The English Assassin

by Michael Moorcock

  Later the door rattled.

  In stepped Miss Brunner, trim and prim.

  “All girls together.” She laughed harshly. She made no apology because it was obvious she relished interrupting and embarrassing them. “We must be about our business soon. This place needs a tidy.”

  Una rolled clear, directing a muted glare at Miss Brunner who was crisp in linen and lace, like an ultra-fashionable bicyclette.

  “The new chambermaid’s arrived,” said Miss Brunner. She began to fold Una Persson’s dress. “She wants to clean in here.”

  Catherine was puzzled. “There’s no need…”

  “Come now,” said Miss Brunner, flinging open the door, “we mustn’t let ourselves go.” She revealed the maid, a huge, red figure in a green baize overall and a sloppy cap, a bucket in one hand, a mop in the other. Her hair hung down her face. “This is Mrs ‘Vaizey’.”

  Una pulled up the sheets.

  “Oh, my gawd!” said the cleaner, recognising her daughter.

  Catherine turned over.

  Mrs ‘Vaizey’ gestured with the mop and bucket. She was miserably upset. She looked ashamed of herself. “This is on’y temp’ry, Caff,” she said. She looked wretchedly at Miss Brunner, who was smiling privately. “Could I—?” Then she realised that Miss Brunner had known all along that her name hadn’t been Vaizey and, moreover, that Miss Brunner had known Catherine was her daughter.

  Mrs Cornelius sighed. “You bloody cow,” she said to Miss Brunner. She glanced at the pair in the bed. “Wot yer up ter?” She remembered how she had looked like Catherine once. She recalled the money she might have had if she had not been so generous, so soft. Her heart went out to her daughter then. She dumped the mop into the bucket of water, pointing the handle at Miss Brunner. “You watch this one, love,” she said to Una Persson, since only Una Persson was now visible above the bedclothes. “She’ll ’ave yer fer sure if she gets a chance.”

  “You’re not being paid for cheek, you know,” Miss Brunner replied somewhat feebly, striding towards the door, “but to clean the rooms. Your type, Mrs ‘Vaizey’, are ten a penny, as I’m sure you know. If you’re not happy with the position…”

  “Don’t come it wiv me, love.” Mrs Cornelius began to splash about the linoleum with her mop. “Not everybody’ll work in a third-rate whorehouse, neither!” Her anger grew and she became proud. “Fuck it.” She picked up the bucket and threw the contents over Miss Brunner. As the starch ran out, the linen and the lace sagged and the Lily Langtry wave fell apart over her forehead.

  Una grinned, sitting up with interest.

  Miss Brunner hissed, clenched her hands, began to move with staring eyes upon Mrs Cornelius, who returned the stare with dignity so that Miss Brunner paused, dripping.

  “Yore nuffink, yer silly little tart. I’ve ’ad too much. Caff!”

  Catherine peered out from the bed.

  “You comin’, Caff?”

  Catherine shook her head. “I can’t, Mum.”

  “Jest as yer like.”

  Una Persson said: “I’ll look after her, Mrs Cornelius.”

  Mrs Cornelius removed her cap and apron and threw them at Miss Brunner’s feet. “I’m sure yer’ll do yer best, love,” she said softly. “Don’t let Modom ’ere shove yer abart!”

  Miss Brunner seemed paralysed. Hands on fat hips, Mrs Cornelius appeared to grow in stature as she waltzed around the drenched figure. “I know yer! I know yer!” she chanted. “I know yer! I know yer! Ya ya ya!”

  “Everything all right at home, Mum?” said Catherine desperately.

  “Not bad.” Mrs Cornelius was pleased with herself, although later she might regret this action. She’d taken the job because of the boy, after she and Sammy had had words. But tonight it would be feathers and frills again and a trip to the Cremorne Gardens. Her right hand swept down on Miss Brunner’s sodden and corseted rump. There was loud bang as flesh struck whalebone. Still Miss Brunner did not move. Mrs Cornelius giggled. “Don’t let ’er wear yer aht.” She circled Miss Brunner once more and then waved at her from the door. “Ta, ta, Lady Muck.”

  In terror, Catherine murmured to her mother, “See you soon.”

  “Keep yourself clean and yer can’t go wrong,” advised Mrs Cornelius as she closed the door. The last Catherine saw was her leering wink.

  Miss Brunner came alive with a snort. “Dreadful woman. I was forced to sack her. I’ll get changed. Can you two be ready by the time I’ve finished?”

  Una was amused by Miss Brunner’s attitude. “This is a farce. Whom are we to entertain this evening?”

  “Prinz Lobkowitz and his friends will arrive at six.”

  “Oh,” said Catherine, reminiscently.

  “Silly creatures,” said Miss Brunner.

  Una Persson raised her lovely eyebrows. “Aha.”

  “Our success depends on tonight’s meeting,” Miss Brunner said as she left. The door slammed.

  Una stroked Catherine’s thigh beneath the sheet. “I wonder if this is the ‘big meeting’?”

  Catherine shook her golden head. “That’s not for a while.”

  “For all we know it’s already happened. And what comes after the meeting? This identity’s getting me down. Not enough information. Do you ever think about the nature of Time?”

  “Of course.” Catherine twisted so that she could place her delicate lips on Una Persson’s flat stomach and at the same time her hand rose lightly to touch her friend’s clitoris. Una sighed with pleasure. From where she lay she could see the abandoned mop, the fallen bucket, the apron and the cap. “Your mother has spirit. I hadn’t expected that.”

  “Neither had I.” Catherine’s tongue fluttered like a trapped butterfly, the pressure of her hand increased. Una made a noise.

  “I was terrified of them both,” said Catherine. “I still am.”

  “Forget it.”

  Una gave a coarse, satisfied grunt.

  “Good?” whispered Catherine Cornelius.

  THE BUSINESSMEN

  “Molly O’Morgan with her little organ

  Was dressed up in colours so gay,

  Out in the street every day,

  Playing too-ra-la-oor-a-li-oor-a-li-ay.

  Fellows who met her will never forget her,

  She set all their heads in a whirl.

  Molly O’Morgan with her little organ

  The Irish-Aye-talian girl!”

  sang Major Nye, twirling his splendid moustache and swirling his huge, tartan ulster as he strode over the moor with Sebastian Auchinek in tow. Auchinek was miserable and sought desperately about him for some sign of human habitation, preferably an inn. But there was none; just grass and gorse and boulders, the occasional bird and a few shy sheep. If Major Nye had not been the largest shareholder in a chain of well-appointed provincial halls, Auchinek would have complained. But he had to get Una a good year’s bookings, at least thirty weeks, outside London (for as he predicted they had closed the London halls), if he was going to make it up to her for the disappointment she must feel at losing the Empire.

  “One of Ella Retford’s,” explained Major Nye, pausing in his stride and looking with relish at the dark green Exmoor heather. “Has your girlie got anything like that?”

  “Better,” said Auchinek automatically, staring at the vast moor with disgust and resignation. “She has the real quality, major.” He whistled a complicated melody. “That’s one of hers. Waiters get me going.”

  “It will mean a trip to London for me,” Major Nye said, stalking on. “And London’s not the safest place in the world these days, is it?”

  “No really exciting place is, major.”

  “I heartily dislike London, Mr Auchinek.”

  “Oh, well—yes, I suppose so.” Uncertainly, Auchinek watched a large bird flap in the sky. Major Nye lifted his ashplant and pretended to sight down it at the bird.

  “Bang!” said the major.

  “Well,” he continued, “I have, as a matter of fact, got to be in
London on some pretty important business fairly shortly. Not quite certain of the date, but ask my office. They’ll keep you posted.”

  “And you’ll give her an audition.”

  “That was the idea, old boy. If I’ve time. By the way, what is the time?”

  Auchinek stared at him in surprise.

  Major Nye shrugged. The sky was deep blue, bland and warm. “I’m kept pretty busy,” he said. “What with one thing and another.”

  “You have many interests,” Auchinek said admiringly.

  “Oh, many. I play,” the major laughed, “a wide variety of parts, you might say.” He put a hand to the knot of his Ascot cravat. “But then we all do, really…” His moustache tilted upwards on the right side as he gave a mysterious smile. Auchinek determined to get himself a suit of solid tweed, like the major’s, and a good ulster, and aim towards the acquisition of a small estate somewhere in Somerset or Devon. He hated the country, but these days there was hardly any choice. They came to a hill overlooking the winding white road to Porlock. Beyond the road lay the sparkling sea. On the dusty, unpaved road a carriage, drawn by two pairs of bays, was struggling, making poor time. The carriage was old and much in need of an overhaul.

  Major Nye leaned on his ashplant and stared in amusement as the carriage slowly climbed the hill. “Could this be the vicar on his way to see me? He travels in style, our vicar. Used to ride. One of the best hunting men in these parts. He fell off his horse, though. Ha, ha.”

  A white head appeared at the window and a pale hand hailed the couple.

  “Major! Major!”

  “Vicar! Top o’ the morning to ye!”

  “Your son, major, have you heard?”

  “What about the young rip?” Major Nye smiled at Auchinek. “He’s in the army, you know.”

  “Captured, major. A prisoner of war.”

  “What? The eldest boy?”

  “Yes, major. I have the telegram here. I was in town when it arrived. I told them I’d deliver it.”

  Auchinek knew that his luck hadn’t changed yet. He sighed. He had picked a bad time to see Major Nye.

  “Armoured steamrollers of some kind,” continued the vicar, growing hoarse, “broke their lines and cut them off. Almost all were killed. He fought bravely. It will be in tomorrow’s press.”

  “The devil!”

  “He’s wound-ay-ed!” The vicar’s voice cracked completely as the carriage hit a rock and bounced. His coachman shouted at the horses.

  “You’ll be returning to London on the seven-twenty, won’t you, Mr Auchinek?” said Major Nye.

  “Well…” Auchinek had hoped to be invited for the night. “If that’s the most convenient train.”

  “I’ll come with you. Quickly, get a hold on those leading horses and make ’em move. We’ll take the vicar’s carriage back to the house and I’ll just have time to pack a bag.

  “In what engagement was your son captured?” Auchinek asked as they clambered down the hill towards the road.

  “Damn!” said Major Nye, catching his sock on a piece of gorse and stopping to free himself. “Regiment? 18th Lancers, of course.”

  “Engagement?”

  “What? My boy? Never!”

  THE ENVOYS

  Prinz Lobkowitz was almost sure that he had been followed all afternoon by a police agent. He hoped that he was wrong. He glanced at his watch, waiting outside the remaining gate to Buckingham Palace. He looked out of the corners of his eyes to see if he could recognise the agent; surreptitiously he inspected each of the passers-by (there were few) but none was familiar. He turned to inspect the palace. It had been boarded up for a year now, but there were still redcoated and bearskinned Guardsmen standing in sentry boxes at various points. This had seemed as good a place as any to meet the other envoy. And surely it must be some of the most neutral soil in the world at the present moment. The watch, a Swiss hunter with an alpine scene decorating the inner case, was a gift from Miss Brunner. He had never been able to find the catch. As soon as the big meeting was over, he thought, he’d buy himself a twenty-four-hour digital wristwatch of the kind the French were now making. He loved gadgets. It was what had led him into politics, after all.

  The other envoy was late.

  Prinz Lobkowitz took a rolled copy of The Humorist (“Typically British, but not old-fashioned”) from his Prince Albert frock-coat pocket and began to study it intently, displaying the cover which sported a Bonzo dog cartoon. This had been arranged earlier and the specific issue of the specific magazine agreed upon. Prinz Lobkowitz was fond of The Humorist. Already he was becoming absorbed in it, smiling involuntarily at the jokes.

  A few moments later a distinguished middle-aged man of military bearing bumped into Lobkowitz and pretended to recognise him. In slightly accented English he cried with delight: “Good heavens! Why, it’s old Henry, isn’t it?”

  For a second or two Lobkowitz feigned puzzlement. Then he said: “Could you be George?”

  “That’s right! Spiffin’, seeing you again!”

  Lobkowitz frowned as he tried to recall his lines. A little reluctantly he rolled up his magazine and replaced it in his pocket where it made a noticeable bulge in the line of the overcoat. “Come and have a drink, old boy.” Lobkowitz clapped the man on the shoulder. “We’ve a lot to talk about.”

  “Yes, indeed!”

  As they crossed the road and entered St James’s Park, which was filled with the noise of a dozen different calliopes from the nearby fairground, the man said softly: “I am Colonel Pyat, our embassy sent me.”

  “And I’m Prinz Lobkowitz, representing the exiles. I hope this will be a fruitful meeting at long last.”

  “I think it might be.”

  They had reached the fairground which occupied both sides of the ornamental lake. Bunting and banners and candy-striped canvas, brass and steel and luridly painted wood, moved round and round and up and down as the people screamed or giggled or laughed aloud.

  Pyat stopped at a stall on which sat a miserable monkey tended by an old Italian in a stovepipe hat. The Italian grinned and offered to sell Pyat an ice-cream. Pyat reached out his hand and stroked the monkey as if looking for fleas, yet the touch was tender. He shook his head and moved on. “Ice-cream!” shouted the Italian, as if Pyat had forgotten something. “Ice-cream!”

  In his frock-coat and top hat, Pyat moved with dignity away.

  “Ice-cream?” said the Italian to Lobkowitz who was a few paces behind Pyat. Lobkowitz shook his head. Pyat spoke over his shoulder. “Any news of Cornelius?”

  “Jeremiah, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “None. He seems to have vanished completely.”

  “Perhaps it’s for the best. Yes?”

  “His insight’s useful.”

  “But he could foul things up. And we don’t need that at present, with the big meeting coming along.”

  “No.”

  Under the low-hanging willows, where young prostitutes showed off their soft, painted flesh, they went, through the happy crowds, between the merry-go-rounds, the swing-boats and the helter-skelters.

  “How jolly the peasants are,” said Pyat in an attempt at irony which somehow failed. “Alas! Regardless of their doom, the little victims play.”

  “Were you at Eton? So was I,” said Lobkowitz grinning back at a cheeky girl. “Don’t you enjoy fairs?”

  “I’ve hardly ever seen one of this kind. In Finland once. With the gypsies, you know. Yes. Near Rouveniemi, I think. In Spring. I didn’t attend. But I remember seeing the gypsy women by the river, breaking the Spring ice to wash their clothes. The sideshows were very similar, though there was more wood and less metal. Bright colours.” Colonel Pyat smiled.

  “When were you last in Finland?” Lobkowitz avoided the guy rope of a sideshow tent. He took a deep breath of the air which was heavy with motor oil, candy floss and animal manure.

  Colonel Pyat shrugged and waved his hands. “When there was last a Finland.” He smiled agai
n, more openly. “I used to like Finland. Such a simple nation.”

  An old woman selling lavender appeared. She wore a bright red shawl which clashed with her flowers. She whined pathetically at them, holding out her sprigs. “Please, sir. Please, sir.” She nodded her head as if she hoped, by sympathetic magic, to make them nod back. “Lucky, sir. Sweet lavender, sir. Please buy some, sir.”

  Pyat was the first to reach into his trouser pocket and pull out a half-crown. He handed it to her, receiving the sprig in return. Its stem was wrapped in silver paper. Lobkowitz gave her two shillings and received a similar piece. The woman tucked the money away in the folds of her thick, dirty skirt. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

  The lavender forgotten in their right hands, they walked on.

  “But you people had to take Finland out,” said Lobkowitz.

  “Yes.” Pyat raised his hand to his face and noticed the lavender there. He began to adjust it in his buttonhole. “It was a question of widening the available coasts.”

  “Expediency.” Lobkowitz frowned.

  “Does anyone act for another reason? Come now, Prinz Lobkowitz. Shall we confine ourselves to schoolboy moralising? Or shall we discuss the real business at hand?”

  “Perhaps that, too, involves schoolboy morals?” Lobkowitz flung his lavender from him. It fell into the mud near the water’s edge.

  Colonel Pyat said sympathetically, “Forgive me. I know… I know—” He gave up. “Jews…”

  A crowd of urchins ran past them shouting. One of the urchins gave Lobkowitz a brief, piercing glance before running on. Lobkowitz frowned and felt over his pockets to see if he had been robbed. But everything was there, including The Humorist.

  They mounted a boardwalk which led through the mud to the jetty which stretched out into the lake. There were two couples on the jetty. They stopped.

  “The sides change,” said Prinz Lobkowitz. They stood side by side watching the ducks and flamingoes. On the opposite bank promenaded a score of belles in pretty dresses, arms linked with a score of beaux, dressed to the nines, their curly-brimmed bowlers tilted at exaggerated angles. A barrel organ played sentimental tunes. A bear danced. A punt passed.