side door.
Chapter XVII:
A Mews – An Empty House – An Escape
We exited to a dingy back lane where we saw a steam-powered caravan whose windowless side panels sported the hand-painted words ‘The Amazing Doctor Hades’ in bright curlicued script.
“Get in,” Schrödinger said. “We haven’t much time.”
He was right. We could hear the clanging of fire bells as we climbed in and seated ourselves on a small day bed. Schrödinger closed the rear door and the van started moving a moment later. The creaking of its wheels and the chuffing engine sounds made it impossible to talk so I tried to amuse myself with Max the Cat who had appeared from somewhere beneath the bed. Max had other ideas and spurned my advances for the warmth of Sarah’s lap where he curled up contentedly and went to sleep.
The van came to a stop after we had been travelling about ten minutes. The rear door re-opened and we found ourselves in an enclosed mews which I recognized as being at the rear of Newford House.
“Why are we here?” Sarah asked. “This is the first place the police will look for us.”
“They aren’t looking for you,” said Schrödinger, who now had a large leather bag hanging from his shoulder. “They are looking for me.”
“Because you’re a Fascist?”
“I am not a Fascist,” Schrödinger said. “I was pretending to be one on Lord Newford’s orders. It was either that or face the consequences of a minor indiscretion in Holland Park.”
“Hang on a second,” I said to Sarah. “Didn’t you say your father asked you to watch Schrödinger’s shop? Why would he do that if Schrödinger was working for him?”
“Why indeed?” said Sarah. “Mister Schrödinger, why should I believe you? Where and when do you claim to have met my father?”
“I never met him in person,” Schrödinger admitted. “I got my orders through Alistair Fox.”
“Why should he give you such orders without official sanction?” Sarah asked.
“Where I come from they call it plausible deniability,” I said, but they both ignored me.
“And that why you brought us here? To meet my father?” Sarah said.
“I am beginning to suspect Fox is playing some game of his own, one that involves ‘fitting me up’” Schrödinger said. “All the more reason for me to meet with your father. If nothing else, he can confirm that my suspicions are correct.”
“What if he has never heard of you?”
“Then I will have to ‘do a runner’ as they say in the East End and I am becoming too old for such adventures.”
“If you wish me to admit you to my house then I want you to do something for me in return.”
“And what might that be?”
“Use your magical powers to remove these ridiculous manacles,” she said, shaking our conjoined hands.
“I believe I may be able to help,” Schrödinger said. “Allow me a moment.”
Schrödinger’s magical powers took the form of a large pair of bolt-cutters taken from a tool chest in the rear of his caravan. The handcuffs were soon off and Sarah went to the tradesperson’s entrance and tugged at the bell pull. We could hear the bell clanging inside but nobody came. Sarah gave up after several tries and retrieved a key from her handbag.
We entered to find the house strangely silent. There were no servants in the corridors and the furniture was shrouded in white sheeting.
We eventually came upon Mrs. Willis drawing the curtains in the sitting room. She told us that Lord Newford had been taken to HMIS headquarters at Amesbury Park ‘for his own protection,’ or that at least was what young Mister Fox had said. For her part she wouldn’t trust that jackanapes any farther than she could see him.
She had just finished her explanation when there was a loud knocking at the front door followed by shouts of “HMIS, open up.”
“We’ve been followed,” Schrödinger said. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I cannot speak for Mister Liddel, but I shall not accompany you,” Sarah said. “I suggest you leave the same way we came in. You need to be well on your way within five minutes.”
Schrödinger gave me the worn leather bag he had been carrying, making a show of putting its strap over my shoulder and patting my side in what I supposed was intended as a show of good fellowship. “Be a good chap and throw this in the dustbin,” he said. “If they find it in my possession, my goose, as they say in your country, will be cooked.” He was gone a moment later and we soon heard the chuff-chuff sound of his caravan’s engine.
Sarah retrieved a small pocket watch from a case in her handbag and opened its filagreed silver lid. The banging on the front door increased in volume as we waited for five minutes to pass. Sarah returned the watch to its case after what seemed like an eternity and turned to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Willis, would you be so good as to inform the gentlemen at the front door that Mister Schrödinger has left by the mews entrance?” she said.
A moment later we heard the shrill of police whistles followed by the sound of booted feet running away from the front entrance.
“What now?” I said.
“For my part, I am going to Amesbury Park,” Sarah said. “I can testify that I never saw any sign of fascist activity at Schrödinger’s nasty little shop. The sooner my father’s name is cleared, the sooner life can get back to normal.”
“And what am I supposed to do?”
“You may do as you wish,” Sarah said. “The worst that can happen is they will send you to America.”
I was still aching from my previous day’s encounter with Arthur Flowers and wasn’t so sure.
Chapter XVIII:
At the Station – A Bunsen Burner – A Human Fly
Sarah condescended to allow my continued presence on the condition I carry her overnight bag which, by chance, was already packed in preparation for an upcoming weekend in the country. What she described as a ‘bag’ was in fact a small trunk which, by its weight, appeared to have been filled with curling rocks.
I was sweating like a swamp donkey by the time we got to Waterloo Station and looked around for a way to ease the rest of the journey. The answer came in the form of porter who had left his wooden trolley unattended outside the men’s washroom. Serve the slacker right for taking time off to pee I thought, as I loaded Sarah’s bag onto his cart.
“Now I suppose you expect me to pay for your train ticket,” Sarah said, as we got into line at the wicket.
“Not if I can think of a way to ride for free,” I whispered. “We need to make your money last.” It was at this point that I felt someone tap me on the shoulder from behind. I turned to see a plump man in a clerical collar accompanied by an equally well-fed woman who had to be his wife.
“Excuse me my man,” the vicar said. “Would you be so good as to assist us when you have finished helping your current client?”
“My pleasure, Guv’,” I said. “Be right back in a mo�
��.”
“Why are you talking in that ridiculous manner?” Sarah whispered.
“That’s my cockney accent,” I whispered back. For once Sarah said nothing but merely snorted.
I had no trouble getting access to the platform, thanks to the porter’s trolley. I soon had Sarah installed in an empty compartment and turned to leave.
“Where are you going?” she asked
“Back to get the Reverend’s baggage,” I said. “We need the money.”
If anything, the clerical couple’s luggage was heavier than Sarah’s. Good thing for these people nobody had yet invented passenger aircraft. The excess baggage charges would have bankrupted them.
I finally got the Reverend and his wife settled into the compartment next to Sarah’s and stood waiting for my tip. The Reverend reached into the breast pocket of his coat, but instead of coming out with his wallet, he held an illustrated tract titled A Young Man’s Guide To Self-Control which he handed to me with great solemnity saying, “This will benefit you far more than money which you would no doubt spend on drink.”
Lucky for him I didn’t want to draw attention to myself or he would have found out a few things about the limits of my self control.
“Is that the bag that man Schrödinger gave you? You were meant to throw it away,” Sarah said when I get back to her compartment. “Whatever can it be?”