The Revolutions (31 page)

“Well—yes. To the
Strand.
And Longmans is publishing another set of the stories in just another—hmm, another month. Rather exciting, rather frightening, as always.”

“Well done, George. Well done.”

“What’s more—can you keep this secret, Arthur? What’s more, I think I may be in the running to be the editor of a new magazine. I might be able to find you work there, if you’re interested…”

“Thank you, George; but I’m a bit busy at present.”

“To be frank, Arthur, you look rather desperate.”

Arthur chewed on his steak. “I dare say I do.”

“Whatever happened to that job in Deptford?”

“The building burned down.”

“Good God. You have been having bad luck. Did you break a mirror, or step on a black cat?”

“Not that I recall. Tell me about the magazine.”

“Well, it’ll be something of a salmagundi, at first—but all very humorous, of course, and the best quality. There’s money behind it. Old Podmore himself is putting up half of it—you know, Lord Podmore—and then there’s an American financier … Are you all right?”

Arthur’s fork had stopped half-way to his mouth.

“We’re thinking of calling it the
Phaeton
—the magazine, that is. What do you think?”

“Very fine. Do you—have you met Lord Podmore, by any chance?”

“Not yet; but, as a matter of fact, I’ll be dining at the Savoy with His Lordship tomorrow night. The American gentleman, too. You know, he’s a decent sort of fellow, Podmore. Not half the ogre his reputation suggests. A sharp businessman, too. You wouldn’t want to cross him. He plans to outsell the
Strand
by the end of next year, and by God if I don’t believe he can do it.”

Arthur told him that it was a joy, and the best sort of medicine, to hear about a dear friend’s good fortune; and that he wanted to hear all about the
Phaeton
, and all about the dinner with Lord Podmore at the Savoy tomorrow, including the courses, the guests, the hour, and whether they would be sitting in the big dining-room—where Arthur had heard you could see and be seen by royalty on a good day—or in one of the lesser satellite rooms, where you might have to make do with stockbrokers. A great opportunity. Good for George. Long overdue and well deserved.

Arthur ate like a horse while George chattered away, full of innocent enthusiasm. He felt a great deal stronger, and his mood began to turn around. Sunshine streamed in through the windows. Arthur’s conscience troubled him a little, but he drowned it with coffee, plugged it up with steak and potatoes. He thought that he could probably, if all went well, ensure George’s safety; but what he was planning would certainly be curtains for the
Phaeton
. A bloody shame. But he had no choice. If this wasn’t a sign from Heaven, he didn’t know what one would look like. The Lord watched over London, and the Marylebone Road, and stupid men like Arthur; and if that was true, then no doubt he watched over everywhere else too, wherever the sun’s rays shone, wherever Josephine was. And He helped those who helped themselves. Arthur smiled and shook George’s hand.

Chapter Twenty-two

Arthur took the train out to Gravesend the next morning. From there he walked out to Rudder Hill, where he found Mrs Archer in her cottage. The door and the windows were thrown wide open, the clutter had been organised into a multitude of neat piles, and she was packing as if to go on holiday—that is, her enormous son was packing cases, while she sat and barked commands.

Arthur said
hello
at the window. Archer’s son rushed out scowling and grabbed him by his collar.

Mrs Archer emerged from her cottage, wiping her hands on her dress. “You. Heard what happened to Atwood. Atwood gone, Gracewell gone, all over—all debts cancelled, to my mind. Getting out.”

“An alliance,” Arthur gasped. “When last we met, you suggested an alliance.”

“Hah! Who with? Who’s left? You?”

“I can make it worth your while. I know who buggered up your stars, Mrs Archer.”

“Eh?”

“Atwood said you were very old, and very strong. Are you stronger than Lord Podmore?”

“That boy? Hmm. Perhaps.” She motioned for her son to put Arthur down.

“Yes or no, Mrs Archer?”

“Don’t hurry an old woman. I’m thinking.”

*   *   *

The Savoy Hotel, which had opened only a few years previously, was currently among the most fashionable and exclusive establishments in London, boasting electric lighting, American elevators, the finest chefs that could be poached from Paris, and so on, and so on. Arthur’s clothes were in such a shocking state that he would be lucky to be permitted to beg outside the gates.

He entered the courtyard by the carriage entrance, off Savoy Hill, slipping between two large black carriages and then following in the footsteps of a busy-looking footman, adopting the footman’s purposeful stride: long-legged, youthful, a very particular combination of awkwardness and self-important swagger. Atwood had once told Arthur that walking in a man’s shoes was half-way to being him. We are nothing but the sum of our motions, Atwood said. Atwood illustrated that theory by copying Arthur’s gait as they walked side by side along the Embankment, then dropping suddenly to his knees, causing Arthur to stumble and knock his head on a lamppost.

Nobody looked twice at him as he crossed the courtyard. He might as well have been the young footman’s shadow. Busy servants crossed his path as if he weren’t there. Young lovers idling by the fountain glanced at him, untroubled, as if he didn’t in the slightest blemish the beauty of the courtyard—which was all soft evening shadows, white brick, fragrant flowers, glinting pearls and turquoises. There were a thousand eyes on the balconies above and nobody cried out,
Who the devil is that
?

A magician is at home everywhere, Atwood used to say. A magician is at home among kings and princes; a magician is at home on Mars. That was easy for His Lordship to say.

At the last moment, just as the footman was about to go inside, Arthur couldn’t resist an experiment. He reached up and scratched his head.

The footman stopped in the doorway. He shifted from foot to foot. He dropped one of the bags, took off his hat, and scratched crossly at his hair.

*   *   *

The footman stepped into an elevator and disappeared. Arthur strode directly through the ante-room, past fireplaces and two huge potted palms, into the restaurant, then across the big dining room to a table not far from the south-western quarter of the room, where Lord Podmore sat with George and two men Arthur didn’t know. According to George, one of them would be an American stockbroker by the name of Frisch, the other a publisher by the name of Snaith.

They had not yet begun to eat.

“Podmore!” Arthur said. “What a pleasure to see you here. And George, and Mr Snaith and Mr Frisch.”

A waiter in a white apron moved smoothly into view. Arthur commanded him to bring a chair, so that he could join his friends at their table.

“Arthur?” George said. He had a confused half-smile.

Podmore had been in the middle of an anecdote, or a joke, leaning back expansively with one hand on his enormous belly. Now he watched Arthur with curiosity, and perhaps just a sliver of wariness.

“I’m terribly sorry,” George said. “This is Arthur Shaw. He’s a friend of mine, and I’m afraid he’s had a terrible run of bad luck lately—his fiancée is—ah … Arthur, now is not the time.”

The waiter hovered uncertainly. He looked from Arthur to George to Podmore, who remained silent and still.

Arthur indicated to the waiter where he wanted the chair to be placed, across the table from Podmore. The waiter dithered. Arthur looked at him patiently. A magician is nothing more than a man who expects his orders to be obeyed, as Atwood was fond of saying.

At last Podmore nodded very slightly. The waiter breathed a sigh of relief and rushed off to find a chair.

Arthur considered that a draw.

*   *   *

Podmore nodded to Arthur. “Hello, Mr Shaw.”

“Hello, Your Lordship.”

Poor George looked confused, and very uncomfortable.

“Arthur! You know His Lordship?”

“I might ask you the same question,” Podmore said. “But everyone seems to know everyone these days. Yes: Arthur Shaw and I have met. A bright young man. I was so terribly sorry to hear about Josephine.”

“Your Lordship is too kind.”

“You have mud on your shoes,” Podmore observed.

“I had business out in the country,” Arthur said.

George tried frantically to meet Arthur’s eye.

Arthur had a good view of the restaurant, and in particular the entrance and the lobby beyond it. At his back—it gave him a certain confidence—was a pillar, broad at its base and surrounded by a little pyramid of shelves laden with fine china and bottles of dozens of kinds of liquor. Above the shelves shone a row of electrical lights. The pillar, every other pillar in the great room, and every wall, was panelled with ornately carved mahogany. Heavy carved beams partitioned the ceiling into squares of gold and red. In the distance, a tremendous painting dominated the scene, depicting Captain Cook encountering unfriendly natives under a stormy tropical sky. It was a Monday evening and the restaurant was perhaps not quite at the height of glamour that it was said to reach on Sundays, but it was still very busy: at the tables around them were dowager dames in pearls and rubies, and famous actors, and magnates of steel and shipping, and no doubt a smattering of Balkan princes or globe-trotting American heiresses.

Podmore reached for his wine-glass. Arthur noticed with satisfaction that he was favouring his left hand—his right appeared to have been hurt.

The man on Arthur’s right—a stocky middle-aged gentleman with a thick moustache and rather rough-hewn features—opened his mouth and proved to be the American, Frisch. “If you don’t mind my asking, Your Lordship, what’s all this about?”

“I expect young Mr Shaw wants to talk about his unfortunate fiancée’s condition—when last we met I indicated I might be able to help her. I thought I might recommend him to my good friend Doctor Thorold, but there’s been some unfortunate news from that quarter too—had you heard, Mr Shaw?”

Arthur extended a hand to the American. “Hello, Mr Frisch. I’m Arthur Shaw. I hear you’re an American. Are you from Boston?”

“New York.”

“I say. How exciting.”

“It sure is, isn’t it?”

Frisch seemed to sense conflict brewing, and found it amusing. The other man, who had to be Snaith, was keeping his mouth shut, presumably because he didn’t understand the situation and was anxious to not somehow offend Podmore.

“Arthur,” George said. “I don’t know what—”

“George, I think it would be a very good idea if you left now.”

“No,” Podmore said. “Stay.”

“George,” Arthur said. “You’ve always been very kind to me, and I’m very grateful, and I’m very sorry. I hope you’ll trust me when I say that it’s very important that you leave at once. You too, Mr Frisch. Snaith.”

“This is very silly,” Podmore said. “You are causing a very silly scene, Arthur. We were talking business. George, sit down.”

The waiter brought a glass, and attempted to pour Arthur wine, but Podmore glanced at him, raised an imperious eyebrow, and the poor fellow stumbled and spilled wine all over Arthur’s coat.

“Quite all right,” Arthur assured him. “Quite all right.” He shrugged off the coat and gave it to the waiter to take away, and faced Podmore in his shirt-sleeves.

Podmore smiled unpleasantly.

By now people at adjoining tables were glancing over with curiosity and whispering.

Podmore dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. Then he smiled at Arthur and asked, “Is your friend Martin well?”

“I expect so,” Arthur said.

“Hmm,” Podmore said. “I must say, you’re in good spirits, Mr Shaw. The last time we spoke you seemed rather—frankly, rather timid. Now here you are, barging into the Savoy, dressed like a savage, ordering Mr Weston and Mr Frisch and what’s-his-name away from the table.”

Snaith flinched.

“I confess,” Podmore said, “I’d like to know what you think you have up your sleeve.”

“All right,” Frisch said. “Okay, gentlemen. That’s enough beating about the bush. Is this business, or is this personal? What’s going on here?”

“I’m here to make a proposal,” Arthur said.

Podmore put his napkin down. “Well, let’s hear it.”

“I want you to give me Josephine, and Gracewell, without further unpleasantness.”

Podmore laughed. Snaith—clearly a born toady—laughed too.
Oh God,
George said, putting his head in his hands. Neither Arthur nor Podmore listened to him. Podmore stopped laughing, stroked his beard, and stared with sudden ferocity into Arthur’s eyes. It was all Arthur could do not to fall out of his chair. His skin prickled; he felt shame, terror, despair, humiliation. He was worthless, lower than a worm, a ridiculous scarecrow of a man.… He buckled under Podmore’s telepathic broadside, under the thunder of psychic cannon. Podmore’s eyes had become very large and round, and they seemed to shine with a horrible black light. Sweat trickled down Arthur’s brow. His hand shook, and the veins beneath his skin seemed to bulge and writhe disgustingly—he was a loathsome, decaying creature. He felt a terrible urge to get up and run. He didn’t. He’d survived Gracewell’s Engine. Lesser men had gone mad. He knew what discipline was. He clutched his napkin-ring so tightly that his knuckles hurt. He silently recalled the symbols of the Engine, and recited the names and mystical properties of the planets, and the stations of the Underground, and some fragments of Josephine’s poetry that he knew by heart, and some bits of Dickens, and whatever else he happened to have in his head.

A waiter approached the table bearing a silver tray, but stumbled as if he’d been struck in the head, and fell to his knees, spilling hot borscht all over the floor. Frisch ran to check his pulse and help him back to his feet.