The Proprietor's Daughter

by Lewis Orde

  Saxon allowed himself to be led into the front room. There was none of the leisurely approach of their first encounter in this room with its pale gold walls and high white ceiling. There was no lighting of candlesticks, no slow, teasing undressing, no wonder of discovery. This time, Katherine was an aggressive initiator. As Saxon closed the door and walked around the room, drawing the heavy drapes, Katherine slipped out of her dress and tossed it onto one of the sofas, following it with her half-slip. By the time Saxon finished, she was standing on the Aubusson, completely naked, waiting for him.

  She crooked a finger at him. “Come here, John Saxon.”

  Obediently, he stood in front of her. She started with his tie, undoing the knot and slipping it free of his collar. She tugged his jacket from his body, undid the buttons of his shirt, and pulled that off to expose his chest. While she rubbed her breasts against him, her fingers tugged at his belt, a button, the zipper. His trousers dropped around his ankles, and he kicked them away.

  As she wrapped her arms around his neck, his hands gripped her sides and lifted her clear of the Aubusson. She swung her legs up and around his waist, and could feel the top of him press against her, probing, searching. Clinging tightly to him, she moved her hips back and forth, a fraction of an inch at a time. With each motion, she could feel herself opening, could feel him entering. Saxon’s moan of ecstasy was drowned out by Katherine’s sudden, ragged intake of breath as she slid all the way down onto him.

  Balancing carefully, Saxon stepped back until he felt the edge of the sofa pressing against his legs. He lowered himself gently. Katherine sat astride him, moving up and down with tantalizing slowness, feeling him deep inside her. Swollen. Trapped, until she decided to release him. She squeezed, and heard him gasp.

  “God!” Saxon cried out. “I’ve missed you.”

  They made love the second time on the Aubusson, under the watchful eyes of the heroes of Trafalgar and Waterloo. Afterward, as Katherine lay with her head on Saxon’s chest, she gazed at the paintings.

  “Do you think Nelson and Wellington approve?”

  Saxon angled his head to peruse each painting in turn. “Wellington’s got a thunderous scowl on his face —”

  “They didn’t call him the Iron Duke for nothing,” Katherine broke in.

  “But Nelson’s smiling. In fact, he’s winking.”

  Katherine began to laugh. “That’s not a wink, John. The poor man only had one eye!”

  “It’s good to hear you laugh again.”

  “It sounds even better from my side. You know, tonight’s like the final piece of the puzzle. Everything seems to be back together now. My relationship with my children, the new house, and my friendship with you.”

  “Friendship?”

  “Friendship is a lovely word. I like to think that’s what we have. Among” — she ran the tip of her tongue across her upper lip — “other things.”

  He lifted her up and buried his face in her breasts, rubbing it from side to side. She felt the finest trace of stubble — he’d shaved that evening, before their date — and the roughness spread a warmth through her. She’d have two rashes when she moved into her new home the following day, and she could think of no more welcome housewarming gift.

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE FAILURE of the British Brigade’s initial mission, the distribution of the booby-trapped posters, did not unduly worry Alan Venables. He attributed it to bad luck, somebody ripping down one of the first posters to be put up, cutting themselves, and then calling the police; before any real damage could be done, warnings had been circulated through the media.

  Nonetheless, Venables decided to wait before launching another action. After that first failed attempt, he felt his enemies would be on guard. He would let enough time pass for them to be lulled into a sense of security.

  He allowed three months to elapse, until the beginning of October. Then he organized a savage campaign of harassment against immigrant organizations and sympathetic left-wing factions. In a month-long reign of terror, British Brigade members smashed the windows of homes belonging to black and Asian community leaders. Front windows of Indian restaurants had garbage cans thrown through them. A rundown house that served as headquarters for a Marxist group was set on fire late one night by Molotov cocktails thrown from a passing van. A mosque in the East End of London, which had started life seventy years earlier as a synagogue, when the immigrants had been Eastern European Jews, was daubed with hate slogans. After each incident, telephone calls were made to radio and television stations, claiming responsibility for the British Brigade.

  Despite strenuous police investigation, nothing came to light about this new organization. Frustrated at being unable to hit back at the fleeting movement, victims turned to highly visible, more easily recognizable targets, such as the British Patriotic League. During the fall of 1978, the League staged well-attended anti-immigration rallies in London and in the Midlands cities of Birmingham and Leicester. An alliance of left-wing and immigrant groups disrupted the demonstrations. Rather than respond with violence of its own, the League called on the massive police presence for protection. Now that the British Brigade — the secret striking arm of his dual-track strategy — was fully operative, Alan Venables wanted the British Patriotic League to appear as the epitome of respectability. When part of the League’s manifesto was law and order, how could its members act otherwise?

  Brian Waters had no chance to give Katherine advance warning of these outrages. He could only tell her afterward. “Venables picks whatever group he wants,” Brian explained to Katherine, “and gives them their orders right before they go out on the job.” Despite this, Katherine and the Eagle still held an advantage over the rest of Fleet Street: they knew who controlled the Brigade.

  Brian participated in one mission. The group he commanded was called upon for the mosque assignment. The entire group, including Brian’s newfound ally, Ginger, met at the mosque at four-thirty in the morning. Armed with spray cans, they covered the building’s walls and windows with hate. The next night, while angry headlines screamed from newspapers, Brian met again with his subordinates to repay them the money they had laid out for the spray cans.

  Ginger pocketed his expenses and asked, “Got time for a drink, then, Brian?”

  Brian would have preferred to go home and sleep, but he saw the wisdom of appearing to return Ginger’s offer of friendship. They went to a public house, busy with evening trade. Taking two half pints of beer to a corner table, they sat down.

  “I went by that mosque today,” Ginger said. “Saw what we’d done. Looked even better in daylight than it did last night.”

  Brian glared across the small table. “I told everyone to steer clear of that place. You think the police aren’t looking for us to return to the scene of the crime?”

  Ginger smiled. “Relax. I work right around the corner as a presser in a coat factory.” He swallowed the beer and smacked his lips. “Drink up, Brian. I’ll get us another.”

  “This is fine for me. Don’t want to fall off my bike, do I?”

  “That’s a good one, Brian.” Chuckling at the weak joke, Ginger walked toward the bar for a refill. Through narrow eyes, Brian watched him go. He was no longer worried about Ginger’s loyalty. The fat slob practically worshipped him! Suffocated by the fawning attention, Brian decided he preferred Ginger as an enemy than as a friend.

  *

  Despite his earlier refusal to run a story on the formation of the British Brigade, and its secret link to the British Patriotic League, Gerald Waller was now becoming uneasy. He wanted to wait for the biggest possible story, but he was worried that someone might be injured or killed before the exposé could be written.

  “So far we’ve got the vandalism at the mosque,” Waller said, during a meeting with Katherine, Sally Roberts, and Roland Eagles, “attacks on homes and shops, and the fire-bombing of the Marxist headquarters. It’s all property damage so far, but how long will it be before these lunatics become
more ambitious and start spilling blood?”

  Sally’s concern took a different tack. “When we break the story because of our source, can the police prosecute us?” she asked. “Can they accuse us of obstructing their investigation?”

  “That’s a question we should be asking our solicitors,” Roland replied, “to get the legal opinion on our actions. Ethically, though, I’m becoming uncomfortable for the same reason as Gerry. If something truly tragic should happen . . .”

  Katherine held up a hand to interrupt her father. “Let’s hold off for one more action. We can’t run the story now. The last offense — the mosque desecration — took place eight days ago. The public’s memory has dimmed already. Let’s wait for one more strike by the British Brigade, and then we’ll print our story in the very next issue.”

  Sally was still concerned about police reaction when the story broke. “How are we going to explain our knowledge of the Brigade’s parentage?”

  “An anonymous telephone call,” Katherine replied. “Our source will be a mystery caller who told us everything. Right from that very first day, when the British Brigade was formed.”

  *

  Within four months of taking possession of its new headquarters, the British Patriotic League had utilized much of the space. The basement had been cleaned out and transformed into a printing center. Staff had been hired to produce Patriot and other propaganda literature in-house, on newly installed offset machinery. The executive committee retained offices on the top floor. The ground floor had been transformed into meeting rooms. Space on the remaining floors was assigned to various committees: recruiting, finance, public relations, and, with an optimistic flourish, even a general-election committee. Nowhere was there mention of the British Brigade. As far as the League was concerned, it did not exist.

  At the beginning of November, the group commanders of the British Brigade were summoned. Alan Venables addressed them in one of the smaller meeting rooms. “I’m pleased with the work you’ve done. Because of you and your men, peaceful League rallies were viciously attacked. We didn’t fight back. We were the injured party — assaulted by Britain’s enemies, the coloreds and the communists. Believe me when I say that the League made many friends among the white people of Britain these past weeks.”

  The commanders’ rumbling of self-approval erupted into a foot-stamping, hand-clapping explosion as Venables added in staccato tones, “But we haven’t finished yet!”

  *

  Brian made the journey on his motorcycle from Patriot House to Katherine’s new home in Frognal. The children were asleep, and Edna and Jimmy Phillips were in their self-contained flat on the top floor. Brian had to pick his way through an obstacle course of stepladders and sawhorses as he followed Katherine across the reception hall to the breakfast room that adjoined the kitchen.

  “The British Brigade’s planning to burn down a black social club next Saturday night,” Brian reported.

  “How do you know so far ahead?”

  “Venables told us it’s a special job, the biggest we’ve ever done, and he wanted us to cut cards for the honor of doing it.”

  “Will you be involved?”

  “No, thank Christ. I got lucky and lost.”

  “What’s the name of this club?”

  “Sons of the Islands. It’s in Stoke Newington, a couple of miles from where I live.”

  “Is the club to be burned while people are in it? Is that why it’s such a special job?”

  “No. You see, on Sunday night, the club’s supposed to be used for some big dance. A fund raiser to fight the British Brigade. Venables wants to demonstrate that nothing can stop the Brigade, nothing can fight it.”

  “Except us,” Katherine said. “Except the Eagle.”

  *

  The Sons of the Islands social club was located above a West Indian grocery store. Dances were held there every Saturday night, with calypso and reggae music echoing across the street until the small hours. During the rest of the week, the club was used by its West Indian members for games of cards, snooker, and darts, or to just sit and reminisce about the Caribbean.

  The dance scheduled for Sunday was something special. It was meant to raise money to fight the work of the British Brigade. The sudden upsurge in racial hatred had scared many people. The time had come to raise a war chest to fund resistance. Black celebrities from the sports and entertainment worlds had agreed to participate. Local politicians, ever aware of the need to gather votes, would be on hand. The local newspaper would give coverage.

  All the grandiose planning went for nought. An hour before dawn on Sunday, a van pulled into the service road that ran behind the club. Two young men climbed out. The rear door of the club presented no problem. Carrying cans, they ran up the stairs and slopped gasoline across the club’s floor and furniture. A match was struck. The two young men ran downstairs to the van, jumped in, and drove away. When the first fire engine arrived, the entire building was ablaze.

  Two hours later, when the building was little more than a smoldering shell, the customary telephone call was made to the BBC, claiming that the fire was the work of the British Brigade.

  *

  Most of Fleet Street carried the story at its face value: another outrage in a long list of such outrages by the British Brigade. Some of the left-leaning newspapers used the incident to point accusing fingers at the police, who, in the opinions of the leader writers, had not done enough to discover the identity of Brigade members solely because the victims were mostly colored.

  Only the Daily Eagle had a different slant on the story. Katherine worked late on Sunday night. So did Gerald Waller. They were both at the printing works of Eagle Newspapers when the first copy of the Monday Eagle rolled off the press. Waller grabbed the newspaper from the pressman and held it out. The report of the fire was on the front page, but it was part of a larger story, under the headline of “British Brigade — Who Really Pulls the Strings?”

  Editor and reporter remained in the printing works for another twenty minutes, watching the machinery spew out newspapers. Then they went to their separate homes, to rest in preparation for the explosion that the morning would bring.

  Katherine had barely fallen asleep when knuckles rapped on the bedroom door. She jerked awake, forcing her eyes to stare at the bedroom clock. Five minutes to six! She’d left instructions with Edna that she wanted to sleep until nine o’clock. She had even disconnected the bell of the bedroom telephone.

  “Mrs. Kassler!” The housekeeper’s voice came through the door. “It’s the BBC!”

  “Tell the BBC to buzz off! Better yet, I’ll do it!” She snatched the receiver from its rest. “Hello, BBC? Buzz off and let me sleep!”

  The bedroom door opened and Edna entered, a woolen dressing gown covering her from neck to feet. “Mrs. Kassler, the BBC’s not on the phone. They’ve sent a car to take you to the studio for the morning news show on the radio.”

  “I’m quite capable of driving myself to the studio. Tell the driver to leave.”

  Edna returned two minutes later, as Katherine was stepping into the shower. “The driver says he daren’t leave without you,” she called out.

  “Jesus Christ!” Katherine muttered, and turned the shower full on. But maybe it was just as well; as tired as she felt, she’d probably fall asleep at the wheel.

  By six forty-five, Katherine was at the BBC, all business in a navy-blue suit and raspberry silk blouse. The show host spent a couple of minutes talking to her in the waiting room, going over the questions he would ask, then she was left alone to marshal her thoughts. After fifteen minutes, the program secretary approached.

  “Mrs. Kassler, will you come with me, please?”

  Katherine followed the woman out of the waiting room and along the corridor. As the secretary opened a door above which a red light glowed, Katherine glanced over her shoulder. Entering the waiting room, as if to take her place, was Alan Venables. Katherine opened her mouth to ask the secretary the reason for Ven
ables’s presence. The secretary’s face whitened. She snapped a finger to her lips, and motioned with her head toward a round table. Six microphones were positioned at the table. The show host sat at one, and a white-haired men’s fashion consultant at another, continuing their discussion as if nothing else existed. Katherine sat down and waited her turn.

  The host finished his fashion interview with “Thank you, John, for another of your amusing and interesting insights into the clothes we wear.” The white-haired man left the room as quietly as Katherine had entered it. “Now we have the opportunity to speak to Katherine Kassler, the Daily Eagle reporter whose story this morning has shaken everyone. I know it’s shaken me. And like everyone else, I’m a little mystified about this dual-track strategy. It sounds like a new system of travel on British Rail. Instead, it’s a particularly nasty political tactic. Is that right, Katherine?”

  “A very nasty political tactic. Basically, you act in a civilized fashion toward a certain party, while simultaneously you are paying and instructing someone else to kick that party hard in the shins.”

  “When you make a claim like you’ve just made — that the British Patriotic League is really behind the recent attacks on minority groups — you must have some concrete evidence to back it up. Can you share this evidence with us?”

  “It’s the word of an unimpeachable source.”

  “This source has personally witnessed Alan Venables, the chairman of the British Patriotic League, giving the orders for these outrages?”

  “Unimpeachable,” Katherine repeated. “More detailed information than that, I am not prepared to give anyone. Suffice it to say, my source can verify that at the beginning of June, Alan Venables called one hundred of the British Patriotic League’s toughest young members to Patriot House and formed them into the British Brigade, a terror organization split into ten separate squads. My source can also verify that Venables personally gave orders to these squads to carry out a terror campaign against minority and left-wing groups, forcing them to retaliate. With no idea how to strike back at the British Brigade, these groups attacked rallies of the British Patriotic League, which is precisely what Venables wanted.”