“There’s nothing that would satisfy him,” I said, moving a little away from the sergeant so I could wipe my eyes with the toilet paper.
“Why don’t you tell me, and I’ll see what I think?” he asked. He looked patient and reliable, like my father, like Sergeant Evans, like the men I had grown up with.
A shadow fell across the wall of the cell. I looked up, and saw Inspector Bannister outside the door. He came back about thirty seconds too soon, because I had fallen for the whole thing and was about to tell Sergeant Matlock all about Mrs. Talbot and what I’d overheard. Now I sprang to my feet, dropping the blanket. “You’re working with him!” I said.
“Of course I am, but that doesn’t mean that what I say isn’t true,” Sergeant Matlock said, taking a step towards me.
“Get away from me,” I said.
“Come out, sergeant, it isn’t going to work,” Bannister said. “Let’s leave her until morning. Check on her every fifteen minutes, would you?”
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Matlock said, stolidly, not looking at either of us. “Do I leave the blanket?”
“No, I don’t think so, not unless there’s been any cooperation.”
Sergeant Matlock picked up the blanket and folded it, then went out of the cell. I was a little warmer than I had been, which was partly the blanket and the sergeant’s arm, and partly rage.
I tried to sleep. I curled up on the freezing cold slab and shut my eyes. The light stayed on. Every fifteen minutes either Sergeant Matlock or the bobby who had recorded my possessions came into the cell and shook me awake, to “check on me.” I did sleep for a few moments here and there. Eventually the bobby escorted me to the toilet, and when I returned to the cell there was a cup of hot sweet tea and some cold porridge on the slab, which I ate. I assumed by this that it was morning. I expected them to come to take me back upstairs at any moment. The tea warmed me and I did some Swiss calisthenics, which warmed me even more. They left me alone for long enough for me to begin to wonder if they’d forgotten me, and to regret not having tried to sleep again.
20
On Monday morning Carmichael was in the office before Miss Duthie arrived. He had an appointment with Mark Normanby at ten, and he wanted to set wheels in motion before that. He went down to the records office himself, walked past the duty clerk, and snatched up the report on Alan Bellingham, Bart.
Sir Alan was born in 1929, which made him thirty-one, surely much too old for Elvira, who was only eighteen. What could the Maynards be thinking? Carmichael realized he was grinding his teeth, and stopped. Sir Alan inherited his title at the age of ten, when his father, Colonel Sir Ulger Bellingham, 1889-1940, was killed fighting in Belgium with General Gort’s forces. He had also inherited Rossingham Manor, in Cambridgeshire, and a small amount of money. Death duties were high in 1940, and the family had needed to struggle to keep the house. Young Sir Alan’s trustees—his mother, Lady Prudence nee Arden, and his uncle, Oswin Bellingham—had sold off a lot of family treasures in those years. Nevertheless they had contrived to send Sir Alan to Eton and to Jesus College, Oxford. After Oxford, which he left with a first in Mathematics, Sir Alan had gone into the City—an unusual choice, in 1951, even for a mathematician. He had done well, parlaying his small fortune into a large one and even managing to buy back the treasures his trustees had squandered during his minority.
The list of his investments was long and thorough, doubtless gleaned from Inland Revenue sources. Carmichael skimmed it. Most of his holdings were in Britain and the Commonwealth, with a substantial fraction in the Reich, and shares in one very profitable uranium mine in Italian Libya. He seemed to be good at guessing how the market would move—either that or he had a lot of inside information. His clients loved him, and Carmichael didn’t blame them. He turned the page. Politically—here Sir Alan seemed to be all over the map. He knew people with affiliations in all directions, it seemed. He had class C contacts with suspected communists, with Scottites, with the Ironsides, and with impeccable Conservative, Liberal, and Labour members of Parliament. There was nothing beyond class C—and the Watch could rate you a class C contact by being at the same dinner party as someone. “This is meaningless,” Carmichael muttered.
“I’m sorry, sir?” the clerk interjected, looking up. “Can I help you find something?”
“No, no problem,” Carmichael said. “I have what I need.” He turned the page again. Here was the report he had asked for, on Sir Alan’s British Power connections. It could mean anything or nothing—Sir Alan evidently knew a lot of people. Some of those people were, or seemed to be, or to have been at one time, involved with British Power. He had several times been to a nightclub where the Liverpool agitator had sung. He had visited the Duke of Windsor’s yacht when in Capri. It all depended how you squinted at it. Carmichael wanted to meet the man.
The next page was Criminal—no record, no arrests, but, to his surprise, several suspicions. Unlike Scotland Yard’s records, the Watch recorded suspicions. Sir Alan had several times skated close to the thin edge of the law in his financial dealings, and had once been warned by his firm and once had his taxes investigated. In 1955 he had transferred money to the United States for a Jewish client and then turned the client in to the Watch. Nothing illegal about that, though it was enough to make Carmichael decide to forbid the banns if it ever came to that. This was not a man he would like to have marry Elvira. The Jew, after his arrest and before his deportation, had claimed that Sir Alan had previously helped several of his friends successfully remove their assets, and the friends had subsequently left the country without any problem. The emigrated friends’ names were listed, and there was a note in the file to watch Sir Alan for any more of this kind of behavior. There had been none, and someone had penciled “Probably spite?” against the report.
Carmichael shut the folder and slid it back into place. “Thank you,” he said to the clerk, who stared after him as he stalked off down the corridor.
Miss Duthie was sitting at her desk outside his office. She took one look at his face and jumped up. “Today’s word is hammock, and I’ll bring tea right away,” she said.
Carmichael grunted and went into his room. It was nine o’clock. He telephoned Scotland Yard. “Can I speak to the Chief now?” he asked.
“He’s not in yet, sorry, I’ll get him to call you. Commander Carmichael, isn’t it? I already have a note here for him to call you.”
“Thank you,” Carmichael snarled, and put the phone down.
Miss Duthie sidled in with the tea. “The kettle was just on the boil,” she said, putting it down.
“Anything urgent?” Carmichael asked.
“Riots all over the place, and a strike in Edinburgh,” she said. “But you’ve probably seen in the papers.”
“I haven’t looked at the papers. Penn-Barkis, or someone, has pulled in Elvira again. I’m meeting the Prime Minister at ten. Hold all my calls. If there’s anything about the conference that absolutely needs an instant response, give it to Ogilvie, and if it’s about the riots, give it to Jacobson. Send him in when he comes. He’s in today, isn’t he? It’s tomorrow he’s out for his whatnot.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and poured his tea. “Why did they arrest Elvira?”
“It’s hard not to see it as a power move on me,” he said, and then regretted it as Miss Duthie seemed to shrivel under the thought. “But it might be because she’s become engaged to some jackass who is closer to British Power than he ought to be. Which reminds me.” He picked up the internal telephone. “Ted, could you take a couple of men and arrest Sir Alan Bellingham of Rossingham Manor, Cambridgeshire, and the Albany, W1? If you can find him, bring him here for interrogation and hold him under the Defence of the Realm Act. It’s possible the Met have him, but they’re not talking to us today.”
Miss Duthie was still hovering when he looked up. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked. “Besides hold your calls, I mean. Anything to help Elvira?”
“Miss Duthie, you
help inestimably by doing your ordinary job,” Carmichael said. “If there have been riots, it’s going to be chaotic, and you and Mr. Jacobson are going to have to deal with it this morning. That’s already more than two people’s work on your shoulders.”
“Very well,” she said, pushing up her glasses resolutely. “But if there is anything else, please just let me know.” She left quietly.
Carmichael took a sip of his tea. He admired her loyalty. It was refreshing. He thought about speaking to Sergeant Evans, and decided to wait. He had slept very badly. He kept thinking that Penn-Barkis no doubt had relatives, and Bannister undoubtedly did, and the Watchtower had deep cells and officers far more practiced in interrogation techniques than the Yard. He didn’t believe they’d hurt Elvira, but he hated to think of what he could do if they did. What he would do. He drank his tea and tried to stay calm. If they had anything against him he wouldn’t be sitting here now, in control of the power that was his.
Jacobson came in. “Miss Duthie said you wanted me,” he said. “Have you heard about this round of riots?”
“Not really. British Power?” Carmichael asked.
“No. Well, some of them, it seems like, but lots of them seem to be spontaneous. They’re protesting about the protesters being sent off, and against the camps. There were signs in Leeds calling for the Gravesend facility to be closed before it’s even opened. They don’t seem to be any one organized thing, just people taking to the streets for whatever’s coming into their heads. The local police don’t know what to do about them, when they’re peaceful, and respectable people are among them the marchers. In Swansea someone even called for civil rights for Jews, apparently.” He smiled. “Maybe people are waking up at last, the way we always hoped they might. Maybe it only took a poke.”
“They’ve arrested Elvira again,” Carmichael said.
Jacobson’s face collapsed from a smile to dismay. “That’s terrible!”
“What’s worse is that nobody will talk to me about it, they’re giving me the runaround. I’m seeing Normanby at ten, but I don’t know if he’ll help. I don’t know where he is on all this, or how useful I am to him. If he won’t help, we’re going to have to get her out. Us, the Inner Watch. I’ve thought about it, and the only time it would be possible is when they move her.”
Jacobson’s face went through a number of contortions, from dismay, to horror, then it tightened up into something unrecognizable. “We’ve always said we wouldn’t try to get individuals,” he said. “It’s just too dangerous. We’ve always agreed about that.”
“But this is different,” Carmichael said. “It’s Elvira. Dammit, Jacobson, it would be the same if it were your daughter, or your niece.”
“They’re all my nieces,” Jacobson said.
“I know you feel that way,” Carmichael said, awkwardly. “But this is Elvira.”
“The difference between us, Carmichael, is that you don’t really believe you could be the one being shipped off. Oh, you know you could be, but you don’t believe it. You think if you keep on doing what they want and keeping your nose clean and selling little bits of your soul every time you’re required, and keep everything else out of sight, it’ll keep you out of that boxcar. I don’t think that. I don’t have the luxury.”
Carmichael stared at him, hardly recognizing him. “But will you help, if we have to do it?” he asked.
“Have you thought it might be a trap, to get you to try it, so they can see what we’ve got?” Jacobson asked, furiously. “I can’t believe you’re willing to risk everything this way, just when things were looking up.”
“I can’t believe you won’t help me rescue Elvira,” Carmichael said.
“Oh, I’ll help. Of course I will. What choice have I got?” Jacobson paced to the limit of the little office and then back.
“I don’t understand,” Carmichael said. “Look, we might not have to do anything. I’m going to see Normanby—” He glanced at his watch. “I’d better get off to see him now, or I’m going to be late. We’ll talk when I get back.”
“I’ll be here,” Jacobson said.
“Do whatever you want about the riots, for the time being,” Carmichael said. He went out into the hall and took his coat and hat from the stand.
“Good luck,” Miss Duthie said. “I’m sure Mr. Normanby will do the right thing.”
Carmichael wished he was sure. He didn’t understand Jacobson. The Inner Watch had rescued thousands of Jews, and now he didn’t want to help rescue Elvira? It was more risky when it was one particular individual, and in London, but he had absolutely meant it when he said he would have done the same for Jacobson’s family. Of course, he didn’t need to, because they were safe in Nova Scotia, all but his wife who refused to go. Maybe he should have sent Elvira to Canada or New Zealand years ago.
There was a car waiting, as always, and Carmichael swiftly found himself turning down Downing Street and getting out at Number 10. One of the policemen on duty saluted him, and the other checked his papers conscientiously. “The Prime Minister is expecting you,” he said as he handed them back.
Carmichael usually saw Normanby at the House of Commons. Number 10 Downing Street, with its hall full of portraits of former prime ministers, intimidated him. He was ushered into a downstairs office where Normanby sat, as usual, in his powered wheelchair. The room had comfortable leather chairs and a huge portrait of Pitt the Younger on the wall. An Alsatian barked once and got to its feet as Carmichael came in. “Down, Fang,” Normanby said, absently, and the dog settled itself reluctantly back on the tartan rug, still growling.
Most people who had met the Prime Minister seemed to find him charming. Most people who hadn’t met him seemed to adore him. They thought of him as a God-given saint who came at the right moment to save the country, martyred by the bomb that put him in the wheelchair, but miraculously still present. Miss Duthie, Carmichael knew, kept a silver-framed photograph of Mark Normanby on her bedside table, beside those of her dead parents. Normanby encouraged this worship by, for instance, making photographs easily available and signing them when asked, but he didn’t think Normanby particularly enjoyed the thought of spinsters all over the country resting their eyes on him. Hitler, who Carmichael had met twice, once when he saved his life and once when he was given a medal, seemed to thrive on such things. Normanby encouraged them in imitation, because he knew they worked. Carmichael suspected that, left to himself, and if it had been equally effective, Normanby would have preferred to have had everyone loathe and fear him, as Carmichael did.
“All right, Carmichael, sit down and tell me what’s so urgent that you had to call me at home in the middle of the night?” He waved at a chair, and Carmichael sat.
“My ward, Elvira Royston, has been re-arrested by Scotland Yard, and they refuse to give me any information. Sir, I think this is an attack on me, and on you through me. I think British Power are involved.” Carmichael had been thinking how best to phrase this half the night.
Normanby frowned. He had a tartan blanket tucked over his useless legs, and he absentmindedly fiddled with the fringe. “What I heard is that she’s engaged herself to one of these British Power people and they think she’s tied up with them. They’re afraid you might be. Penn-Barkis didn’t want me to be alone with you in case.”
“That’s nonsense!” Carmichael said.
“I know,” Normanby said, smiling. “Here I am with you, so you can see I didn’t believe a word of it. Guy tells me you think the Duke of Windsor is in with these British Power people, and that he might have connections that go anywhere.”
“Yes,” Carmichael said, cautiously. “I’m very worried about that, and I was even before they arrested Elvira.”
“They’re only doing their job, there, you know. They have to check up on you, see if you are involved. It does look suspicious, you must see that.” Normanby put his head a little on one side and studied Carmichael. “You and I might know that you’re loyal, but it doesn’t hurt to have it checked.
They won’t harm your little ward. They’ll let her go in a day or two, as long as everything really is above board.”
“She’s entirely innocent of anything, and she shouldn’t have to go through this. She’s a debutante, for heaven’s sake. She’s due to be presented to the Queen in a few days! You can’t—”
Normanby raised a hand. “Would you have preferred that we pull in your man to check on you?”
Carmichael bit his upper lip, drew in a long breath, and only then realized he was snarling. Normanby laughed. “There’s no need for you to check on me at all. You know I have been loyal to you ever since you put me in this position,” he said, evenly.
Normanby shook his head slowly. “But this Bellingham looks like a bad egg. And she’s close to him, and she lied about that, and she’s close to you.”
“Bellingham may be a bad egg himself or he may be a man who knows a lot of people and some of them bad ones. I’d like to talk to him.”
“I’m sure you would. I’m not sure it would be a good idea. The Yard have him. Look, Carmichael, I do have some sympathy for your position. You’re quite right about this Duke of Windsor business. I want you to deal with that—isolate him, stop him from seeing anyone at all. He’ll have to be in the procession now, too late to stop that, but apart from that keep him under house arrest in his hotel. Then on Friday—Good Friday, eh!—we’ll toss him back out of the country. He won’t be able to organize any more riots from there. And these riots—I want you to clamp down on them. People are grumbling about all sorts of things they’ve been perfectly happy with for years. Get that back under control. You’ve plenty of Watchmen. And I was thinking, you have always been loyal, and it’s about time we did something for you in the Birthday Honours. You’ve got that German gong, and we gave you a George Cross for that too, but there hasn’t been anything since then for all these years you’ve been getting on with doing your job. Wouldn’t you like to be Sir Peter?”