Death and the Dreadnought Page 15

  I still had their attention, no doubt about it. ‘So what changed? They must have worried that I’d have learned something from the chap in my rooms. That – assuming I was seconds from death – he might have let slip some clue as to his real purpose.’ The three of them were waiting. ‘He didn’t so much, but he was clearly a foreigner and he did make a reference that made me think he was associated with the trades unionists who were marching that day. One of the foreign visitors was with the British labour man, Raikes, when Merridew was killed, and one of the killers from the bath-house was there too. And they seem to be able to come and go at the Thames Ironworks yard pretty freely.’

  Sir Percy Savary was nodding heavily. Nice when one’s prejudices are confirmed. ‘And these outrages – at the offices, and at the yard – all designed to interrupt the work on our new battleship.’ He made it sound like he was paying for it out of his own pocket. ‘Hell of a mess, Delamere. And you were there – what, investigating, were you? – at the same time as these ruffians were attacking the offices at the shipyard last night. Stackhouse, what is the effect of the destruction at the yard?’

  ‘To be honest, sir, it’s not that bad. We lost a couple of dozen sets of technical drawings, but there are duplicates for them. The damage to the offices looks dramatic, but it shouldn’t slow us down too much.’

  The old man had woken up again. ‘There is a more worrying possibility’, he said softly. Savary paid attention to him; that told me something.

  The old man had also spotted immediately what I’d had to learn painfully: the real reason for the attack on the Drawings Office at the yard. ‘Not to destroy. Rather to cover the theft of something.’

  ‘Well now,’ I began. Delamere the intrepid – intervention saves the Empire; about time I made myself popular with the authorities. But then I felt that increasingly familiar chill of concern in my blood.

  This was all very cosy, but they still weren’t convinced by me. And the whole show was clearly nine kinds of mess. And if, as seemed entirely likely, it ended badly they’d be looking for a scapegoat. And who better than the man who, as well as tripping over every corpse, had been in the drawings office when it burned? Not to mention – and I didn’t plan to – the business at the head office.

  They were all three looking at me expectantly.

  ‘What’s the plan, then?’ I asked, feebly.

  It seemed they didn’t have a plan.

  Predictably, it was the old man who spoke first. ‘We have now, I understand, taken precautions to safeguard the offices and the yard.’

  Sir Percy jumped in. ‘Detectives guarding the Thames Ironworks head offices around the clock, and the offices of other critical manufacturers likewise. Extra guard on drawings and other confidential material.’ Stackhouse nodded. ‘Extra guards at the shipyard, and a platoon of soldiers from Woolwich ready to deploy in the event of trouble.’

  ‘Most impressive. But we have still to identify the responsible persons.’ The old man looked at me. ‘There’s to be a grand meeting of British trades union representatives with their foreign guests this weekend, in Birmingham. Part of the visitors’ tour of the country. On the fringes of the Birmingham meeting, some of the more presentable of the foreigners will participate in a conference, and a couple of them will be invited to a dinner given by the President of the British Federation of Industrial Development. He’ll have quite a number of government and diplomatic guests at his country house for the occasion.’ Again the pale, penetrating gaze at me. ‘Assuming we can make you presentable again, Sir Henry, I was thinking that we might get you an invitation to the house party, and let you sniff around the foreigners and see if you recognize any of them.

  ‘Delighted,’ I said, not feeling very delighted. ‘Who is this Federation President?’

  ‘No doubts there!’ Sir Percy said jovially. ‘There’s no man more respected. It’s Magnus, Lord Aysgarth.’

  34.

  My public and official reputations were still pretty ropey, not to mention my reputation with the almost-father-in-law whose house party I was going to crash. But I badly needed comfort and relaxation, and my club was the place to get them. My reputation’s always been ropey there anyway. And on the plus side, the inbred intellects of most of the members were incapable of reading more than the sporting pages, and the few others would be too polite to mention my recent public notoriety.

  At about ten in the evening I was enjoying a gentle hour of whist, a second cigar and some barley water. I don’t drink when I gamble; partly it keeps the head clear, mainly it annoys the hell out of the opposition.

  There was a murmur in my ear: ‘A person is calling for you, Sir Henry.’

  I finished the hand, wondering who it might be. The ‘person’ was meaningful: the staff at the club have the nicest sense of who’s a gent and who ain’t.

  Whatever kind of person he was, he was certainly calling for me. As soon as I got to the top of the stairs, his voice was roaring up out of the lobby and shaking the statues.

  ‘Delamere!’

  For a moment I hesitated. Was just one evening without confrontation really so difficult?

  ‘Delamere! I see you!’

  It was Inspector Bunce.

  I sighed, and started down the stairs.

  ‘What the hell are you playing at, Delamere?’

  Weatherby the doorman was trying to catch hold of this obvious anarchist or lunatic and eject him, and Bunce wasn’t having it, and staff reinforcements were hurrying to the scene, and some of the members were getting interested too.

  ‘Delamere, if you think you can – Get your hands off me, will you! – Delamere, you’re an arrogant, patronising – If you even think about touching me, boy… I’ll take you all on, then! I’ll leave this place in rubble!’

  More doors were opening. ‘Sir Henry–’ I had visions of a pitched battle between a squad of policemen and the frock-coated ancients of the Club staff here in the lobby.

  ‘Delamere, if you can’t control your guests, you shouldn’t–’

  ‘Bugger off Tarlton, would you? You belong in prison more than anyone.’

  ‘I’m not his damned guest!’

  ‘If you’ll just step this–’

  ‘Oldster, if you grab my arm one more time – Delamere, what did you say to the Home Office?’

  ‘There are rules about–’

  ‘Sir Henry, this gentleman–’

  ‘I’m no damned gentleman!’

  ‘Well that’s obvious! Delamere, he shouldn’t be at the front–’

  ‘Any more discourtesy from you, Tarlton, and I’ll put you in the river. He’s my guest.’

  ‘No I am not!’

  ‘The Committee will hear of this, Delamere!’

  ‘My regards to the Committee, but they couldn’t agree on a trip to the privy.’ I’d reached the ground floor, and was face-to-face with a hot and dishevelled Bunce. ‘Let go of him, would you please Weatherby? Thank’ee. The gentleman is here at my wish.’

  ‘I told you, I’m no–’

  ‘Getting into the Club and getting out depend on whom you know, Inspector. Just like Wapping police station, though the food’s a bit better there.’ I considered the face a moment: proud, and angry. ‘Will you take a drink?’

  ‘Here? No. From you? Never.’

  ‘You clearly have something to say to me. And I’ve one or two things to say to you. I don’t propose to conduct the exchange like a couple of Smithfield porters on a spree.’

  In the Blue Posts round the corner, we sat opposite each other over a pair of whiskies.

  ‘Guess I’ve queered your pitch with your Club,’ he said, with a suggestion of malice.

  ‘They actually kicked me out a few weeks back. I forget why.’

  ‘Yet you still go and they still tolerate you.’

  ‘Clubland is like the British justice system, Inspector, and the faeries at the end of the garden. As soon as people stop believing in the thing, it ceases to exist. Cheers.’


  ‘You’re trying to call a truce, is that it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re trying to draw me off.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You want to work together somehow.’

  ‘Emphatically no.’

  ‘Late this afternoon I was hauled in by the Assistant Commissioner. The Ass-ist-ant Co-mmissioner. That meant it had to be my knighthood, because if they were kicking me out they’d use someone much more junior.’ The words were spat out in his usual South London rasp. ‘He recited my many failures in this case, very helpful, very constructive, disappointment to the Force and so on and so forth, Bunce to be taken off the case and put to harassing tarts or checking bicycles where he can’t do any harm.’ I was watching carefully. As in our previous conversation, in the middle of the night when he’d arrested me in the shipyard for the second time, Bunce’s sarcasm was undercut by clear anger. ‘But, he said, lucky fellow that I am, I am not being taken off the case. Oh no. Because, Sir Henry ber-loody Delamere himself, God bless him for a noble and public-spirited soul, has personally requested that I be kept on. Christ I hate the British system.’

  I nodded.

  ‘To hell with you, Delamere.’

  ‘Likewise, Inspector.’

  It served as a more appropriate toast, and at last he drank.

  ‘Bunce, believe me when I say that I’d be delighted if I’d never met you, and I’m sure the feeling’s mutual. I’ve been wishing you under an omnibus all week. But I need you.’ He looked revolted, and took another mouthful of whisky. ‘That bunch of politicians or officials or whatever they are – a set of men who seem to have more perspective than you, Bunce, but whom I trust even less – they’ve decided that for now I’m better inside the tent pissing out, than outside in. As part of the deal, they did, indeed, offer to muzzle you. I refused, damned tempting though it was. Two reasons:’

  He was watching dubiously.

  ‘One. Holding the unfashionable belief that I am innocent, I’m determined to find the real murderer of David Sinclair. Holding the unfashionable belief that you’re competent, I’m judging that your damned stubbornness and perseverance might be rather useful to my aim. Secondly,’ – I leaned in – ‘when I do find the real killers, I want you there, so you know the truth and know I’m innocent for sure; and know how much of a pain in the arse you’ve been.’

  A grim smile spread over his face.

  ‘So this isn’t some foul posho fellowship thing, all pally-wally and have another cocktail old chap?’

  ‘It is not.’

  ‘You’re not expecting me to be grateful or anything?’

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘You don’t mind that I still think you’re a wrong’un and want to see you locked up?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Well that’s all right then.’

  35.

  The train journey heading out of London was a useful opportunity for a council of war.

  We were three, in a First Class Compartment. I can’t afford First Class, but can’t abide elbows and cheap cigarette smoke in my face either, so usually force myself to pay the extra; strange how one’s more tolerant of roughing it when abroad.

  It was Bliss’s first time in First Class, as she kept reminding us.

  Quinn’s normally in Third, with the convicts and the livestock, because once I’ve splashed out for myself I definitely can’t afford First Class. But Bliss wasn’t going to approve of that, and I felt I could do with his steadiness and sense. And given what I’d seen of the forces ranged against it, the revolution would probably triumph sooner rather than later and I was feeling I should get in a good word for myself before the blade fell. Quinn was looking pretty comfortable in the opposite corner, and with him there I had to behave and keep my feet off the seats.

  I hadn’t told the Government chaps that I was bringing Bliss along for the excursion.

  Nothing to do with her demi-mondaine reputation. That was about the single biggest point in her favour, as far as I was concerned. No, something was far wrong at the heart of this business, and I felt that the fewer people who knew who she was, and what she’d seen and heard in that night, the better. But if I could bring her along relatively unnoticed, perhaps she’d recognize someone.

  On reflection, there was quite a lot I hadn’t told the Government chaps. Bliss, and her encounter with the mysterious figure in the carriage while I was undergoing my trials in the bowels of Jolly’s Theatre. Quite a few of the details of my trials in the bowels of Jolly’s theatre. Exactly what I’d been doing in the shipyard. And of course anything about breaking into the Thames Ironworks offices. Oh – and having done most of this in fancy dress; one has one’s pride.

  It was vaguely reassuring to feel that I was playing for the home team again. But the reality was that I was still, to the official perspective, guilty of diverse mischiefs and as soon as they got impatient they’d be reaching for me. And wouldn’t Inspector Bunce be pleased?

  The narrow brown brick canyons of north-west London housebacks eventually released us. Soon enough we were in the pleasant countryside of the Chilterns, the easy hills and the cattle and the freshly cut wheat fields.

  In the course of the journey, I talked through the whole business: from the mysterious death in the shipyard to… well, to the next mysterious death in the shipyard. The murder of Sinclair to the murder of the night-watchman. And I rehearsed my speculations about Sinclair before his death.

  I’d hoped that this logical re-examination of the business, on top of a good breakfast and with a bit of fresh air coming in through the train window, would prompt some new clarity. It didn’t.

  Half-way through, Quinn shifted as if to speak, and then let me talk myself out. They both waited expectantly for more. I didn’t have any more. ‘Something to add, Quinn?’ I said at last.

  ‘Something to add, sir. Been waiting to tell you. That friend of Mr Sinclair’s – the foreign gentleman, Mr Samuel Greenberg.’

  ‘Ah yes. The Corduroy Cloth Co-operative.’ I certainly hadn’t forgotten him. Sinclair’s mysterious friend, and probably my best chance of learning Sinclair’s secret. ‘Tracked him down?’

  ‘I’ve been back and forth to his offices, and they’re still shut up. And I finally got hold of his landlady.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s been several days, sir. He’s proper disappeared.’

  36.

  Magnus Carteret, Lord Aysgarth, has more houses than I do rooms. And he doesn’t like seeing me in any of them. His place at Shulstoke is his main country residence, a vast Regency barracks with a couple of unwise add-ons; sort of thing people built while waiting for the invention of the ironclad battleship. With Victoria at his shoulder, he welcomed us in the hall – a room bigger than any house I’ve ever had.

  I say he welcomed us. It would have been inconceivable to him not to receive a guest with basic courtesy. The Lords Aysgarth have been dispensing haughty hospitality for umpteen centuries – usually while rustling their guests’ sheep round the back or shifting boundary markers. It’s what’s made them the Lords Aysgarth. But, a man barely civil even to his oldest friends, he wasn’t exactly jovial at my arrival. Someone significant – Sir Percy Savary, or someone even more distinguished – had quietly explained to him that Delamere was temporarily on the side of the angels and that it was in the national interest – his patriotic duty – to tolerate me on the premises for a night or two. He couldn’t have been less chirpy if the King had ordered him to walk naked to Paris and miss the shooting season in the process. I’ve got used to it, and the brief period when his attitude meant anything to me has long passed.

  ‘Delamere’, he said, as if noticing that the drains had backed up.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ I replied. I can do courtesy too. The Delameres only ever stole enough cattle for that night’s dinner; that’s the difference between us.

  He grunted. Miserable old sod. After all, he ought to have been grateful to me for not marrying his beloved daughter.

&nb
sp; He thawed a degree or two when his eyes turned to Bliss. He may be one hundred and fifty and a sour inbred ogre, but his male instincts are sound enough. ‘Lord Aysgarth, let me present Miss Angela Joy,’ I said. ‘We just met on the train.’ He thawed even more when he heard that she wasn’t anything to do with me. ‘Writing a book, you know.’

  To get Bliss onto the guest list I’d managed some sleight of hand between Victoria and the Home Office, and neither really knew who she was or why she was there. There’d be dozens of guests in the house this weekend, and no one – least of all Lord Aysgarth – knew everyone.

  ‘Oh,’ Aysgarth said. It passed for rapture, by his standards. ‘Writer, eh?’ He didn’t understand women who did things.

  Bliss had taken the offered hand, and held it, and contrived a rather breathless curtsey. It was masterly. ‘A hobby, really,’ she said. ‘The effect of modern labour relations on the family.’ Aysgarth was nodding vaguely now. Hobbies, and families, were much more the sort of thing for women. ‘Hutchinson’s asked me to write something accessible for them, and one likes to do one’s bit in these unsettled times. Lord Aysgarth, you’re rather an extraordinary man, bringing together such a unique and important gathering of people from across the continent.’

  Victoria was watching this performance with some interest. I moved on to greet her, with our standard brusque affection. Bliss followed, and there was the usual moment one gets when two attractive women meet for the first time, and sort of size each other up, and you wonder if the world might just explode.

  Beyond them – across the hall, not more than half a mile off – I saw two other figures, observing. Other guests, presumably. One of them might have been English, a thinnish chap dressed in country standard. The other, a contrast in every way, I suspected wasn’t: a vast person in a vast and unseasonal three-piece, with a vast bald head on top.