‘Alfred, don’t,’ said Lady Rivers, quickly.
Charnock ignored her. With a lift of his eyebrows, he asked another question.
The man gazed at Charnock as if not believing what he had heard. Charnock repeated himself, and, with a yell, the man lunged out. He grasped at Charnock, there was a flurry of movement, a yelp, and the Russian was left nursing his arm.
Charnock laughed once more. That was a mistake. The Russian fumbled at his waist with his good hand and drew out a long-bladed knife. The crowd in the hall gasped and Mrs Strachan gave a little scream.
Charnock backed off warily, and the Russian pounced.
Haldean, Stanton and the other men leapt forward but Charnock was quicker. Like a striking cobra, he shot out his hand, seized the man’s wrist and twisted it upwards, the knife gleaming between them. For a few brief seconds they stood eye to eye, before Charnock, with a grunt, slammed the Russian’s arm behind his back, sending the knife clattering to the floor.
‘Shall I break your arm?’ asked Charnock, a dangerous glint in his eye.
The man stared at him, then came an interruption. The stairs out of the hall curved up to the corridor and from the corridor Malcolm Smith-Fennimore’s voice broke loudly into the tension.
‘I don’t know, Lady Harriet,’ he was saying, ‘but there’s an awful rumpus going on. The funny thing is I thought I heard someone speaking in Russian. Good God!’ Preceded by Lady Harriet he rounded the stairs and they both stopped dead as they took in what was happening in the hall.
‘Victor,’ called Lady Harriet, in a voice with an edge to it. ‘Who is that peculiar person?’
Lyvenden stood up with an odd little bob and shuffle. ‘Just business, my dear, nothing but business. Nothing for you to worry about. I’ve got it all under control. It’s all under control. Totally under control.’
The Russian stood absolutely still, staring up the stairs, then looked round with a triumphant smile. ‘So,’ he said eventually. ‘I learn something today. That alone was worth coming for.’ Still smiling, he walked over to where his knife lay and bent to pick it up. Charnock stuck his foot out and pinned it to the floor.
The Russian straightened up and Charnock smiled back.
‘Mine, I believe. I’d like a little souvenir of our meeting. Now, if you don’t mind, old man – or should that be comrade? – I really do think you’ve outstayed your welcome.’ He grasped the Russian’s shoulder and steered him firmly to the door, shutting it behind him.
It was like a dam bursting. Everyone spoke at once. Unregarded, Smith-Fennimore came down the stairs into the hall and picked up the knife, turning it over in his hands. As Charnock came back from the door, he handed it over with a few words that were not English.
Charnock took the knife with a look of surprise. ‘I didn’t know you spoke Russian.’
Smith-Fennimore nodded. ‘Why did you ask him if he was one of the Chërnye Sotni? That’s a pretty deadly insult. You might have known it would stir him up.’
Charnock straightened his cuffs. ‘Yes, it did rather, didn’t it?’ he drawled.
Haldean looked at Aunt Alice’s white face. ‘You deliberately provoked him. How could you?’
‘What the devil’s a Churny whatever it was?’ demanded Sir Philip.
‘They were thugs,’ said Smith-Fennimore quietly. ‘Thugs and murderers.’
Charnock spared him a glance of lazy unconcern. He didn’t bother to look at his sister. ‘They were enthusiastic supporters of the Tsar. Perhaps a bit over-enthusiastic at times. I had a fancy to find out which side he was on and I did. It made him see red, in every sense of the word.’ He glanced at his watch and raised his voice so he could be clearly heard, revelling in being the centre of attention. ‘How early it still is. Far too long to wait for lunch. I’m going to the pub to celebrate. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much since I came here.’ His eyes flicked over to Lord Lyvenden. ‘You’ve got some more interesting associates than I gave you credit for. How come you’re on visiting terms with a Bolshie?’
‘A Bolshevik!’ exploded Sir Philip. ‘Lyvenden, what the devil’s going on?’
Lyvenden, who had been sagging quietly in a corner, bristled. Haldean caught Stanton’s eye. Lyvenden was brave enough now any danger was past. ‘The Bolsheviks are no friends of mine, Rivers. I think I may say without fear of contradiction –’ he was gaining confidence with every word he spoke – ‘that you have known me long enough to concur with that remark. But any commercial enterprise, my dear fellow, especially one as fraught with difficulties as mine, renders one liable to contact with some very strange company indeed.’ He was nearly back to his old verbose self. ‘It would be foolishly indiscreet of me to say more, as the affair is not mine to discuss. What I can say is that the Government are fully cognizant of the man who has so unfortunately intruded on the peace of this Sabbath morning and see eye to eye with me in my treatment of the matter. I have their complete confidence, Rivers, I am happy to say.’ The cringing, frightened figure of a few moments ago had vanished as if he had never been. ‘Complete confidence.’
Haldean was glad to see that his uncle, although soothed, wasn’t entirely won over.
‘The Government agree with you?’ said Sir Philip, incredulously. His expression left no one in any doubt as to his opinion of the Government. ‘Well, all I can say,’ he added, ‘is that if being in business means that you have to deal with that sort of gentry, thank God I’m not in business.’
Lunch was a strained meal, which, after the tragedy of the night before and the melodrama of the morning, was hardly a surprise. As was usual in the summer months, coffee was served on the terrace afterwards, where things were more relaxed but far from smooth.
Haldean felt a stab of sympathy for his aunt, who was trying to make conversation against the odds. Lord Lyvenden still had the jumps from his fright that morning (and he had been very badly frightened – what had that bloke wanted?), his wife, when she spoke at all, was bitterly sardonic, Mrs Strachan (was she Lyvenden’s mistress?) gushed, Malcolm Smith-Fennimore was wrapped in introspection, as, uncharacteristically, were the two Robiceux girls, and as for Isabelle . . . Well, at that moment he could have happily taken a sandbag to Isabelle.
For Isabelle was being very, very nice to Arthur, and he, poor fool, was drinking it in. What the hell was she trying to do to him? Leave him alone, he begged, trying to indicate his thoughts with his expression, but Isabelle wouldn’t switch it off. She was being breathtakingly pleasant. Smith-Fennimore looked at the pair of them with a puzzled frown and, under the guise of refilling his coffee cup, moved closer. Isabelle suddenly became aware of him and faltered, before carrying on her conversation with Arthur, her glance flickering between the two men. If she was using Arthur to spur on Smith-Fennimore . . . But it sounded so real. Haldean suddenly worked out what was going on. Now Isabelle had finally turned Arthur down, she was wondering what she’d lost. He’d always thought Stanton had been the one who counted. Maybe, just maybe, Isabelle might start to think so too.
‘More coffee, Isabelle?’ said Smith-Fennimore. He took her cup and filled it, then planted himself firmly between Isabelle and Arthur. ‘You missed all the excitement in the hall this morning.’
‘I heard about it though,’ she said. ‘I can’t think what Uncle Alfred was playing at.’
There was a very succinct answer to that but in deference to the present company, Haldean decided not to make it.
Sir Philip cleared his throat and looked at Smith-Fennimore. ‘There’s something I want to ask you, Commander. I was wondering how it was you spoke Russian. You weren’t there in the war, were you?’
Smith-Fennimore laughed. ‘No, unfortunately. I did ask to be sent there, because I know the country – or bits of it at least – quite well, but, on the grounds that you’re always posted where you can be of the least use, I never made it. No, it goes back to when I was a kid. I used to spend my holidays in Russia and the Baltic. The bank had a strong Russian connect
ion and my father saw to it that I grew up speaking both Russian and French.’
‘All Russians speak French, don’t they?’ said Isabelle, intelligently.
Smith-Fennimore grinned. ‘All the educated ones used to. Goodness knows if they still do. I imagine all that stopped after the revolution in ’17. Naturally that was the end of the bank’s connection with the place, but fortunately my father had seen the writing on the wall and started to pull out before then. Things went downhill for a couple of years but I’m glad to say we had sufficient interests in both this country and the Argentine to cover the loss.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Sir Philip, finishing his coffee. ‘About the bank being able to recover, I mean. There were plenty of poor devils who were ruined when Russia went up in flames.’ He put down his cup with unnecessary force. ‘Bolsheviks!’
‘Talking of Bolsheviks,’ said Lady Harriet, with a glance at her husband, ‘I’m still waiting to hear an adequate explanation of what that peculiar man wanted, Victor.’
Lord Lyvenden winced. ‘Business, my dear, business.’ Lady Harriet raised an ironic eyebrow, piercing his pomposity like a pin in a balloon. He faltered, recovered himself and blustered on. ‘Talking of business, I find I am most gravely inconvenienced by the lack of a secretary.’
There was a collective intake of breath round the terrace at this monumental display of callousness.
‘I sent a telegram to his uncle, Mr Urqhart, this morning,’ put in Lady Rivers, who had seen the frankly hostile stares of Haldean, Stanton and Smith-Fennimore. ‘I have to thank you, Lord Lyvenden, for giving me his address.’
The hostess in her made her stress the words ‘thank you’. It wasn’t her fault it seemed sarcastic. ‘Obviously we want to do the best we can in the circumstances, and I’ve assured Mr Urqhart that we shall do everything possible. It will be a terrible blow to him, I’m sure.’
‘To all of us, dear lady,’ said Lord Lyvenden, with a funereal expression. ‘And to voice my own concerns, it is especially hard to be deprived of Mr Preston’s services at a time when I can ill spare them.’
Lady Rivers sighed and gave up.
‘I am afraid I must go up to Town tomorrow to begin the search for a replacement.’
‘That won’t be very hard, will it?’ asked Sir Philip, with distaste. If Lyvenden doesn’t have the hide of an elephant, thought Haldean, he’ll drop this now. ‘With all this dreadful unemployment I’d have thought you’d be able to find someone easily enough.’
Lord Lyvenden might be impervious to hints, but he could be shocked. ‘You can hardly suppose I would select my personal secretary from the ranks of the unemployed, Rivers.’ He dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief. ‘This is excellent coffee, excellent, by the way. All this talk of unemployment is grossly exaggerated. There would be no unemployment if the men concerned were not, in fact, unemployable.’
Smith-Fennimore stirred, looked daggers, but said nothing.
‘As an employer of labour I am in the position to speak assertively on this topic. The men who badger, absolutely badger, both my Birmingham factories and the bank are, without exception, incapable of maintaining any sort of paid position, even at the lowest level. They are, Rivers, not a type of man you have ever encountered.’
‘I’ve encountered a fair variety of types in my time, Lyvenden,’ said Sir Philip. ‘I haven’t lived in the country all my life, you know.’
Lyvenden smiled dismissively. ‘I hardly think you have had much to do with the sort of men I have in mind. Why, only the other day one had the impudence to actually accost me in the street.’ He glanced at Smith-Fennimore. ‘You remember the incident, Commander? I had to leave you to deal with the fellow. My doctor insists that I avoid any unnecessary stress. I trust you dealt with him effectively.’
There was a dangerous light in Smith-Fennimore’s eyes. ‘Oh, I dealt with him all right,’ he said softly. ‘I gave the poor devil a job as a messenger.’
Lord Lyvenden gaped at him. ‘You did what?’ Haldean felt like cheering. ‘No good will come of it,’ spluttered Lyvenden. ‘Mark my words, Commander. The engagement of the lower grades of staff should properly be left to the managers of the departments concerned, but if you do feel moved to take such an intimate interest in the minutiae of the bank’s affairs, why not go to one of the properly recognized agencies? Such rash impulsiveness will lead to nothing but trouble. Look at that poor dead boy whose untimely decease has done so much to mar what should have been the happiest of occasions. I took him on, much against my better judgement, as a personal favour to his uncle, Andrew Urqhart, who thought it would steady the lad.’
And I bet you got something in return, thought Haldean, viciously. Anyone but Lyvenden, seeing the disapproval on the faces round him, would have drawn a halt there, but he rolled on like a juggernaut, crushing the feelings of those in his path.
‘However,’ continued Lyvenden, ‘as in all these cases where the heart rules the head, it turned out to have been an injudicious decision.’ His face lengthened. ‘Although I have no wish to speak ill of the dead, I fear Mr Preston’s heart was not always in his work. I had to upbraid him several times for some very elementary errors and I fear he mistook my attempts at constructive correction for petty fault-finding. Those who knew him best will agree that his end was, I’m afraid, marked by the same characteristics as his life; rash impulsiveness, small thought to the effect of his actions on others and an imprudent disregard for consequences. Is that not so, Commander?’
Smith-Fennimore drew a deep breath and flexed his jaw.
Sir Philip, who had been listening to Lord Lyvenden with mounting unease, uncharacteristically rushed into speech, seizing the first topic to hand. ‘Er . . . the weather. Yes, the weather. Nice day, isn’t it? We’re being awfully lucky with the weather, aren’t we?’
‘Absolutely we are, Dad,’ said Isabelle quickly. ‘Don’t you think so, Malcolm?’
‘I think . . .’ began Smith-Fennimore, then stopped. He paused for a moment then his shoulders relaxed. ‘Terribly lucky,’ he agreed politely. Then, catching Isabelle’s eye, he made a visible effort. ‘I think we’re due for a change though,’ he continued. ‘Look at those clouds. They’re mares’ tails. There’s a storm brewing somewhere.’
Isabelle looked at her cousin, willing him to help the conversation along.
Haldean was only too willing to play his part in steering it away from the emotionally fraught subject of Tim Preston. If for no other reason, the sight of Bubble Robiceux’s stricken face would have spurred him on. She was usually a happy, light-hearted girl but she’d had a rotten blow and he was damned if that fatuous swine Lyvenden was going to make it any worse for her. Besides that, if Smith-Fennimore could make an effort, so could he. ‘D’you know,’ said Haldean, stirring his coffee, ‘I believe I could have told you were either a sailor or an airman just from the way you looked at the sky.’
‘You’d be right on both counts,’ agreed Smith-Fennimore. His voice changed. He was no longer simply making conversation. ‘I started off in the navy, got bitten with the flying bug, and transferred to the Air Service.’
‘I think Jack was born with the flying bug,’ said Isabelle, affectionately. ‘He lied about his age to join the RFC and he’s still crazy about it.’
‘Stretched the truth slightly,’ corrected Haldean with a smile. ‘Everyone was doing it. Do you still fly, Fennimore? The newspapers always talk of you as a racing driver.’
‘No, I still fly. I’d hate to live without it. Where d’you park your bus?’
Haldean smile faded slightly. ‘I haven’t got one.’
‘Why not? If you came up to Brooklands you’d be handy for London.’
‘Because . . .’ Despite himself, Haldean was suddenly irritated. Smith-Fennimore might find money no object but he had to be careful with money and it annoyed him to spell it out. ‘It’s a bit beyond my reach, I’m afraid. I did wonder about it.’ He broke off. Why shouldn’t he say it? Why not
come down to raw figures? ‘It’s a hundred quid a year to rent a hangar at Brooklands, to say nothing of the fitting and rigging charges, and that’s just the start of it.’ That had been a bit sharp. He softened it with a laugh. ‘The reading public will have to be a sight more gullible before I fly again. If I did, Brooklands would be my first choice. That’s where I trained and I was seconded back there to a Home Defence Squadron to have a crack at the bombers.’ He laughed again, a genuine laugh this time. ‘That’s before I disgraced myself by being silly round Members’ Bridge.’
‘What!’ Smith-Fennimore sat upright in his chair. ‘Jack Haldean! I knew I’d heard the name when I met you. Apart from your books, that is. You’re the one who looped the loop through Members’ Bridge! It was a Sop with Pup in ‘16.’ He gave Haldean a look of unqualified admiration. ‘You’re a legend, man.’
Haldean grinned. ‘Hardly that. It all ended in tears. I frightened a Staff Colonel into fits the poor devil was on the bridge at the time – and wound up being sent back to France with my tail between my legs. It was a pretty goofy stunt.’
‘Oh no, it wasn’t.’ Smith-Fennimore leaned forward in his chair. ‘I wish I’d known who you were before. Look, about this Brooklands thing. Why don’t you share my hangar? I’m sure I can fix you up with something worth flying and I’ve got my own fitter and rigger.’
Haldean looked at him. ‘I couldn’t do that.’
‘Well, let’s halve the fees, then. Besides that, I’ve got a flying project in mind that I wouldn’t mind talking over with you.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Interested?’
‘I . . .’ It had been downright sensitive of Fennimore to guess why he’d hesitated. He couldn’t take it as a free gift, but a halved cost would be just about manageable and the thought of flying again sent a tingle down his spine. ‘I’d love to,’ he said.
‘Excellent,’ said Smith-Fennimore, his temper well and truly restored. ‘I’ll look forward to it, Haldean.’ He got to his feet and smiled down at Isabelle. ‘You promised to show me something of the grounds. Shall we go for a walk?’
Mad About the Boy? Page 6
