The English Assassin (10 page)

The Red Fox’s smile was grim and his eyes were like polished granite. “His Majesty will be sadder still, O Emissary, when he learns we intend to make war on those of our own folk who are foolish enough to side with the soldiers. We have already razed Fort William the Fourth.”

“The Chief-of-us-All should punish you for that,” said the captain, “but he is slow to anger. He understands that his children have been misled by the honeyed tongues of men from across the seas. Men who would make his children fight their battles for them.”

The Mahon rubbed his nose with a large hand and looked amused. “Tell His Majesty that we are not his children. We are mountain warriors. We shall preserve our ancient ways. We would rather die than become the subject race of any foreigner.”

“But what of your women? Your sons and your daughters? Do they wish to see their menfolk die? Will they be happy if the schools, the doctors, the medicines— aye and the merchants who buy their wares—disappear from this land?”

“We’ll provide our own schools and doctors—and we’ll have no more merchants ever again in the mountains of Argyll!”

Captain Nye smiled at the idea and was about to reply when he noticed a movement of the tent flap behind the Mahon.

A tall figure emerged to stand at the chief’s side. He wore a suit of heather-mixture tweeds. A shooting hat was pulled down to shade his face, a monocle gleamed in his right eye. From his mouth jutted a black cheroot. “I’m afraid you’ll have no luck with that argument, captain. The chief here has already decided that the advantages of British rule are outweighed by the disadvantages.”

For all the evidence of his eyes and ears, Captain Nye could hardly believe that this was an Englishman. A renegade. He tried to hide his astonishment. “Who the devil are you, sir?”

“Just an observer, old chap. And an advisor, of sorts, I suppose.” The man paused, his attention given to the faint humming which filled the air, drowning, eventually, the sound of the water. He smiled.

“This is Mr Cornelius,” said the Mahon. “He has helped us with our fleet. Here it comes now.” The hill chieftain pointed behind Nye. The captain turned to look.

Over the brow of the furthest hills came swimming upwards of a hundred massive aerial men-o’-war. They were airships of a type far in advance of anything Nye had seen before. They bristled with artillery gondolas. Their slender cigar-shaped hulls were like the bodies of gigantic sharks. On each silver-grey side, on each elevator fin was painted a livery which combined the black flag of Anarchy and the blue cross of Scotland.

“Cornelius?” Nye looked back towards the tent but the tall man had gone inside.

The Red Fox chuckled. “An engineer, I believe,” he said, “of some experience.” He broke into English. “Perhaps we shall meet again in Whitehall, will we not, Master Emissary?”

“I’ll be damned!”

Nye turned again to look at the massive battle-fleet cramming the sky, to notice the power of the guns, to speculate upon the destruction they and the aerial torpedoes could accomplish. “I’m dreaming.”

“D’ye think so?”

Catherine Cornelius left her brother’s lodgings in Powys Square. She hurried back through the dark streets to her own house where she had heard Prinz Lobkowitz and his friends awaited her. One or two gas-lamps glowed through the clinging fog but cast little light. There were a few muffled sounds, but she could identify none of them. It was with relief that she entered Elgin Crescent with its big overgrown trees and its tall comfortable houses; perhaps because the street was so familiar the fog did not seem so thick, though she still had to walk with some care until she reached Number 61. Shivering, she unlatched the gate and at last mounted her own steps, searching in her Dorothy bag for her key. She found it, unlocked the door and went inside. Fog drifted in with her. It filled the cold and gloomy hall like ectoplasm. Without taking off her coat she crossed the hall and opened the door to the drawing room. The drawing room was painted in a mixture of yellow and pale brown. She noticed that the fire was almost out. Removing her gloves she reached down and put several pieces of coal on top of the red cinders, then she turned and acknowledged the company. There were two others beside Prinz Lobkowitz; a man and a woman.

“These are the guests I mentioned,” explained the Prinz softly. “I’m sorry about the fire.” He indicated the woman. “Miss Brunner”—and the man—“Mr Smiles”— and sat down in the horseshoe armchair nearest the grate, one booted foot on the brass rail.

Catherine Cornelius looked shyly at Miss Brunner and then became wary. Foxy, she thought. Miss Brunner had neat red hair and sharp, beautiful features. She wore a well-cut grey travelling cape and a small pillbox hat perched over her right eye, decorated with a green feather, a tiny veil. Her clothes were buttoned as tightly as the black boots she revealed when seating herself on the arm of Prinz Lobkowitz’s chair. Mr Smiles, bald-headed and large in a dark brown ulster, a long scarf wound several times round his neck, cleared his throat, fingered his muttonchop whiskers as if they were not his own, unbuttoned the ulster and felt in the watch-pocket of his waistcoat, producing a gold half-hunter. He peered at it for a while before he began to wind it. “What’s the time? My watch has stopped.”

“Time?” Catherine Cornelius stared around the room in search of a clock that was going. There was a black marble one on the mantle, a grandfather in the corner.

“Nine twenty-six,” said Miss Brunner, referring to the plain silver pendant watch she wore about her neck. “Where are our rooms, my dear? And when shall we expect supper?”

Catherine passed her hand over her forehead and said vaguely, “Soon. I must apologise. My brother gave me very little warning, I’m afraid. The preparations. Excuse me. I’m sorry.” And she left the room, hearing Miss Brunner say, “Well, it’s a change from Calcutta.”

* * *

Catherine found Mary Greasby, the maid-of-all-work, in the kitchen enjoying a glass of madeira with cook. Catherine gave instructions for beds and supper to be prepared. These instructions were received with poor grace by the servants. She returned to the drawing room with a tray on which were glasses and decanters of whisky, sherry and what remained of the madeira.

Mr Smiles stood with his back to the grate. The fire now blazed merrily. “Ah, splendid,” he said, stepping forward and taking the tray from her. “You must forgive our manners, dear lady. We have been travelling in a rough-and-ready way in some rather remote parts of the world. Just the thing. We were reluctant to impose, but—well, fugitives, you know, fugitives. Ha ha!” He poured whiskies for all save Catherine who raised her hand to decline.

“How is your dear brother, Miss Cornelius?” The redheaded woman’s tone was patronising. “We have missed him so much while we have been abroad.”

“He is well, I think,” replied Catherine. “I thank you.”

“You are very alike. Are they not, Mr Smiles?”

“Very.”

“So I believe,” said Catherine.

“Very alike.” Reflectively Miss Brunner lowered her eyelids and sipped her drink. Catherine shivered and sat down on a hard chair near the piano.

“And how is old Frank?” said Mr Smiles. “Eh? We’ve had some exciting times together, he and I. How is he?”

“I am sorry to say I have not seen him recently, Mr Smiles. He writes to Mother. The occasional postcard, you know.”

“Like me, young Frank. Bit of a globetrotter.”

“Yes.”

Prinz Lobkowitz rose. “I must be going, Catherine. It isn’t very wise for me to stay here, considering the opinion the police hold of me at the moment. Perhaps we’ll meet at the conference.”

“Shall you find a cab at this time of night? If you would care to stay—”

“I dare say I’ll find one. It’s a long way back to Stepney. But I thank you for the offer.” He bowed to Miss Brunner and kissed her hand. He shook hands with Mr Smiles. “Goodbye. I hope your stay is peaceful.” He laughed. “For you if not for them!” Catherine helped him on with his old-fashioned Armenian cloak and saw him to the front door. He bent down and kissed her on the cheek.

“Keep your spirits up,
petite Katerina
. We are sorry to make use of your house like this, but there wasn’t much choice. Your brother—give him my regards. We’ll probably meet soon, tell him. In Berlin, perhaps. Or at the conference?”

“I think not the conference.” Catherine hugged him. “Be careful, my dear, my own dear Prinz Lobkowitz.”

He opened the door and drew his muffler about his mouth and chin as the fog surged in. He fitted his tall hat on his head. There came the sound of horses’ hoofs on the road outside. “A cab.” Gently he squeezed her arm and then ran into the cold darkness. Catherine closed the door and started as the maid spoke from where she stood halfway up the stairs.

“Is it just the three of you now, mum?”

Miss Brunner appeared in the drawing-room doorway. Her face seemed flushed, perhaps by the alcohol. She offered Catherine a look of considerable intimacy. “Oh, I think so,” she said, “don’t you?” She smoothed her red hair back, then she smoothed her straight flannel skirt over her thighs and pelvis. She stretched out and took Catherine’s hand leading her back into the room. Mr Smiles stood by the piano glancing through a Mozart sonata.

“Do you play, Miss Cornelius?”

Someone singing.

Two young boys who disappeared from Ballinkinrain approved school near Balfron, Stirlingshire, a month ago were found dead last night at the bottom of a gorge in the Fintry Hills, two miles from the school. The bodies of John Mulver, aged 10, of Balornock, Glasgow, and Ian Finlay, aged 9, of Raploch, Stirling, were found by a search party of police and civilians who have been combing the area for the past month.

Guardian
, 13 April, 1970

Two boys aged 15 and 9 were killed in Dacca today in the latest of a series of bombing incidents. A home-made bomb buried under rubbish in front of Pakistan’s council building exploded. A man who was injured was seen riding frantically from the scene on his bicycle.

Guardian
, 12 May, 1970

A three-year-old boy found dead in a disused refrigerator in the garden of his home in Somerset was yesterday named as Peter Wilson, of Hillside Gardens, Yatton. It is understood the refrigerator was self-locking. Eight weeks ago three-year-old twins, Lynn and Caroline Woods, died of suffocation in a disused refrigerator in their home at Farley, near Thames Ditton.

Guardian
, 2 June, 1970

Paul Monks, aged 14, was found dead yesterday after an explosion in a wood near his home at High Street, Dawick, near Buckingham. The boy was seen on Sunday night with what appeared to be an unexploded mortar bomb.

Guardian
, 2 June, 1970

Four people were killed and six injured when a van and two cars collided at Wroot, Lincolnshire, yesterday. Two of the dead were children.

Guardian
, 29 June, 1970

An inquest was opened yesterday into the death at Eton of Martin Earnshaw, aged 14, son of Lady Tyneford and Mr Christopher Earnshaw. The boy was found hanging in his room at the school in the morning … Mr Anthony Chenevix-Trench, headmaster of Eton, had said earlier that Martin was extremely popular. “During the last few days he had been sent three times to me to be commended for his good efforts. We cannot account for this tragedy.”

Guardian
, 6 December, 1969

Jerry turned the corner from Elgin Crescent into Ladbroke Grove. He saw that the rag-pickers were still out. They had been working through the night, using stolen hurricane lamps, shuffling in and out of the huge banks of garbage lining both sides of the street. Here and there among the plastic bags and the piles of cans a discreet fire was smouldering.

Jerry made his way down the centre of the road, listening to the sly sounds, the secret scufflings of the people of the heaps, until at last he reached the corner of Blenheim Crescent and realised with a shock that the Convent of the Poor Clares was down. His headquarters lay in ruins. The walls had been demolished, as had most of the buildings. Bricks and rubble had been cleared neatly into piles, but for some reason a few of the trees had been preserved, protected by new white fences—an oak and two black, twisted, stunted elms. The rest of the trees had been sawn down and stacked in a pile in the centre of the site. The best part of the original chapel and the administration wing attached to it, on the Westbourne Park Road side, were still standing. The machinery of demolition was parked here and there: trucks and earth-movers cloaked in dark canvas glistening with drizzle. Jerry climbed over the rubble and plodded through the thick mud until he stood under the nearest elm. He reached up and touched the lowest of the gnarled branches; he kicked at the stake fence. It quivered. He stumbled up a pile of bricks and masonry and got through a gap in the chapel wall. Fragments of stained glass clung to lead frames. The pews had been torn up and scattered, the altar had been ripped out, the electrical wiring had been pulled down and everything was covered with plaster and white dust. High up, the light fell through the ruined roof onto a crude painting of the Resurrection, its lurid greens, yellows and reds already faded by the action of the rain and the wind. On all the walls were patches the size and shape of the devotional pictures which had hung there. He walked into the administration wing; the first two floors of this had hardly been touched as yet. He noticed small piles of human shit in some of the empty rooms. In the Mother Superior’s office, which had been his office, too, he saw the white outline of the big cross which had hung there when he had last visited the convent. All furnishings, with the exception of two sodden mattresses in one room, had been carried off; his friends, his employees, his pets had gone.

As the light improved he moved through the wreckage, picking up small things. A triangle of green stained glass, a fragment of wood from a pew, the bulb holder from a light fixture, a hook on which the nuns had once hung their habits, a key from a cupboard, a 1959 penny left on the floor of the chapel, a nail which had secured part of the large cross to the wall. He put them in the pockets of his black car coat. A few relics.