The English Assassin (12 page)

“Neither had I.” Catherine’s tongue fluttered like a trapped butterfly, the pressure of her hand increased. Una made a noise.

“I was terrified of them both,” said Catherine. “I still am.”

“Forget it.”

Una gave a coarse, satisfied grunt.

“Good?” whispered Catherine Cornelius.

“Molly O’Morgan with her little organ

Was dressed up in colours so gay,

Out in the street every day
,

Playing too-ra-la-oor-a-li-oor-a-li-ay.

Fellows who met her will never forget her
,

She set all their heads in a whirl.

Molly O’Morgan with her little organ

The Irish-Aye-talian girl!”

sang Major Nye, twirling his splendid moustache and swirling his huge, tartan ulster as he strode over the moor with Sebastian Auchinek in tow. Auchinek was miserable and sought desperately about him for some sign of human habitation, preferably an inn. But there was none; just grass and gorse and boulders, the occasional bird and a few shy sheep. If Major Nye had not been the largest shareholder in a chain of well-appointed provincial halls, Auchinek would have complained. But he had to get Una a good year’s bookings, at least thirty weeks, outside London (for as he predicted they had closed the London halls), if he was going to make it up to her for the disappointment she must feel at losing the Empire.

“One of Ella Retford’s,” explained Major Nye, pausing in his stride and looking with relish at the dark green Exmoor heather. “Has your girlie got anything like that?”

“Better,” said Auchinek automatically, staring at the vast moor with disgust and resignation. “She has the real quality, major.” He whistled a complicated melody. “That’s one of hers.
Waiters get me going
.”

“It will mean a trip to London for me,” Major Nye said, stalking on. “And London’s not the safest place in the world these days, is it?”

“No really exciting place is, major.”

“I heartily dislike London, Mr Auchinek.”

“Oh, well—yes, I suppose so.” Uncertainly, Auchinek watched a large bird flap in the sky. Major Nye lifted his ashplant and pretended to sight down it at the bird.

“Bang!” said the major.

“Well,” he continued, “I have, as a matter of fact, got to be in London on some pretty important business fairly shortly. Not quite certain of the date, but ask my office. They’ll keep you posted.”

“And you’ll give her an audition.”

“That was the idea, old boy. If I’ve time. By the way, what is the time?”

Auchinek stared at him in surprise.

Major Nye shrugged. The sky was deep blue, bland and warm. “I’m kept pretty busy,” he said. “What with one thing and another.”

“You have many interests,” Auchinek said admiringly.

“Oh, many. I play,” the major laughed, “a wide variety of parts, you might say.” He put a hand to the knot of his Ascot cravat. “But then we all do, really…” His moustache tilted upwards on the right side as he gave a mysterious smile. Auchinek determined to get himself a suit of solid tweed, like the major’s, and a good ulster, and aim towards the acquisition of a small estate somewhere in Somerset or Devon. He hated the country, but these days there was hardly any choice. They came to a hill overlooking the winding white road to Porlock. Beyond the road lay the sparkling sea. On the dusty, unpaved road a carriage, drawn by two pairs of bays, was struggling, making poor time. The carriage was old and much in need of an overhaul.

Major Nye leaned on his ashplant and stared in amusement as the carriage slowly climbed the hill. “Could this be the vicar on his way to see me? He travels in style, our vicar. Used to ride. One of the best hunting men in these parts. He fell off his horse, though. Ha, ha.”

A white head appeared at the window and a pale hand hailed the couple.

“Major! Major!”

“Vicar! Top o’ the morning to ye!”

“Your son, major, have you heard?”

“What about the young rip?” Major Nye smiled at Auchinek. “He’s in the army, you know.”

“Captured, major. A prisoner of war.”

“What? The eldest boy?”

“Yes, major. I have the telegram here. I was in town when it arrived. I told them I’d deliver it.”

Auchinek knew that his luck hadn’t changed yet. He sighed. He had picked a bad time to see Major Nye.

“Armoured steamrollers of some kind,” continued the vicar, growing hoarse, “broke their lines and cut them off. Almost all were killed. He fought bravely. It will be in tomorrow’s press.”

“The devil!”

“He’s wound-ay-ed!” The vicar’s voice cracked completely as the carriage hit a rock and bounced. His coachman shouted at the horses.

“You’ll be returning to London on the seven-twenty, won’t you, Mr Auchinek?” said Major Nye.

“Well…” Auchinek had hoped to be invited for the night. “If that’s the most convenient train.”

“I’ll come with you. Quickly, get a hold on those leading horses and make ’em move. We’ll take the vicar’s carriage back to the house and I’ll just have time to pack a bag.

“In what engagement was your son captured?” Auchinek asked as they clambered down the hill towards the road.

“Damn!” said Major Nye, catching his sock on a piece of gorse and stopping to free himself. “Regiment? 18th Lancers, of course.”

“Engagement?”

“What? My boy? Never!”

Prinz Lobkowitz was almost sure that he had been followed all afternoon by a police agent. He hoped that he was wrong. He glanced at his watch, waiting outside the remaining gate to Buckingham Palace. He looked out of the corners of his eyes to see if he could recognise the agent; surreptitiously he inspected each of the passers-by (there were few) but none was familiar. He turned to inspect the palace. It had been boarded up for a year now, but there were still redcoated and bearskinned Guardsmen standing in sentry boxes at various points. This had seemed as good a place as any to meet the other envoy. And surely it must be some of the most neutral soil in the world at the present moment. The watch, a Swiss hunter with an alpine scene decorating the inner case, was a gift from Miss Brunner. He had never been able to find the catch. As soon as the big meeting was over, he thought, he’d buy himself a twenty-four-hour digital wristwatch of the kind the French were now making. He loved gadgets. It was what had led him into politics, after all.

The other envoy was late.

Prinz Lobkowitz took a rolled copy of
The Humorist
(“Typically British, but not old-fashioned”) from his Prince Albert frock-coat pocket and began to study it intently, displaying the cover which sported a Bonzo dog cartoon. This had been arranged earlier and the specific issue of the specific magazine agreed upon. Prinz Lobkowitz was fond of
The Humorist
. Already he was becoming absorbed in it, smiling involuntarily at the jokes.

A few moments later a distinguished middle-aged man of military bearing bumped into Lobkowitz and pretended to recognise him. In slightly accented English he cried with delight: “Good heavens! Why, it’s old Henry, isn’t it?”

For a second or two Lobkowitz feigned puzzlement. Then he said: “Could you be George?”

“That’s right! Spiffin’, seeing you again!”

Lobkowitz frowned as he tried to recall his lines. A little reluctantly he rolled up his magazine and replaced it in his pocket where it made a noticeable bulge in the line of the overcoat. “Come and have a drink, old boy.” Lobkowitz clapped the man on the shoulder. “We’ve a lot to talk about.”

“Yes, indeed!”

As they crossed the road and entered St James’s Park, which was filled with the noise of a dozen different calliopes from the nearby fairground, the man said softly: “I am Colonel Pyat, our embassy sent me.”

“And I’m Prinz Lobkowitz, representing the exiles. I hope this will be a fruitful meeting at long last.”

“I think it might be.”

They had reached the fairground which occupied both sides of the ornamental lake. Bunting and banners and candy-striped canvas, brass and steel and luridly painted wood, moved round and round and up and down as the people screamed or giggled or laughed aloud.

Pyat stopped at a stall on which sat a miserable monkey tended by an old Italian in a stovepipe hat. The Italian grinned and offered to sell Pyat an ice-cream. Pyat reached out his hand and stroked the monkey as if looking for fleas, yet the touch was tender. He shook his head and moved on. “Ice-cream!” shouted the Italian, as if Pyat had forgotten something. “Ice-cream!”

In his frock-coat and top hat, Pyat moved with dignity away.

“Ice-cream?” said the Italian to Lobkowitz who was a few paces behind Pyat. Lobkowitz shook his head. Pyat spoke over his shoulder. “Any news of Cornelius?”

“Jeremiah, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“None. He seems to have vanished completely.”

“Perhaps it’s for the best. Yes?”

“His insight’s useful.”

“But he could foul things up. And we don’t need that at present, with the big meeting coming along.”

“No.”

Under the low-hanging willows, where young prostitutes showed off their soft, painted flesh, they went, through the happy crowds, between the merry-go-rounds, the swing-boats and the helter-skelters.

“How jolly the peasants are,” said Pyat in an attempt at irony which somehow failed. “Alas! Regardless of their doom, the little victims play.”

“Were you at Eton? So was I,” said Lobkowitz grinning back at a cheeky girl. “Don’t you enjoy fairs?”

“I’ve hardly ever seen one of this kind. In Finland once. With the gypsies, you know. Yes. Near Rouveniemi, I think. In Spring. I didn’t attend. But I remember seeing the gypsy women by the river, breaking the Spring ice to wash their clothes. The sideshows were very similar, though there was more wood and less metal. Bright colours.” Colonel Pyat smiled.

“When were you last in Finland?” Lobkowitz avoided the guy rope of a sideshow tent. He took a deep breath of the air which was heavy with motor oil, candy floss and animal manure.

Colonel Pyat shrugged and waved his hands. “When there was last a Finland.” He smiled again, more openly. “I used to like Finland. Such a simple nation.”

An old woman selling lavender appeared. She wore a bright red shawl which clashed with her flowers. She whined pathetically at them, holding out her sprigs. “Please, sir. Please, sir.” She nodded her head as if she hoped, by sympathetic magic, to make them nod back. “Lucky, sir. Sweet lavender, sir. Please buy some, sir.”

Pyat was the first to reach into his trouser pocket and pull out a half-crown. He handed it to her, receiving the sprig in return. Its stem was wrapped in silver paper. Lobkowitz gave her two shillings and received a similar piece. The woman tucked the money away in the folds of her thick, dirty skirt. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

The lavender forgotten in their right hands, they walked on.

“But you people had to take Finland out,” said Lobkowitz.

“Yes.” Pyat raised his hand to his face and noticed the lavender there. He began to adjust it in his buttonhole. “It was a question of widening the available coasts.”

“Expediency.” Lobkowitz frowned.

“Does anyone act for another reason? Come now, Prinz Lobkowitz. Shall we confine ourselves to schoolboy moralising? Or shall we discuss the real business at hand?”

“Perhaps that, too, involves schoolboy morals?” Lobkowitz flung his lavender from him. It fell into the mud near the water’s edge.

Colonel Pyat said sympathetically, “Forgive me. I know… I know—” He gave up. “Jews…”

A crowd of urchins ran past them shouting. One of the urchins gave Lobkowitz a brief, piercing glance before running on. Lobkowitz frowned and felt over his pockets to see if he had been robbed. But everything was there, including
The Humorist
.

They mounted a boardwalk which led through the mud to the jetty which stretched out into the lake. There were two couples on the jetty. They stopped.

“The sides change,” said Prinz Lobkowitz. They stood side by side watching the ducks and flamingoes. On the opposite bank promenaded a score of belles in pretty dresses, arms linked with a score of beaux, dressed to the nines, their curly-brimmed bowlers tilted at exaggerated angles. A barrel organ played sentimental tunes. A bear danced. A punt passed.

They could see the shell of Buckingham Palace outlined against the evening sky in the west and, to the east, the shell of the Treasury Garrison, bristling with big naval guns.

“It’s growing colder,” said Colonel Pyat, adjusting the collar of his elegant coat. Prinz Lobkowitz saw that Pyat had a silk handkerchief tucked into his left sleeve. Clouds of red-tinged grey streaked the sky and streamed north.

“Everyone’s leaving now.” Pyat stopped and picked up a pebble. He threw it into the dank water. Sluggish ripples appeared for a few seconds. A fish put its lips to the surface and then submerged. “There are hardly any of our old friends left. Dead singers.”

“It’s nice ter go away, but it’s nicer ter come ’ome, innit?” said Mrs Cornelius as she sharpened the carving knife against the steel and looked with loving pride upon her roast pork.

The table had been laid with a red plush cloth. There were big blue tassels on the cloth. Over this had been laid a white linen cloth, its edges stitched with broderie anglaise. On the linen rested the vegetables in their monstrous china serving dishes with roses painted on the sides. There were large knives with weathered bone handles, solid forks, big spoons, napkins in rings of yellowed ivory, a silver salt cellar, a silver mustard pot, a silver pepper pot. Around the table sat Mrs Cornelius’s children and their guests. They had all come for one of Mrs Cornelius’s ‘special’ Sunday luncheons. Sammy, who always stood in as ‘man of the house’ on these occasions, sat in his tight best black serge suit beside her, sweltering as ever, but this time the quality of his swelter was different; the swelter of fear had replaced the swelter of work. The boy, pinch-faced and hungry, sat next to Sammy, his mouth watering as he waited for his share. His mother’s huge red lips rounded as she scraped metal against metal. She had her hair done in a pompadour coiffure with a Marcel wave and she was wearing the purple princess gown with the yellow imitation Valenciennes lace on it. The padded shoulders added to her already impressive size.