Snobbery With Violence (7 page)

The air was full of the smell of pipe smoke and cheap cigarette smoke. The smoke lay in wreaths across the dingy pub, which was lit by flickering gas lamps.

The smell of unwashed bodies struck him like a blow in the face. He went to the bar and ordered a pint of porter and looked around. The man he was chasing was carrying a full pint to a corner table. Harry picked up his drink, walked over and sat down.

“I want to talk to you,” he said.

“What about?” The man took a pull at his beer. “Who are you?” he growled. An evil-looking prostitute with sagging breasts and black teeth leaned against Harry’s shoulder. “Fancy a good time, guv?”

“Shove off,” said Harry.

He waited until she had gone.

“My name’s Bill Sykes,” said Harry.

“Bin reading Dickens, ‘ave you?” sneered his companion.

Harry cursed himself. He should have guessed that a dipsomaniac, like many of his kind, would turn out to have come down in the world.

“My mother did,” said Harry. “Your name?”

“Pat Brian.”

“Mr. Brian, I have an offer for you. How would you like to earn two hundred guineas?”

“Garn.”

“The truth.”

“What d’ye want for it?”

“A quantity of dynamite, enough to blow up, say, a bridge and a building, and instructions on how to do it.”

“How did you know I was a blaster? Come on. Who’s bin talking?”

“No one. Lucky guess.” I am a rank amateur, thought Harry. He could have turned out just to be one of the labourers.

“Two hundred guineas. What’s it for?”

“The two hundred guineas are for you to supply the material and instructions, keep your mouth shut and not ask questions.”

“Two hundred guineas!” Pat stared into his beer and then took a long pull. “I could quit. I could get back to Ireland. Buy a bit o’ land, I could.”

“When could you get the stuff?”

Pat finished his drink. “Come along o’ me. Going back to Liverpool Street.”

“Have you a key to the site?”

“Don’t need one, guv. Know a way in. How do I know you’ll pay?”

Harry slid a wash-leather bag out of his pocket and passed it over. “Look in there. Under the table.”

Pat fumbled with the bag under the table. His eyes widened. He stuffed the bag in his jacket pocket. “Thanks,” he jeered. “You’d best walk out of here. One shout from me that you’re the perlice, and they’ll murder you.”

Harry sighed. He fished in his other pocket and then said levelly, “I now have a pistol pointed at your private parts under the table. Give me back the gold or I’ll blow your manhood off.”

Pat ducked his head under the table and then straightened up. He shrugged. “Worth a try. Can’t blame me, now can you, guv?”

“Get to your feet and walk to the door. I will follow. You now know too much, so if you attempt to run away, I will shoot you.”

“You’re going to force me to get the stuff for nothink,” wailed Pat, his accent an odd mixture of Irish and Cockney. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I have no luck at all, at all.”

“You’ll get your money. Now, walk!”

“That person is here again,” complained Rose.

“If you mean Captain Cathcart, yes,” growled her father. “And speaking of persons, why hasn’t that Daisy creature been sent packing?”

“I am teaching her to read and write, Pa. When she has mastered both, she will find a good position, possibly as a clerk, in London. I would like a typewriter.”

There were two reasons why the earl finally capitulated and gave in to his daughter’s demands. Rose kept busy with her protegee was less likely to get into trouble, and a typewriter
was considered to be a woman’s machine and was designed with scrolls of gold on black to give the machine the feminine touch.

Rose went immediately to find the earl’s secretary, Matthew Jarvis, to instruct him to order a typewriter and have it delivered as soon as possible. Matthew nodded and said he would attend to the matter immediately. Matthew was a chubby man whose clothes always seemed too tight for him. He had a round red face, a heavy moustache, and little brown eyes.

Daisy had been regaling Rose with stories of her sometimes quite horrific childhood in the East End of London. Rose had begun to wonder about people in the household, realizing they had lives and thoughts of which she had hitherto known nothing.

“Are you happy here, Mr. Jarvis?” Rose asked.

“Yes, my lady.”

“You have worked for my father for five years now Do you sometimes find the job a little tedious?”

Matthew looked shocked. “Not in the slightest, my lady.”

“Your family, do you visit them?”

“Yes, my lady. If you will excuse me, I will continue with my work. I will now be able to telephone to order the typewriter, my lord having recently had that very useful instrument installed.”

“Very good. Oh, Mr. Jarvis?”

“My lady?”

“I believe Captain Cathcart is with us, but so far I have not seen him. Where is he?”

“To my knowledge, he is working in a downstairs room in the east wing.”

“At what?”

“I am afraid I could not say.”

Curiosity sent Rose on a search of the east wing. It had been
added on to the main Tudor building in the days of Queen Anne. It was usually where the guests were housed when the earl and countess held a party.

She found the captain in a little-used room at the end of a corridor on the ground floor.

“Don’t you ever knock?” he asked angrily, when she walked in on him.

“You forget. This is my home. I have no need to knock. I see you have a quantity of sticks of dynamite. Are you going to blow up the king?”

“No, I am going to create a couple of explosions. I have already written several anonymous letters to the newspapers warning them of a Bolshevik plot against the king.”

“The Bolsheviks do not advocate terrorism. It was in their manifesto.”

“Didn’t stop them killing Tsar Alexander the Second.”

“That was the last century. That was the Nihilists. The Bolsheviks have eschewed terrorism in their new manifesto.”

“Well, according to me, they haven’t. Now, if there is nothing else ...”

“Just one thing. You should wear gloves.”

“I did not know there was a drawing-room etiquette to deal with dynamite.”

“You must be careful of sweating.”

“My dear goose, I am as cool as cucumber sandwiches.”

“I didn’t mean you. I mean the dynamite. Sweating is a problem with nitro-glycerine material. If it gets absorbed through your skin, you will get a nitro-glycerine headache.”

Harry, who had been kneeling on the floor, beside the cases of dynamite and percussion caps, rose to his feet. “Has it never occurred to you, Lady Rose, that your knowledge is unwomanly?”

“Not in the least. I see you are as stupid and old-fashioned as the other men in society. You would feel more comfortable were my conversation limited to discussion of the latest Nell Gwyn hat, the Camille Clifford coiffure, the Billie Burke shoes and the Trilby overcoat. Good day to you.”

I hope she never marries, thought Harry savagely, or her husband will wring her neck. But he put on a pair of gloves.

He decided to go for a walk in the afternoon. The sound of voices came from the paddock at the back of the stables. He walked over and leaned on the fence. Rose was giving Daisy riding lessons. At first he did not recognize the chorus girl. Her face was free of paint and she was wearing a chic riding outfit which Rose had ordered for her from John Barker of Kensington for the princely sum of one hundred and five shillings. It had a tightly cut bodice, lightly boned to the waist, and the skirt was cut to accommodate the right knee when mounting side-saddle. Over the bodice went a very tight waistcoat.

“That’s right,” Rose was saying. “Stand on the mounting block. Oh, I nearly forgot. You must unbutton your waistcoat first. Never mount when buttoned up or the buttons will pop and fly all over the place.”

Daisy put a foot in the stirrup, grasped the pommel, heaved herself up and went straight over the other side. Rose gave an exclamation of dismay.

She rushed to help Daisy up and then both girls burst out laughing. Harry moved away, puzzled. What on earth was that little chorus girl doing with Lady Rose?

Up until that day, he had dined separately in the quarters he had set up in the east wing. He decided it was time he joined the family, and when he returned to the house he sent a note
by a footman to say he would be pleased to join the earl and his family for dinner that evening.

Because of Rose’s disgrace, he expected there to be only himself as a guest. But the little earl was popular and had lately found courage to send out a few invitations. There were three guests other than Harry: the Marquess and Marchioness of Hedley, the rector, Mr. Busy, and a faded cousin of Lady Polly’s.

The marquess was a jovial man who liked to model himself on King Edward. He was heavy-set and heavy-bearded. His marchioness was a timid, crushed lady, as if her spirit had been borne down by her husband’s relentless joviality.

Rose, reflected Harry, was looking exceptionally beautiful in a white chiffon gown and with white silk roses in her hair. He wondered how Daisy fared in the rigid snobbish hierarchy of the servants’ hall.

He tried to engage Lady Hedley, who was seated on his right, in conversation. “The weather has been very fine this summer,” volunteered the captain.

“Yes, indeed,” she said. “Strawberries were fine. Yes.” Then she relapsed into silence.

“Lady Rose appears to be in full bloom tonight,” pursued Harry.

“Yes. Fine. Pity.”

“Pity?”

“All that beauty. Spinster. Can’t be anything else now.”

“Society has a short memory.”

“Not that short,” she said gloomily. She cast a sudden waspish glance in her husband’s direction and muttered, “Men with beards shouldn’t eat soup. Disgusting.”

There seemed to be nothing to reply to that, so Harry turned his attention to the pale cousin on his other side. What was her name? Ah, Miss Durwant-Flint.

“Do you live far away, Miss Durwant-Flint?”

“London.”

“Ah, where in London?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I was just making conversation,” said Harry.

“I don’t like conversing during dinner. No one should have to converse while they are eating. Barbarous.”

Harry gave up and finished his dinner in silence, which took quite a long time because there were eight courses. At last Lady Polly rose and the ladies followed her out. The gentlemen were left alone with the port.

Mr. Busy, the rector, had fallen asleep. His mouth was open. He should have been called Mr. Lazy, thought Harry.

Hedley told several smoking-room anecdotes and laughed immoderately at his own humour. Then he fixed his bloodshot eyes on Harry. “Don’t say much, do you?”

“Don’t get much chance,” said Harry coldly.

“You’re a young man. You should try to be more
cheery”
said Hedley, relishing the sound of the latest slang word. “Wait a bit. You’re that chap who fixes things.”

The earl looked at Harry and shook his head to convey the message that he had not been indiscreet.

Harry found he had conceived a strong dislike for Hedley, so he smiled enigmatically and said nothing.

“I asked you a question,” said Hedley.

Harry smiled and poured himself another glass of port. “And I didn’t answer,” he said.

Hedley gave him a baffled stare and then turned his attention to the earl. “Seems a shame you should all be in purdah because of little Rose. I’m giving a house party in a month’s time. Got a few eligibles coming. Young people. Send Rose.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said the earl. “I am sure my wife will be free to chaperone her.”

“Don’t need a chaperone. Her maid will do. M’wife’ll look after her.”

“Well, I suppose...”

“Just the thing she needs.”

“Oh, all right, then.”

What’s going on here? wondered Harry. Does this jovial marquess really want to do Rose a favour?

The village of Stacey Magna was one of those places that look so well portrayed on chocolate boxes and were uncomfortable to live in, the thatched cottages being damp and insanitary. The inhabitants lived a quiet rural life, but were saved from the misery of poverty which plagued other agricultural villages in England, for the earl was a generous landlord and made sure everyone had enough food and that there was a school for the children.

Two evenings later, the inhabitants went to bed soon after the sun had set, to save the expense of candles, and a deep quiet settled over the houses and the surrounding countryside.

But they were all awakened at midnight by a tremendous explosion. The braver ones rushed out to see what had happened; the others cowered in their beds tliinking the Day of Judgement was at hand.

It transpired that just before the main entrance to the earl’s estate, where a pretty hump-backed bridge spanned a river, the whole bridge had been blown up. Just as several men from the village were exclaiming over the smoking ruin, there was another huge explosion, bigger this time, from the direction of the railway.

They set off in that direction, keeping together, looking fearfully to left and right. When they reached Stacey Magna Station, the smoke was just clearing. Great holes had been blasted in the platforms on either side and the railway line was a twisted wreck.

The blasts were too late to feature in the morning newspapers, but they hit the headlines the day after. The press arrived but were kept firmly outside the gates of the earl’s estate. Crowds of sightseers came to see the destruction wrought by the Bolsheviks. And, of course, it must have been the Bolsheviks, for all the papers said so, and all claimed to have received anonymous threatening letters. Police combed through the debris and Detective Superintendent Alfred Kerridge was on his way to supervise the search.

The visitors brought some prosperity to the village, where lemonade stands and pie stands were set up, and the small pub, the Stacey Arms, did a roaring trade.

In all the fuss, Harry and his manservant, Becket, travelled in one of the earl’s carriages to a railway station farther up the line and caught a train to London from there.