The Shadow in the North (17 page)

"I'm not interested in listening to sarcasm. If you've got nothing better to say—"

"All right, then, listen to sense. Those men nearly killed Nellie Budd. For all I know, they have killed her. They've destroyed Miss What's-her-name's business. D'you think they'd hesitate—especially after the hiding we gave them—d'you think they'd pause for one moment before setting to work on you? My God, girl, they'd do it with relish. Bellmann's already threatened you with—"

"I can defend myself," she said. "And I certainly don't

need your permission to go about normally, as you put it—"

"I didn't put it like that. I don't think that and I didn't say it. If you willfully misunderstand—"

"I'm not misunderstanding anything! I know quite well what you meant—"

"No, you don't, or you wouldn't talk in this asinine

I" way!

Their rising voices had wakened Chaka. He rolled onto his front, lifted his head to look at Frederick, and growled softly. Sally reached down automatically to stroke his head.

"I don't think you realize what it sounds like when you speak like that," she went on more quietly, looking not at Frederick but into the fire, and feeling the bitter stubbornness enclose her. "As if I needed protecting and coddling. Fm not like that. And when you don't seem to see that, I wonder whether you're seeing me at all."

"You take me for such a fool," he said, and there was real hatred in his voice. "In your heart of hearts you think I'm no different from any other man—no, that's not right. It's not just men. You think I'm no different from anyone, man or woman. There's you and there's the rest of us, and we're all inferior—"

"Not true!" It IS true.

"Because I take my work seriously, because I'm not flippant and facetious, that means I look down on you, does it?"

"All the time. All the time. Have you any idea of how unlikable you are, Sally? At your best you're magnificent, and I loved you for it. At your worst you're nothing but a smooth, self-righteous, patronizing bitch."

''Me patronizing?"

"You should hear yourself I offer you help, as one equal to another, out of concern and respect, and, yes, affection, and you throw it back in my face. And if you don't think that's being proud—"

"You're not talking about me. You're talking about some stupid fantasy of yours. Grow up, Frederick."

Then she saw his face change. An expression she couldn't read flared in his eyes and then fell back, consumed, so that she thought something had died; and she put out a hand to him, but it was too late.

"We'll finish this case," he said quietly, standing up and taking his stick. "And then I think we'll call it a go."

She got up, too, and took a step toward him. But he left without looking at her, without another word said.

That night, while Sally sat by the ashes of her fire and began one letter after another to Frederick, and found the words as hard to put on paper as they were to say, and finally gave up and put her head on her knees and cried; while Frederick covered page after page with speculations and guesses, and tore them all up, and tinkered with his new American camera before losing his temper and flinging it into the corner; while Webster Garland and Charles Bertram sat and smoked and drank whiskey

and talked light and shade, gelatin, collodion, calotypes, shutter mechanisms, and paper negatives; while Jim, alternately scowling with pain and helpless with love, missed cues and pulled wrong ropes and dropped ladders and stood there tamely with lost cyts as the stage manager showered him with abuse; while Nellie Budd lay unconscious in a narrow bed, with Fredericks flowers on a chair beside her; while Lady Mary sat silent and perfect and miserable throughout an interminable dinner; while Chaka dreamed of Sally and hunting and Sally and rabbits and Sally—^a man knocked at a door in Soho and waited to be let in.

He was a young man, brisk and smart and vigorous. He wore conventional evening dress, as if he'd just left a dinner or the opera, and he carried a silver-topped cane, with which he tapped the rhythm of a popular tune on the step.

Presently the door opened.

"Ah," said Mr. Windlesham. "Come in, come in."

He stood aside and let the visitor through. This was an office that Mr. Windlesham used for business that he didn't want traced back to Baltic House. He shut the door careftilly and followed the young man into a warm, well-lit room, where he had been reading a novel.

"Your cloak and hat, Mr. Brown?"

Mr. Brown gave them up and sat down, looking incuriously at the open book. Mr. Windlesham saw where he was looking.

" The Way We Live NoWy' he said. "By Anthony Trol-

lope. An amusing book about a financial speculator. Do you enjoy novels, Mr. Brown?"

"No, I don't go much on reading," said Mr. Brown. He had a strange voice, with an accent that Mr. Windlesham couldn't place, since it belonged to no class and no region that he knew. If it belonged anywhere, it belonged to the future: a hundred years from then, voices like Mr. Brown's would be common, though Mr. Windlesham could hardly be expected to know that. "Don't seem to have much time for books," he went on. "Give me a good music hall any day."

"Ah, yes, the music hall. And now to business: You come to me highly recommended, not least for your discretion. But we can talk quite openly to one another, I hope. I understand that you kill people."

"That's correct, Mr. Windlesham."

"Tell me, is it more difficult to kill a woman than a man:

"No. A woman, in the nature of things, she's not going to be as quick or as strong as a man, is she?"

"That wasn't quite what I meant. . . Never mind. How many people have you killed, Mr. Brown?"

"Why d'you want to know?"

"I'm trying to establish your credentials."

Mr. Brown shrugged. "Twenty-one," he said.

"Quite an expert. And what is your usual method?"

"It varies. Depends on the circumstances. Given a choice, I'd go for a knife. There's a sort of craftsmanship with a knife."

"And craftsmanship is important to you?"

"I take a pride in my work, same as any professional."

"Quite so. I currently employ two men who are, alas, far from professional in their standards; I could never trust them with a job such as this. Tell me, what are your plans for the future?"

"Well, I'm ambitious, Mr. Windlesham," said the young man. "There's a steady trade in London and on the continent, but nothing big. I think my future lies across the Atlantic. I'm a great admirer of the Americans; I've been over there a couple of times. I like the people, and I like the way they live. I think I'd do well there. I've got a little money saved. My fee for this job'U add to that. Another few jobs and I'll be off. Why d'you ask? Your—er—firm likely to be in the market for a man with my skills in the near future?"

"Oh, I think so. I think so," said Mr. Windlesham, his gold glasses twinkling.

"Who's the client?" said Mr. Brown, taking out a notebook and pencil.

"A young woman," said Mr. Windlesham. "With a large dog."

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Sally woke up oppressed and unhappy. The morn-ing, just to spite her, was more like April than November: bright and clear and warm, with little fleecy clouds in a broad blue sky. She breakfasted with Isabel on bacon, eggs, and toast, and left her there with Chaka while she went to Muswell Hill.

Mrs. Seddon of Cromwell Gardens was a pleasant lady of forty or so, who invited Sally in to her little parlor and seemed delighted to hear that her pupil Miss Lewis was in London.

"Such a bright little girl she was! I do hope she'll come and see me. . . . Well, what can I do for you. Miss Lockhart?"

Sally sat down. It was just as well she hadn't brought Chaka, because there wouldn't have been room for him. There wasn't room for both women on the sofa because of the profusion of crocheted cushions, so Mrs. Seddon herself sat at the table in the bay window, under a large aspidistra. Every surface in the room was draped—there were three embroidered antimacassars on the sofa; there were two separate cloths on the table; there were doilies

on the windowsill; there was a tasseled fringe around the mantelpiece; even the birdcage had a httle frilly skirt. On the wall hung a sampler with the text STAY, STAY AT HOME, MY HEART, AND REST; HOMEKEEPING HEARTS ARE HAPPIEST.

Sally put down her bag and began to explain.

"I'm trying to find out about a firm called North Star Castings. Someone I know lost some money investing in a company that I think was connected with North Star, and I'm just trying to piece together everything I can. I understand that your brother used to work for them?"

Mrs. Seddon frowned. "Well, in a manner of speaking. ... Is this a matter for lawyers. Miss Lockhart? I mean, are you on your own, or what? Are you representing someone else?"

"I'm representing my client," said Sally, a little taken aback by Mrs. Seddon's suspicion. "I work for myself as a financial consultant."

Mrs. Seddon's expression was troubled. "I don't know, I'm sure," she said. "I've never heard of. . ." She didn't want to finish the sentence, and looked away in confusion.

"Of a woman financial consultant? Nor have most people. But I can assure you it's true. In fact, that's how I met Miss Lewis, your pupil. And the client who lost the money was a woman as well—a teacher like yourself If you can tell me what you know about North Star

Castings, I might be able to help her get it back. Is there something odd about it?"

"Well... I don't know how to begin, really. Odd? Yes, I suppose so. My brother Sidney—Mr. Paton, that is—^was really quite brought down by it. In fact, he's still out of work. . . . Look, Miss Lockhart, this is going to be hard to explain. I'm not sure I've got it straight in my own mind. Stop me if I'm rambling, won't you."

"Just tell me everything that occurs to you. Don't worry if it's not in order."

"All right. Now, my brother—I think this is important—he's a trade unionist. A socialist. A good man, mind, and my husband, Mr. Seddon, agrees with that, though he's always voted Conservative. But Sidney has that particular point of view, and perhaps it influenced him. I don't know.

"He's a craftsman—a boilermaker. Well, he was. In Walker and Sons Lx>comotive Works. But the place wasn't doing well—lack of orders, no new investment—that kind of thing. That was—oh, two or three years back. Anyway, about that time the owners sold the works to another firm. And they sent in a new manager—a Swede, he was, Swedish or Dutch or something—and he started laying off the men by the score. It was a fiinny business. They didn't seem interested in new orders, only in completing what was on the book and then laying off the men."

"Did your brother lose his job?"

"Not at first. He was a fine crafi:sman—one of the best workers in the firm. He was one of the few they kept on till the end. But he didn't like it, you know. It seemed fijnny somehow; this young manager had brought in a team of London men, and foreigners, too. They'd go round making notes—notes about everything. Who did this, why he did that, what he did next, how long he took to do it. And not only notes about the job. Private stuff, too—like where the workers lived, what church or chapel they attended, clubs or societies they belonged to, family circumstances—all that.

"Of course, the trade unions didn't like it. But there was nothing they could do about it if the orders weren't there. And yet there was something fijnny going on, with the manager and his foreign friends coming in every day and making their notes and having their meetings and measuring and drawing and surveying. There was a lot of money at the back of it all, they could tell that. But none of it was coming the way of the men.

"Then one day last May a meeting was held. All the remaining workers were invited to attend—not required, mind: invited. These had been the ones that had been looked at the closest, remember. There wasn't a detail about them—even down to the rent they paid or how many children they had—that hadn't gone into those notebooks.

"So the men, these last handpicked hundred or so, all trooped into the hall that had been hired. Not a

stand-up meeting in the yard: a proper sit-down meeting with refreshments, if you please. They'd never seen anything Uke it. Can you imagine? My brother couldn't take it in, it was so extraordinary.

"Anyway, when they were all assembled, in came the manager and his friends, and started to talk. I remember Sidney telling me about it, and the impression it made. . . . They said the firm was on the verge of the most exciting and revolutionary development in its history. I can't remember the details, except that Sidney said it made him kind of wild with excitement, and all the other men were feeling the same. It was almost religious, Sidney said—^which is odd, coming from him, as I'll tell you in a moment. It was just like one of Sankey and Moody's revival meetings, he said. At the end there wasn't one of those men who wouldn't have been willing to sign his life away for a chance of working there."

Mrs. Seddon paused for a moment. She was looking into the fireplace, frowning. Sally said, "But what were they going to do? Surely they weren't just going to go on building railway engines, after a speech like that? Didn't they explain what their plans were?"

"Not just then, no. It was all stuff about the glorious future and peace and prosperity, about a great new work for the benefit of all mankind, and so on. How they'd be guaranteed a lifetime's work, and a pension, if you please, and new company houses as well, if they'd sign up there and then. Oh, yes—and in exchange for these benefits (and more—there was some kind of

health insurance they offered as well) they had to renounce their union membership and sign an agreement not to strike.

"Well, most of the men snapped it up at once and signed. There was a pledge of secrecy in there somewhere—I don't know how legal that would have been, but there was a lawyer there who explained it, Sidney said. It was only afterward that he thought how odd it was.

"There were a few men who were a bit more cautious. Sidney was one. They asked if they could have a day or so to think about it. 'Course you can,' said the manager. *We don't want to force anyone. Free choice all round. Have a week to think,' he said. *But you're the best men available, and we'd be sorry to lose you.' Flattery, you see. Miss Lockhart.