Honourable Intentions (12 page)

Ranklin pressed the bell. After a while the door was opened by a tall young woman. It took a moment for Ranklin to decide that anarchists wouldn’t have maidservants, so she couldn’t be one. She had long, very definite pre-Raphaelite features and gingery hair drawn back into a bun. She wore a pale violet garment like a smock that went straight from ankle to throat without being visibly distracted.

She looked past Ranklin at the Daimler. “And who would you be?” Her voice was light, pleasant, educated.

“We’ve come to collect Ma’mselle Collomb.”

“She doesn’t want to go.”

Ranklin nodded. “The problem is, the police released her from custody to Mrs Finn. They think they’ve got first call on her. So, if Mrs Finn doesn’t get her, the police will.”

“That will be an example of police oppression.”

“Did you want an example?”

That hadn’t been the expected answer. She frowned.

Ranklin went on: “You do know that it’s a death they’re questioning her about?”

A slight, cool smile. “I’m afraid you’re wrong. They have no evidence—”

“They seem to have now; I’ve just come from the court. It’s murder, now. And a rather embarrassing one, a French witness. So the police feel a bit on their mettle. They’d rather like a Frenchwoman to have done it – keeps the British out of it, one might say. And an unworldly little girl from La Villette . . . by the time they’ve finished, she’ll have confessed to everything and the Jack the Ripper murders as well.”

She frowned again. “Do you really believe that?”

“Don’t you?”

She licked her thin lip s. “You’re just saying that.”

“I asked you if you believed it.”

“Well, yes. I certainly believe the police are . . .” She wasn’t quite sure what.

“Capitalist sheepdogs?” Ranklin suggested cheerfully. “I think they’re actually more complicated than that, but it still leaves the question of how you’re going to protect Ma’mselle Collomb from them.”

“They’d never dare come tromping in here.”

“Ah, that’s what you really believe, isn’t it? That they’re nice friendly men in uniform who tell you the way when you’re lost, just like nanny said. Well, probably they are to people who live in houses this size, but not to Berenice Collomb. And I think it would be rather sad for you to learn that by putting her on the gallows. Still, it’ll be a good chapter for your memoirs, so maybe you think it’s cheap at the price.”

She jerked the front door wide. “You’d better come in.”

A few steps down the narrow hallway was Gorkin, who had obviously been hearing every word.

“Hello, Dr Gorkin,” Ranklin called. “Sorry I haven’t had time for you to convert me, but been rather busy. Still am, as a matter of fact.”

“You have come to return Berenice to the rich Mrs Finn?”

“I have. Mrs Finn doesn’t like it either, but seems ready to go along with it on behalf of a fellow human being.” He turned back to the woman. “Can you fetch Ma’mselle Collomb?”

“You’d better come up and talk to her yourself.”

They went up to the second floor. The house was sparsely furnished, mostly with rather rigid, elongated Art Nouveau pieces, oriental pottery and a lot of paintings in bold primary colours. And William Morris wallpaper, of course: the silly bastard had once proclaimed himself an anarchist, hadn’t he?

The woman rapped on a door and said: “Berenice?”

“
Ils sont retourner?”

“Oui,”
Ranklin called. “
Avec moi —James Spencer. Vous avez un choix: venir avec moi et Madame Finn, ou avec les flics.”

She told him, in colloquial French, to go and fuck himself. Ranklin grinned at the woman. “You’d better talk to her. I’ll let Dr Gorkin show me the error of my ways.” He wanted to get Gorkin out of the conversation to come. He had nothing against the man except for his tendency to be present,
watching and listening. For example, he had followed them up the stairs.

So Ranklin took him by the arm, led him aside and launched straight in: “One thing that bothers me about anarchism, especially when it depends on a revolution, is the transition period from the
ancien régime
to a perfect anarchist state. Can you get people to give up their old dog-eat-dog ways overnight, without a period of education? – and what happens during that period?”

“People – working people – are oppressed, not corrupted. You see it everywhere in working communities, the help they give each other. It is the
bourgeoisie
who put up fences and have secrets.”

Thinking of Aunt Maud’s house, Ranklin couldn’t but agree. “You could be right – but there’s getting to be an awful lot of the middle class: are they all going to perish in the revolution?”

“They can choose.” Gorkin was looking over Ranklin’s shoulder, trying to hear what the woman was saying to the still-locked door.

“You’re talking to me,” Ranklin reminded him. “So, the middle class can make a quick choice: either join the revolution or off to
Madame la Guillotine?”

“Once the revolution has happened, there will be no need for guillotines. It will be secure – in science, a stable state, if you understand that.”

“The only truly stable explosive is one that’s exploded already? Yes, I think – ah.”

He had heard the click of the door behind him. Berenice came out, carrying a small, tattered shopping basket. She gave Ranklin a look of sullen dislike, and he smiled back and gestured politely at the stairs. The woman had got things this far; let her stay in charge. He followed them down, keeping Gorkin well separated.

Outside, O’Gilroy was standing by the open rear door of the Daimler. He let Berenice in, then went to sit by the driver.

The woman had stopped at the foot of the steps and Ranklin
paused to ask: “One thing: was Berenice out on Wednesday night? – the night before last?”

“Yes.” Cautiously.

“What time did she get in?”

“About ten o’clock.”

“Was it only you who saw her then?”

“Oh no. There were several of us.” She half-turned towards Gorkin, watching from the doorway. “Including Dr Gorkin.”

“Have the police asked you about this?”

“No.”

“If they get really serious, they will. Tell them the truth. It helps her. Thank you, Miss, er . . .”

“Venetia Sackfield.”

They shook hands, hello and goodbye, and Ranklin got into the back seat of the Daimler and they headed for the Sherring flat in Clarges Street.

“How in hell did you pull that off?” Corinna growled.

“All done by kindness. And threats, of course.”

8

Ranklin left O’Gilroy at Clarges Street with instructions not to use his pistol and not even much muscle if Berenice looked like fleeing the nest again. He half hoped that she would warm to the Irishman’s cynicism, since he suspected that O’Gilroy was something of a natural anarchist himself. He might want to end British rule in Ireland, but the moment the place had its own government, he would be deriding and undermining it.

Ranklin only hoped the citizens of La Villette weren’t as fastidious as most French about hearing their beloved language mangled.

He reached Whitehall Court at about midday and reported the morning’s activities to the Commander, who nodded approvingly. “Sounds as if you handled that quite smoothly – the way you tell it, anyway. Where’s young Jay?”

“I sent him to find what the police are up to. I’ve got a bit of bad news: young Langhorn’s told Quinton who he thinks his father is.”

The Commander chewed an unlit pipe quietly for a time. Then he sighed. “I suppose it could have happened at any time . . . How did Quinton react?”

“I think he’s quite intrigued, and with the extradition business seemingly petering out on him, he’s not being so upright about legal confidences.
But
—” And he repeated what Quinton had said about high-level legal string-pulling.

“The bloody Palace!” The Commander jumped to the same conclusion. “And now I suppose every lawyer in the land is asking why the Palace is interested in this gutter arsonist. God save the King from his well-meaning friends.” At least the
Bureau, Ranklin reflected, was not well-meaning: it was trying to strengthen its position by doing the King a favour. Good, honest self-interest, and if the King didn’t know about the favour, the Commander would likely find ways of telling him.

However, there wasn’t much to be done about that right now, so he asked: “Is there any way of keeping Quinton quiet?”

“As a lawyer he should be able to keep a secret. But how do you make sure, with a man who likes to be thought a gentleman?” And after a time, a slow, self-satisfied smile spread around his pipe-stem. Ranklin knew the signs: the Commander was going to be devious.

*           *           *

Having missed lunch the previous day, Ranklin arrived at Clarges Street just in time to miss it again. “And a very tasty one, too,” O’Gilroy assured him. “Can I pour ye a cup of coffee.?”

He and Corinna were sitting alone at the dining table, he with an expression of contented innocence, Corinna with a smug, cat-got-the-cream look. Ranklin knew this meant, for him, Bad News.

She said: “Conall, could you nip along to the kitchen and ask them to whip up more coffee? – if they can fit it in before cutting our throats (Berenice is there trying to stir up the menials to revolt). I want a word with Matt.”

O’Gilroy stood up. “Ye know what she’s got in there? – a bottle of absinthe.”

Corinna nodded. “She made me send out for it. She was surprised I didn’t have it around.”

“And a third drunk already. That girl’s not going to see thirty, this rate.”

“A child of her age and place,” Corinna said sententiously. “Shut the door behind you.”

It was a big flat, almost divided in two: Reynard Sherring’s set of rooms and Corinna’s. If you got lost, a glance at the decor put you right. Sherring favoured rich, dark clutter, Corinna liked clean-cut brightness – except for her bedroom, which had
a rather soggy feminine luxury, as if she wanted somewhere to slump away from her good taste.

They moved to Corinna’s drawing-room, and she began: “I’ve been having some fascinating talks with Berenice. I won’t say she’s not so bad when you get to know her, because I think she’s worse. She’s got the makings of intelligence – she came of a reasonable lower-middle-class family in Cherbourg, I guess that ties up with Grover in his Atlantic liner days – anyhow, she knows just enough to think she knows everything, and I’m corrupt and old –
old! –
I don’t mind being corrupt . . . And incidentally she told me about who Grover says his father was.”

Ranklin had half seen this coming, but there had still been a spark of hope that it wasn’t. He nodded resignedly.

“You poor little bunny,” she said, suddenly maternal. “Running around wiping up after your King when you should be deciding the Fate of Nations.”

“Look, nothing about this is
proven.”

“It seems odd that a prince – he was, then, wasn’t he? – didn’t take proper precautions . . . But I suppose things weren’t as advanced in those days.”

Ranklin, who didn’t think things were very advanced now, repeated: “I tell you: nothing is
proven.”

“I’d still advise against letting journalists get hold of it, particularly French ones. By the way, I’m supposed to be in Paris for the Visit myself next week. Pop’s got seats for some royal concert thing they’re putting on at
l’Opéra
and if I don’t go he’ll take one of his whores.”

Ranklin smiled and she said sharply: “It’s not your King I’m thinking of, it’s Pop’s reputation. Not that it sounds as if your King should be too offended . . . Is there enough to show Mother Langhorn could have known him twenty-whatever years ago?”

Ranklin nodded reluctantly.

“The Plaything of a Prince and he Cast Her Aside Like a Soiled Glove. I’ve often wondered: Why gloves?
I
have them cleaned and if you start casting, you end up with just one of a pair. What does she want? – just getting Grover off this extradition charge?”

“Perhaps, but we don’t know. We haven’t heard from her beyond that letter you gave us.”

“And you’ve been snooping about asking if it could be true . . . That must have been delicate work, I do wish I’d seen it . . . Hey, you didn’t ask the
King
if it could be true?”

Ranklin shook his head.

“And then what?” she asked. “Pulling legal strings to make sure Grover gets off?”

“No,” Ranklin said grimly, “but somebody closer to the King has been.”

“Of course, you’d have to tell them . . . Is it working?”

“I hope not.”

She looked surprised. “Why so scrupulous? Does it shake your faith in Great British Justice? I don’t think your judges are as crooked as some we get in the States, but they can be as pig-headed and biased as anyone.”

“Yes, but that’s individual. Even taking bribes is. But if I thought they were taking orders from the top, then the whole system . . . We’d have slipped back three or four hundred years.”

“Doesn’t being monarchy mean – in the end – taking orders from the top?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

She hesitated a moment, then asked: “What
do
you think of the monarchy? I know you don’t worship the King or think he can do no wrong, but what do you actually
think?”

“I think . . .” he said, and then was silent for some time. Finally he said: “Perhaps ‘think’ is the wrong word. The monarchy just
is.
It shapes our whole society – society without the capital S. The still centre of the wheel, and on the whole, the stiller the better. But if we want to be a monarchy, have a king and protect his honour, that’s our business. Specifically, it’s mine as an Army man. I’m not supposed to defend freedom or civilisation or anything like that, just this country.”

“You mean that at least your intentions are honourable. More than his were, back then.”

“Perhaps . . . But whether sacrificing our ideas of law to save the King’s good name is particularly honourable . . .”

She waited a moment, then asked gently: “And what would happen if the whole story came out? – let justice be done ‘though the skies fall’?”