Half a Crown (37 page)

After lunch, two Watchmen took him down the corridor to an interrogation cell. There was a television high on the wall, two chairs, and a table. He was strapped to a chair facing the blank screen and left alone. After a moment, Jacobson came. “It’s all right, I understand,” Carmichael said quickly, as he let himself into the cell.

“Why do you have to be such a bloody coward?” Jacobson asked. “You endanger everything and then you don’t even have the decency to kill yourself when you had every opportunity.”

Carmichael gasped. “I do see that you must have felt vulnerable,” he began.

“You don’t give a damn about me, you never did,” Jacobson said.

“I’m prepared to back up your story, if—”

Before Carmichael could finish asking for what he wanted, Jacobson advanced towards him, and he saw with a strange kind of relief that there was a knife in his hand. “I can’t risk that,” Jacobson said.

The door clanged open, and Ogilvie rushed in and grappled with Jacobson. Carmichael almost wanted to laugh, watching them. They were quite evenly matched. Ogilvie realized this too. “Sergeant!” he called, and two Watchmen rushed to his assistance.

“Take Mr. Jacobson to a cell,” Ogilvie said, once they had subdued him. He looked at Carmichael in confusion as Jacobson was led away. “I’m—There’s someone here to talk to you. But he wants you to watch the news first.”

“The news?” Carmichael asked, in astonishment.

Ogilvie shrugged and turned on the television, then left while the set was still warming up.

“The body of the man who fired the shot that narrowly missed Herr Hitler this morning has been identified as Gunther Wald, a salesman from Germany,” the announcer said.

Ah, Loy. Not such a good shot after all. He was getting old. And why had he gone for Hitler rather than Normanby? Carmichael felt a pang of regret for his death.

“The peace conference, opened by Her Majesty the Queen,” the announcer was saying as Carmichael started to pay attention again. “And now we take you live to her televised address to the British People.”

There was a moment of static, and then the camera steadied on the Queen, holding a sheaf of notes, sitting down.

She set down her papers and looked directly at the camera, at Carmichael. “Today I have opened a great peace conference, at which delegates from all over the world will meet together to determine the fate of the world, this new world in which we have so much to fear, and so much to hope for. Now I want to address you, the people of Britain, as your Queen and tell you that it is my constitutional duty to call an immediate General Election. There have been coups and attempted coups. My uncle, the Duke of Windsor, is under arrest under accusations of treason. Also under arrest this afternoon is Mark Normanby, the former Prime Minister. He is accused, on the highest evidence, of the murder of Sir James Thirkie, at Farthing House, in 1949, and of the dowager Lady Thirkie in Campion House in the same year, and using these to engineer his own attempt at power ten years ago. The whole climate of fear we have all lived in for the last ten years was, if not imaginary, at least exaggerated.”

Carmichael thought he must still be dreaming. Her voice went on evenly.

“Mr. Normanby is under arrest, as are Lord and Lady Eversley, for complicity in this crime. There will be a General Election on May second, and for the time being the temporary Prime Minister will be the Foreign Secretary, Sir Guy Braithwaite.”

“Good God!” Carmichael said. Guy must have used his notebook, he must have—it was almost beyond belief.

“I am Head of State, not Head of Government, and it is no part of my duties to approve or disapprove the government, nor even the
form of government; my country chooses for itself. But it seems to me that this government was not chosen freely, or in full knowledge of the facts. They have arrested those accused of no specific crime and held them in detention for long periods without bringing them to trial, they have created a climate of fear, they have shipped off suspects to foreign prisons where they knew they could expect bad treatment. This is not in the tradition of which we, as Britons, can be rightly proud. There have been spontaneous demonstrations this week against this behavior, and I feel in speaking out on this subject I am speaking the will of my people. With the agreement of Sir Guy, all the so-called Hyde Park martyrs will be released. All Jews and others presently detained under the Defence of the Realm Act will be released. All future arrests will be subject to Home Office oversight.”

Carmichael wiped away tears from his cheeks. And to think he had almost killed himself and missed this!

“When you go to the polls, I ask you to vote responsibly, with forethought, for those you feel will do their best to govern, those who will be the servants of the people and not their masters,” she said.

“Good God,” Carmichael said again.

The door opened behind him. He turned from the screen, which had cut to a view of cheering crowds. He wasn’t entirely surprised to see Sir Guy in the doorway.

“I’ve come to say you can go,” Sir Guy said. “I wanted you to see that.”

“I saw it,” Carmichael said. “It was astonishing. Did you write that speech?”

“She wrote it herself,” Sir Guy said. “Her Majesty had a long talk with your little girl last night, before I took her the notebook.”

“Elvira?” Carmichael said.

“She went to be presented, right on time. And she made Her
Majesty much firmer than I’d have dared to be. I’d never have suggested letting all the Jews go.”

On the television screen, the crowds were still cheering.

“Nobody seems to mind,” Carmichael said.

“No, not as far as I can see. I was too timid,” he said, undoing the buckles of the straps that held Carmichael to the chair. “I wish I could offer you your old job back, but it wouldn’t do. Too many people know what you did. Penn-Barkis is also in a cell, you’ll be glad to know, and I won’t be going by this afternoon to let him out.”

“What about Jacobson? Will you let him go too?”

“He went for you with a knife!” Sir Guy said.

“He did it with the best of motives,” Carmichael said gravely. “You should let him go. He and Ogilvie can manage the Watch. I never liked it anyway. It was never my idea of a good job.”

“What will you do?” Sir Guy asked.

“I don’t know,” Carmichael said. “I need to talk to Elvira. I do wish Jack could have seen this.”

“I’m very sorry it came too late for him,” Sir Guy said. “Come on, walk out with me.”

They walked together through the corridors of the Watchtower, past cells and cubicles and offices. “Maybe I’ll go into business for myself,” Carmichael said. “A private detective, something like that.”

“That’s very traditional,” Sir Guy said. “Well, good luck to you, Carmichael, whatever you do. Keep in touch.”

“Keep the country on an even keel,” Carmichael said.

“Oh, I’ll have to, or Her Majesty will turf me out too,” he said.

“And hang bloody Normanby!”

“I fully intend to,” Sir Guy said. “It’s your evidence that will do it.”

Carmichael shook his hand at the top of the stairs. The sun was shining from a sky dotted with puffy white clouds; it was another beautiful spring day. He supposed he could call for a car for the last
time, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t know where he wanted to go. Home would seem very empty without Jack, even if England was taking her first tottering steps towards being free again. He waved to Sir Guy and walked away in the sunshine up the dirty London street.