Read Bleeding Heart Square Online
Authors: Andrew Taylor
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Historical, #General
Bleeding Heart Square (23 page)
Y
OU HOLD
the diary up to your face. Is it your imagination or does it still smell faintly of his cigars? The smell clings to everything. It reminds you of Joseph Serridge, that and the smell of brandy.
Saturday, 19 April 1930
If only dear Jacko could talk. Every morning after breakfast, Joseph lights his first cigar of the day and goes out for what he calls his constitutional. Rain or shine, he takes Jacko for a walk down to the road. Usually the postman has been by then so he collects the letters from the box at the end of the drive and walks back.
What worries me is that the letters are almost always for him. Once or twice there's been a circular or something of that nature for me but nothing from the bank manager in reply to my letter last week and nothing from John. Nothing even from Miss Beale, who I know for a fact makes a point of replying to her letters on the very day she receives them.
I never thought I would feel nostalgic for the dear old Rushmere but I do.
I'm sure he's got somebody else--he goes up to London so often and when he comes back, he won't even look at me. He always sleeps downstairs now.
Rebecca leaves today. Oh God. Please God, dear God, help me. Help me to know what to do.
That's why you
smell
the diary--to remind you of why you hate the smell of cigars, the smell of fear.
Unfortunately Lydia was working at Shires and Trimble on Saturday morning. She would have to be particularly careful not to bump into Marcus or Rex Fisher on her way to and from the office.
As she was crossing the square, she heard the door opening again behind her. She looked over her shoulder. Rory was walking rapidly toward her. He was unshaven and his hair was tousled. He wasn't even wearing a coat.
"I'm glad I caught you," he said, breathing hard as though he had been running. "Something happened last night."
"Are you all right?"
"Yes. At present, anyway. When I got back yesterday evening, I found Serridge waiting in my flat. Just sitting there with the lights off. He knows why I came here."
"About Fenella?" Lydia felt the familiar twist of an emotion that couldn't possibly be jealousy.
"Gladwyn must have told him about my going to Rawling. I've got my marching orders. I have to be out by Monday."
"Where will you go?"
"I haven't the faintest idea."
"Surely he has to give you more notice?"
"He's keeping my deposit, too." Rory swallowed. The cold had made the tip of his nose quite pink. "He--he broke a vase too--deliberately, I mean."
"He's trying to intimidate you."
"He's succeeded. The worst thing is, he wrecked my typewriter--bent the keys--which means I'm not going to be able to type up that piece about the meeting." Rory ran his fingers through his hair. "Still, that's my problem."
"You can't let him get away with that."
"I don't have much choice." He smiled at her. "I don't suppose you've a spare typewriter tucked away, have you? And there was something else--something that affected you. As a sort of Parthian shot, he said he didn't want me pestering you any more. Or else I really would regret it."
"He has absolutely no right to say that sort of thing."
"I don't think right had anything to do with it. Anyway, I hope I--" He broke off and glanced up at the blank windows of the house. "I'll let you get on. We'll talk about it later." He raised a hand in farewell and walked away.
Lydia watched him for a moment. "Rory?" He turned. "If I don't see you beforehand, good luck at the meeting."
"Thanks." A smile spread over his long, sad face. "Thanks, Lydia."
There was the usual Saturday atmosphere of subdued merriment at Shires and Trimble. Mr. Reynolds confided in Mr. Smethwick that he was greatly looking forward to a concert on the wireless in the evening. Mr. Smethwick reciprocated with the information that he had tickets for that new show at the Palladium. Miss Tuffley was going to the pictures as usual and then going to stay overnight with her married sister in Croydon. Everybody, it seemed, had plans except Lydia.
At a quarter to ten, Mr. Shires came in, shaking drops of water from his umbrella and complaining about the weather. "Reynolds," he said as he hung up his hat and his dripping raincoat, "I shall leave at midday today. I don't want to get caught up in the fuss over the road."
"The Fascists, sir?" Reynolds inquired.
"Yes--I dare say there'll be a lot of people milling around beforehand."
"Would you object if I go to the meeting, sir?"
"Not at all. You must tell me what that chap Fisher says." Shires fumbled in his trousers for his keys. "All I know is that whoever is in power there'll always be a need for lawyers. Good news for us, eh, Reynolds?"
"Yes, sir."
"I thought I might pop along too, sir," Smethwick said. "There's free tea and sandwiches."
"Good, good. Can't look a gift horse in the mouth, eh?" Shires bustled over to his door. "When Mr. Reynolds can spare you, Mrs. Langstone, I'd like a word, please."
Five minutes later, Lydia went into the private office. She found Mr. Shires reading
The Times
. He nodded to her to close the door.
"Well? Have you got Mr. Langstone's address for me?"
She gave him an envelope containing the note she had written last night. "He's staying at his club, I gather. I put that address first. Then there's the London house underneath and also Longhope, though I doubt he'll be going down to the country for a few weeks. Lord Cassington's solicitors are Rowsell, Kew and Whiston of Lincoln's Inn. I can't remember the name of the firm the Langstones use but I'll find out."
"They're in London?"
Lydia nodded. "By the way, he'll probably be at the meeting over the road."
"Mixed up with the Fascists, is he?" Shires leaned back in his chair and tapped his teeth with his propelling pencil. "Then I assume you're not going?"
"No."
"Good. I shouldn't advise it. The less contact you have with your husband the better. All in all, it might be wise if you were to leave with me. I'll find an errand for you." He paused for a moment and in that instant transferred her from one category of human being to another, from client to employee. "That will be all, Mrs. Langstone."
Shortly after ten o'clock, a black van with a loudspeaker mounted on the roof drove slowly up Rosington Place. "Come and meet Sir Rex Fisher, the British Union's Deputy Director of Economic Policy, at one o'clock in the Rosington Chapel undercroft hall. Find out what British Fascism offers the British businessman. Join us for a cup of tea or coffee and a sandwich. God save the King!"
At the end of Rosington Place, the van made a three-point turn at the gates and drove slowly back down to the lodge, repeating its message. It spent the morning driving around the vicinity, sometimes nearer, sometimes farther, the announcer's voice growing hoarser and hoarser. Mr. Reynolds went down to the bank on the corner of Rosington Place and returned with the news that the van's route included Clerkenwell, Farringdon Road, Holborn and beyond. He rubbed his hands together in a rare show of excitement. "They must be expecting quite a turnout."
Sitting by the window, Lydia and Miss Tuffley could hardly avoid noticing the activity outside the chapel. There was a disconcertingly domestic air about the proceedings. A plain van arrived. Lydia watched two young women, younger than Miss Tuffley, carrying plates of sandwiches into the cloister at the side of the chapel and flirting with the driver. Two men wheeled out a trolley laden with cups and saucers, but this had to be abandoned because of all the steps. The van with the loudspeaker drove up and down again with a slightly modified message. "The British economy should be for the British people. Your work deserves its reward. Let the British Union show the way at one o'clock in the Rosington Chapel undercroft hall. Free coffee, tea and sandwiches."
"Ooh," said Miss Tuffley. "There they are again. You know, the gents that came to see Father Bertram. You must come and watch. The younger one's in uniform now."
Lydia stood to one side of the window so she could see but not be seen. Fisher's big car had pulled up behind the van. Marcus was on the pavement; his black tunic and peaked cap made him look like a Ruritanian policeman. He was talking to Rex Fisher, who was dressed in a dark suit. A larger van, this one painted black, drew up behind the car. More Blackshirts emerged in an orderly file from the back.
"Why are only some in uniform?" Miss Tuffley asked. "They look much smarter than the chaps in civvies."
"The ones from the van are the Blackshirt Defense Corps," Lydia said.
"So that nice one who was here the other day, the one talking with the other gent, he's their sort of captain, is he?"
"I shouldn't be at all surprised."
Miss Tuffley looked down at the group on the pavement. Slowly the enjoyment ebbed from her face. "You know, it doesn't seem quite right, really. All those uniforms. Makes them look more official than they really are."
"I suppose that's the point. Are you tempted to go?"
Miss Tuffley shook her head. "I went to one of their meetings once. Some of the chaps look all right but they're awfully boring once they start talking."
"Like so many men."
Miss Tuffley squealed with laughter. Mr. Smethwick looked up, clearly wondering whether he was being mocked. Mr. Reynolds clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth but said nothing.
Lydia lowered her voice. "You don't happen to know if there's a typewriter I could use over the weekend?"
"Here? They wouldn't let you into the office. Mr. Shires is ever so strict because of the files." She wrinkled her nose. "But there's my old machine in the walk-in cupboard on the landing. It's just sitting there gathering dust."
"Would they mind if I borrowed it?"
"You couldn't take it home, dear. Not by yourself. The nasty thing weighs a ton. You'd need about five of them Blackshirts to lift it."
"Could I get into the house?"
Miss Tuffley glanced at Mr. Reynolds, who was hunched over his ledger. She pulled out the drawer underneath the telephone switchboard. Among the scraps of paper and stubs of pencil was a Yale key with a pink ribbon tied to it. She looked at Lydia, making sure she had seen it.
"Perhaps you happened to be looking for a rubber or something and you saw that," she said softly. "Perhaps it happened to fit the street door." She closed the drawer. "But don't come when it's dark if you can help it because Howlett or the caretaker might see the lights, and remember the cleaners get here at seven thirty on Monday. The other offices are the same--there's usually no one here at the weekend."
"What about the cupboard?"
"There's a spare key on the ledge over the door--just run your hand along and you'll feel it. You'll either have to lift the typewriter down to the floor if you can, or stand up and use it on the shelf. Are you really sure you want to be bothered?"
"Yes, quite possibly," Lydia said. "And thank you."
Miss Tuffley put her head on one side. "Well! I must say you're full of surprises."
Mr. Shires was as good as his word. Shortly after midday, he emerged from his room with a large brown envelope in his hand. "Mrs. Langstone, would you take this to the Inner Temple for me? I want you to deliver it by hand and right away. Mr. Reynolds has given you your wages, I take it? Good. In that case you might as well leave now. I don't think there's any point in your coming back to the office afterward."
The errand was genuine, and it was nearly one o'clock by the time Lydia reached Bleeding Heart Square. She avoided Rosington Place and walked round to the Charleston Street entrance by the Crozier. The van with the loudspeaker was still doing its work. "Find out what British Fascism can do for the British businessman. God save the King!"
She let herself into the house. No one was in the hall. She looked through the little pile of letters on the table. There was one for her father. She didn't recognize the handwriting, though it looked faintly familiar, as did the envelope itself. She took it upstairs.
There were voices in the sitting room and she heard her father's hoarse, croaking laugh. The old man had extraordinary powers of recuperation. She pushed open the door. He was standing astride the hearthrug, cigarette in hand--Turkish, judging by the smell in the air--shaved, combed, wearing his one good suit and his regimental tie, and looking every inch like an elderly but well-preserved gentleman with four thousand a year to live on and not a stain on his conscience.
He looked up as Lydia came into the room. "My dear. Ah! There you are!"
"There's a letter for you, Father." She put it on the table.
He dismissed it from his mind with a lordly wave of the cigarette. "Why didn't you tell me you had such a charming sister?"
The back of the sofa had concealed Pamela. She scrambled up and fluttered toward Lydia, arms outstretched. "Darling! You look so frightfully businesslike. Your father says you've been working all morning." She swept Lydia into a soft, perfumed embrace and drew her over to the sofa to sit beside her. "Isn't this nice? Your father and I have been getting along splendidly. We were just saying how strange it is we haven't met before. After all, there's no reason not to, not nowadays, when almost everyone one knows has these complicated families. Anyway, how are you? I must say you're looking wonderfully well. Anyone would think you'd been to a health farm or something."
"And what about you?" Lydia asked. "Is everything all right? How's Mother?"
"Oh you know--much the same as ever. Life just seems to bounce off her like water off a duck's back." Pamela seized Lydia's hand. "I expect you are dying to know why I've come."
Lydia banished the unworthy hope that Pamela had come to ask her out to lunch. "I expect you're going to tell me."
"I'm engaged! Well and truly. Absolutely sign here on the dotted line and then love, honor and obey. It's going to be in the papers next week, but I wanted to tell you first."
"Oh darling," Lydia said. "I hope you'll be very happy."
"Of course we shall." Pamela smiled at Captain Ingleby-Lewis. "And it's only fair you should know before it's announced too--after all, aren't you my stepfather or something?"
He took both her hands in his and stared down at her, just as a proud and happy stepfather or something should do. "I'm sure you'll be very happy, my dear. You certainly deserve to be. And who is the lucky chap?"
"Rex Fisher. He's a friend of Marcus's, actually."
"If you ask me," Captain Ingleby-Lewis said, "this calls for a celebration."
Simultaneously Lydia said, "Rex's here today--at the meeting in Rosington Place."
Pamela glanced up, bright-eyed and as quick as a bird. "Yes, I know."
"What?" Ingleby-Lewis said. "At that Fascist affair? They've had that wretched loudhailer blaring away all morning. Woke me up."
"He's the main speaker, actually. Rex is their Deputy Director of Economic thingummy."
"I remember. Saw the name on the posters. Isn't he a bart?"
"Yes." Pamela stubbed out her cigarette. "And it's just as well he's not a viscount or something because then I'd take precedence over Mother, which would absolutely infuriate her."
"Are you going to the meeting?" Lydia asked.
"No--Tony Ruispidge is home on leave and I promised Sophie I'd have lunch with them. To be honest, it's not really my thing."
Somewhere a clock struck the half-hour.
"Good Lord," Ingleby-Lewis said. "Is that the time? I'm afraid I shall have to dash. Got an appointment."
"It's been lovely to meet you," Pamela said, holding out her hand.
"My dear, the pleasure has been all mine. And I hope I shall be able to renew the pleasure very shortly. Goodbye, Miss Cassington."
"You must call me Pammy. Everyone else does."
"Pammy then. I'm not sure what you should call me. Uncle William, perhaps." He took her hand and raised it to his lips. "Or plain, homely William, even? Until we meet again."
He swept his overcoat off its hook, seized his letter from the table, set his hat on his head at a jaunty angle, and left the room. They listened to his footsteps going downstairs. The front door slammed.
"I am so, so sorry," Lydia said.
Pamela patted her hand. "You don't need to be. He's a pet."
"No, he's not. He's an awful man. He sponges off everyone, he's an old soak, and he's my father."
"All I can say is that he was very nice to me."
"He can put on an act for five minutes but that's all it is. An act. He's probably hoping you'll persuade Mother to ask him to the wedding so he can get sozzled on Fin's champagne." Lydia was suddenly aware that tears were rolling down her cheeks. "Oh damn and blast it."
Pamela, nothing if not practical, opened her handbag and produced a freshly ironed handkerchief smelling of musk and flowers, Jean Patou's Sublime. Lydia dabbed her eyes. Pamela kept hold of Lydia with one hand and opened the platinum cigarette case with the other.
"There, that's better. Try one of these. I'm not sure I like them very much but they're meant to be frightfully good. Rex has a little man who makes them up for him."
Automatically Lydia took a cigarette. "To be fair, he's given me a home." She remembered yesterday evening, when she had settled him down for the night. "And he can be very sweet sometimes."
Pamela clicked her lighter and Lydia bent her head over the flame.
"You know Marcus is at the meeting too?"
Lydia inhaled and sat back nodding. "I saw him this morning."
"Did he see you?"
"No. Thank God."
"You're very bitter," Pamela said gently.
"There's a good reason for that. In fact there are several."
"Do you want to tell me?"
Lydia shook her head. "Another time perhaps. Are you really sure about Rex?"
"I know you don't like him, but yes, I am. We understand each other, you see. I know what he wants and he knows what I want."
"If it doesn't work out, you can always come and share my room here."
Pamela giggled. "That would be lovely. We could become chorus girls or something. And we'd have rich protectors, awfully vulgar but with hearts of gold, and they'd simply dote on us." Without warning, which was characteristic of her, she changed the subject. "So you'll have seen Marcus in his uniform? He looks frightfully dashing. I say, he's convinced you've got a boyfriend. Is it true? Do tell--I won't breathe a word. Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because it's not true."
"You're going pink on your cheekbones, darling. That always means you're lying. You're a dark horse, I must say. Anyway, I don't want to know. Or rather I do but there's no immediate hurry. The thing is, Marcus
thinks
you have. He got some of his toughs to warn him off. Did you know they call them the Biff Boys because they go around biffing people? It makes them sound like some dreadful music hall act but really it's not very nice, is it? I heard Marcus telling Rex they were interrupted and he's going to get them to finish biffing up the boyfriend if there's another chance. That's why I thought I'd better pop in. Not that I didn't want to in any case."
"So it was Marcus. I thought it probably was."
"Ah--so there
is
someone."
"No, there isn't. Anyway, what gave him the idea?"
"Apparently your father told him that somebody had been hanging round you in a rather objectionable way."
"But if anyone fits that description, it's poor Mr. Fimberry. Not--not the one who was attacked."
"So you've got two? How super."
"I haven't even got one. Mr. Fimberry's a bit tiresome but there's no harm in him. He certainly doesn't deserve to be beaten up. His nerves are all to pieces."
"That won't help him if Marcus gets hold of him. So you're saying Marcus has got the wrong one?"
"I keep telling you, there isn't one to get," Lydia snapped. "And yes, he has got the wrong one. If I did have one, I mean. Oh damn. Typical bloody Marcus."
"All I can say, darling, you'd better tip the wink to your young man who isn't your young man. If he's planning to be at the meeting, he should watch out. The Biff Boys are jolly good at keeping order, you know. When they've roughed him up to their satisfaction, they'll probably pop a knuckleduster in his waistcoat pocket and claim he's a communist agitator. But he's not going to the meeting, is he?"
"Oh yes, he is," Lydia said. "He'll probably be sitting in the front row taking notes."
"They look like Girl Guides," Fenella said. "Only bigger and blacker."
She and Julian were standing in the cloister by the doorway into the undercroft. Rory was a couple of yards behind them. They had a view of the line of trestle tables running parallel to the west wall of the undercroft. The tables had been covered with white cloths. They were laden with crockery, urns, teapots and food--sandwiches, a great vat of soup and plates of biscuits. Between the tables and the wall were half a dozen women Blackshirts repelling those members of the audience who wanted to start their lunch without delay.
"You can tell they were all very good at knots and helping Mother," Fenella said.
"I wish you'd go home," Julian said. "I'm sure Wentwood agrees. This is really no place for a woman."
"Stop fussing, Julian, and don't be so old-fashioned. Look at all those Blackshirt girls. They've come along--why shouldn't I? You're not really saying that women shouldn't get mixed up in politics, I hope?"
"Of course I'm not."
"I think Dawlish is right, actually," Rory murmured. "About your being here, I mean."
Fenella glared impartially at them. "I'm not leaving. That's flat. I think you're both being most unreasonable. Besides, you shouldn't be seen talking to us, Rory. Go away."
Dawlish opened his mouth but said nothing. For the first time in their acquaintance, Rory felt a stab of sympathy for the man. Where Fenella was concerned, the poor devil really had it bad.
"Can we meet afterward?" Rory said. "There are some things I need to tell you--not just about the meeting."
Dawlish nodded. "Shall we say the American Bar again? Five thirty, all being well?"
"Fine," Rory said, though it wasn't, because if he got there before Julian, or if Julian failed to turn up, he might have to pay for a drink, which at the Savoy's prices would probably wipe out most of his budget for December. Besides, Julian had paid for the champagne last night so really Rory couldn't get out of paying. And then there was the tip: he had no idea how much one left in a place like that.
"Good man," Dawlish said. "Good luck."
"Wait a minute," Fenella said. "Why don't we meet at the flat instead? It's nearer and more private."
Dawlish shrugged. "All right. Are you happy with that?"
Rory nodded, feeling simultaneously relieved and humiliated; he suspected that Fenella had guessed what he was thinking.
"If we're not there, the spare key's in the coal hole opposite the area door," Dawlish went on. "There's a tin of whitewash on the floor. It's underneath that."
They separated, Julian and Fenella waiting in the cloister, and Rory going down into the undercroft. A couple of uniformed Fascists were manning the door and stood aside to let him pass, their faces impassive. A very pretty girl, also in Fascist uniform, smiled at him as he passed the tables and said, "Lunch in the interval, sir. Sir Rex is going to open the proceedings first."
The undercroft was already filling up. As he walked down the center aisle beside the line of posts, Rory tried to make a rough headcount: he estimated that there were chairs and benches for at least three hundred people, as well as some standing room at the back. Perhaps two thirds of the seats had already been taken. He found a chair near the front at the end of a row.
Nobody was on the platform. A microphone had been set up on the table. A man who could throw his voice wouldn't really need a public address system here. But Rory remembered the political meetings he had attended in India, and how an amplified voice had power over those that were not amplified. You had to hand it to the Fascists--they knew how to organize a meeting.
Two tall Blackshirts marched down the center aisle holding what Rory assumed to be poles. Behind them came a third, who was even taller. It was Marcus Langstone. The three men climbed onto the stage. Not just poles, Rory thought--flagstaffs. They set up the two flags in a cast-iron stand behind the central chair. On the left was the British Union's symbol; on the right was the Union Jack.
Fimberry bustled through the crowd, rubbing his hands together and smiling at no one in particular. He caught sight of Rory. "Hello, Wentwood!" he said in a high, slightly tremulous voice. "Already taking notes, I see."
Rory nodded. Langstone turned around. His eyes swept from Fimberry to Rory at the end of his row. Rory bent his head over his notepad and pretended to write. Sweat pricked along his hair-line.
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.