Black August

by Dennis Wheatley

  In Grosvenor Square he found two great pantechnicons drawn up outside his home and sweating men staggering down the steps under the burden of a large Van Dyck. The short, fat, rubicund Duke was personally superintending the removal of his treasures.

  ‘Damnable, but understandable!’ was his comment when Kenyon told him of the decision to postpone the election. ‘Heard about the sailors? They seem to be out for trouble.’

  ‘Yes,’ Kenyon nodded. ‘I should think the balloon is due to go up in about two days’ time now.’

  ‘Less, my boy, less. The troops had to use the butts of their rifles on the crowd in the East End this morning. I have ordered the cars for three o’clock to take your mother and the staff down to Banners.’

  ‘Hell!’ thought Kenyon, ‘that puts the lid on the cocktail party,’ for even in the stream of startling events his mind had never been far from Ann and he had persuaded himself that she would accept Veronica’s invitation. Now, if Veronica had to go down to Banners with his mother, Ann would find him alone in Grosvenor Square and probably imagine the whole business to be a put-up job. His father’s next words reassured him.

  ‘I suppose you can fly Veronica down tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh, rather!’ Kenyon agreed with relief.

  ‘She had a fine rumpus with your mother—said she must go down with you tomorrow because she’s got some party on this evening that she doesn’t want to miss. What it can be at a time like this, heaven only knows—but you know how impossible she is, and I can’t force her, much as I should like to have her out of London tonight. They are going to proclaim martial law you know.’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir.’ Kenyon reported the latest news from Westminster.

  The Duke grunted irritably. ‘I bet you a pony they will, whether the P.M. likes it or not. I saw J. J. B. this morning.’

  ‘Did you?’ exclaimed Kenyon, much interested, for ‘J. J. B.’ was the First Sea Lord who had undergone a serious operation only ten days before. ‘I thought he was hors de combat in a nursing home.’

  ‘So he was, or they would never have got away with that fool decision about the big ships. They’ve been keeping everything from him because he was so ill, but Jaggers broke through the cordon of medicos this morning and told him the whole position. He said J. J. B. ought to know even if it killed him!’

  ‘I’d love to have heard his language!’ Kenyon had a vivid mental picture of the red-faced, autocratic sailor. ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Had himself carried out in his dressing-gown there and then. He was still in it when I saw him. He said he’d choke the life out of that whimpering rabbit of a schoolmaster they’d had the impudence to foist on him as First Lord—and do it with his own hands if they hanged him for it afterwards!’

  ‘Good for him! I bet the fur is flying at the Admiralty now.’

  The Duke chuckled. ‘Yes, but he’s a wily old fox. He went to the Air Ministry first. That’s where I saw him—I’d dropped in to offer them the cars as soon as they’d taken your mother to Banners.’

  ‘What was the idea?’

  To get behind the Government, I think. Llewellyn was there and what’s-his-name—the War Office chap, and Badgerlake. It looked to me as if they were forming a kind of Junta. Jaggers told me that if the P. M. refused to declare martial law by midnight they meant to do it themselves, and Badgerlake will bring it out in all his papers tomorrow.’

  Arm in arm father and son walked in to lunch. Veronica and the high-nosed Duchess were already there. A strained silence hung over the first part of the meal, punctuated by a wearisome little monologue of complaint from Juliana Augusta regarding Veronica’s obstinacy—folly—and lack of feeling in refusing to accompany her to Banners that afternoon.

  ‘Well, father’s going with you,’ Kenyon attempted to pacify her.

  ‘You are wrong, dear boy, it seems that I am to be packed off alone with the servants; your father is going to Windsor.’

  ‘Windsor! Whatever for?’

  ‘Well,’ the small red-faced Duke spoke with unusual decision. ‘We are faced with a national crisis of the first magnitude, and these Parliamentary people are all very well in their way, but they are a mushroom growth entirely. The whole basis of the throne is a loyal and responsible aristocracy. It is older, better, and more fitted to govern by centuries of practice than these—er—lawyer people. I do not suppose for one moment that I shall be called upon, but I feel that it is my duty to place myself at the disposal of whoever is acting for the monarch.’

  Veronica was mildly amused. She thought it incredibly comic to see her fat and livery parent mouthing the phrases of a knight at arms, but for Kenyon the little man was invested with new dignity in claiming this ancient privilege of his order.

  Directly the meal was over Veronica stood up. ‘Well, darlings,’ she declared. ‘I’m going to have a L. D. on the B. without my B. and C.’

  ‘What is the girl talking about?’ muttered the Duke.

  ‘A lie down on the bed without my bust bodice and corset,’ she laughed, kissing the bald spot on the back of his head. ‘Don’t be rash and get yourself strung up to a lamp-post or anything while we’re away.’

  As the two women left the room the Duke pushed the decanter over to Kenyon. ‘Have some more port.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Kenyon filled his glass.

  ‘Wish to God you’d got a son,’ was His Grace’s next rather unexpected remark.

  ‘Son, father? I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘Don’t you? You’re a fool then. To carry on, of course. Three generations stand more chance than two. Surely you realise that you and I will probably be as dead as doornails before the month is out.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘I do. The whole system is cracking up. Tomorrow is Friday, isn’t it? Do you realise what that means to the millions? It is the day on which nine out of ten people draw their weekly wage—and the banks are shut. This Government rationing scheme can only be a stop-gap because, now that the pound has gone to blazes, they won’t be able to pay for the food cargoes which are coming in from the only stable countries that are left. London will be starving in a week!’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid you’re right.’

  ‘As a natural consequence the people will turn and rend their leaders. You can’t blame ’em after all. How can you expect them to understand the terrible scenes of shocks our finance has sustained. The man in the street judges by results after all, and if he can’t get food for himself and his family, he’ll go out to burn and rob and wipe out the upper classes that he thinks have been responsible for landing him in such a mess.’

  ‘That won’t do him any good!’

  ‘Of course it won’t, that’s the tragedy of it. But he will do it all the same, and you can take it from me that people like us are going to be hunted like hares before we’re much older.’

  The Duke pushed back his chair. ‘Well, I may as well go and see about the rest of the pictures. Directly they are packed and your mother has gone I shall leave for Windsor.’

  ‘Then—er—I may not be seeing you again for some little time?’ Hesitantly Kenyon held out his hand.

  ‘Bloody fools, aren’t we?’ His Grace of Burminster gave a stiff, unnatural grin. ‘Keep out of it as much as you can, Kenyon—don’t shirk anything, I wouldn’t ask that—but your elder brother went in the War and you are the last of the hatching, so I’d like you to see it through if you possibly can. They may consider us effete, but England wouldn’t be England without a Burminster in the background.’ He squeezed his son’s hand and let it drop.

  By half-past three the great house was empty and deserted, dim from drawn blinds and comfortless now with covers over all the furniture. The removal vans had gone with their freight of pictures and old silver. The Duke was on his way to Windsor, and Juliana Augusta had departed with the staff for Banners.

  Having seen them off Kenyon began to make preparations for his own departure. He rang up Selfridge’s roo
f garage where he kept his helicopter to give instructions that it should be overhauled and made absolutely ready for an early start the following morning, but he received an unpleasant shock. All private aircraft had been commandeered, and his helicopter with the rest.

  That meant motoring down, so he went through to the garage in the mews at the back of the house, and spent half an hour tinkering with his car. E. C. G. was the next thing, every ounce that he could carry, so he ran her round to the nearest filling station. A long line of cars stretched ahead of him, all bound on the same errand. Many of them were stacked high with the weirdest assortment of luggage. The great exodus from London had begun, and everybody who had any place to go to in the country was making for it.

  In the queue strangers were talking together with unaccustomed freedom and exchanging the wildest rumours. The news of the sailors’ advance on London was now common property. A story was current that the Scottish Commander had been assassinated, another that one of the principal power-stations on the Underground had been wrecked that morning. Certainly trains were only running on two of the lines, and those had curtailed their services. When at last Kenyon reached the cylinders he asked for 5,000 atmospheres, but the man shook his head. One thousand was the limit for any car, irrespective of its size, and the price of gas ten shillings a thousand.

  ‘But the price is controlled,’ Kenyon protested.

  ‘Can’t help it,’ said the man, ‘if the rush continues it’ll be a couple of quid termorrer—do I renew your cylinders or not?’

  Kenyon promptly parted with his money and drove away, but the episode made him more thoughtful than ever. Events seemed to be moving now with such terrifying speed. What would London be like in another twenty-four hours with all these people abandoning the sinking ship, and the services breaking down? He began to feel guilty about detaining Veronica for another night, but it had never occurred to him that the trouble would accelerate so rapidly, and the more he thought of Ann the more determined he became not to leave London until he had satisfied himself about her future safety.

  He was neither rake nor saint, but had acquired a reasonable experience of women for his years, and he could remember no one who had aroused his mental interest and physical desire to the same pitch as Ann. Now, in the customary manner of the human male when seized with longing for the companionship of one particular female, he was endowing her with every idealistic and romantic perfection.

  Back at Grosvenor Square he decided that he ought to discuss the increasing gravity of the situation with Veronica at once, but her maid, Lucy, informed him that she had gone out.

  At the sight of Lucy’s trim figure—a pert young hussy he had always thought her—it occurred to him that she and his own man ought to be given the opportunity to rejoin their own families if they wished, and he put the proposition to them.

  Lucy tossed her head. That is a matter for her ladyship, milord, though I wouldn’t leave her with things like this even if she wished it. She’d never be able to manage on her own.’

  Kenyon suppressed a smile and turned to his valet. ‘What about you, Carter?’

  ‘If it please your lordship I would prefer to carry on with my duties.’

  ‘Well, that’s nice of you both.’ Kenyon nodded. ‘Unless I receive instructions to take on a job of work I propose to leave for Banners first thing tomorrow morning. You can drive a car can’t you, Carter?’

  ‘Yes, milord.’

  ‘Then Lady Veronica will come with me, and you can take Lucy with you in her ladyship’s two-seater. Better do any packing tonight. I take it His Grace has sent all the rest of the staff down to Banners?’

  There’s Moggs and his wife still here, milord.’

  ‘I see—well, I’ll have a word with them.’ Kenyon went downstairs to the grim gloomy basement. He paused to look into the store-room and satisfied himself that although tinned goods and luxuries had been difficult to procure for months past, the chef, with the ducal purse behind him, had not allowed his reserves to become depleted. The contents of the shelves would have stocked a fair-sized grocer’s shop. Then he went on to the housekeeper’s room where he found Moggs, and his wife, the laundry woman of the establishment, enjoying a large pot of very black tea. He told them that the situation was growing worse from hour to hour, and suggested that they might like to make other arrangements.

  Old Moggs, who cleaned the boots and apparently spent most of his day in the area, jerked a grimy thumb at his wife.

  ‘Me and the missis ’ad better stay ’ere, milord—can’t leave the ‘ouse empty, can we?’

  ‘I don’t like to,’ Kenyon replied, ‘but I’m thinking more of you than the house at the moment.’

  ‘Very good of your lordship, I’m sure, but we’d just as soon stay ’ere as I told ’is Grace, if it’s all the same to you—ain’t that so, Martha?’

  ‘I’m willin’, Tom,’ said his wife.

  ‘All right,’ Kenyon agreed, realising suddenly that the couple might have no home to go to, but thankful not to have to leave the house untenanted. ‘Take what you want from the store-room, but I should go canny with it if I were you—there is enough there to last you a couple of months if you’re careful.’

  ‘Thank you, milord, an’ my best respects.’ Old Moggs touched an imaginary forelock.

  ‘Good-bye then, and good luck to you both!’

  ‘Same to you, milord, same to you,’ came the quick response as he left them in the eternal half-light which perpetually envelops the dwellers below stairs in most London houses.

  Up in his own study once more he began to pack a few of his more precious possessions into a couple of suit-cases. He was growing more and more certain that if they ever got back to Grosvenor Square they would find it sacked and looted.

  It occurred to him that he ought to ring up the Party Office and see if they had decided on any job for him. If they had, Carter would have to run Veronica down to Banners; but the man he wished to speak to was not in, and the secretary had no message for him.

  Restlessly he wondered now if Ann would turn up, even if she had meant to in the first place. He could not expect her before seven anyhow, but would she come at all in this state of crisis and with transport breaking down? He began to hatch fresh plans in case of her non-appearance, but he needed Veronica’s help and she had not yet returned.

  It was nearly six, so he switched on the wireless to hear the latest bulletin. The Sappers had performed miracles with the wrecked bridge and trains were running to Glasgow. Negotiations were proceeding which it was hoped would pacify the sailors. There was now reason to hope that the United States would lift their embargo as far as Britain was concerned, and extend further credits to ensure an adequate food supply. The Government were taking active measures to cope with the situation.

  Kenyon turned off the instrument in disgust. Why was there no news of Cardiff or of the trouble in the East End that morning? The Government were trying to stay the panic by suppressing the most vital facts. Impatient now for Veronica’s return, and unable to settle down to anything, he went out on to the front doorstep to watch for her.

  A low-built powerful Bentley roared out of Carlos Place at a hideously dangerous speed, but the driver, catching sight of Kenyon, pulled up a few yards past him with screaming tyres. Kenyon knew the car and ran down to meet him. It was young Bunny Cawnthorp, dressed as an officer of Grey shirts. There was a nasty gash across his forehead and his face was smeared with blood.

  ‘I say! Are you bad?’ Kenyon asked.

  ‘No, nothing serious; we’re having hell in the East End with these ruddy Communists. I can’t stay though, only stopped to tell you to get out; London will be Red tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m off first thing in the morning.’

  ‘You go tonight, my boy—I am!’

  ‘But aren’t you still on duty?’

  ‘Duty be damned, Kenyon. I’ve slogged a few of these blokes and I’ll slog a few more before I’ve done; but you know my mother is a
cripple, and she’s the only thing in the world that matters two hoots to me. My first duty is to see her safe out of it—then I’ll come back to the other if I can—take care of yourself, old scout. So long!’

  As the Bentley roared away Veronica pulled up in her two-seater. Kenyon hurried over to her. ‘Where the deuce have you been all the afternoon?’

  ‘With Klinkie Forster; the poor sweet’s due to shed an infant this week. Ghastly for her, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, filthy luck. I’d forgotten about that, and you’re paying for the nursing-home, aren’t you?’

  Veronica went scarlet. ‘How the hell did you know that?’

  ‘Oh, her husband told me, ten days ago. The poor devil was almost weeping with gratitude, and I know they’ve been down and out for months. I don’t wonder you’re always broke!’

  ‘Well, that’s my affair,’ she snapped, angry and embarrassed as she fumbled with the door of the car.

  ‘Steady on,’ he soothed her. ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, and I meant to offer you a bit myself towards it, only I’ve been so busy I forgot; but don’t get out. I want you to run down to Gloucester Road and pick up Ann.’

  ‘She’s coming, then? I had no answer to my note.’

  ‘I think the post has gone groggy, like everything else; there’s been no delivery yet today!’

  ‘She may not have meant to come, anyway?’

  ‘Perhaps not, but I simply must know what has happened to her, and if she is there I thought you could persuade her into coming back with you. I’ll wait here in case she is already on her way.’

  ‘My dear! You have got it badly!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kenyon grimly, ‘so badly that I’ve made up my mind to take her with us.’

  ‘What! To Banners?’

  ‘That’s the idea; why not?’

  Veronica exclaimed, protested, and talked wildly of Juliana Augusta’s possible reactions to his project, but finally agreed to assist her brother when he had fully outlined his plans.