Bleeding Heart Square (23 page)

No time to think, which was probably just as well. Lydia came through the wicket from Bleeding Heart Square and almost immediately turned right into the little forecourt in front of the chapel. The door to the cloister was ajar. She pushed it open.

Soft, gray light filtered through the line of windows on the left-hand side. Two tall men were standing near the door to the undercroft. Nobody else was in sight. She walked rapidly along the cloister, her heels tapping on the flags.

The men straightened up. They were standing either side of the steps leading down to the undercroft door, which was closed. Their black tunics made them look sinister but the first thing Lydia noticed was how young they were. One of them had plump, pink cheeks and pale, straight hair like straw. He looked as if he belonged in a ploughboy's smock. The other was smaller and darker, with bow legs and a wizened face like a monkey's.

"Good afternoon," Lydia said. "I presume this is where the meeting is?"

"Sorry, madam," said the smaller Blackshirt. "You can't go in at present."

"Why ever not?"

"Sir Rex's speaking. If you care to wait for the interval--"

"I don't care to wait at all." Lydia threw back her head and thought:
How would Mother handle this?
"Do you know who I am, young man?"

"Madam, my orders are--"

"Mr. Langstone is my husband," Lydia said imperiously, raising her voice and hearing it resonating down the corridor, bouncing off the stones. "And Sir Rex is a close personal friend. Please open that door immediately, or I shall have to take your names."

It was the ploughboy who wilted first. Then the monkey said, "All right, madam. But you will be as quiet as possible, won't you?"

"I don't think I need your advice on how to behave," Lydia said. "Do you?"

The smaller man lifted the latch of the door with infinite care and pushed it open. Lydia went down the steps. Rex Fisher's amplified voice swept out to meet her.

"Dozens of you men here today will have fought in the war, as did many members of the British Union. Neither we nor you have forgotten the lessons we learned in those dark days when we stood shoulder to shoulder together against the foe."

The door closed behind her. Lydia paused for a moment on the last step. The undercroft was full of people. She took in the tables on the left, the crowd standing at the back, the packed seats in the body of the undercroft and the dais at the end.

Five chairs behind the table on the platform were now occupied. Marcus was on the far left. Sir Rex was in the middle. He was on his feet, with his hands planted on the table. His eyes traveled around the hall, capturing his audience. She hoped he hadn't seen her.

"And what have we seen since the war?" he was saying. "I will tell you the sad and shameful truth. We have seen a succession of fumbling and inconsistent British governments composed of old men who learned their trade, in so far as they learned anything at all, when Queen Victoria was on the throne. Under their bungling direction, we have seen this country's influence gradually diminish in the world. We have seen great cracks opening up in our empire; and our empire should be not only our greatest glory but also our greatest safeguard, both politically and economically. It is no coincidence that at the same time Britain's economy has plunged further and further into gloom. We have seen the country paralyzed by a general strike fomented by foreign agitators. Our economy has been blighted by a depression that was entirely avoidable. Yes, I emphasize that word--avoidable."

By now Lydia had mingled with the crowd. She had turned up the collar of her coat and she wore a scarf over her head. It was a pity there were not more women here. She couldn't help but stand out.

Fisher paused. "However, one politician has been neither fumbling nor inconsistent. One politician has come forward to offer clear and effective leadership. As early as February 1930, the British Union's leader, Sir Oswald Mosley, who was then in the government as Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, produced a memorandum for his colleagues. It outlined a comprehensive policy which, had the government had the guts to adopt it, would have reversed this downward trend and brought the country to unparalleled levels of prosperity. We must protect our home markets, Sir Oswald said--and the only way to do that, both then and now, is by the introduction of tariffs to regulate trade. We must control the banks to promote investment. Nor can we allow agriculture to languish, Sir Oswald pointed out, because we shall always need to feed ourselves. The government must create jobs with road-building and other projects that will in time have the further benefit of enabling our economy to function more efficiently than ever. And what of our industries? We cannot do without them. Yet they are still run on piecemeal nineteenth-century principles. The government must give a firm lead. That, after all, is what governments are for."

Lydia sheltered behind a tall man in a black overcoat and hat.

"Our great industries," Fisher continued, "because of this lack of direction, have failed to take account of the changes in science and technology so they can no longer compete effectively with the industries of countries that have modernized more quickly and more effectively. The solution is in our own hands. The British Empire is the greatest empire the world has ever seen. We have the means of production; we have the raw materials; we have the expertise; we have the dogged determination and courage--and of course we have the markets as well. This country and its empire can and should stand alone. That is where our future economic prosperity must lie."

Lydia glanced around her. Unfortunately she couldn't see Rory. But she accidentally caught the eye of Mr. Smethwick, standing near the tea urns, who immediately looked away.

"Since the war," Fisher was now saying, "one government after another has led us deeper and deeper into the mire by promoting the import of foreign goods. They have allowed the big City financiers to feather their own nests by making loans to foreign countries, thereby damaging British manufacturing and British agriculture. As Sir Oswald has said, and I quote, 'These are alien hands which too long have held their strangle grip on the life of this country and dominate not only the Conservative Party but the Socialist Party as well.' There's one thing you can trust the British Union to do when we come to power: we shall not allow aliens"--he paused, laying stress on the last word--"to dictate economic policy for selfish reasons of their own."

There was a spattering of applause among the audience. The tall man in front of Lydia muttered something under his breath and stirred as though he wanted to scratch.

"Fascism can provide the answers. Not Fascism as it flourishes in Germany or in Italy--but a truly British Fascism adapted to our native genius. A Fascist government will be a strong government. But it will be first and foremost a British government presided over by His Majesty the King."

"What about Parliament?" a voice cried somewhere near the front of the hall.

"I'm glad you mentioned that, sir," Fisher said urbanely. "All governments work with Parliament, and we shall be no exception. However, under our system government departments will consult the various economic influences, whether employers, workers or consumers, and then determine what is best suited to the country as a whole. We shall set targets for output, wages, prices and profits within each industry. It is the only way to develop a coordinated and fully efficient economy. Parliament will play an important role in this, and so of course will the monarch. I cannot emphasize enough that Fascists are, above all, loyal subjects of the Crown."

"What about the Jews then?" somebody else shouted.

Fisher ignored this. "We were talking of the war a moment ago. We live not only under the shadow of the last war, but under the shadow of a future war, into which our present government may lead us through its blundering and inadequate policies. The British Union of Fascists has a domestic program that does not depend on preparing for war. Our foreign policy is based on the maintenance of peace."

There was more applause, this time louder and more prolonged.

"Make no mistake, with a Fascist government, this country will be stronger and more formidable than ever on the world stage. But we will be an international force for peace. We know too well, as you do, the folly of war. We know too that prosperity depends on the maintenance of peace. In the second half of this meeting I propose to deal in more detail with how the British Union intends to regulate the distributive trade by coordinating competition and controlling what is sold and by whom, through a distributive trades corporation that would issue licenses, a system that would prevent both the growth of too many suppliers of a particular sort of goods in any one area, and also the unhealthy dominance of large retailers. We shall insist too, as part of the terms of the licensing, that retail outlets deal in British goods. Alien combines will be closed down and their retailing operations will be redistributed to private traders or cooperatives. Moreover, a cooperative central buying organization would allow small shopkeepers to take advantage of low wholesale prices through bulk purchases. It would also provide a safety net in the event of bankruptcy."

This led to more applause and even a few scattered hurrahs. A man at the back of the hall called out, "But what about the Jews?"

"British Fascism is the only British political party that takes a firm, clear line on aliens," announced Fisher's calm, patrician voice. "Britain should be for the British."

"You're just like the Nazis, are you?" shouted the tall man in front of Lydia. "Is that what you mean?"

At that moment, in the silence that followed the question, Lydia realized that the man in front of her was Mr. Goldman from Hatton Garden.

"We have no quarrel with those of Jewish blood per se," Fisher said.

"Your Mr. Joyce says, and these are his very words: 'I don't regard the Jews as a class, I regard them as a privileged misfortune.' That was in January. Your Mosley says that Fascism has accepted the challenge of Jewry. What challenge?"

"Thank you, sir. The British Union requires the Jews, as we require everyone else, to put the interests of Britain first."

"And your Mr. A. K. Chesterton said--"

"That will be all, thank you," Fisher said. "You seem to have forgotten that I am addressing this meeting, sir. It's time for you to return to Jerusalem. See the gentleman out, please."

An eddy rippled through the standing crowd as three Blackshirts pushed their way toward Mr. Goldman.

"Answer the question, sir," somebody else shouted. "What challenge do the Jews pose? Are you aware that--"

"I'm aware that another gentleman would like to leave," Fisher said. "To return to the matter in hand--"

"Do you realize that in Germany--"

The question ended in a gasp, as if someone had hit the questioner. At least a dozen people were shouting now and fighting was breaking out sporadically throughout the audience. Lydia watched in a daze as Fisher beckoned to a young man at the end of the platform and murmured something in his ear.

The Blackshirts reached Mr. Goldman. Two of them grabbed him by the arms. The third man put his head in an armlock.

Lydia snapped out of her trance. "You stop that!" she shouted, and kicked the man as hard as she could in his calf.

He looked at her, open-mouthed in astonishment. "Here," he said, not relaxing the armlock, "you can't do that."

"Why not?" Lydia asked, and kicked him in the other leg.

The Blackshirts began to drag Goldman toward the door to the cloister. Suddenly the public address system burst into life. "Pomp and Circumstance March No. 1" boomed through the undercroft. Marcus was advancing into the audience with a couple of Blackshirts behind him. He pointed to his right. Lydia followed his finger and saw Rory, notebook in hand, in the act of standing up.

Behind her, one of the urns toppled off its table and somebody shouted, "Watch out! The water's bloody boiling!" The table itself went over with a clatter, and crockery smashed on the stone floor. "Pomp and Circumstance" pursued its stately course, a serene and triumphal counterpoint to the racket.

They hauled Goldman onto the short flight of steps up to the cloister. He lost his hat and his overcoat was ripped down the back. Three respectable-looking middle-aged men, none of them in Blackshirt uniform, shouted in unison, "Jew out, Jew out." They looked like a trio of tobacconists or ironmongers on an outing, determined to extract the utmost fun from the occasion.

A large blond man in ridiculously wide Oxford bags took a swing at one of the Blackshirts manhandling Mr. Goldman. The blow missed and the Blackshirt punched his attacker in the mouth, knocking off his glasses. The man reeled back, a hand to his mouth and blood seeping through his fingers.

"Jew out, Jew out."

A small woman slipped under the blond man's arm and punched the advancing Blackshirt in the testicles. He screamed and doubled up. The scream was high and loud and so like an animal's that it shocked everyone except Elgar into a moment's silence.

Lydia felt a momentary but painful twinge of jealousy. The woman was Fenella Kensley.

The noise began again. Mr. Goldman's attendant Blackshirts turned aside to deal with the blond man, Fenella and a couple of other men who had come to their support. Taking advantage of their absence, Lydia ran across to Mr. Goldman and helped him to his feet. He groaned and swayed.

"Quick," she urged. "We've got to get out."

Linked together, they staggered down the cloister. The blond man ran after them, and took Mr. Goldman's other arm. Fenella followed them. Mr. Goldman was flagging badly. At the door to the chapel forecourt, Lydia glanced back over her shoulder. Marcus had come up the steps from the undercroft. He saw her: his face was white and twisted, a stranger's.

"The house over the road," Lydia snapped. "I've got a key."

They half-dragged, half-carried Mr. Goldman between Fisher's car and the black van, both of which were empty and unguarded, over the road to the doorway of number forty-eight. Lydia dug into the pocket of her coat and pulled out the latchkey. Her hand was shaking so much that she couldn't get it in the lock at her first attempt. The second attempt succeeded. The door opened into the high, musty hallway, with the dark linoleum stretching away to the stairs.