THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque (25 page)

Nasty business, this, Joseph,’ Hugh Peters remarks as he swivels his chair away from the presence of the dapper fellow in the pince-nez spectacles to survey instead the familiar London skyline outside his office window: the distant dome of St Paul’s to one side and, to the other, just peaking between various warehouses, a narrow glint of cold Thames water below.

‘Do we have any idea at all, sir, who might have been responsible for such an outrage?’ Beezley inquires with uncharacteristic boldness, and which brings the other man around to face him once again.

‘Well, to be frank with you,’ Peters continues, absently fondling his red silk tie between finger and thumb, a mannerism indicating a certain embarrassment, ‘I had instructed to have Bob Small work on a certain - er - extra assignment while he was out there. In addition to chasing down the former Mrs Peters, I told him to get everything he could on the organisation behind this damn cult group, you know - the charitable foundation in your dossier. He may have been investigating them when he met with his - er - mishap the other day.’

‘They do assure us he will survive,’ Beezley says, ‘though when he might regain consciousness they cannot say. Apparently, it was a blow to the head from some falling ice that caused the coma, not the gunshot wound that had been the biggest concern at the start. A solitary .45 calibre bullet was fired, the police have confirmed, but this merely grazed his side. Not much of a consolation, though, sir. Whatever complexion one puts on it, really most unfortunate.’

‘Yes … yes, quite so,’ Peters remarks, albeit without much genuine concern.

‘Shall I show the editor in now, sir?’ Beezley inquires, aware that the man has been waiting already some minutes outside.

‘Yes, do,’ Peters responds, and within seconds Beezley is gone and the tall, lanky figure of the editor of the News Chronicle, Malcolm Skinner replaces him at the doorway, nervously wiping his feet on some imaginary doormat as he crosses the threshold to his paymaster’s office. Theirs is a singular relationship, going back many years, and Peters still enjoys baiting him. ‘I see they haven’t shot
you
yet!’ he declares loudly by way of greeting.

The editor laughs, not because he is cheerful or amused, but because his boss has laughed. ‘I keep my head down, Mr Peters, don’t worry,’ he says, ducking a little theatrically, as if to emphasise the point. ‘Poor old Bob, though. Bloody awful shock, wasn’t it?’

With his red cheeks, his plump sausage-shaped fingers and cockney accent, Malcolm Skinner is the kind of man you would normally find behind a barrow in some East-End of London street market, and were it not for a certain sophistication of dress and an unfortunate preference for some ghastly bay rum concoction he invariably covers himself with after shaving, one might readily conclude that he still belonged there. He is good at his job, however. Peters has understood and appreciated that fact for many a year. Skinner is also a man who instinctively understands what the people want - or at least what the readership of the News Chronicle want - and that is sleaze and sport, interspersed with a small and not too demanding measure of pithy political comment from time to time, particularly during election campaigns, when the voice of the paper is considered even by the most cynical of pundits to swing large segments of the voting public in whatever direction the proprietor chooses. Ownership of such a publication confers enormous powers on its chairman, therefore, and it is vital his editor be as amenable and as docile an animal as possible, as well as staying loyal in the face of all manner of abuse - like a dog you could kick whenever you felt frustrated. And Skinner had always fitted the bill perfectly in that respect.

‘Tell me straight, Malcolm: how is this Upwards-With-Reason campaign getting along?’ Peters asks. ‘It’s damn well costing me enough.’

‘Yea - all pretty good, so far,’ Skinner replies, though without much enthusiasm, shifting restlessly on his feet. ‘The lapel badges, they’ve been all right. I’ve seen folks wearing them on the buses, football matches, places like that. And as for the posters we did - well, they’re all over the place - factories, shop windows, offices. The printers say they can hardly keep up with demand. Shifting 'em like shit off a shovel, they reckon.’

Peters nods his approbation, wondering as he often does over the coarse, vulgar language the man uses in conversation - untutored, one might think, if one did not know better, and so distinct from the demands of correct English that goes with the job. For Skinner, in fact, the Queen’s English has always been a thing apart, an exercise in writing and printing only, undertaken rather as an academic might negotiate a foreign language: fluently, at times perfectly, yet always foreign for all that.

Yes, so the campaign has been a success so far, Peters reflects -
in certain circles.
And that is the problem. For although the working classes have embraced the campaign with all the transient approval of any fleeting gimmick or fashion, the broader, more informed segments of society have yet to be swayed to any great extent. He wonders, in truth, if they ever will. ‘What do you think, Malcolm. Shall we go on for another week? Or is it getting a bit overdone?’ he asks.

‘Well … now you come to mention it, governor, I’d say we’ve probably gone as far as we can at this moment in time,’ Skinner replies with a scratch of the chin. ‘There’s been …well, a few nasty incidents - assaults and things. We haven’t reported those ourselves, but the quality press is picking up on them. Some old geezer doing healing or something over in the West End - he had his house broken into. Graffiti scrawled and all that kind of thing, and one of our badges was left behind at the scene. I dealt with the coppers myself, don’t worry. Didn’t want to bother you.’

‘I see. Well, certainly we don’t want to appear to sanction any unpleasantness,’ Peters reflects, perceiving the dangers already. He knows Skinner has most of the local bobbies on side. And they regularly supply the News Chronicle with stories, of course - for a price. But he wouldn’t be able to rely so readily on those further afield. It is a worrying development.

‘I suppose they can only do so much to keep things quiet,’ Skinner adds, picking up on his boss’s misgivings. ‘Sooner or later the public will turn against it … and us.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘Yea, 'fraid so, Boss.’

‘All right, Malcolm. Upwards With Reason - let it run until the weekend, then we’ll call it a day. I shall instruct the Sundays not to feature it either. Oh, and before you go, tell me: what about the hunt for Deborah? How was that progressing up until the time when Bob met with his - er - misfortune?’

‘Oh, well that’s kind of difficult to quantify, as well,’ Skinner responds awkwardly. ‘See, we reckoned there would have been a good chance of persuading her - that is your ex wife, with respect, sir - to come down on our side if we offered her a truce. We were going to bargain with her, see - and Bob reckoned he knew where he could find her. Ha! He even said to me he could get her to endorse the campaign - Upwards With Reason. Blimey, that would have been a turn up, wouldn’t it?’

‘Quite so, yes. Though
that
I doubt would ever be possible.’ Peters observes and shakes his head with grim amusement.

‘Yea - that’s what I thought. That’s what I told him. But he still reckoned he could swing it. Mad bastard. Only now I suppose we’ll never know.’

Skinner is about to depart - but is halted by the look on his boss’s face, because at just that moment Peters’s attention has clearly become distracted. Gradually, like a cat stalking its prey, he leaves his chair, goes to the window and crouches, almost pressing his nose to the glass. ‘Malcolm … come over here,’ he demands, one hand raised in caution and in a voice evidently none too pleased with something he has spotted high up outside and from which he seems reluctant to take his eyes. ‘What, may I ask, is
that
? Look - floating out there! It looks like a miniature airship or something.’

The editor steps up with a certain sense of foreboding to behold not an airship but a much smaller, bulbous cigar-shaped object floating idly upwards just yards from the windows of their building. It is grey in colour, a couple of feet in length and appears to be of a dull, rubber-like substance, and - perhaps more significantly - has the words ‘Upwards With Reason!’ painted crudely upon its surface in thick black ink, all pumped up and distorted like when someone writes upon a balloon.

Skinner, clearly both alarmed and embarrassed, quickly pulls a smile across his face. ‘Oh it’s probably just - er - some of the lads - you know, the apprentices down in the press room,’ he tries to explain, though not entirely adequately since it merely brings an angry grimace of confusion from his boss. ‘They get those rubber condoms from the barbers, and then blow 'em up with the gas from the cylinders. It’s amazing how big they can get 'em to go, sir, isn’t it!’

‘What!’

‘Yea. They tie a farthin' on the end to weigh the nose down, So it’s just like, as you say, sir, one of them airships. Then they float them down Fleet Street when the wind’s in the right direction. It’s their way of having a bit of fun … apparently,
so they say
. I haven’t seen it done, myself, you understand.’

‘A bit of fun?’
Peters echoes with fury, and a face anything but amused. ‘Well, Malcolm, clearly the wind is not in the right direction this morning, is it?’ he adds, as the dreaded object itself, as if guided by some mischievous hand of divinity, floats ever closer until it eventually butts itself gently against the windowpane with a soft, barely audible thud.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Peters. I …’

‘Find out at once who is responsible for this outrage,’ Peters commands. ‘And I want him, whoever it is, out of this building within the hour. It would be bad enough on its own, this kind of juvenile prank, without having our slogan scrawled on the side of it. It makes us a laughing stock. Is there any way of getting it down?’

‘I wouldn’t think so, governor, no - not unless we can find someone with a catapult,’ Skinner suggests, venturing an instant albeit somewhat impractical solution, still gazing out at the dread object and scratching his chin. ‘Though what with all them windows here, I suppose we might do more harm than good with that,’ he finally admits.

‘Shut up, and bring me my cane, will you,’ Peters demands, clearly dismayed at such foolishness as the other man dashes to the coat stand in the corner.

Having raised the window by this time, and snatching the stick from his editor, Peters then attempts to coax the condom inside. It is then he notices the crowds gathering in the street below, looking up.

‘Damn it!’ he curses through gritted teeth as he ducks back in immediately, his normally pallid features scarlet with rage.

‘Darts!’ Skinner declares loudly.

‘What?’

‘Darts. I’ve got some in the office. Tie one on the end of the stick. That’s the answer. Hang on, sir, I’ll just go and fetch them.’

And, indeed, within a minute, Skinner has returned with a set of darts, and Peters, taking one up, secures it to the tip of his cane with a rubber band. Crouching out of sight by the open window he then jabs at the offending object with the rapier thrust of an accomplished swordsman. There is an explosion of sorts, and the object flutters to the ground - to the sound of much applause and cheering from below echoing off the walls of the buildings.

A direct hit. But Peters remains furious. ‘Remember, I want whoever’s responsible dealt with in the severest possible terms,’ he reminds the other man, slamming the window shut. ‘And I don’t give a damn what the Chapel or the unions say to it. Give him his cards. There shall be no repeat performance of this kind of nonsense, understand?’

‘Right-i-o, sir.’

‘Oh and, while you’re at it, you can put somebody capable back onto that Deborah story. We’re not going to let this slip through our fingers just because Bob has gone and got himself knocked up. She might well be in the process of destroying herself perfectly well without our assistance. But whichever way it goes, I want us there when it happens. I want the picture on the front page. Understood?’

And with a swift dip of the head in obedience, the editor of the News Chronicle, realising none of what he has been asked to do would be at all easy, gathers up his darts and walks from the room to leave Peters to his meditations, which are not entirely free of anxiety. For if these people, whoever they are, could silence his reporter in such a decisive way, then maybe they would aim their wrath in his direction next. He has made powerful enemies among certain quarters. He knows that. And what happened to Small really could have been, he feels, merely a warning shot that had been fired in the streets of Bern. A warning shot in his direction.