A Summer in the Twenties

by Peter Dickinson

  The window became quite dark. About two hours passed. There had been movements and voices outside the cell, the sharp clink of keys, footsteps, orders, the heavy jar of doors. Tom refused any more cigarettes. He had given up his pipe during his second year at Oxford, and now smoked only the occasional after-dinner cigar. This tobacco was far too strong for him and he had no wish to add his vomit to the already reeking cell. The other men smoked steadily until they had no tobacco left.

  Quite early there had been a muttered argument in the far corner, and then somebody had asked him why he had been at the meeting. He’d said that Mr. Struther had been ill so Miss Barnes had asked him to go with her. That had apparently settled the argument, but he became more and more aware that they would have talked differently, more easily, if he had not been there. When one man began to ask who had fired the shot the others shut him up. Tom decided they believed him to be a reporter from a local newspaper—judging by Mr. Pottinger’s remarks at the start of the meeting that would account for their obvious suspicion.

  When at last keys rattled at the door of the cell he woke from a chill doze where he had been sitting wedged into the further corner. He felt sick and feeble, and his headache, which had begun as a beam of pain running from temple to temple, had dulled but now infected his whole head and neck.

  ‘Youanyouanyouanyou,’ said the policeman at the door, picking out the nearest four men. They rose and went without a murmur. The door closed and was locked, but ten minutes later it was opened again and the policeman called the rest of them out. He directed them further down the corridor, up steps, across a hallway and into a fair-sized office with high barred windows. The air had the dry, almost peppery smell of that special dust which collects where paperwork lies in piles and is endlessly sorted and re-sorted. The centre of the room was lit by a low-hanging gas-mantle, under which a sergeant sat at a large desk with open ledgers before him. A constable sat beside him and another stood behind his shoulder. In the shadows around the central pool of light vaguer presences loomed.

  The prisoners were lined up behind the desk, Tom hindmost. At once the constable who had escorted them rifled through the pockets of the first prisoner, laying the contents on the desk and enumerating them in a low voice to the seated constable. At the same time the sergeant asked a brisk series of questions and wrote the answers in his ledger. The belongings of each prisoner were slid into an envelope, which he signed across the flap. The whole process took about two minutes a man.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Hankey.’

  Hands, quick and unfumbling, were already going through Tom’s pockets.

  ‘Christian names?’

  ‘The Honourable Thomas Paul Dettinger.’

  ‘. . . pocket-knife, matches, leather wallet containing . . .’

  The constable’s voice faltered to count the notes, but the sergeant’s pen had already stopped writing. He looked round, over his shoulder. A man came heavily forward.

  ‘What is it, sergeant?’

  The sergeant’s finger tapped, almost gingerly, at the name he had half written. The constable put the wallet back on the table and pushed it a little away, as though it might be infected with some disease.

  ‘What is your address?’ said the man from the shadows.

  ‘Sillerby, Sill, North Riding.’

  There was a short pause, unconvincingly concluded by a cough.

  ‘Ahem. Well now . . . there has evidently . . . would you step in here for a few minutes, sir?’

  ‘You haven’t finished listing my possessions.’

  ‘If you’ll take them back for the time being . . .’

  ‘What about these other men?’

  ‘Sir?’

  A shuffle, the movement of a door, footsteps—the next batch for questioning being led in.

  ‘If you’re going to list theirs you must list mine.’

  A sigh.

  ‘If you would mind stepping . . .’

  ‘I want my possessions listed.’

  ‘Very well. Carry on, then, sergeant.’

  ‘. . . leather wallet containing, er, nineteen pounds. seven shillings and fourpence change. Wristwatch . . . is that gold, please?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Gold wristwatch. You keep the handkerchief, er, sir.’

  Tom bent and signed the envelope flap, then followed the man from the shadows through a door. All through the previous exchange he had kept his head bent, obsessed by the lit rectangle of the desk and the need to go through the same machinery as the other prisoners. This had been the only plan he had been able to make during the wait in the cell, that the authorities should have no doubt who he was, and should understand that he refused to be differently treated from the other men they had so violently and outrageously arrested. Even to put it like that was to make his reaction sound far more willed and rational than it truly was. It was literally a reaction, a slow but still involuntary, almost physical process, like the blink of an eye to a threatened blow, an assertion of his oneness with the fabric of England.

  Now, raising his head, he saw a small drab office, also lit by gas but fully lit, so that there could be no unseen presence in shadows. The man who had brought him here turned out to be a rather ordinary middle-aged police officer, clearly very tired and equally clearly troubled.

  ‘If you’d take a seat, sir,’ said this man, sitting himself at the roll-top desk and pointing to an upright chair beside it.

  Tom hesitated, dragged the chair out and sat.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m Chief Inspector Whitehorn.’

  ‘Are you in charge of all this?’

  ‘If you will please let me ask the questions. Now, sir, how did you come to be at the scene of the riot?’

  ‘Riot?’

  ‘Of the events on Marfleet Strand?’

  ‘A lady asked me to accompany her to the meeting. I stayed to watch, out of interest.’

  ‘A lady? That would be the woman Barnes.’

  ‘Miss Kate Barnes.’

  ‘And what would be your connection with, uh, Miss Barnes?’

  ‘I have no connection with Miss Barnes other than having accompanied her to the meeting.’

  ‘Come now, sir . . .’

  ‘Did you see what happened at Marfleet Strand, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘If you will please let . . .’

  ‘I’ll tell you what happened. There was a perfectly peaceful meeting. Two male speakers addressed it. There was no trouble. When Miss Barnes began to speak a few men started to throw clods of earth at her. These men were clearly attempting to provoke the meeting, which was why they had waited for Miss Barnes, who is very popular with the men, to speak. Naturally some scuffles broke out. The men who had been throwing things were obviously expecting this, as they had armed themselves with clubs. I saw another man who had taken no part in the fighting draw a revolver from his pocket, push into the crowd and fire a shot into the air. He immediately left the fight, took off a cap and put on a red scarf. I could see that he had planned to do this—in fact the whole episode so far was planned. I told Mr. Ned Barnes what I had seen, and he followed the man and quite properly tried to detain him. The man fought back. Before I could come to his help a group of policemen arrived and hit Mr. Barnes with truncheons. They made no attempt to hit or arrest the man who had fired the shot—in fact I saw him slipping away, evidently with their connivance. I didn’t see any more because I was trying to protect Mr. Barnes when somebody knocked me unconscious.’

  ‘I see, sir.’

  ‘Now the first thing I want to know is whether all the policemen on Marfleet Strand were under your command?’

  ‘If you’ll . . .’

  ‘As soon as I am free I shall write to the Lord Lieutenant and ask him to set up an enquiry. I know him personally, and I am quite sure he will believe what I tell him.’

  ‘An enquiry will want to know what you were doing in Hull, and how you came to accompany a known Bolshevik agi
tator to a dockers’ meeting.’

  ‘I suggest you telephone Mrs. Tarrant at Brantingham Manor and ask her that question.’

  Chief Inspector Whitehorn sighed and studied the papers on his desk. Tom waited. He felt no embarrassment at all at spending the currency his birth and upbringing had endowed him with. What was it for, if not to use in a matter like this?

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ he said, ‘I must make it clear that I do not believe all the police at Marfleet Strand were under your command or your control. In fact I have reason to think that the initial assault on the crowd was made by dock police, who had been expecting a shot to be fired so that they could intervene. I am sure that you are as shocked as I am by the course of events.’

  Tom was aware that his speech during the interview had become steadily more stilted. He was speaking the language of authority as if it were the dialect of his tribe—a dialect he had never really needed to use, but which now that the need arose came readily to his lips. Chief Inspector Whitehorn opened his mouth as if to repeat the sacred formula about who should ask the questions, then closed it again. He looked worse than merely tired. His face was as grey as concrete and his lips almost blue. Tom wondered whether he was about to have some kind of seizure, but the convulsion that had appeared to signal it became a weary rising to his feet, followed by a long frowning hesitation and a sigh.

  ‘If you would wait here a few minutes, sir . . .’

  He paused at the door, visibly reassuming the carapace of authority, and left.

  Time went by. At first Tom sat with his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees, fingering the bruise on the side of his head. The pain inside his skull throbbed in slow waves. During one of its lulls he picked up the paper the Chief Inspector had studied and began to read it. It was a list of names with symbols opposite them—ticks, double ticks, the occasional cross or query. High on the list came Barnes, E. and Barnes, Miss K. Barnes, E. had a tick and a query, Barnes, Miss K. was in brackets with a cross beside it. There were about thirty names in all, but Ricardo was not one of them. The last entry, in a different hand from the rest, was not a name but a dash, followed by the words ‘with KB’ and a query.

  Without shame he reached for the further stack of papers, but these seemed solely concerned with routine police administration. He re-read the list, but as soon as he made any effort to memorise the names his headache leaped back at him. He put the paper where he had found it and waited.

  Chief Inspector Whitehorn was already speaking as he came through the door, evidently having found fresh resources of energy somewhere. He looked and sounded distinctly angry.

  ‘Well, sir, I have been able to check the account you give of yourself and you are free to go.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘They are being released pending a decision.’

  ‘A decision about what?’

  ‘I must tell you that I have also begun to make enquiries about the events surrounding the firing of the shot. May I take it that you would recognise the man you say was responsible?’

  ‘Yes, I’m pretty sure of that.’

  ‘And the individual officers who you allege struck Mr. Barnes?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t think so. I might, but . . .’

  ‘Very well. Now sir, I accept that there is evidence of, uh, excessive zeal on the part of some of the dock police who were working in collaboration with the regular force under my command. If this evidence can be corroborated an enquiry will be held. Meanwhile I would advise you, sir, not to prejudice its findings by speaking to anyone about the matter.’

  ‘But . . . oh, very well, I’ll see what happens. But now we can all go home?’

  ‘I have your personal belongings here. If you would be good enough to sign this receipt . . .’

  Tom signed before he took the envelope. As he slotted its contents back into familiar pockets he became aware of an odd sense of restoring parts of his living self that had been amputated by their removal, though he hadn’t noticed this at the time.

  In the larger room a rhythmic murmuring had begun, interrupted by the occasional calling of a name. When Tom came through the door he found the place thronged with the men who had been arrested, waiting their turns to go to the desk and check their belongings. Their behaviour, though still subdued and shocked, was different from what it had been earlier, suffused now with a sort of puzzled interest. One or two glanced at Tom and nudged neighbours. As he passed behind the desk he saw that the policemen working there had also changed, subtly, both in posture and tone. What was clearly an angry argument was being whispered between two of the figures in the further shadows, but these voices stilled as he went by. In the hallway a policeman pointed him without a word towards where two of the released men were disappearing through another door. Beyond it was a large room divided by a mahogany counter. Two more doors and he was standing on the front steps of the police station, breathing the musky soft air of a summer night.

  He looked at his watch. Ten to eleven. There might still be a train on the Leeds line, but the ancient taxi would long since have ceased to haunt Brough Station, and Brantingham Manor would be locked for the night. In any case coping with Mrs. Tarrant tomorrow, let alone trying to explain his night’s adventure to her, was beyond contemplation. It would have to be an hotel.

  More men came out of the police station and at once attached themselves to the large group, both men and women, who were waiting on the far pavement. The newcomers immediately began to explain with jerky gestures and reiterated swearings what had happened to them. The crowd was fairly quiet but an air of jubilation and excitement hung round them as they looked eagerly at the doors for each new arrival. Tom loitered to one side until he realised that he was doing so in the unconscious hope of being at least thanked by someone, and that this was not going to happen. He was moving away when he heard a step behind him and a hand touched his elbow. It was Mr. Barnes.

  ‘Mr. Hankey, sir.’

  ‘Hello. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’d like to shake you by the hand, sir.’

  Very pleased Tom took the grainy fist and shook it warmly.

  Mr. Barnes had lost his cap. Dried blood smeared the side of his face and he had a huge swelling above his left eye, but seemed bird-bright still.

  ‘You fetched us all out of there, Mr. Hankey.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. They couldn’t have kept you. Obviously the whole thing had got out of hand.’

  ‘It had that. Did you hear the policeman in there, swearing to make the devil blush at what the dockie police had landed on them? Aye, but it would have been a night in the cells for all on us, and charges in front of the magistrates and fines, and prison for some of the lads. Did you hear the dockie police Inspector in the back room, raging into the telephone about us being let go?’

  ‘I heard a bit of a row between two men but I couldn’t make out what it was about.’

  ‘Ay, that. That was who must take the blame over arresting Mr. Hankey. Once you were clear of the room they started yelling at each other. And where will you be going now, sir?’

  ‘I’ve missed the last train. I’ll see if I can find an hotel.’

  ‘They lock up timely in Hull, like. It’s not London, is it?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘There’s a sofy in our front parlour, Mr. Hankey. It’s not that long nor broad, but it’ll be better nor nowt.’

  ‘Well that’s very kind of you, but what will Mrs. Barnes . . .’

  ‘If she says a word I’ll wallop her!’

  (It took Tom several weeks’ more acquaintance to discover that this was Mr. Barnes’s favourite joke, made straight-faced always, and always providing him with vast inward satisfaction.)

  ‘Well, thank you very much.’

  ‘Come and meet the lads, Mr. Hankey. They’ll be honoured to shake your hand.’

  In fact when Mr. Barnes led him back to join the crowd on the pavement several of the men came and and thanked him, bu
t he was aware that some of them did it more for Mr. Barnes’s sake than his, and that others preferred to retain their aloofness. Friendly or not, his presence constrained their ease among themselves, so he was glad when the last of the arrested men came down the steps and the crowd broke into smaller groups and they all began to walk, leaden-legged, from pool to pool of gas-light along the cobbled streets.

  10

  Rokesly Hall, 4th August, 1926

  BERTIE PANHARD SHOOK HIS HEAD, making the side-pieces of his wig flap like a spaniel’s ears. His face was far too short and square for Charles II, but the heavy-lidded eyes and the little greasepaint moustache gave it the right look of melancholy and dangerous humour, and he had adopted all, and more than all, the lounging affability the role demanded. He was sitting in a corner of the library at Rokesley, converted to the supper room for Woffles’s party as the Great Hall was being used to dance in. Behind him, on shelves intricately carved in the style of a Gothic rood-screen, climbed rank on rank of leather-bound books, probably none of them once opened during three generations of Belfords.

  ‘Egad, Master Thomas,’ he said. ‘You seem to have made an unconscionable mess of matters in our city of Kingston upon Hull. Good Mistress Tarrant has been—what’s the word I want? ‘‘Irked’’ doesn’t sound quite in period.’