“What do you think would happen if he was killed?” I asked. I know I shouldn’t have said it, but the words were out before I knew it.
Lord Ullapool raised his eyebrows in astonishment. “Killed?”
“If he’d been killed instead of Sir James,” I said, catching myself. “Would we still have to have the new identity cards, do you think?”
“Oh, the Great Man theory of history, eh?” He smiled at me indulgently, as if I were about six years old and had said something precocious. “No, nothing would be different. Sir James would be Prime Minister no doubt, and taking the same precautions. The loss of liberties is necessary in the circumstances, but regrettable. Some of the laws are left from when we needed to round people up in the war, of course. But Normanby’s just doing his job there. Whoever else had his job would have to do exactly what he’s doing. This is what the people want, and we can’t have communists and Jews going around murdering people left, right, and center. But I don’t think Normanby will get his occupational franchise through the Lords, even if we did pass the fixed terms, by a hair.”
“Not everyone wants Normanby, surely,” I said. “One reads about protests.”
“For every protester, there are half a dozen blackshirts, or Ironsides or whatever they call themselves these days, counter-protesting. If you’re thinking of that, my advice is to stay away. The Ironsides can get quite violent, and my understanding of the matter is that the police sweep everyone up and let the Ironsides go. A ghillie of mine got caught up in some nonsense of that nature. I had to pay quite a considerable fine to get him out, and he said it seemed hard that he was being fined for being involved in violence when he was the victim. First-class fellow, Hamish, I daresay he gave as good as he got. But it wouldn’t be the place for a young lady.”
“No,” I agreed, drinking my wine. “I wasn’t planning to go.”
“Of course not. Just a word to the wise, eh?” He nodded benignly.
“Lord Scott says lots of people agree with the protesters,” I said.
Lord Ullapool looked troubled and glanced around to see if anyone was listening to us. Seeing that no one was, he leaned towards me and lowered his voice, so that I had to lean closer to hear him. As I did so, I realized, horrifyingly, that he was afraid. “Scotty says a lot of things he probably shouldn’t. But I think he’s wrong there. Three Ironsides for every protester, Hamish said. Scotty was right enough about Germany though, so maybe he’s on to something.”
“What about Germany?” I asked. “That they wanted the war? But they didn’t, did they, no more than we did, that’s what the Farthing Peace was all about?”
“No, about the camps.” Lord Ullapool drained his wineglass and stared off at the dancers, but I don’t think he was seeing them. “Anything you’ve heard about the work camps on the Continent, about enslaving the workers and confiscating their property, about working them to death, about gassing those who can’t work, it’s all true.”
I’d never believed it before, not when Siddy mentioned it in the Lyons, not even when Malcolm was giving me facts and figures, but hearing it now in this gentle old man’s quiet voice I couldn’t doubt it. “And the stone soap?” I asked, my voice cracking. It was a detail that had always stuck with me, even when I thought it was just a horror story. It was the stuff of nightmare, being given soap and going into a shower but the soap is a stone and the showerheads vent poison gas.
“Yes, the stone soap and the melting down of the gold teeth. I didn’t believe it myself until your brother-in-law was kind enough to give me a tour. I had to grit my teeth and apologize to Winston and Scotty when I came back.”
“Not even the Jews deserve that,” I said.
“No,” he agreed. “And they’re not all Jews, from what I was told. Gypsies, dissidents, even some sexual deviants. I saw a handful of negroes, heaven only knows how they ended up there.”
“That’s just foul. Seeing it must have been terrible.”
“Oh yes. Like skeletons some of them were, just skin over bone. But I wouldn’t talk to Celia about this, if I were you. It puts them into an impossible position, defending the indefensible, and they naturally tend to resent it.”
“Celia knows?” I asked. Oh Pip, I thought, how could you?
“Celia certainly knows. And Celia contrives to live with it, somehow, to live next to it. It must be rather like the ancient world, you know, living side by side with slaves and the treatment they received and thinking somehow that they deserved it. But it must be difficult for Celia, as she wasn’t brought up to it.”
“The Germans weren’t brought up to it either. They were the most civilized people in Europe,” I protested.
“They say they still are. And there are young men nearly old enough for their National Service who were born the year Hitler came to power. The younger generation must think it natural. They’re still fighting the Russians. That unifies them. Everyone can agree on the need to oppose communism, especially when communism’s coming at you in a tank.”
I felt sick. For the first time in all of this I actually wanted to kill Hitler, and Pip and Heinie too for that matter.
Then Pip was bearing down on me like Nelson’s
Victory
on the back of a ha’penny, and there was nothing to do but give the performance of my life and act glad to see her.
26
W
ednesday morning Carmichael welcomed the singing birds outside his window and the strip of sunshine that came through the badly drawn curtains to wake him. Jack groaned when Carmichael rose singing, and Carmichael laughed at him. “This case is nearly over,” Carmichael said, as Jack dragged himself out of bed.
“Well nobody will be more glad than me,” Jack said, pulling on a dressing gown. “Tell me why you have to see the Home Secretary?”
“To get a warrant,” Carmichael said.
“I don’t understand all this fuss. I’m sure you’ve arrested hundreds of people without one.” Jack padded towards the kitchen.
Carmichael followed. “We either need a warrant in advance or we have to take them to a magistrate afterwards and prove there’s a case to answer. Otherwise we could just lock up whoever we like.”
“I thought you already did lock up whoever you liked?” Jack said, grumpily, filling the kettle.
“They’re trying to change the law so we can,” Carmichael said. “That’s one of the reasons why I want to get out.”
“I hear New Zealand’s very nice,” Jack said, yawning.
After breakfast Carmichael walked briskly through the June sunlight to the ominous darkness of Scotland Yard. Stebbings had no enlightenment for him. There was no news of Nash, no identification of “Siddy,” and worst of all, Mrs. Green had not been located. Stebbings shook his head over the report. “She was sent from Hampstead to Bethnal Green, but they were full up too. From there she was sent to the women’s prison at Islington, where a lot of the overflow protesters are, but she was never checked in there. They must have sent her on somewhere else.”
“It isn’t possible she’s escaped, is it sergeant?” Carmichael tapped his reports with his pencil impatiently.
“I can’t see how she can have, sir. She was in custody all the time. It’s just that she’s slipped through the cracks. She might be at Islington but not properly checked in. Or they might have sent her on out of London somewhere.”
“Could she have been sent out of the country?”
Stebbings hesitated. “Well, she is a Jew,” he said. “I have heard that the general policy with Jewish criminals now, especially those who came from abroad in the first place, is to send them back abroad where they know how to deal with them. And there was a shipload of them sent off on Saturday, protesters mostly but also some old lags, clearing out the cells. But I did check the names, and she wasn’t on the manifest.”
“That’s a relief, sergeant. Thank you.” Even apart from the half-promises he had made to Green, Carmichael hated the thought of the bureaucratic nightmare it would be to get a Jew back from the Reich.
“Sorry I couldn’t find her for you. We’re still working on it. We’ll turn her up. Inspector Jacobson from Hampstead is going round to Islington with a couple of constables to make sure everyone there is properly identified. Are you going to be in this morning, sir?”
“No. I have an appointment with the Home Secretary at ten. I’ll check back after that though, but I’ll probably be going off into the country, in which case I’ll want a car.” Carmichael hoped very much that he would be allowed to arrest the conspirators himself.
Stebbings made a note on his pad. “Better be off, sir, if you’re walking down to Whitehall.”
Carmichael went to his office and picked up the typed transcript of Royston’s notes on Green’s confession. He had typed it himself the evening before, slowly, on one of the huge black typewriters the Yard provided. He hadn’t wanted to trust anyone else with it. He searched for a briefcase and eventually unearthed one under a large pile of papers in the corner. He dusted it before he tucked the transcript inside.
The sun was shining from a clear untroubled sky as Carmichael set off with a jaunty step. He walked down the Kingsway and increased his pace as he wondered if Penn-Barkis might be watching him from his eyrie. He walked the half-circle of the Aldwych, and passed the Siddons Theater as he turned onto the Strand.
VIOLA LARK IN HAMLET
, the lights said, already, though they were not yet lit. They would be rehearsing in there now, he thought, what a silly idea having a girl play Hamlet. He had played Ophelia himself once, at school, but the whole cast had been boys, naturally. He’d been embarrassed by the ridiculous overwrought lines he’d had to speak. He had been in love with Wroxton Minor, who was playing Claudius, and had trembled when, in character, he had patted him on the shoulder. He hadn’t known he was queer then, despite the trembling and although all his experience had been with boys. That was the same for everyone at school, nobody thought it meant anything.
The walk did nothing to dim his good cheer. Nearly over, he kept thinking, and Jack reconciled to the thought of his resignation. New Zealand had geysers and Maoris, that was all he knew about it, but it was bound to have a police force and would probably be glad to have him. At Charing Cross he turned down Whitehall, and there into the newly reorganized Home Office. The clerk was dubious of his appointment and telephoned twice before sending him in.
When he was eventually ushered in to the Home Secretary’s office, Carmichael was not entirely surprised to see the dapper form of Mark Normanby perched on the side of Lord Timothy Cheriton’s desk.
“Tea, Inspector?” Normanby asked blandly, and before Carmichael had time to shake hands Normanby handed him a cup of pale China tea in which a slice of lemon floated. Carmichael stared down at the circle of delicate porcelain, then up at the Prime Minister. “I remember how you like it,” Normanby said, and Carmichael looked up to meet Normanby’s sardonic eyes. This was a threat, and it chilled Carmichael far more than Penn-Barkis’s more explicit threats. “They called that the girls’ way at Eton,” Normanby had said to him at Farthing. He was using the tea to remind Carmichael of the hold they had on him. Not for very much longer now, Carmichael thought.
“Thank you, that’s just right,” he said.
“Do sit down,” Lord Timothy said, sounding a little impatient.
The room had eighteenth-century paneling and windows, and a red and gold Turkish carpet. The desk and chairs were modern, deco; they would have fitted well into the neo-Assyrian style of the Yard but looked out of place here. One wall was lined with steel filing cabinets. A pastoral painting in a gilt frame—could it be an actual Constable rather than a reproduction?—was on the floor propped up against one of the cabinets, and a sturdy steel safe just a little smaller than the picture was open on the wall behind the desk. Carmichael, still holding his tea, took one of the chairs.
“There are certain problems involved with arresting Lord Scott,” Lord Timothy began.
“How sure are you?” Normanby interrupted, directly to Carmichael.
“I’ve brought a typed transcript of Green’s interrogation,” he said. He put the tea down by his feet and drew out the report. “You can make your own decision from this.”
Normanby frowned at the offered report and did not reach for it. “Green is a Jew, and a servant. His accusations alone against a peer of the realm might not be enough.”
“These are real terrorists, sir,” Carmichael said.
“They’re precisely what we’ve been afraid of and enacted all these measures to prevent, Mark,” Lord Timothy added, as if this wasn’t the first time he had made this point.
“Yes, Tibs, but does a prominent opposition peer seem like the kind of person you’d expect to be involved in a terrorist plot?” Normanby asked. “We do still have an opposition, and we don’t want them to be able to say that we’re using these laws to shut people up, especially when we are. Lord Scott has spoken out against us vehemently, and recently. It’s much better for us to let him keep criticizing us, harmlessly.”
“Not if he’s trying to kill us,” Lord Timothy pointed out.
Carmichael dropped the report and picked up his tea again. He tried to hide his satisfaction at Normanby’s dilemma. He had done so well with pretended terrorists for his own purposes, and now he had to deal with real ones. Of course his extreme measures didn’t help, since they were never truly intended for terrorists but to keep the country under control. He clearly didn’t know what to do. Normanby had organized all that mummery down at Farthing, wasted Carmichael’s time with it, and then when he had discovered the truth, forced him to agree to a lie. Now here was terrorism Normanby hadn’t orchestrated and couldn’t control, and it served him right. Carmichael decided to make the situation as plain as possible. “The essence of what Green said is that Gilmore heard that you and Mr. Hitler would be attending the first night of
Hamlet
. She then got in touch with everyone she knew who might want to help her blow you up. They came to dinner. Green was in her confidence, the other servants were not. Lord Scott’s attendance at that dinner is no doubt a matter of record.”