The Passing Bells (15 page)

Hanna sorted her lists back into order with an air of finality. “Of course, I am a bit disappointed. I was looking forward to showing off my handsome nephew. But I will have you meet some of my friends before you travel on to Germany.”

“I would like that,” Martin said politely. He understood her approval of his plans. Aunt Jessie had found him socially redundant on more than one occasion. It was probably his destiny, he thought ruefully, to go through life messing up people's seating arrangements.

Lord Stanmore clapped him on the back. “And we must get in a day's riding. The only way to truly enjoy the English countryside is from the back of a horse.”

The earl walked with him to the main hall, talking ecstatically about the joys of horseback riding, a subject that Martin was incapable of warming up to.

“I shall inform Ross and he'll bring the car around. Do you have any English money?”

“I have a pound or two, sir. I imagine I can cash some traveler's checks at Cook's.”

“Yes, they provide that service, but I'd better give you a fiver just to be on the safe side.” He was reaching into his jacket for his wallet when he spotted Fenton entering the hall from the direction of the conservatory. “Ah, Fenton, have a good shot?”

Fenton, walking slowly and apparently lost in thought, seemed startled by the question.

“What?”

“The bloody jackdaws. Get any?”

He had left shotgun and game bag on the seat in Lydia's garden. Well, someone would find them. “Bagged a couple.”

“Jolly good for you. Young Rilke here is going up to London . . . book a Cook's tour of the British Isles. Sensible way to go if one doesn't know the country.”

“Yes . . . I suppose it is. Are you going up this morning?”

“Yes,” Martin said.

“I'll go with you, then.” He smiled apologetically at Lord Stanmore. “I ran into the telegraph boy as I was crossing Fern Lane. The adjutant needs me back.”

“Whatever for?”

“A battalion matter that could easily have waited until next week, but he's a nervous old aunty of a man.”

“Damn. Well, at least we got in a couple of decent rides.”

He sat in a moody silence half of the way to London. Martin had made an attempt at conversation, but Fenton had responded with a few grunted monosyllables so he gave up trying. He sat opposite the tall officer in a first-class carriage and contented himself with watching the scenery. As the train entered the suburbs of South London, Fenton emitted a deep sigh and reached into his pocket for cigarettes.

“Do you smoke, Rilke?”

“Yes, thanks.” He preferred cigars, but he took the offered cigarette, grateful for the breaking of the ice.

“Rather a blistered landscape, isn't it?” Fenton said, gesturing toward the window. “I suppose all England will be like that one day—every scrap of turf paved, every hill crawling with brick villas. I really detest progress.”

“So do I—sometimes. It's the same way in Chicago. New things going up all the time, the city growing like a weed.”

“Yes, I dare say. Still, in America there is so much land to expand into. I mean . . . all those prairies and deserts and things.” He puffed on his cigarette and eyed Martin narrowly through the smoke. “I really hate to bring this up, Rilke, but that jacket doesn't fit you at all. Who the devil is your tailor?”

“Marshall Field,” he blurted.

“The man should be shot. Look here, old chap, I hope you won't take offense, but a gentleman is judged by his clothes and you're too nice a fellow to be snubbed. My tailor is a wizard. He could make you a couple of outfits in no time flat, a few days. He's in Burlington Street, just off Savile Row. What do you say we pop around there after you leave Cook's?”

“Well, I . . .” He felt like ripping the offending jacket from his body and tossing it out of the speeding train.

“And if ready cash is a problem,” Fenton went on blithely, “don't give it a thought. Old Purdy wouldn't expect an earl's nephew to fork over vulgar coin. Just pay him when you get around to it. And you'll find him surprisingly reasonable.” He sat back with the contented air of a man who had just settled a question once and for all. “Yes, we'll do that straightaway.”

Martin squirmed. He felt humiliated, but the man had only been speaking honestly. The jacket was terrible, there was no question about that.

“But . . . don't you have to report to your unit?”

Fenton brushed a fleck of cigarette ash from the knife crease of his gray flannel trousers. “As a matter of fact, I pulled a slight deception on his lordship. There never was a telegram from the adjutant. It was an excuse to get out of staying for the weekend. I hope you won't say anything.”

“Of course not.”

“Thank you. I just felt like getting back to London for . . . personal reasons.”

They took a taxi from Waterloo Station to the Strand. The office of Thomas Cook & Sons was found and arrangements quickly made. Martin would join a tour group leaving Euston Station on Thursday morning for “ten days of wending one's way slowly through the beauties of the British Isles. The pageantry of her great castles . . . the historical significance of Stratford-on-Avon . . . the Roman wall . . . Bath . . . the lake district, where the great poets roamed . . .”

The clerk had spoken with evangelical zeal and had congratulated Martin on his foresight in choosing Cook's. He had then cashed one hundred dollars in traveler's checks for him and handed him a printed sheet detailing the schedule for his trip, British Isles Tour Number 32.

“Rather painless,” Fenton remarked as they left. “Though Lord knows what your fellow tourists will be like. One should at least be given a choice of traveling companions.”

The two hours spent with Fenton's tailor, the firm of Purdy & Beame, were equally painless. Both Mr. Purdy and Mr. Beame looked on Martin as a challenge to them as makers of fine gentlemen's apparel. They exchanged knowing glances and raised eyebrows as they divested Martin of his clothes, clucking their tongues over the shoddiness of Yankee cloth and workmanship. Martin was so much clay in their capable hands. He ended up purchasing three outfits, which, according to Fenton and the tailor, would see him through the day in impeccable style. They would be ready Wednesday afternoon.

“Two fittings on Tuesday, Mr. Rilke—in the morning and again in the afternoon. It is not customary for Purdy and Beame to work under such pressure of time, but we will be, I can assure you, equal to the task.”

Martin was then helped back into his offending garments and that was that.

“A decent bowler and an umbrella with a silk slipcase and you'll look like the Duke of Norfolk,” Fenton said as they stepped out of the shop. He pointed in the direction of Old Bond Street. “My hatter's a short walk away. Come along.”

As they turned into Bond Street, Fenton suddenly stiffened and then faced about to peer intently into a window displaying pipes and tobacco.

“Christ,” he said under his breath. “I hope he didn't see me.”

“Who?” Martin asked, looking around.

“Don't look. Just stand beside me. Perhaps he'll pass on by.”

Martin stared at the racks of pipes, the tins of tobacco, and then he sensed someone approaching and looked to his left. A young man was coming toward them, somewhat hesitantly. Martin's first impression was that it might have been a girl in man's clothing. The body was slim, almost willowy, and he was more pretty than handsome. Black curly hair framed a narrow high-cheekboned face, with skin of a pale olive-ivory complexion. The man's nose was thin but prominent, the eyes large, oval, and soft brown, like the eyes of a fawn. But the fawnlike characteristics were negated by the mouth, a wide slash that seemed to be fixed in a permanent sneer.

“Captain Wood-Lacy, I presume,” the man said. “And companion.”

“Why, hello, Golden,” Fenton said, doing a poor job of imitating surprise. “Fancy running into you.”

The man's lips curled even tighter in derision. “Fancy! And on Bond Street to boot. I never knew you to be taken by pipes.”

“I'm not, as a matter of fact, but any port in a storm.”

The man threw his head back and laughed, a rollicking peal of such depth and timbre that it was difficult to associate it with so delicate a throat.

“Oh, Fenton, I do admire you. You are positively the most candid man I've ever known. But mind your manners, introduce me.”

“Golden . . . Martin Rilke from Chicago. Rilke, Jacob Golden, the Fleet Street gadfly. Rilke is a fellow journalist, by the way.”

“Oh?” Golden said, peering at Martin intently. “What paper?”

“Chicago
Express
.”

Golden closed his eyes for a second. “
Express
. . . Republican attitudes . . . hostile to President Wilson . . . distrustful of organized labor—”

“Hey,” Martin said with a nervous laugh, “lay off. I only write book reviews.”

“That's what you should be doing, Golden,” Fenton said dryly. “Might keep you out of mischief.”

Golden sighed deeply and pulled a long face. “My father feels the same way, I'm afraid. No more reporting on the Ulster farrago or Balkan intrigues. It's nothing but murders and crimes passionnels for the immediate future. I'm covering the Goodwin case at the moment . . . you know, the Birchington dentist who drilled his sister-in-law to death because God told him to do it. Very nasty business, but I believe God knew what he was saying. The victim was an absolute horror. Everyone in the family is overjoyed that the biddy is gone. The paper is paying for his defense.”

“And if it wasn't,” Fenton drawled, “I'm sure you'd be just as enthusiastic over his hanging.”

“Yes, I dare say I would.” He spread his hands outward in a gesture of helplessness. “But that's the old newspaper game, isn't it? One must cater to the public tastes . . . or even create tastes to cater to.” He winked slyly at Martin. “But then I'm sure you know all the devious ramifications of our noble profession. It must be rather pleasant being a soldier. At least one is
told
who to shoot. No inspired judgments in the thin red line.”

Fenton faked an exaggerated yawn. “Same old Golden. No wonder your friends duck into shop doorways.” He pulled a watch from his waistcoat pocket and glanced at it. “Time for tea. Let's hail a taxi and go to the Marlborough.”

“My dear Fenton,” Golden said, “they don't like Jews at the Marlborough.”

“I know. An odious rule. It should merely be
certain
Jews.” He scowled at his watch. “Bother, we're a bit late for tea there anyway. Where do you suggest?”

“A White Manor by all means. The two-shilling de luxe. And speaking of White Manors, have you seen the beautiful Lydia Foxe lately?”

Fenton appeared preoccupied as he scanned the busy street for a vacant taxi.

“No . . . not for some time.”

“I saw her in Paris two months ago. At the opera, clinging to the arm of a major in the cuirassiers. She seems to have a penchant for military men.”

The captain turned slowly and gazed down into the smaller man's blithely innocent face.

“Why in God's name did I ever befriend you in school, Golden? You are truly the most insufferable—”

The laugh came again, deeper and louder than before. “It was an act of pure Christian charity, old boy. And like any worthwhile Christian act, it needs to be paid for with a modicum of suffering. Ah,” he cried, dashing suddenly into the street, “there's one. . . . Taxi! Taxi!”

Martin arrived back at Abingdon Pryory at ten-thirty that night, taking a rattletrap taxi from Godalming station to the house. The butler informed him that his lordship and the countess had retired early, that Master Charles was not at home, and that Mr. Wood-Lacy had also retired for the night.

“But if you care for supper, sir . . .”

“Perhaps a sandwich and a glass of beer, if it's no trouble.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“In my room, if you don't mind. I'm pretty tired.”

“Indeed yes, sir,” Mr. Coatsworth said with genuine understanding. “A trip up to London is always most fatiguing.”

He wasn't sure if it had been the trip or the company that had been fatiguing. A bewildering day, he decided as he put on his pajamas. A footman brought ham sandwiches and a tankard of pale ale, which Martin wolfed down before getting into bed, placing his attaché case on his knees, and taking from it a notebook, pen, and his eyeglasses.

Saturday night, June 13, 1914

Observations and Reflections. The upper-class Englishman's attitude toward “trade” is an interesting one. Fenton is probably not “upper class,” in the strictest meaning of the term, but as an officer in a socially prestigious regiment, he is entitled to all the prejudices of that class. “Trade” is, loosely speaking, the province of purveyors of services or products—haberdashers, wine merchants, boot makers, tailors, etc. Doctors are not in “trade,” nor are journalists, the military, professional sporting people, et cetera. Upper-class Englishmen rely on “trade” for their comfort and well-being, but consider it proper form to delay paying their bills for as long as possible. Cash, it seems, is vulgar. After tea, Fenton took me to his hatter, where I was measured for a derby; the hat will be ready Wednesday afternoon. I insisted on paying cash in advance, and both Fenton and the hatter appeared slightly nonplussed.

We had tea at a White Manor on Oxford Street near the Marble Arch. It was a huge multistoried place with several dining rooms, a string orchestra, bakery shop, and Continental delicatessen. The food—small tea sandwiches and a variety of cakes—was both good and inexpensive. The service is first rate: hordes of young women in crisply starched blue uniforms, taking orders and carrying trays, all of them pretty and cheerful. Fenton told me that they are well paid and that they live in hostels owned by the company, are charged very little for their rooms, practically nothing for their meals, the bulk of their wages going into a savings plan. Golden added that this benevolence has resulted in a shortage of maids for the gentry. Girls prefer the short hours and fine working conditions at the White Manors to going into service—like Ivy Thaxton—where they must work long hours and receive practically nothing for their labors. Maids in big houses get one afternoon off a week and are on call twenty-four hours a day. I wonder if Ivy Thaxton has ever heard of the White Manors? Probably must have. Fenton said they are all over England, but not all of them as splendid as the one on Oxford Street. It seems to me that it would be a far better place for a young girl to work. Being a maid in a place like Abingdon Pryory must be grueling. So many rooms to clean, beds to make, chamber pots to empty. I have a horror of that white ceramic bowl under the bed, but I can readily understand why one would use it, especially in the winter. That little room down the hall is as cold as death, and it's only June! I imagine that if I were living here in December I'd think twice about getting out of a warm bed in the middle of the night and trotting down the hall to that icy cubicle.