Half a Crown (29 page)

“Good God, man, do you think you’re above the law?”

“Yes, I do. And so do you, and so does Chief-Inspector Penn-Barkis. And we’re all right.”

“Hand her back, Carmichael.” Normanby sounded furious.

“No. She’s innocent and she knows nothing. She’s my ward. She’s not even engaged to Bellingham. There is no dangerous connection. I have her safe and I intend to keep it that way.”

“I gave you the Watch and I can take it away,” Normanby raged.

“You need me,” Carmichael said, secure in the knowledge that it was true. “Of course you can replace me, but you know that I am loyal. You have a hold on me, you always have had. You don’t need to threaten my family, that was going too far. You wanted to see what I’d do, and I’m showing you I won’t stand for that.”

“I don’t know who you think you are,” Normanby said, and slammed the receiver down so hard that Carmichael winced. He put his own telephone down and smiled to himself. It was so good to be able to speak to Normanby without cringing, to use some of the power he had.

Miss Duthie came in with the tea and a pile of papers, all of which she set down carefully on the desk. “These are the most urgent,” she said. “Should I put all your calls through now?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

“I told most people to catch you tomorrow, so I don’t expect there’ll be much,” she said.

Carmichael looked at the pile and sighed, then pulled it reluctantly towards him. The paper on top dealt with the house arrest of the Duke of Windsor, which had gone ahead as ordered. The next four pieces were vehement protests from the Duke, handwritten, addressed to Sir Guy; Mr. Blair, the Director General of the BBC; Air Vice-Marshal Harris; and Winston Churchill. Carmichael smiled as he read them. Under these was a note from Ogilvie to the effect that the Duke believed that correspondence dropped into the slot in his room would automatically be posted, but in fact it was all being collected by the Watch. Under this was a letter from the Duke of Windsor to the Duke of Hamilton, ordering him to go ahead with all the BP plans in his absence, and signed “Edward R.” That was probably sufficient to constitute treason. A note from Ogilvie was clipped to this, saying laconically, “Duke of Hamilton arrested 3
P.M.”

Nothing else in the pile was as interesting. There was a brief note confirming that the Yard had got to Bellingham first, a lot of information about the procession and the peace conference, including the positioning of snipers on possible rooftops in case of assassins, which Carmichael blinked at in wonder. Ogilvie really was very thorough, and had been working hard. He was the one who deserved a knighthood. There was just one note from Jacobson saying briefly not to worry, the riot situation was under control and Ted McMaster would be handling it tomorrow when Jacobson was out.

Carmichael got up and collected his hat. “I’m going home a little early. You can go now too, Miss Duthie. You’ve done a good day’s work. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He’d get home early and surprise Jack, he thought, looking at his watch. He should be home before six, which was very unusual. He waved over a car. “Home, please,” he said to the driver. He shut his eyes as the car began to weave through the traffic. He’d slept badly, wondering what they were doing to Elvira. But now she was safe, hidden away, and he had time to go home and see Jack and perhaps eat something before meeting Sir Guy later. Then when he’d found out what that was about he’d go home and have an early night.

The guard on the door nodded as he opened it for Carmichael, and Carmichael nodded back. He went up the stairs two at a time, eager to tell Jack that Elvira was safe, but his door stayed closed, and he had to take out his key to open it. “Jack?” he called, going in, but he already knew the place was empty. Jack wasn’t expecting him home so early. In fact he had said that morning that he might be late. He fought down his disappointment. Jack had every right to go out, whether he was running errands, visiting the library or even the Caravan Club.

One of the books he’d bought Jack the week before, a new translation of the
Chronographia,
lay on the coffee table, face down, though it was festooned with bookmarks. It wasn’t like Jack to be so
careless. Carmichael put a bookmark in where it was open and closed it carefully. The Byzantine mosaic princess on the cover seemed to sneer at him. He walked through the flat looking for signs of Jack. In the kitchen, some teacups waited to be washed. In the refrigerator were two fat pork chops wrapped in butcher’s paper, a cabbage, and a bag of mushrooms. In the bedroom, the bed was neatly made and a parcel of clean shirts from the laundry waited to be put away. Nothing indicated where Jack was or how long he might be. He put his head around the door of the little box room they called Jack’s dressing room, next to the kitchen. The spartan single bed was made up but strewn with Jack’s clothes. The bed in Elvira’s room was stripped, and her chest pushed back into the corner.

Carmichael wandered back into the sitting room, defeated. The bookshelves bulged with Jack’s Byzantine books. He turned on the television, and was rewarded by a pair of teddy bears grinning at each other. He stabbed savagely at the button. On the other side was an old war film, the heroine melting into the hero’s arms. He sat down to watch, but as she sped away across the Steppes on skis he realized he had seen it before. He pushed the button again and caught the news.

“There have been more protests today in almost all parts of the country,” the announcer said. Scenes of protest flickered across the little screen. Maybe Jacobson was right, if so many people were taking to the streets. “Huddersfield, Blackburn, Glasgow, Wolverhampton, Cambridge. The question to the forefront seems to be the treatment of the alleged Hyde Park martyrs, but many other issues are being raised.” To Carmichael’s surprise the massed rioters were replaced by his own face, looking fatter than the way he saw it in the mirror. “Innocent people were arrested in the heat of the moment, certainly, and we have screened and are screening the suspects very closely to separate the sheep from the goats. By now, most of the
sheep are back on the streets of London. Only the goats are getting what they deserve.” He winced. The picture cut back to protesters. One had a banner reading
FREE THE SCAPEGOATS!

“Watch Commander Carmichael wasn’t available for comment this afternoon, but Deputy Jacobson had this to say.” Jacobson looked nervous. His hand fumbled with his tie as he talked. “People are taking courage from each other. We can’t arrest the whole country. Maybe mistakes have been made and we are certainly looking back carefully. For the time being, while we investigate nobody is being deported.” Carmichael wasn’t sure if that would calm things down or have the opposite effect. “And the Gravesend camp?” the interviewer asked. “The Gravesend facility isn’t yet open,” Jacobson said, which was nothing but the truth. They hadn’t even finished building it. The camera cut to a picture of Hitler descending from an airship plastered with swastikas. “The Fuhrer arrived today in advance of the peace conference, due to begin on Wednesday. He will dine with Her Majesty this evening, and tomorrow visit Kew Gardens.” Hitler paused on the steps to smile and give his straight-arm salute. Carmichael turned the television off in disgust. Where was Jack?

He thought about pouring himself a whisky, but remembered that he would have to drink later with Sir Guy. He wished he hadn’t made the appointment, but curiosity alone would cause him to fulfill it. If Jack wasn’t going to be back in time for dinner maybe he should go out and get something to eat, though the pork chops looked as if he meant to be home in time to cook. He walked over to the wall phone and called down to the guard below. “What time did my man go out?”

“He went out with a couple of bobbies at about five,” the guard said, matter-of-factly. “They weren’t quite dragging him, but it was a near thing. I was surprised, to tell you the truth. I mean I know servants steal, but he’d been with you for years, hadn’t he? And always so polite.”

“Bobbies,” Carmichael repeated.

“Yes, uniformed bobbies. They had cards and everything, or I wouldn’t have let them in. They said not to give him any warning. Did I do wrong, sir?”

“You were just doing your job,” Carmichael said.

About five. Just after he’d spoken to Normanby. Jack knew everything. But Jack had a tooth, and Jack wasn’t a coward. He’d been in action, in France, and he’d done his best to save Carmichael’s life on the boat home from Dunkirk. If they started to press Jack, Jack would die rather than betray him. Carmichael realized he was still holding the receiver and put it down gently. The thing to do would be to get Jack out before they started to press him. But a straightforward attack wouldn’t work if they were expecting it, and besides, he had no idea where they might have taken him. He felt strangely distant. He remembered Jack the night before, standing there so practical, helping him organize his priorities. First, he thought, he should see if there was anything to be gained by groveling.

The telephone was on the table next to his chair, so he sat down. Jack, he thought, and felt as if a part of himself had been amputated. He called Normanby and had to pass through two layers of secretaries. “Well, Carmichael, have you come to your senses?” Normanby asked.

“Yes, Prime Minister, I have,” Carmichael said. “I don’t know how I could have been such a fool.”

“Neither do I,” sneered Normanby. “You knew you had hostages. Now, give us back the girl and then we can talk about your … servant.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” he said. I’m sorry, Elvira, he thought, remembering her in the car asking how he could put her in danger. Then he remembered that now she knew about the Inner Watch. “I can’t get hold of her right away,” he added, temporizing.

“Then we’ll keep hold of Jack until you can,” Normanby said.

“You won’t hurt him?”

“You’re very anxious for his welfare, belatedly. I don’t believe he’ll come to any harm. How soon can you get the girl?”

Carmichael took a deep breath. He felt as if he wasn’t getting enough oxygen even so. “Sir, you said this morning you’d give her back in a day or two. And you’ve made your point, you’ve made it very clearly indeed. Is this really necessary?”

“You’re the one who forced the issue by laying hands on her,” Norman by said.
“Is
this just a power play, Carmichael, or is there really something you’ve been getting up to? Something beyond the obvious, that is?” He laughed.

“I’ll have her in the morning,” Carmichael said.

“Get in touch with Penn-Barkis when you do, and he’ll sort out the details,” Normanby said, and the line went dead.

Carmichael stared at the cross-eyed Byzantine princess on Jack’s book. Jack would die rather than reveal anything. Elvira would tell them about the Inner Watch, as well as whatever else it was she might have known, which he’d forgotten to ask her about. He could get hold of her through the shop on Ambrose Street. If Normanby knew about the Inner Watch they were all as good as dead anyway. Jack had wanted to run last night, and they should have. If Carmichael left Elvira where she was, she was safe. They’d get her out, to Ireland and maybe beyond that to Canada. It wouldn’t be what she was expecting, but she’d be alive and free, and so would the other people the Inner Watch could carry on helping. If he left Jack to die. Left Jack to die, the thought was impossible, ridiculous. Jack might be dead already. But he couldn’t sacrifice Elvira for Jack, because Jack wouldn’t be safe in any case. The only chance would be if there was time to get away, after they gave him back Jack and before Elvira talked. Only that morning the thought of Elvira being tortured had seemed the worst thing in the world, now he was coldly calculating how long she could hold out if he betrayed her to it. He groaned.

On the wall opposite hung the picture of Hagia Sophia, undisturbed. There was money behind it, and false identity cards and passports. Jack hadn’t had a chance to use them. Carmichael opened the safe—the combination was 1453, Jack’s choice. Everything was painful, everything reminded him of Jack. He took out the new identities for Elvira and Jack too, and the other thing the safe contained, his old Farthing notebook. He took his black coat from the peg and stuffed the whole lot into the pockets. He would go out and have the drink with Sir Guy and find out what that was about, and after that he would decide what to do. At least he could walk. Movement might help him feel better, or at least more capable of making a decision.

He walked all the way to the river, and along the Embankment to the Moon Under Water. It was mizzling, so the garden was empty. He ducked his head and went inside, where Sir Guy was at the bar again, although it was still early. “Carmichael,” Sir Guy said. “Pint of bitter?”

“Thank you,” Carmichael said.

“You look dreadful. I’m not surprised, considering, but you do. Have you eaten?” Sir Guy looked concerned.

“No,” Carmichael admitted. “But I don’t think I could.”

“Let me get you a terrible ham sandwich and a packet of crisps, which is all this place rises to. The beer’s good, though.”

The barmaid smiled at him and put a curling sandwich onto a plate. “Salt and vinegar or cheese and onion crisps?”

“Salt and vinegar,” Carmichael said.

“Make that two pints, and two whiskeys,” Sir Guy said. “Let’s go over into the corner.” He indicated the darkest part of the pub, farthest from the door and also from the other customers. They settled onto the uncomfortable chairs, and set their beer down on the table. “Cheers,” Sir Guy said, taking a swig of his own beer.

“Cheers,” Carmichael echoed, cheerlessly, following suit. “What’s this about?”

“Well, what I wanted to say this lunchtime is pretty much redundant by this time. I didn’t think you’d be setting the Thames on fire all afternoon. I wanted to tell you that Mark was gunning for you and to lie low, because it would blow over.”

“You could have told me that on the telephone,” Carmichael said.

“Eat your sandwich,” Sir Guy said.

Carmichael took a bite. The bread was dry, the lettuce limp, and the ham too salty.