Shadows of Ecstasy (19 page)

“Is it likely I'd mean to kill him? Me that's never hurt a canary! It's all a mistake.…”

“The Lord gave,” Ezekiel said, standing up and looking at the body, “and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

By this time more police were in the room, some of them with prisoners. Philip explained his presence to the officer in charge, and when this was confirmed by the two original constables and he had given his address it was suggested that he might prefer to make his way home.

But he hesitated as he looked at Ezekiel. “What about Mr. Rosenberg? Hadn't he better come with me? I'm sure my father would be glad,” he said, and was permitted to propose it.

Ezekiel nodded gravely. “A burden is laid upon me,” he said. “I shall go alone to the land of my fathers.”

“If you've got any money or jewels here, Mr. Rosenberg,” the Inspector said, “you'd better let us take charge of them.”

“We never had any,” Ezekiel answered; “they are in safe keeping.” He turned again to the body, intoned over it a Hebrew prayer, and, while the last great syllables echoed from the ceiling and walls, indicated to Philip that he was ready. Two constables were to come with them till they had found a taxi; the four went silently downstairs, and, as they came out into the street, heard, remote but unmistakable, the sound of the guns.

In Kensington Sir Bernard and three of his guests were playing bridge—Caithness, Isabel and Roger. The king, as usual, was shut in his room. Rosamond was where Isabel had hardly dared to hope Sir Bernard would succeed in getting her—in bed and asleep. It was a Tuesday evening, and very often on Tuesday evenings, because Roger was generally free then, the Ingrams did visit their friend. Sometimes they played—if Philip or Rosamond or some other visitor would join them; sometimes they talked; sometimes they went to the theatre. Sometimes they even stopped the night; Sir Bernard was very fond of them, and between him and them existed that happy state by which fathers and children who are no relations may enjoy relationship rarely achieved by fathers and children who are. Sir Bernard all but understood Roger; Roger all but envied Sir Bernard. And what they did not understand and envy salted their talk with agreeable mystery. The evening therefore bore a bearable similarity to the past. The tact which Sir Bernard and Isabel possessed in common soothed over the fact of Rosamond's hysteria, and in effect combined in finding her a bed and putting her there. Once in the house indeed, from exhaustion or cunning or content or fear, she grew docile, and was content to be managed. Sir Bernard's forty years of practice had made him an adept at managing people. Roger had begun, from a sense of decency, to try to explain why they were there, or why he was there. But Sir Bernard refused to hear.

“I'm quite sure you don't want to tell me,” he said, “and being told things—there's nothing I like better, but a sense of duty destroys the satisfaction. Like the people who refuse to be loved by a sense of duty. At my age one's only too grateful to be loved—
loved
, mark you—at all. Let's pretend nothing ever happened.”

Hampered in this by the fact that the guns began almost immediately, they nevertheless did make the evening rather like one of their old enjoyments. It had been announced by Authority, after the last raid, that, in the event of another, official bulletins of the progress of the raid would be delivered to the wireless at regular intervals and announced by that means to the public. Arranged entertainments would, so far as possible, proceed as usual; and it was hoped that all listeners-in would follow their ordinary custom, and lessen the chance of panic, at creating which (as had been discovered in the Great War) all air-raids over such places as London were directed. If the experiment were found unsuccessful it would be discontinued after the trial.

“We shan't want the entertainment,” Sir Bernard said, “but we may as well know what's happening, so far as the Government will tell us.”

“I'm not sure of that,” Isabel said. “Suppose the thing says, ‘Great aeroplane dropping fiery bombs directly over Colindale Square'.”

“It won't,” Caithness said. “I'll bet you a dozen pairs of gloves, Isabel, that if we're all blown to heaven the last thing we hear is: ‘No aeroplane has yet reached London; the raid is being effectively repulsed.'”

“Done,” said Isabel.

“An anthropomorphic heaven,” Sir Bernard said, and picked up the cards.

For some time the game and the entertainment proceeded. Then the first announcement was heard.

“The first Government communiqué has just been received,” the loud speaker announced. “‘Raiders have attempted to approach London from all sides, but have entirely failed. Four enemy planes have already been brought down. A number of bombs have been dropped, but all in uninhabited districts. The O.C. London Air Defence announces that no losses have been sustained by our forces'.”

“I hope they'll use imagination,” Sir Bernard said. “One or two planes destroyed on our side would make the bulletins credible.”

“I do wish you wouldn't say ‘imagination',” Roger complained. “It isn't, you know; only the lowest kind of cunning fancy.”

“I've never been clear that Coleridge was right there,” Caithness said meditatively. “Surely it's the same faculty—the adaptation of the world to an idea of the world.”

“Well, if the O.C. London Air Defence
has
an idea of the world,” Roger said, “you may be right. But is an idea a pattern?”

“O surely!” Caithness interrupted. “If an idea isn't a pattern what good is it?”

“If we're playing bridge,” Isabel said forbearingly, “could you manage to forget your ideas for a moment? Thank you so much.”

A new voice, after a quarter of an hour, took up the tale. “Latest communiqué,” the loud speaker reported. “‘Enemy planes continue to be sighted. It is supposed that in all some eight hundred are engaged in the raid. None have appeared over London. Five villages have been destroyed. African troops have been landed from giant airships, and have occupied the ridge of Hampstead and Richmond Park. Other airships have appeared on the western side. Posts of Government troops have been overwhelmed in the north and south'.”

“The devil they have!” Roger exclaimed.

There was a short pause, then the loud speaker continued, with another variation of tone: “‘In the name of the things that have been and are to be, willed and fated, in the name of the gods many and one …'”

Isabel laid down her cards, Caithness jumped to his feet, Roger sat upright in his chair. Sir Bernard, leaning back in his own, said in a voice of considerable interest, “Mr. Considine, I believe.”

“‘… the High Executive of the African Sovereigns warns the English of the folly of defiance. It is reluctant to make a difference in belief a reason for the destruction of London, and it does not propose, even under the provocations of the Government, to endanger the city to-night. But it is compelled to display the ardent and unconquerable forces at its disposal, and from the centre of the white race it seriously warns them that the forces now in action shall be multiplied a thousand times to effect the ends upon which it is determined—the freedom of the black peoples and the restoration of Africa. It exhibits something of the strength of its armies and the devotion of its martyrs, and it asserts firmly that, if a third raid upon London becomes necessary, then London shall be destroyed. It urges the English to consider carefully what they are fighting, and if any among them believe that in love and art and death rather than in logic and science the kingdom of man lies, it entreats them, not to any transfer of allegiance, for it recognizes in the folly of patriotism a means of obedience to the same passionate imagination, but to a demonstration on behalf of peace. In the name of their own loyalties it appeals to the children of passion and imagination; in the name of a vaster strength than their own it threatens the children of pedantry and reason—in this first proclamation made at London in the first year of the Second Evolution of Man'.”

“Then,” Sir Bernard said, “with more adequate assurance than Drake had, we can go on with the game.”

But Roger and Caithness were both on their feet. Caithness said, “I wouldn't trust him too far.”

Isabel, still looking at her cards, murmured, “I don't think you need worry, Mr. Caithness. He told us the same thing this afternoon.”

“You've seen him?” Caithness incredulously exclaimed.

“Yes,” Isabel said. “In fact, we made a kind of appointment with him.”

“
You
did?” Caithness said, still more astonished.

“Well—I did for Roger,” Isabel said, and lifted her eyes. “He'd never have done it himself. I hope you didn't mind, Sir Bernard?”

“Almost thou persuadest me to be a monogamist,” Sir Bernard said, but there was unusual tenderness in his voice. “Here, do you mean? Because, if so, perhaps that's him.”

It was not; it was Philip and the Jew. They came into the room accompanied by Inkamasi who had descended from his to discover the progress of the raid. Philip introduced Ezekiel to Sir Bernard and in a low voice gave him the brief tale of the evening.

“I'm very glad you're here, Mr. Rosenberg,” Sir Bernard said, in quite a different tone from his usual placidity. “I'm your servant in everything. You'll use us as you will. Ring, Philip.”

But even as Philip's finger touched the bell there was a louder ring in the hall. Sir Bernard paused and glanced swiftly at Isabel, who sat down by the card-table. In the minute that it took the feet of the maid to go to the front door she looked up at Roger and said: “Be good to me, my darling, and find out everything you can.” Roger, more shaken than she, did not answer except by his gaze. There were voices and footsteps; then the door was thrown wide open and Considine stood in the entrance of the room. Behind him was Mottreux, and behind him again two or three others—in whose faces, so far as he could see them, Sir Bernard thought he recognized the gentlemen who had waited on them during the dinner at Hampstead. But he had no time to consider; he looked back, where everyone else was looking, at the High Executive who stood in the entrance.

“A good meeting,” Considine said, “but I mustn't wait. Who will come with me?”

In the immediate silence Roger heard himself say, “I.”

“The king also,” Considine said.

“Fool,” the Zulu cried. “You've come to me now, and do you think you'll get away? You're mine, you're mine.”

He was standing almost on the other side of the room, nine or ten feet away. But as he ended, he crouched low, and in one terrific movement leapt—right across the intervening space, sending himself forward and upward, so that he crashed down on Considine as a thunderbolt might strike from the sky. His hands were at the other's throat, and before that descent of angry vengeance even Considine for a moment staggered and seemed likely to fall. But before he could either fall or recover, in the second after the onslaught fell, Mottreux sprang forward. The others saw the revolver in his hand and cried out; their voices were overwhelmed by the shot. Inkamasi reeled and crashed, his hand to his thigh where the blood showed. Considine recovered himself and glanced at his friend.

“Mottreux, Mottreux, is it necessary?” he murmured. “Am I afraid of his hands? Well, it's done; let Vereker see to him. It's only a flesh wound.”

He moved a step aside, so that another of his companions could come forward and do what he could with Isabel's help and with improvised bandages for the wounded man. After a few minutes Considine went on: “Mr. Ingram and the king; Mr. Rosenberg, I have your cousin's jewels, and others I have bought for you. Come with me; there's no place for you here.” He cast a glance around. “Is there any of you beside for whom that's true?”

“If you take the king you shall take me,” Caithness cried out. “I demand that you——”

“Why demand?” Considine's laugh answered him. “I invite you, I entreat you, to come. Sir Bernard?”

“No,” Sir Bernard said. “We've come out of the jungle and I for one am not going back.”

“The king, Mr. Caithness, Mr. Rosenberg, Mr. Ingram,” Considine said. “Very well. Mrs. Ingram?”

“No,” Isabel said. “Africa's near enough here.”

“You are perhaps a wise woman,” Considine said, “but if you are you shall be a centre of our wisdom in London, and all the women of England shall learn from you what it is they do. Your husband shall come back to you with victory. Good-night then. Good-night, Sir Bernard; I leave you to the sauces that you prefer to food. Come, my friends; come, my enemies. Mottreux, you and Vereker shall make the king as comfortable as you can in the first car. The others will come with me in the second.”

He swept them with him out to the door, to the large cars that waited for them. Roger, obeying a gesture, got in and sat down with his back to the engine; Caithness sat by him. Opposite the priest was the Jew. Considine occupied the other seat. Figures moved about the other car; from the doorway Isabel and Sir Bernard silently watched. Considine raised a hand to them, and as the car slid away he said to Roger, “There is defeat defeated. But you may be at ease; there is again to-night no danger to them from my people. And to-morrow, or if not to-morrow then the day after, the Government will ask for peace.”

“Surely they won't dare,” Roger said. “And if you're not hurting London, what
are
you doing?”

“I'm teaching London to feel,” Considine said, “to feel terribly. It will know panic to-night such as it has never known. It will know the depths which it has never dared to find. Blame its sterile hopelessness for its suffering.”

“Is that why you bring the African armies here?” Caithness asked.