Black August (11 page)

He was neither rake nor saint, but had acquired a reasonable experience of women for his years, and he could remember no one who had aroused his mental interest and physical desire to the same pitch as Ann. Now, in the customary manner of the human male when seized with longing for the companionship of one particular female, he was endowing her with every idealistic and romantic perfection.

Back at Grosvenor Square he decided that he ought to discuss the increasing gravity of the situation with Veronica at once, but her maid, Lucy, informed him that she had gone out.

At the sight of Lucy's trim figure—a pert young hussy he had always thought her—it occurred to him that she and his own man ought to be given the opportunity to rejoin their own families if they wished, and he put the proposition to them.

Lucy tossed her head. That is a matter for her ladyship, milord, though I wouldn't leave her with things like this even if she wished it. She'd never be able to manage on her own.'

Kenyon suppressed a smile and turned to his valet. ‘What about you, Carter?'

‘If it please your lordship I would prefer to carry on with my duties.'

‘Well, that's nice of you both.' Kenyon nodded. ‘Unless I receive instructions to take on a job of work I propose to leave for Banners first thing tomorrow morning. You can drive a car can't you, Carter?'

‘Yes, milord.'

‘Then Lady Veronica will come with me, and you can take Lucy with you in her ladyship's two-seater. Better do any packing tonight. I take it His Grace has sent all the rest of the staff down to Banners?'

There's Moggs and his wife still here, milord.'

‘I see—well, I'll have a word with them.' Kenyon went downstairs to the grim gloomy basement. He paused to look into the store-room and satisfied himself that although tinned goods and luxuries had been difficult to procure for months past, the chef, with the ducal purse behind him, had not allowed his reserves to become depleted. The contents of the shelves would have stocked a fair-sized grocer's shop. Then he went on to the housekeeper's
room where he found Moggs, and his wife, the laundry woman of the establishment, enjoying a large pot of very black tea. He told them that the situation was growing worse from hour to hour, and suggested that they might like to make other arrangements.

Old Moggs, who cleaned the boots and apparently spent most of his day in the area, jerked a grimy thumb at his wife.

‘Me and the missis 'ad better stay 'ere, milord—can't leave the ‘ouse empty, can we?'

‘I don't like to,' Kenyon replied, ‘but I'm thinking more of you than the house at the moment.'

‘Very good of your lordship, I'm sure, but we'd just as soon stay 'ere as I told 'is Grace, if it's all the same to you—ain't that so, Martha?'

‘I'm willin', Tom,' said his wife.

‘All right,' Kenyon agreed, realising suddenly that the couple might have no home to go to, but thankful not to have to leave the house untenanted. ‘Take what you want from the store-room, but I should go canny with it if I were you—there is enough there to last you a couple of months if you're careful.'

‘Thank you, milord, an' my best respects.' Old Moggs touched an imaginary forelock.

‘Good-bye then, and good luck to you both!'

‘Same to you, milord, same to you,' came the quick response as he left them in the eternal half-light which perpetually envelops the dwellers below stairs in most London houses.

Up in his own study once more he began to pack a few of his more precious possessions into a couple of suit-cases. He was growing more and more certain that if they ever got back to Grosvenor Square they would find it sacked and looted.

It occurred to him that he ought to ring up the Party Office and see if they had decided on any job for him. If they had,
Carter would have to run Veronica down to Banners; but the man he wished to speak to was not in, and the secretary had no message for him.

Restlessly he wondered now if Ann would turn up, even if she had meant to in the first place. He could not expect her before seven anyhow, but would she come at all in this state of crisis and with transport breaking down? He began to hatch fresh plans in case of her non-appearance, but he needed Veronica's help and she had not yet returned.

It was nearly six, so he switched on the wireless to hear the latest bulletin. The Sappers had performed miracles with the wrecked bridge and trains were running to Glasgow. Negotiations were proceeding which it was hoped would pacify the sailors. There was now reason to hope that the United States would lift their embargo as far as Britain was concerned, and extend further credits to ensure an adequate food supply. The Government were taking active measures to cope with the situation.

Kenyon turned off the instrument in disgust. Why was there no news of Cardiff or of the trouble in the East End that morning? The Government were trying to stay the panic by suppressing the most vital facts. Impatient now for Veronica's return, and unable to settle down to anything, he went out on to the front doorstep to watch for her.

A low-built powerful Bentley roared out of Carlos Place at a hideously dangerous speed, but the driver, catching sight of Kenyon, pulled up a few yards past him with screaming tyres. Kenyon knew the car and ran down to meet him. It was young Bunny Cawnthorp, dressed as an officer of Grey shirts. There was a nasty gash across his forehead and his face was smeared with blood.

‘I say! Are you bad?' Kenyon asked.

‘No, nothing serious; we're having hell in the East End with these ruddy Communists. I can't stay though, only stopped to tell you to get out; London will be Red tomorrow.'

‘I'm off first thing in the morning.'

‘You go tonight, my boy—I am!'

‘But aren't you still on duty?'

‘Duty be damned, Kenyon. I've slogged a few of these blokes and I'll slog a few more before I've done; but you know my mother is a cripple, and she's the only thing in the world that
matters two hoots to me. My first duty is to see her safe out of it—then I'll come back to the other if I can—take care of yourself, old scout. So long!'

As the Bentley roared away Veronica pulled up in her two-seater. Kenyon hurried over to her. ‘Where the deuce have you been all the afternoon?'

‘With Klinkie Forster; the poor sweet's due to shed an infant this week. Ghastly for her, isn't it?'

‘Yes, filthy luck. I'd forgotten about that, and you're paying for the nursing-home, aren't you?'

Veronica went scarlet. ‘How the hell did you know that?'

‘Oh, her husband told me, ten days ago. The poor devil was almost weeping with gratitude, and I know they've been down and out for months. I don't wonder you're always broke!'

‘Well, that's my affair,' she snapped, angry and embarrassed as she fumbled with the door of the car.

‘Steady on,' he soothed her. ‘It's nothing to be ashamed of, and I meant to offer you a bit myself towards it, only I've been so busy I forgot; but don't get out. I want you to run down to Gloucester Road and pick up Ann.'

‘She's coming, then? I had no answer to my note.'

‘I think the post has gone groggy, like everything else; there's been no delivery yet today!'

‘She may not have meant to come, anyway?'

‘Perhaps not, but I simply must know what has happened to her, and if she is there I thought you could persuade her into coming back with you. I'll wait here in case she is already on her way.'

‘My dear! You
have
got it badly!'

‘Yes,' said Kenyon grimly, ‘so badly that I've made up my mind to take her with us.'

‘What! To Banners?'

‘That's the idea; why not?'

Veronica exclaimed, protested, and talked wildly of Juliana Augusta's possible reactions to his project, but finally agreed to assist her brother when he had fully outlined his plans.

‘But say she doesn't want to go with us; you can't keep her here all night against her will?' was her final protest.

‘Got to,' said Kenyon tersely. ‘You get her for me if she's there and think up some idea to delay her departure once she's here till about nine o'clock; I'll do the rest! Off you go!' A
quarter of an hour later Rudd showed her up to the sitting-room in Gloucester Road.

Ann was there, and with her the Pomfrets who, apparently oblivious of the crisis which was shaking Britain, were busy addressing postcards to their friends asking them to get Pomfret's new book,
The Storm of Souls,
which was to be published next day.

Veronica sailed into the room, her small neat head tilted in the air. ‘Miss Croome?' her smile was almost bewildering, ‘I do hope you don't mind my coming in, but I've been simply dying to meet you because I've heard so much about you from my brother Kenyon. I spent the afternoon with friends in Queen's Gate, and as you were so near I thought I could give you a lift back?'

Ann was taken completely by surprise. She had decided not to go to Grosvenor Square but to write a letter of apology. ‘How … how very nice of you,' was all she could murmur, a little breathlessly.

‘Poor child,' thought Veronica. ‘It must be horrid for her to have me butting in like this with these squalid people about.' Mentally she wiped the Pomfrets from her consciousness like flies from a window pane: the girl hadn't meant to come, of course—a stubborn little piece, but damned good-looking, all the same. Yes, Kenyon knew his oats all right, and like it or not she was coming back—Veronica meant to see to that.

‘Ye Gods! what marvellous eyes you've got,' she exclaimed. ‘I don't wonder Kenyon is crazy about you. Am I being terribly personal? I've got into such an awful habit of saying just what I think; do you mind if I smoke?' She whipped out an onyx cigarette-case and dropped on to the settee.

‘Oh, no; please do.' Ann's eyes showed interest and a flicker of amusement.

‘Isn't that fun?' Veronica rattled on, thrusting the case at Ann. ‘Cartier, my dear—Miss Croome, I mean—an American gave it to me; sheer blackmail, of course, but I simply had to have it.'

‘I think it's lovely, and so are you!' Ann riposted neatly, as she returned the cigarette-case.

Veronica launched swiftly into a series of incidents which had occurred to her during the day. Things always happened to Veronica that never happened to anyone else—absurd, trivial
things, but in the quick dramatic telling, punctuated by bursts of infectious laughter, they gained the status of incredibly humorous adventures.

It was impossible to be mulish in the face of Kenyon's magnetic sister if she laid herself out to charm, so when, after ten minutes' incessant talking, she exclaimed: ‘My dear! It's a quarter to seven—we must positively fly!' Ann found herself standing up too.

She had been laughing uproariously only a second before and the attack had been so sudden, so swift. How could she possibly say now that she did not wish to go, and begin an argument with the listening Pomfrets in the background; two minutes later she was sitting beside Veronica in the car.

The stream of chatter flowed on. Veronica had no intention of allowing her captive time to think of belated excuses to make on the doorstep. The body of Ann Croome must be handed over to Kenyon in good order and good humour. Veronica took a pride in her achievements.

‘Looks like a doss-house, doesn't it?' she cried, as they entered the wide hall now stripped of its old masters. ‘But we shall all be murdered in our beds, I expect, so what does it matter?'

Kenyon came down the stairs to meet them. ‘Well, Ann,' he said, ‘it
is
nice of you to come with all this upset going on.'

‘I didn't mean to,' she said frankly, ‘but I found your sister irresistible!'

They went up to Veronica's sitting-room. Kenyon shook the drinks while his sister talked, and an hour sped by unnoticed, but Veronica had her all-seeing eye on the clock. The guest must not be allowed to say that she was going!

Suddenly, as though struck by a lightning thought, she cried: ‘What a bore, with the servants gone we can't possibly ask you to stay for dinner; but wait, I've got it! We'll picnic up here on what's left in the larder; come on, let's beat it to the basement!'

‘Splendid!' Kenyon laughed. ‘Ann shall cook us an omelette; she told me the other night that she could!'

What could Ann do against the enticements of these charming people? Only follow Veronica through the door that Kenyon smilingly held open.

Half an hour later she was seated on a table in the vast, empty kitchen, where in the spacious days of lavish entertaining twenty
men and women had laboured at the preparation of ball suppers. She was gobbling a large slab of omelette which she had helped to make, and laughingly protesting that she was quite unfitted to give Veronica the cooking lessons which were for the moment that tempestuous lady's most earnest desire.

They opened champagne and drank it out of tea-cups, scorning to call Moggs or Carter to their aid when they could not find the glasses; then carrying more bottles they proceeded upstairs into the silence of the great empty house.

Back in her sitting-room, Veronica, with Ann beside her, curled up on the floor and began to tell the cards. There were journeyings across water, meetings in tall buildings, love, treachery, imprisonment, and in Ann's cards—death!

When the last round was finished Veronica drew the pack quickly together with her slim fingers. ‘Darlings, I must leave you,' she declared. ‘Lucy is a perfect saint, but she simply cannot pack; don't go, Ann, please; give me a quarter of an hour and I'll be back.'

Alone with Ann, Kenyon wasted no time in fencing. He stooped to take her hand but she withdrew it quickly. ‘Ann!' he protested, ‘you're not still cross with me?'

‘Not cross—but I only came this evening so as not to be rude to your sister. It doesn't alter anything I said in my letter.'