Bleeding Heart Square Part 32

n.o.body was on the platform. A microphone had been set up on the table. A man who could throw his voice wouldn't really need a public address system here. But Rory remembered the political meetings he had attended in India, and how an amplified voice had power over those that were not amplified. You had to hand it to the Fascists-they knew how to organize a meeting.

Two tall Blackshirts marched down the center aisle holding what Rory a.s.sumed to be poles. Behind them came a third, who was even taller. It was Marcus Langstone. The three men climbed onto the stage. Not just poles, Rory thought-flagstaffs. They set up the two flags in a cast-iron stand behind the central chair. On the left was the British Union's symbol; on the right was the Union Jack.

Fimberry bustled through the crowd, rubbing his hands together and smiling at no one in particular. He caught sight of Rory. "h.e.l.lo, Wentwood!" he said in a high, slightly tremulous voice. "Already taking notes, I see."

Rory nodded. Langstone turned around. His eyes swept from Fimberry to Rory at the end of his row. Rory bent his head over his notepad and pretended to write. Sweat p.r.i.c.ked along his hair-line.

No time to think, which was probably just as well. Lydia came through the wicket from Bleeding Heart Square and almost immediately turned right into the little forecourt in front of the chapel. The door to the cloister was ajar. She pushed it open.

Soft, gray light filtered through the line of windows on the left-hand side. Two tall men were standing near the door to the undercroft. n.o.body else was in sight. She walked rapidly along the cloister, her heels tapping on the flags.

The men straightened up. They were standing either side of the steps leading down to the undercroft door, which was closed. Their black tunics made them look sinister but the first thing Lydia noticed was how young they were. One of them had plump, pink cheeks and pale, straight hair like straw. He looked as if he belonged in a ploughboy's smock. The other was smaller and darker, with bow legs and a wizened face like a monkey's.

"Good afternoon," Lydia said. "I presume this is where the meeting is?"

"Sorry, madam," said the smaller Blackshirt. "You can't go in at present."

"Why ever not?"

"Sir Rex's speaking. If you care to wait for the interval-"

"I don't care to wait at all." Lydia threw back her head and thought: How would Mother handle this? "Do you know who I am, young man?"

"Madam, my orders are-"

"Mr. Langstone is my husband," Lydia said imperiously, raising her voice and hearing it resonating down the corridor, bouncing off the stones. "And Sir Rex is a close personal friend. Please open that door immediately, or I shall have to take your names."

It was the ploughboy who wilted first. Then the monkey said, "All right, madam. But you will be as quiet as possible, won't you?"

"I don't think I need your advice on how to behave," Lydia said. "Do you?"

The smaller man lifted the latch of the door with infinite care and pushed it open. Lydia went down the steps. Rex Fisher's amplified voice swept out to meet her.

"Dozens of you men here today will have fought in the war, as did many members of the British Union. Neither we nor you have forgotten the lessons we learned in those dark days when we stood shoulder to shoulder together against the foe."

The door closed behind her. Lydia paused for a moment on the last step. The undercroft was full of people. She took in the tables on the left, the crowd standing at the back, the packed seats in the body of the undercroft and the dais at the end.

Five chairs behind the table on the platform were now occupied. Marcus was on the far left. Sir Rex was in the middle. He was on his feet, with his hands planted on the table. His eyes traveled around the hall, capturing his audience. She hoped he hadn't seen her.

"And what have we seen since the war?" he was saying. "I will tell you the sad and shameful truth. We have seen a succession of fumbling and inconsistent British governments composed of old men who learned their trade, in so far as they learned anything at all, when Queen Victoria was on the throne. Under their bungling direction, we have seen this country's influence gradually diminish in the world. We have seen great cracks opening up in our empire; and our empire should be not only our greatest glory but also our greatest safeguard, both politically and economically. It is no coincidence that at the same time Britain's economy has plunged further and further into gloom. We have seen the country paralyzed by a general strike fomented by foreign agitators. Our economy has been blighted by a depression that was entirely avoidable. Yes, I emphasize that word-avoidable."

By now Lydia had mingled with the crowd. She had turned up the collar of her coat and she wore a scarf over her head. It was a pity there were not more women here. She couldn't help but stand out.

Fisher paused. "However, one politician has been neither fumbling nor inconsistent. One politician has come forward to offer clear and effective leadership. As early as February 1930, the British Union's leader, Sir Oswald Mosley, who was then in the government as Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, produced a memorandum for his colleagues. It outlined a comprehensive policy which, had the government had the guts to adopt it, would have reversed this downward trend and brought the country to unparalleled levels of prosperity. We must protect our home markets, Sir Oswald said-and the only way to do that, both then and now, is by the introduction of tariffs to regulate trade. We must control the banks to promote investment. Nor can we allow agriculture to languish, Sir Oswald pointed out, because we shall always need to feed ourselves. The government must create jobs with road-building and other projects that will in time have the further benefit of enabling our economy to function more efficiently than ever. And what of our industries? We cannot do without them. Yet they are still run on piecemeal nineteenth-century principles. The government must give a firm lead. That, after all, is what governments are for."

Lydia sheltered behind a tall man in a black overcoat and hat.

"Our great industries," Fisher continued, "because of this lack of direction, have failed to take account of the changes in science and technology so they can no longer compete effectively with the industries of countries that have modernized more quickly and more effectively. The solution is in our own hands. The British Empire is the greatest empire the world has ever seen. We have the means of production; we have the raw materials; we have the expertise; we have the dogged determination and courage-and of course we have the markets as well. This country and its empire can and should stand alone. That is where our future economic prosperity must lie."

Lydia glanced around her. Unfortunately she couldn't see Rory. But she accidentally caught the eye of Mr. Smethwick, standing near the tea urns, who immediately looked away.

"Since the war," Fisher was now saying, "one government after another has led us deeper and deeper into the mire by promoting the import of foreign goods. They have allowed the big City financiers to feather their own nests by making loans to foreign countries, thereby damaging British manufacturing and British agriculture. As Sir Oswald has said, and I quote, 'These are alien hands which too long have held their strangle grip on the life of this country and dominate not only the Conservative Party but the Socialist Party as well.' There's one thing you can trust the British Union to do when we come to power: we shall not allow aliens"-he paused, laying stress on the last word-"to dictate economic policy for selfish reasons of their own."

There was a spattering of applause among the audience. The tall man in front of Lydia muttered something under his breath and stirred as though he wanted to scratch.

"Fascism can provide the answers. Not Fascism as it flourishes in Germany or in Italy-but a truly British Fascism adapted to our native genius. A Fascist government will be a strong government. But it will be first and foremost a British government presided over by His Majesty the King."

"What about Parliament?" a voice cried somewhere near the front of the hall.

"I'm glad you mentioned that, sir," Fisher said urbanely. "All governments work with Parliament, and we shall be no exception. However, under our system government departments will consult the various economic influences, whether employers, workers or consumers, and then determine what is best suited to the country as a whole. We shall set targets for output, wages, prices and profits within each industry. It is the only way to develop a coordinated and fully efficient economy. Parliament will play an important role in this, and so of course will the monarch. I cannot emphasize enough that Fascists are, above all, loyal subjects of the Crown."

"What about the Jews then?" somebody else shouted.

Fisher ignored this. "We were talking of the war a moment ago. We live not only under the shadow of the last war, but under the shadow of a future war, into which our present government may lead us through its blundering and inadequate policies. The British Union of Fascists has a domestic program that does not depend on preparing for war. Our foreign policy is based on the maintenance of peace."

There was more applause, this time louder and more prolonged.

"Make no mistake, with a Fascist government, this country will be stronger and more formidable than ever on the world stage. But we will be an international force for peace. We know too well, as you do, the folly of war. We know too that prosperity depends on the maintenance of peace. In the second half of this meeting I propose to deal in more detail with how the British Union intends to regulate the distributive trade by coordinating compet.i.tion and controlling what is sold and by whom, through a distributive trades corporation that would issue licenses, a system that would prevent both the growth of too many suppliers of a particular sort of goods in any one area, and also the unhealthy dominance of large retailers. We shall insist too, as part of the terms of the licensing, that retail outlets deal in British goods. Alien combines will be closed down and their retailing operations will be redistributed to private traders or cooperatives. Moreover, a cooperative central buying organization would allow small shopkeepers to take advantage of low wholesale prices through bulk purchases. It would also provide a safety net in the event of bankruptcy."

This led to more applause and even a few scattered hurrahs. A man at the back of the hall called out, "But what about the Jews?"

"British Fascism is the only British political party that takes a firm, clear line on aliens," announced Fisher's calm, patrician voice. "Britain should be for the British."

"You're just like the n.a.z.is, are you?" shouted the tall man in front of Lydia. "Is that what you mean?"

At that moment, in the silence that followed the question, Lydia realized that the man in front of her was Mr. Goldman from Hatton Garden.

"We have no quarrel with those of Jewish blood per se," Fisher said.

"Your Mr. Joyce says, and these are his very words: 'I don't regard the Jews as a cla.s.s, I regard them as a privileged misfortune.' That was in January. Your Mosley says that Fascism has accepted the challenge of Jewry. What challenge?"

"Thank you, sir. The British Union requires the Jews, as we require everyone else, to put the interests of Britain first."

"And your Mr. A. K. Chesterton said-"

"That will be all, thank you," Fisher said. "You seem to have forgotten that I am addressing this meeting, sir. It's time for you to return to Jerusalem. See the gentleman out, please."

An eddy rippled through the standing crowd as three Blackshirts pushed their way toward Mr. Goldman.

"Answer the question, sir," somebody else shouted. "What challenge do the Jews pose? Are you aware that-"

"I'm aware that another gentleman would like to leave," Fisher said. "To return to the matter in hand-"

"Do you realize that in Germany-"

The question ended in a gasp, as if someone had hit the questioner. At least a dozen people were shouting now and fighting was breaking out sporadically throughout the audience. Lydia watched in a daze as Fisher beckoned to a young man at the end of the platform and murmured something in his ear.

The Blackshirts reached Mr. Goldman. Two of them grabbed him by the arms. The third man put his head in an armlock.

Lydia snapped out of her trance. "You stop that!" she shouted, and kicked the man as hard as she could in his calf.

He looked at her, open-mouthed in astonishment. "Here," he said, not relaxing the armlock, "you can't do that."

"Why not?" Lydia asked, and kicked him in the other leg.

The Blackshirts began to drag Goldman toward the door to the cloister. Suddenly the public address system burst into life. "Pomp and Circ.u.mstance March No. 1" boomed through the undercroft. Marcus was advancing into the audience with a couple of Blackshirts behind him. He pointed to his right. Lydia followed his finger and saw Rory, notebook in hand, in the act of standing up.

Behind her, one of the urns toppled off its table and somebody shouted, "Watch out! The water's b.l.o.o.d.y boiling!" The table itself went over with a clatter, and crockery smashed on the stone floor. "Pomp and Circ.u.mstance" pursued its stately course, a serene and triumphal counterpoint to the racket.

They hauled Goldman onto the short flight of steps up to the cloister. He lost his hat and his overcoat was ripped down the back. Three respectable-looking middle-aged men, none of them in Blackshirt uniform, shouted in unison, "Jew out, Jew out." They looked like a trio of tobacconists or ironmongers on an outing, determined to extract the utmost fun from the occasion.

A large blond man in ridiculously wide Oxford bags took a swing at one of the Blackshirts manhandling Mr. Goldman. The blow missed and the Blackshirt punched his attacker in the mouth, knocking off his gla.s.ses. The man reeled back, a hand to his mouth and blood seeping through his fingers.

"Jew out, Jew out."

A small woman slipped under the blond man's arm and punched the advancing Blackshirt in the t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es. He screamed and doubled up. The scream was high and loud and so like an animal's that it shocked everyone except Elgar into a moment's silence.

Lydia felt a momentary but painful twinge of jealousy. The woman was Fenella Kensley.

The noise began again. Mr. Goldman's attendant Blackshirts turned aside to deal with the blond man, Fenella and a couple of other men who had come to their support. Taking advantage of their absence, Lydia ran across to Mr. Goldman and helped him to his feet. He groaned and swayed.

"Quick," she urged. "We've got to get out."

Linked together, they staggered down the cloister. The blond man ran after them, and took Mr. Goldman's other arm. Fenella followed them. Mr. Goldman was flagging badly. At the door to the chapel forecourt, Lydia glanced back over her shoulder. Marcus had come up the steps from the undercroft. He saw her: his face was white and twisted, a stranger's.

"The house over the road," Lydia snapped. "I've got a key."

They half-dragged, half-carried Mr. Goldman between Fisher's car and the black van, both of which were empty and unguarded, over the road to the doorway of number forty-eight. Lydia dug into the pocket of her coat and pulled out the latchkey. Her hand was shaking so much that she couldn't get it in the lock at her first attempt. The second attempt succeeded. The door opened into the high, musty hallway, with the dark linoleum stretching away to the stairs.

"Quick!" Fenella said in her ear. "I can hear them running."

Lydia and the blond man, Fenella and Mr. Goldman almost tumbled into the house. Lydia closed the door behind them and rammed the top bolt home. Mr. Goldman was gasping for breath.

"d.a.m.ned barbarians," the blond man said. "Are you all right, sir?"

Lydia ignored them. She knelt and opened the flap of the letter box. This gave her a narrow, rectangular view across the road to the chapel. At the far right of the rectangle was the left-hand leaf of the double gates to Bleeding Heart Square. To her horror, she saw Serridge standing in the angle between the gate and the pillar supporting it. He was smoking a cigar and staring placidly down the length of Rosington Place.

They had a witness.

Marcus burst into view, followed by three Blackshirts. They hesitated for an instant on the forecourt. Marcus walked into the road and looked up and down. He saw Serridge.

"I say!" he shouted. "You there! Which way did they go?"

Serridge unhurriedly removed his cigar. "Who are you talking about?"

"Two women and two men. You must have seen them."

Serridge pointed the cigar down Rosington Place toward Holborn Circus and the thin, fussy tower of St. Andrew's beyond.

"But we'd still see them if they'd gone that way."

"No, they went down past the lodge and turned right." Serridge turned his head to his left. "Ain't that right?"

Another man came into view-Howlett, stately in his uniform frock coat, with Nipper at his heels. He touched the brim of his top hat to Marcus. He looked every inch the loyal servant. But whose servant, Lydia wondered, and why?

"That's right, sir," Howlett said. "Went down there like bats out of h.e.l.l. As if the devil himself was after them."

23.

YOU ARE HAUNTED by the ghosts of what might have happened. If Philippa Penhow had had the sense to run away to the village. If she had hammered on Mr. Gladwyn's door. If she'd run into the Alforde Arms. If she'd stumbled across the muddy fields to Mavering.

Sunday, 20 April 1930 I think he's looking for this diary. He was searching my things this morning. Someone-it must have been him, unless it was one of the maids-prised open my little writing box where I used to keep the diary. They forced the lock. I didn't dare say anything. Rebecca went away last night. Amy's getting worse. At breakfast, she was positively insolent when I asked for fresh tea. I'm sure she's wearing lipstick too. Joseph told me to stop fussing. He said I was only making the girl nervous. But she's a nasty baggage. I said to Joseph at lunchtime that they must think us strange in the village because we hadn't gone to church. He said, not at all-he had told the Vicar I wasn't well, that I'd had a breakdown and couldn't stand meeting people or crowds, and that was the real reason we'd come to live in the country. So I see it all now. He's made them think I'm a mad-woman. And he's made them think that he's a saint, looking after me. I wish I hadn't signed all those papers. "Another one for your autograph, my darling."

So you see she couldn't go to the village or anywhere else because of the shame of it. She believed they already thought her a lunatic. And she and Serridge weren't married. Either way she would have faced ridicule and censure, either way she would be ruined. At the back of her mind was the bitter knowledge that she didn't know what she'd signed over to him during the last few weeks.

Most of all, you believe, she stayed at Morthams because in some small and tender place in her heart there still lived a sickly hope that this was really a bad dream, and that soon her Joseph would change back to the man she knew he really was. Perhaps this was some sort of test, and all she need do was endure. Perhaps she could make him love her, as she did him. She would tear out her heart for him if it would make him happy.

The smell of cats was stronger. The cold seeped from the flagstones and oozed out of the walls. He sat on the table, his back against the rough, whitewashed wall.

It was not entirely dark. As his eyes adjusted, Rory made out a faint rectangle at the other end of the room, which must mark the door. On the other side of the door was the cloister and the fading, gray light of a winter afternoon. But very little sound penetrated the thick walls or the heavy door. It was as if he was entombed. The loudest sound was his own breathing. He was very cold-he had left his hat and his raincoat in the undercroft.

They had taken his notebook, presumably during the fracas. In his mind, he went over the sequence of events, trying to memorize them. He was d.a.m.ned if he was going to let them prevent him from writing this article. First, there had been an interruption to Fisher's speech-the tall old man who looked Jewish, though presumably not orthodox or else he wouldn't have been here on the Sabbath. Then the sc.r.a.p, when the Blackshirts waded in to remove him. Then Lydia was mixed up with it and then Fenella and Dawlish.

Why the h.e.l.l had Lydia been there? Surely she wanted to avoid her husband?

When the row started, Rory had stood up without thinking, drawn partly by a journalist's instinct to move toward trouble rather than away from it, and partly to help Lydia. But the Blackshirts were already on him.

The timing was important. It suggested they must have been told to keep an eye on him, presumably by Marcus. Told to pounce when there was trouble in the audience, told to extract him neatly and swiftly as though he were a troublesome tooth, and they were a pair of pincers. He gave them full marks for efficiency. They had frogmarched him out of the undercroft. One of them kept his hand clamped over Rory's mouth. They had been so extraordinarily polite and unemotional about the whole thing.

"Excuse me, sir, would you let us through? Gentleman needs a breath of air."

Everyone must have known that he was being ejected, Rory thought, but his escorts contrived to do it in such a way that many of the bystanders would have a.s.sumed the fault was his, not the Fascists'.

More Blackshirts had been milling around in the cloister, mainly at the far end, near the door to the street. His escorts hadn't waited for orders and they hadn't tried to turf him out. That must be significant as well. They had simply wheeled him round to the right and down into the Ossuary, where they kicked his legs from underneath him and forced him down to the floor.

Rory had forced himself not to cry out, not because he was brave but because he thought if he did he might attract more violence. Mercifully they seemed to lose interest in him: closed the door gently and turned the key in the lock. Darkness fell like a stone. The light switch was outside the door.

When they left him alone, he had stood up and swept his hands over the walls, exploring the Ossuary by sense of touch. All it contained was the table. The chairs had gone. He hooked his hands under one side and lifted. It rose a couple of inches, and then the weight was too much for him. He considered trying to wedge the door with it, but remembered that the door opened outward, toward the steps down from the cloister.

Sooner or later, he told himself, someone would come. This will end. Everything ends. He shied away from the thought that whatever replaced this might be worse. Time pa.s.sed. At one point he thought he heard distant music on the edge of his range of hearing. Perhaps the meeting was over, and they were playing the National Anthem. The theory was confirmed when he heard the rumble of voices and footsteps, a whole tide of them, in the cloister. All those clerks and commercial travelers and office boys were going home to the suburbs for the weekend. He would have given anything to be one of them. He hammered on the door and shouted, trying to attract their attention.

No one came. Had Fenella and Lydia and Dawlish got away safely? It was quite possible that they didn't realize what had happened to him. It might be hours until he was missed-at the very earliest, not until he failed to turn up at Mecklenburgh Square at half past five.