‘Now!’ he panted, seizing her again, ‘we’ve had enough of this.’
‘And so have I,’ cried an angry voice. It was Gregory Sallust, a bricklayer’s trowel in one hand—a large brick in the other.
Kenyon stumbled to his feet and looked round with amazement. Sallust’s room presented an extraordinary spectacle. The bed had been moved out of a large alcove, and in its place were stacked hundreds of books, boxes, bundles; apparently all the wordly possessions which Gregory Sallust could not carry with him, but held dear. He was busy bricking them up and a three-foot wall already separated the alcove from the rest of the room. Rudd stood nearby mixing mortar on a board, and the two big shiny pistols which Kenyon had seen earlier in the day reposed behind him on the abandoned bed.
‘Gregory!’ Ann ran forward, clutching at the mason’s arm, ‘stop him! Oh, don’t let him, please?’
Sallust shook himself free impatiently. ‘Let him what?’
‘Take me away! He’s trying to force me to go to the country with him against my will!’
‘Is that true? Sallust looked sharply at Kenyon.
‘Yes, more or less—but if she stays here she’ll starve.’
‘That’s so. I’m clearing out tonight. Why don’t you want to go, Ann?’
‘I won’t! not with him. Gregory, if you’re going, take me with you—please?’
‘Sorry, my dear—it’s quite impossible.’
‘But why—why?’
‘Because I’m too old a soldier to want to have a woman hampering my movements at a time like this.’
‘Don’t be a brute, Gregory. You can drop me directly we get into the country. I’ll manage somehow—then.’
‘Don’t you be a stupid little fool. If Fane is ass enough to want to take you—let him! and thank God for giving you such damn fine eyes!’
‘Thanks,’ Kenyon cut in. ‘If ever we meet again I’ll stand you the best magnum of champagne we can find for giving her that sound piece of advice. Come on, Ann!’
‘Gregory—please?’ she begged.
‘Oh, shut up, and get out—I’m busy. And for God’s sake keep what you’ve seen to yourselves, otherwise someone will come and break down this wall before I get back.’
She turned on Kenyon, her eyes blazing. ‘I’m not going with you—I won’t!’
‘You are,’ he said, ‘and now!’ Then stooping suddenly, he picked her up in his arms. She kicked and fought, but it was useless. In stature she was hardly taller than a well-grown girl of fifteen, and still struggling ineffectively, he carried her down the stairs.
‘Darlings!’ shrieked Veronica as they appeared on the pavement. ‘Romance at last! How too thrilling!’ She flung open the door of Kenyon’s car while Carter and Lucy, now seated side by side in her own, endeavoured to hide their interest and astonishment under masks of gravity.
Kenyon dumped his burden in the centre of the car. Veronica slipped into the near side, and slammed the door while he ran round to the driver’s seat.
Ann wriggled into an upright position as Kenyon touched the accelerator. ‘Let me get out,’ she cried fiercely. ‘Let me get out! Help!’
‘Shut, up, damn you,’ snapped Kenyon. He was furious that he should have let himself in for such a scene, but determined now to go through with it. The car slid forward.
‘Help!’ shouted Ann again, while the residents who remained in Gloucester Road began to fling up their windows to learn the cause of the excitement; but Veronica put a restraining hand on her shoulder.
‘Listen, my sweet,’ she said firmly, ‘if the police or anyone stop us now I’m going to tell them you are loopy. Your poor little baby died last night—and the shock has temporarily turned your brain, so your nice kind cousin Veronica is taking you to the country. I’ve got away with worse stories than that in my time, so you needn’t think they won’t believe me—understand?’
‘Yes,’ sobbed Ann. ‘I believe you’d get away with murder!’
‘I would,’ said Veronica, ‘if it was for anyone I was fond of!’
8
Nightmare Night!
Ann let herself relax into a more comfortable position between them, realising suddenly that she had been acting like a fool. All day she had been striving to leave London, really frightened now as to what might happen in the capital, and here was a heaven-sent opportunity. If it had not been for Kenyon’s high-handed treatment of her the previous night—if he had only tried persuasion instead of bullying—and if she had not been so wretchedly tired after her long and disappointing day, she would have come quite willingly. He could not prevent her leaving him at the journey’s end if she wished.
Kenyon was angry with Ann, and with himself. ‘If only she had been reasonable the night before this ridiculous scene would not have occurred, but he ought, of course, to have been more patient with her—actually to kidnap her was pretty stiff—it was the impulsive nature which went with his red hair,’ he thought ruefully, ‘which led him into scrapes like this. Anyhow, the thing was done, and he had her safely beside him in the car, which meant a lot.’ He turned his attention to the best way of getting out of London.
‘Why this gaiety by night?’ asked Veronica. They were coming into Grosvenor Place, and the sound of many voices raised in a swinging chorus came to them from the direction of Piccadilly.
‘Sailors in the Green Park, I expect,’ muttered Kenyon, ‘looks as if they had bonfires going too,’ he added glancing eastwards at the red glare that lit the dying twilight.
‘Poor Queen Elizabeth—all her nice furniture at Buck House going up in smoke.’
‘Oh, no, I don’t think so,’ he disagreed as he swung the car in the direction of Victoria—but Veronica was already thinking of other things.
‘What sort of a reception would they have at Banners?’ she was wondering. ‘It was one thing to arrive there according to their plan of the previous evening with Ann as a willing adjunct to the party. Juliana Augusta might prove a little awkward, but Veronica had prepared a story to fit the case, and at the time she had counted on Ann’s co-operation in putting it over. Now it was a very different matter. This small, pink wildcat with the tawny eyes was apparently guaranteed to blow up on the slightest pretext. What asses they would look if Ann spilled the beans about her forcible abduction!’
By the tram terminus at Victoria there was a considerable gathering of people. The trams, like the tubes and buses, had now ceased running altogether, but the crowd appeared to be waiting there on the off chance that something might happen. A news van drew up just ahead of the car and the people swarmed towards it, so they were compelled to pull up, while bundle after bundle of the thin sheets were distributed to eager hands. The man on the van would give no change. ‘No time,’ he kept on repeating and many a shilling or half-crown reached his ready palm in addition to the coppers of the multitude, which seemed to grow every moment. Within four minutes the van was empty and the disappointed members of the throng sullenly dispersing.
Kenyon had no chance to secure a copy, but a bystander gave him the leading items of news from the single-sheeted edition which he held.
The Government had resigned … the Communist minority in the House had made a bid for power, but the Committee of Imperial Defence had temporarily taken over the control of the country … there was a stirring appeal by the Prince for fair play and the maintenance of law and order. All loyal citizens were asked to refrain from hoarding food, and adding to the difficulties of the police by congregating in the streets.
The crowd thinned, and Kenyon was able to proceed slowly through it. Soon they were running at a good pace down Victoria Street, which was almost deserted; long lines of shuttered shops, gloomy and lifeless in the shadows, for there had been more trouble at the power stations and only one side of the street was lighted.
At Westminster there were crowds again—also apparently waiting for something to happen. The great bulk of the Parliament Houses loomed up grim and silent, deserted after the last mome
ntous session. The strong iron gates were closed, and police mounted guard at the entrances. In the yard, which is habitually the parking-place for Members’ cars, Kenyon saw groups of soldiers sitting about or leaning on their rifles.
By sticking close behind a police van, he managed to get through the square without difficulty, and round the corner to Westminster Bridge, but to his surprise he found the bridge-head guarded. A large tank stood in the middle of the road, chains had been drawn across from side to side and detachments of police stood on either pavement. An inspector came forward.
‘Can’t I go through?’ asked Kenyon.
‘No, sir. I’m sorry, but this bridge has been closed to traffic and pedestrians.’
‘But why?’
‘Well, it’s not that we mind people going south, sir, but to prevent them coming over from the other side. If we took the barrier down they might rush us.’
‘Good gracious, who?’ smiled Veronica looking at the empty bridge.
The inspector grinned. ‘You’d soon see, miss, if you was on the other side. That’s where the real barrier is; this is only a sort of second line. They’re a real ugly lot over by the County Hall tonight.’
Kenyon nodded. He had meant to avoid the worst districts on the south side by going out of London via Brixton and Herne Hill, then through Bromley into Kent. Now he would have to rearrange his plans. ‘Are all the bridges closed?’ he asked.
‘No, sir, it’s just the Houses of Parliament and the Government offices round Whitehall that we’re anxious about at the moment. It’s important that there should be no trouble round here.’
‘I want to get on to the Maidstone Road,’ Kenyon confided, ‘but I thought it would be a bit risky to take the ordinary way.’
‘It’s a pity you didn’t go yesterday, sir. So much has happened these last twenty-four hours, and in some places the people are a bit out of hand—we can’t be everywhere at once you see. I’d cut back as far as Putney Bridge if I were you, and make a big circle—you’ll be out of all the trouble then.’
Kenyon frowned. The plan was a good one, but he was anxious now about his supply of gas. He had not been able to fill up to capacity the previous day, and had used a lot in the last twelve hours. A circuit by Putney Bridge would increase his mileage enormously and if his pressure failed they would be stranded by the roadside. It occurred to him that if he telephoned to his Party headquarters they might be able to tell him of a place in the neighbourhood where he could pick up some more, so he nodded to the Inspector and backed his car. ‘There’s a call-box in the Underground Station, isn’t there?’ he asked.
‘There is, sir, but there are only skeleton staffs on the exchanges now, and they’re too busy to put through any but official calls. The Military take over at midnight.’
‘Thanks, Inspector.’ Kenyon turned to the faithful Carter who had now pulled up behind him: ‘You’ll be all right for gas with the small car, so you’d better leave us here—go out round Putney. I’m going to the office, it’s only just round the corner, and I’ll follow you if I can, but get out of London as quickly as possible and don’t worry about us.’
‘Very good, milord—just as you wish,’ Carter touched the absurd bowler hat, Lucy smiled brightly, and the small car backed away.
When he reached his office he looked at Ann doubtfully. ‘You won’t make trouble or anything, will you?’
‘No—I’m sorry I made a fuss. I’ll come with you to the country, but no further—you understand that, don’t you?’
He smiled at her downcast face as he got out. ‘An armed neutrality, eh?—well, just as you like.’
In the office he found everything in confusion. Not being actually a Government department its continuance was in no way vital, and most of its principal executives being people with some sort of official position, they had abandoned it to attend to more urgent affairs. Normally it would have been closed hours before, but owing to the crisis a certain number of clerks and typists who had congregated there during the day now displayed no intention of even endeavouring to get home. Kenyon could find no one in authority and, after refusing half a dozen cups of tea from members of the staff, went out into the street again.
A commissionaire was on duty, but when questioned about gas, shook his head. ‘Thirty bob a thousand, sir, it was today, but I doubt if you’d get any anywhere now. Most of the gas-filling stations have been cleaned out.’
Scotland Yard was only just across the square, so Kenyon thought he would go there. He did not expect that they would be able to help him in the matter of gas, but they would probably know about conditions on the other side of the river, and if there was any real danger in taking the direct route over London Bridge and down the Old Kent Road.
Whitehall was a thick jam of people right up to Trafalgar Square and more seemed to be flooding in every moment, despite the fact that the bridge was closed and the tubes and buses not running. Up near the Horse Guards the crowd was singing, and Kenyon recognised the tune as the Red Internationale, so things did not look too good in spite of the squads of police who kept the people moving.
The car crept along at a foot pace but after he had gone about fifty yards he was forced to bring it to a standstill. A mob of roughs were eddying round a big Daimler. Inside, gaunt—impassive—monocled, sat a grey-moustached General, apparently on his way to the War Office. They were booing him but he appeared quite unconcerned. A detachment of mounted police rode up, edging their horses through the crush with the skill born of long practice. The hooligans dispersed, the Daimler moved on, and Kenyon followed.
The gates at the entrance of Scotland Yard were closed, but they were opened for a minute to admit a lorry on which was mounted an enormous searchlight. Kenyon caught a glimpse of motor-cars, reserves of mounted and foot police, and the steel helmets of soldiers in the courtyard. Every window of the great building was brightly lighted and the shadows which moved constantly across them told of an intense activity within. Kenyon was directed to the entrance further down, at Cannon Row Police Station; there he had to wait some little time. Half a dozen rioters were being brought in and a wounded policeman. A little batch of sad-eyed aliens stood in a corner of the room; they had no knowledge of what was happening in their own countries, but now that England seemed to be on the verge of Revolution, they were anxious to get away, and turned with pathetic confidence to the police.
A hysterical woman was loudly insistent that the Sergeant should find her husband, who had gone out the evening before and failed to return. There would be plenty of that,’ Kenyon reflected, ‘in the next few days,’
At last he managed to get a few words with the harassed officer. Gas was out of the question. Even if he could find a supply he would not be allowed to buy it without a permit. All stocks had been commandeered by the Government. The Bridges were open except for Westminster and Waterloo. As far as the Inspector knew there had not been any serious rioting in Southwark or Bermondsey. Isolated cases but nothing more, and cars had been going through up to the last hour.
The Sergeant attributed the comparative quiet in the SouthEastern area to the fact that the majority of roughs had come up to the West End. There had been considerable looting in the Strand earlier in the evening he said, but the mob had been dispersed by baton charges and the situation was well in hand. ‘If things get worse we’ve got plenty of tear gas inside,’ he ended up jerking his thumb over his shoulder. ‘We’ll have to give ’em a real lesson.’
Considerably cheered to think that somebody who possessed real resolution was handling the situation at last, Kenyon fought his way back to the car, and taking the short cut down Cannon Row to Westminster Bridge again, turned left along the Embankment.
Night had fallen now but no sky-signs illuminated the tall buildings on the south bank of the river, and owing to the lack of traffic a strange hush seemed to have fallen over London, yet there was something sinisterly menacing about that unusual silence broken only by the deep drone of patrolling aeropla
nes as they passed now and then low overhead.
The City was quiet as the grave, only an occasional knot of men tramping westward and a few policemen standing on the street corners.
At Cannon Street a flying squad car hurtled past them at breakneck speed—the whine of its siren making the night hideous.
Kenyon turned south over London Bridge. On the far side he was called on to halt. A group of Greyshirts with an officer at their head came towards him. ‘Where for?’ asked the officer.
‘Kent—Maidstone Road,’ said Kenyon.
‘Right—got any food in the car?’
‘No—why?’
‘Orders to stop any supplies leaving London—d’you mind getting out?’
‘Look here!’
‘Sorry to trouble you, but I’ve got to search your car.’ The man was polite, but firm. Obviously the only thing to do was to look cheerful and obey.
They climbed out and a swarm of lusty Greyshirts began to rummage in the car. Out of the back came the picnic basket.
‘Here—what’s this?’ exclaimed the officer.
‘Supper,’ said Kenyon. ‘You’re not going to pinch that are you—we’ve had no dinner as it is!’
The basket was opened up, and it was obvious that Carter had done his job thoroughly. He had removed all the gadgets for picnic teas and stuffed every available inch of space with provender.
‘Take it inside.’ The officer jerked his head towards the Bridge House Hotel, which had been converted into a depot. The hamper was carried off and the search renewed with vigour.
Under the seat the Greyshirts discovered Kenyon’s cigarettes, two bottles of hock and one each of Port and Brandy.
‘Here! that’s not food!’ Kenyon protested as he saw these items about to follow the picnic basket.
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