What would a journalist transported forward from the Public Era make of decent society? What would they snuffle out? Donald had seen but a glimpse behind the veil. It was not just the sovereigns who used slave labour, the ultramarines also did. What really went on in the Night and Fog?
He stared at the breakfast table for a long time, thinking.
*
That afternoon, he spent a couple of hours at his sports club, hoping to encounter Tanya. He had met her at the club about nine months previously. They shared the same condition of being trapped in a failed marriage, in her case to a colourless technocratic type. Alas, she did not appear, so he ended the afternoon with a boring walk in Hyde Park, during which he had to endure a certain amount of polite chatter with various solicitors, and fellow barristers from his inn of court. He also noticed around Hyde Park several plywood boxes filled with leaflets. The leaflets were being taken by passers-by, glanced at, screwed up and dropped in the next bin (which was overflowing with balls of paper). He discovered by taking one that the leaflets were issued by the National Party. Without reading it he scrunched it up and disposed of it too, doubtless for the same reason everyone else did—high-flown radical pie-in-the-sky was irrelevant to his life and its problems. Another oddity of the walk was Naclaski action by artillery on the forts around the Grande Enceinte. The guns thundered every ten or fifteen minutes, sometimes to the north, other times to the west. He could see no aircraft in the sky. He supposed there must be some kind of exercise and did his best to ignore the interruptions.
As his limousine halted outside the front gate of his house afterwards, a young blonde woman appeared out of nowhere. She must have been hiding in the lane. To his irritation, she rapped her knuckles on the glass a few inches from his nose.
“Are you Donald Aldingford? I need to speak to your father. Don’t turn me away! I’ve got important news about Lawrence.”
“Shall I get rid of her?” Okeke the chauffeur asked.
“Just a minute.”
Donald was still bemused by the brazenness of her approach. He unhitched the window belt and let the pane drop open. His first impressions were of a hefty working girl, possibly attractive in a hard-faced sort of way, very white complexioned, lacking makeup, scented by lemons and cinnamon. She wore a metal badge on the lapel of her waistcoat, an orange circle set in a dark green background, which he recognised as the motif of the National Party. Her blonde hair hung loose to her shoulders like a factory tart and… Yes, she really did wear trousers, or plus fours to be exact, quite tight-fitting. Her feet were shod with brown working man’s boots of excellent quality. Compared to the neat boots that Lavinia wore, they seemed like crates.
“Well! Quite the lady about town…”
“Are you Donald Aldingford or not?”
Her accent was obviously of an asylum, nasal with glottal stops, although it had been moderated by service as household staff.
Okeke got out of the driver’s cab and glared down at her. He was a big man, taller than Donald, with broad shoulders and frizzy black hair that made his large, dark head look even more formidable. She just lifted her chin and stood her ground. Perhaps it was that gesture of defiance that touched Donald’s sympathies? Her face was formed of fine, strong lines, the jaw set with determination. Perhaps that was the real reason he gave her a moment.
“Tell me your name,” he said.
“I’m Sarah-Kelly Newman.”
“How did you obtain clearance to enter this district?”
“I’m a student at Bloomsbury College.”
“What do you study?”
“Economics.”
Donald assumed she meant a household management course of the kind pursued by someone wishing to be a butler. He mentally shrugged. It was a dull Sunday afternoon. Why not hear what she had to say? She was not bad looking, he had to admit.
“I’ll want details of your visa, matriculation certificate and all the rest.”
“You can have all you like,” she said, with a cheeky smirk.
“Come inside—and kindly leave those boots at the door.”
He hoped like hell Lavinia was not at home.
Second Butler Spencer was waiting in the hall. He seemed to have grasped the full implications of the situation as his eyes darted from Donald to the strange young blonde woman.
“Her Decency Lavinia is at home, sir.”
“Oh, that’s splendid! Where is she?”
“In the conservatory, sir.”
“We shall be joining her. Please have tea and biscuits served.”
“Just a dash of milk, no sugar for me,” Sarah-Kelly said, looking up from unlacing her boots. She extracted her feet, which appeared enormous in heavy woollen socks. “I’m only a size seven,” she said defensively, observing Donald’s amusement.
His mind was rushing ahead, configuring the presentation. This was just like preparing a case for court; look at all the angles, think of any wild branches the discussion could pursue. Despite the hassles it might cause, he did not regret inviting her in. It would have been mean and cowardly to send her away. As he led her through the house, she was looking all around, at the moulded ceilings fifteen feet above and the domed skylight over the spiral stairwell.
“Nice place,” she said. “How many rooms?”
“Ten bedrooms.”
“Staff?”
“Do you need to know?”
“I study economics—these are field data.”
“There are twenty-five staff.”
“It’s not exactly running with kids, where are they all?”
“Away,” Donald said. They reached the conservatory. “After you… Good afternoon darling.”
Lavinia was reading, of all things, an erotic novel called Racy Tracy by Titty Titterington. She jumped as Donald opened the conservatory door. When her eyes flickered to Sarah-Kelly she uttered a groan of shock and shoved the book under her backside. Donald lifted her hand and kissed it. Then he kissed her on the side of the neck and the cheek and lightly on the mouth. She smelled of fresh roses and slightly of her breath, which always had an odour. Despite their estrangement, the view down the top of her purple vee-necked sweater thrilled him.
He turned and raised an arm to introduce Sarah-Kelly. She performed a perfect curtsey according to the Krossington style, with the arms horizontal, the crown of the head forward and the feet exactly one behind the other. It was a difficult gesture requiring weeks of practice to become as natural as she made it look.
“I am charmed to be presented, Your Decency,” she said. “My name is Sarah-Kelly Cressida Newman.” She pulled a radiant smile that retained a faint but unquestionable sarcasm. She had a good, wide set of teeth, although the front two were slightly out of alignment.
Lavinia leaned slightly away, still taken aback, looking at Donald and then at Sarah-Kelly and back to Donald. She was completely at a loss—a rare thing for one into whom social unflappability had been drilled from an early age. It was obviously the trousers that intimidated her. Women did not wear trousers in polite society—not ever, not in any class.
“Enchanted!” she finally spluttered.
“Allow me to explain,” Donald said, “that Miss Newman has been seeking to contact me about my brother Lawrence, without being aware I only returned yesterday from a long trip.”
He winked to indicate he wanted the internment kept back from the visitor. He ushered Sarah-Kelly to a seat well to one side away from the cast-iron table to reflect her social lowliness, while he sat with Lavinia and laid his hand on hers. A maid arrived and served the tea and biscuits. She did not serve Sarah-Kelly directly, instead she left a cup and saucer on the table. After she had departed, Donald put a couple of biscuits on the saucer and lifted it across to Sarah-Kelly. It was a bit like feeding a dog.
“Before we go any further, could I see your documents?” Donald said.
Sarah-Kelly was offended—her eyes glistened—but she pulled ou
t her wallet and set it on the table. Donald summoned Spencer and asked him to photograph the contents. “I’m sorry if this seems all very intrusive. We have to establish your credentials beyond doubt.”
“You still haven’t told me who you are. You haven’t shown me any passport. How did you get clearance to enter Bloomsbury?”
“I was born here,” Donald said, mildly. Lavinia was trying to stifle her laughter, without much success. “Could you kindly explain how you found our house?”
“From this.”
Sarah-Kelly pulled a sheet of tradesman’s note paper from her pocket and leaned to pass it over. Donald unfolded the sheet to reveal a neatly-sketched scaled plan showing the route down the boulevard from the Bloomsbury district gates at Euston. Residences within the Central Enclave displayed no numbers or names, since the public commons did not need to know who lived where. Those who needed to know learned either by invitation as guests or during apprenticeship if they were in trade.
“Lawrence did it for me. I did a map for him of my family’s place—nothing like as good as that, obviously, seeing as he was trained in surveying. I think towards the end he suspected something was going to happen.”
Donald folded the sketch and laid it beside him on the table.
“It was your father I wanted to speak to,” Sarah-Kelly said.
“I’m afraid you can’t. Nor can we. He’s dead.”
“Oh my God! That’s really shocking. Lawrence said nothing about that—”
“Father died at the end of July.”
“But he can’t have been very old.”
“He was fifty-seven. He contracted a form of brain cancer called glioblastoma. We didn’t know how ill he was until close to the end.”
“I’m so sorry. Cancer’s a terrible illness. My old man died of it, or at least, we think that’s what it was. It might have been consumption though. He got a terrible cough and just got thinner and thinner until he passed away. I’m really sorry for you.”
Donald was touched by what seemed to be her genuine intensity. Lavinia appeared less impressed. She exhaled a long, stifled sigh. Spencer returned with Sarah-Kelly’s wallet, which he left on the table. Donald stepped across to return it along with the sketch. After Sarah-Kelly had secured them deep in the side-pocket of her plus fours, she sat up and set her face formally.
“As your father is dead, this business falls on your plate. What I have to tell you is shocking and horrible.”
“You wrote that Lawrence was in some kind of trouble.”
“First of all—since Lawrence never said anything about me—how much did he say about anything else?”
Donald considered his answer most carefully. The question could be genuine, or it could be a charlatan sounding out her prey.
“Our relations have been cool. The last we heard, he had been promoted and was serving in the north.” That was vague enough to keep her guessing.
“Have you tried to contact him recently?”
“That’s hardly any of your business.”
“Yes, it is my business. Just as my story is your business, if you’d get off your high-horses and stop looking down your noses at me. My guess is you’ve tried contacting him through General Wardian about your father and they’ve not been any use. He listed no next of kin. All they’ll do is pass messages on.”
Donald maintained a perfectly impassive court face, because he was conditioned to do so. Lavinia was more open.
“She’s quite right,” she said.
“You won’t get no answer,” Sarah-Kelly said. “Probably not ever unless you do something to help. Lawrence has been fogged. They gave him eight years. That’s a death sentence.”
“What are you talking about, girl?” Lavinia said.
“Yes, please explain.”
“I mean… You can’t be serious. Have you lot never heard of the Night and Fog?”
“Yes, we’ve heard of the Night and Fog,” Donald said. “Could you please explain where, when and how you met Lawrence?”
“I met him in Oban. Have you heard of it?”
“It’s a port on the west coast of Scotland,” Lavinia said. “It’s part of the Krossingtons’ Mull and Morvern Estate, however it’s a private town, so what were you doing there?”
“I worked on the staff of Oban Castle in the export department.”
“And when did you meet Lawrence?” Donald asked.”
“It was last April 12th. He came up to me outside Oban Castle and asked me on a date. I was flabbergasted. Normally no glory officer would even look at a clerk from the trading office. We got on ever so well…” She struggled to hold back her tears.
“You slept with him?” Lavinia enquired.
Donald flinched and gazed up at the frames of the conservatory roof waiting for the bang.
“If you must know... Yes, we were lovers. We were in love. What would you expect us to do?”
“When was he sent to the Night and Fog?” Donald asked, relieved that Lavinia’s directness had not provoked an explosion.
“He was arrested in late July. I never saw him after that.”
“Then how do you know he was sent to the Night and Fog for eight years?”
“His boss, an account-captain called Turner, told me Lawrence had been charged with corruption against the Krossingtons. Then a local merchant told me about the eight years’ Fog. My Krossington citizenship got revoked and I had to get out of Oban. It was like a hurricane hit our life.”
For the first time that day, Donald enjoyed a flood of relief. Just for once, something was simple. It was something he could solve.
“Let me explain something to you,” Donald said. “If Lawrence had really been charged with corruption against the Krossingtons three months ago, I would have learned of it at the time. You are obviously not aware that I’m legal counsel to Tom Krossington himself. It’s out of the question he would have neglected to tell me.”
“Are you saying I’m a liar?”
“Yes, Miss Newman, that’s what I’m saying.” Donald said this with a decided satisfaction at having so certainly resolved the mystery of Miss Newman.
Sarah-Kelly was at first simply dumbfounded. She looked as if about to make a scene—she hit Donald with a ferocious glare—then she stood up.
“I’d like to go now.”
Donald summoned the maid and asked her to fetch Spencer. When the second butler arrived, Donald asked him to show Miss Newman out and give her money for transport if she needed it. Sarah-Kelly followed Spencer out obviously in a state of repressed fury, without one look back. Donald and Lavinia sat in silence for a while afterwards. He thought she might ask about his being shot down and incarcerated. Perhaps she had already heard the story from Her Decency Sally Tabetha Eugenie Krossington-Darcy. Or perhaps she was ashamed he had not committed suicide as a dutiful servant ought to have done. It was Lavinia who broke the silence.
“Suppose that girl was telling the truth?”
“She wasn’t telling the truth.”
“Why would she come here and lie?”
“I don’t know.” Donald thought about the balance of risk. There were two possibilities. Either Haighman and Newman had independently confirmed the truth, or else two plotters had worked to create a lie. What might this lie be? Donald was wise enough to know his life had been cossetted from the devious ways of swindlers. Perhaps they planned the same lie as that practised by the Ultramarine Guild; taking money pretending to make enquiries.
The more he thought about this, the less likely it seemed. A queasy feeling of having made a serious mistake intensified. Haighman was a well-educated officer serving on a sovereign land about eighty miles from the Central Enclave. Sarah-Kelly was of humble local birth. It was far-fetched in the extreme they could be in a conspiracy. In addition, she had provided comprehensive documentation that could be checked.
“I think she told the truth,” Lavinia said.
“She can’t be
telling the truth. Had my brother been found guilty of offences against the Krossingtons, do you really think TK would have kept it secret from me? Even if he had, big brother Marcus-John certainly wouldn’t. He despises me. He thinks TK degrades the clan just by speaking to me, a mere commoner.”
“The whole business could have been buried—Oban is a long way off. Neither General Wardian nor Oban Castle would want high-level corruption advertised.”
“It wouldn’t kill me if my brother turned out to be a crook. Not even Marcus-John believes in bad blood. At worst I’d get a few sneers. TK obviously values me, otherwise why did he pay a ransom for my release?”
“You should have let her speak instead if just dismissing her like a child. If this story went public, it would look as if TK had hidden the truth from the clan to protect you, a commoner. He would have to shun you to defend his reputation, which means I would have to divorce you, and that means you would...” Her right hand made a fluttering gesture as to suggest a dispersion of mist. “You would vanish into the Nameless Gone.”
Donald rolled his eyes at the ludicrous ingenuity of clan gossip to devise crises out of thin air. At the back of his mind was nevertheless a growing trickle of worry.
“That’s absurd.”
“Things are tetchy inside the Krossington clan just now. I don’t know why—something serious has happened. There’s a lot of posturing about so-and-so being seen with so-and-so. It’s a sign of jostling.”
“I’m seeing TK on Wednesday. I’ll discuss it with him then,” he said.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t even dream of mentioning this to TK. If she was telling the truth, TK will not hesitate to act. My guess is he’ll banish you to be a gardener on some eastern manor. You’ll simply disappear from town and I’ll be able to remarry.”
Within the Lands of Krossington, manors lying along the eastern border were looked down upon as being the most ignorant and insular. Lavinia had still more steam to blow off. She continued:
“There’s no escaping that we’re from different worlds. Your world works one way and mine works another. I’ve never known any marriage of a sovereign to a commoner that worked. Don’t imagine for an instant I don’t respect your intellectual industry—I’m amazed by it—but however admirable your court victories are, my world is family, friends and foes, not briefs and brains. Our marriage has lasted on borrowed time and I think it has now run out.”
Sovereigns of the Collapse Book 1 Page 6