Half a Crown

by Jo Walton

  I didn’t want to ask for him, to say I was his niece, which wasn’t quite true anyway. I thought it would be better to come from outside. I didn’t entirely trust these bobbies to pass a message on to him quickly, and I didn’t want to attract their attention. Besides, there was a chance they’d just let me go without bothering him at all. I could always tell them later if I needed to. It was like having an ace in reserve. I decided to keep quiet and wait. I sat still, my coat around me, and fell into a doze. I don’t know how long I slept.

  I was woken when another six women were pushed into the room. One of them had a huge red mark on the side of her face. Conversation turned to them and to the riot, which had apparently got completely out of control. The women had been at another police station, which was full, before being sent on here. “So whose side were you on, then?” a fat woman asked the woman with the mark.

  “I wasn’t on either side, as such,” she said. “I was just trying to get away when I got clobbered. As for what they were saying, I liked the singing, but I didn’t like hearing things said against Mr. Normanby. It’s not as if it’s his fault he’s in his wheelchair, is it? Terrorists killed Sir James and they tried for Mr. Normanby, just like they’d kill us all if they had the chance.”

  “That lad did have a point though,” said the woman next to me. “Mr. Normanby isn’t a really strong leader, not when you compare him to Hitler.”

  I couldn’t believe she’d be foolish enough to say this, after the riot, and sure enough the marked woman spat at her, after which the room erupted. Women who had been sharing cigarettes and sweets beforehand were clawing at each other and shouting names I hadn’t heard for years. I cowered on the bench, my bare feet tucked up under me. The police had to turn a cold water hose on two women to get them to stop clawing at each other. When they separated us, I went with the woman who had seemed friendly. We were put in another cell, almost the same as the first, but with a thin high window on one wall, through which I watched the dawn coming. Every so often a policeman would call a name, and a woman would go off to be processed, then be brought back and another name would be called. At last I slept a little more. I was startled out of an uneasy dream to hear my name called.

  It wasn’t Uncle Carmichael, just an ordinary policeman, ready to process me as he had been processing the others. It must have been nearly midday by the light. The policeman made me walk in front of him down a badly lit corridor, then another policeman opened the door of a little cell. I stepped in, and had time to see dirty white tiled walls, a table, and two chairs before one of the men behind me pushed me hard in the middle of my back. I had to take a couple of running steps and then fell, banging my knee. I waited for a moment, on the ground, then got up slowly. “Sit down,” the policeman said. It was then I realized it hadn’t been an accident, he had quite deliberately given me a shove. I was furious.

  “Why did you push me?” I demanded.

  “Sit down, or do I have to make you?” he asked. He was quite a young man, red-haired. He sounded almost bored.

  I sat down. It seemed like the best policy. He sat down on the other side of the table, and put my papers down in front of him, along with a file card. “Elvira Royston,” he said. “Just eighteen. Resident in Kensington.”

  My papers had Uncle Carmichael’s address, of course. “I’m staying with a friend in Belgravia,” I said.

  “What friend? Was he at the rally with you?”

  “Elizabeth Maynard, and yes, she was,” I said, stressing the pronoun.

  He looked me up and down, quite obviously, not even trying to hide it. “So a pair of young girls went quite unaccompanied to the rally,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Dangerous, that is, as you’ve seen.”

  “Her fiancé was with us,” I said, stretching the truth. “Sir Alan Bellingham.”

  I had hoped that Sir Alan’s name might mean something to the loutish officer, but he didn’t twitch. “Is that right?” he asked, making a note. “How do you spell that?”

  I told him, and he wrote it down. Then he looked up again. “So whose side were you on when the fighting started?”

  “Neither. I was just trying to get away.”

  “And which side do you find more sympathetic? The singer, or Mr. Normanby?”

  “I had no sympathies!” I insisted.

  “You went with the British Power group when you fought in the cell,” he said, looking down at his notes.

  “That’s just because—,” I started, but I couldn’t have told that cold cruel man about the barley sugar. “I have no sympathies,” I repeated, but I saw that he noted down BP next to my name.

  “Let’s take you back, then,” he said, getting out of his chair.

  “When will I be released?” I asked, coming cautiously to my feet.

  “When we’re good and ready.”

  “With what am I being charged?”

  “Nothing, just yet. We can hold you for twenty-eight days on suspicion. We could charge you with plenty, though, if we like. Riot, incitement to riot, conspiracy to incite riot, terrorism, communism, anarchism.” He stepped a little closer, and I backed away, feeling the wall of the cell behind me. His hard eyes were green, and his eyelashes so pale it almost seemed as if he had none. “I wouldn’t be so eager to be charged if I were you, Miss Royston. The Watch are very interested in finding out who caused this riot.”

  “I do hope they are,” I said, deciding that it was now or never for playing my ace. “Chief Inspector Carmichael of the Watch is my uncle. He’s probably wondering where I am. I expect he’ll want to hear how I’ve been treated.”

  6

  When Carmichael got back to the Watch buildings, the rain was coming down in stair rods. He ran up the steps towards his own door, which the guard helpfully opened for him as he came close. When the building was being designed he had deliberately asked for the rows of doors, dwarfed as they were by the huge pillars. In the Yard there was no way in or out except under the watchful eye of the sergeant on desk duty. Here, each department had their own exit and entrance, and although there were always guards on duty under the portico, keeping an eye on who came and went, Carmichael felt that the psychological effect was different. “Lovely weather for ducks,” the guard said, and Carmichael favored him with a thin smile.

  As he came down the hallway from the stairs, Carmichael removed his hat and skimmed it towards the heavy Victorian hat stand. It landed, as it did two times out of three, neatly on the top peg.

  Miss Duthie was hovering outside his office. Normally she sat at a little desk in the capacious hallway, filtering his visitors, out of earshot when the door was closed and near at hand when he wanted her to make tea. Now she was pacing across the hallway. She looked very relieved when she saw him. “There’s a rather strange thing, sir,” she said. “They telephoned from Paddington, and spoke to me, and then to Mr. Ogilvie, and he wanted to go over there to deal with it but I said he ought to wait, as you’d be back so soon.”

  “Who telephoned?” Carmichael asked, beginning to take off his wet overcoat. Miss Duthie had no authority to give orders to Ogilvie, she wasn’t in the chain of command. “Is this urgent? I’d love a cup of tea.”

  “I think it is urgent.” Miss Duthie’s brow was crumpled with distress. “The Paddington police telephoned. They said they had Elvira, that she’d been caught in that horrible riot.”

  “Good God!” Carmichael froze, one arm in and one out of his overcoat. “You did absolutely right stopping Ogilvie, Miss Duthie, thank you.”

  “I did think that as it was a personal matter, I might exercise my judgment,” she said, looking much happier.

  “Quite right,” Carmichael said, shrugging his coat back on. “How did Elvira come to be— No, you don’t know, you couldn’t. I must go to Paddington right away.” He pulled the notes he had made in the Prime Minister’s office out of his pocket. “Give this to Mr. Ogilvie, and tell him to get on it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Miss Duthie said, taking the paper. “D
o you want to take Sergeant Evans with you?”

  “No harm in it. Give him a call and get him to meet me out on the portico. Where the devil is my hat?”

  “It’s on the hat stand,” Miss Duthie said, without looking, already dialing, her other hand patting her bun. “Paul? Chief Inspector Carmichael needs you to meet him on the portico immediately.”

  Paul, Carmichael thought as he walked briskly back the way he had come, settling his hat on his head. Miss Duthie was on first-name terms with all the sergeants and men, though she kept a strict formality with the officers, who she perhaps considered as her own social class. He had heard Sergeant Evans addressing her as Peg, though to Carmichael she was always Miss Duthie. If it hadn’t been for the security check he wouldn’t have known her first names were Margaret Rose, after the princess. She might be a social oddity but she really could make tea. Besides, she wasn’t likely to go off one day and get married and leave him in the lurch, not at her age, and not with those big glasses. And she had done just the right thing in this Elvira matter; he wouldn’t have wanted Ogilvie going there and putting his big foot into what amounted to Carmichael’s private affairs. However did Elvira come to be in the riot? She wasn’t a little girl anymore. But what could have possessed her to go? And why on earth hadn’t that fool of a Mrs. Maynard, who was supposed to be looking after her, told him she was missing?

  He stopped, halfway up the stairs. Was she missing, or was this a terrorist ruse to get him out of the office in a predictable direction so they could blow up his car? He turned back. It was just the sort of thing they’d try, the BFG, the Scottites, any of the more violent freedom groups. He didn’t really believe it, but he should check.

  “Telephone Mrs. Maynard for me,” he called to Miss Duthie as soon as he was sure she would hear.

  “I tried her, but the maid said there was nobody at home,” Miss Duthie said, dialing.

  Carmichael snatched the receiver out of his secretary’s hand and listened to the slow pairs of rings at the other end. It was picked up by the maid. “They’ve just this minute come in,” she said, when he gave his name and asked for Mrs. Maynard. “I’ll hand you over, or no, sir, here’s Miss Betsy to speak to you now.”

  “Do you know where she is?” Betsy Maynard asked urgently, with no preliminaries. Carmichael’s heart sank.

  “When did you last see Elvira?” he asked.

  “Last night, at Marble Arch. I got swept away from her in the crowd, and then I got my arm broken. They’ve been fussing over me and operating and it wasn’t until just now that we found out that Elvira was missing. Mummy thought she’d have come safely home, but of course she hasn’t, and we’re frantic.”

  “I believe she’s been arrested with the rioters,” Carmichael said. “I’m going to Paddington now. I’ll need to speak to your mother about this. She should have told me Elvira was missing.”

  “Mummy was at the Charing Cross Hospital with me all night,” Betsy said. “Not that it’s any excuse, really.”

  Carmichael was inclined to agree. “If you have a broken arm you’ll need to rest,” he said. “I’ll speak to your mother after I’m sure Elvira is safe.”

  “Yes, do go and get her,” Betsy said. “And if you wouldn’t mind, could you let me know when she’s safely with you? I’m terribly worried about her.”

  “I’ll do that, Betsy,” Carmichael said, and rang off.

  “So she’s really missing?” Miss Duthie asked.

  Carmichael nodded. “I must get up to Paddington. Sergeant Evans is probably getting soaked to the skin waiting for me.” He hurried off down the corridor again.

  The guard raised his eyebrows when he saw Carmichael come out again so soon, but said nothing. Sergeant Evans was waiting under the portico, a capacious black umbrella under his arm.

  There was a black police Bentley waiting outside, as there always was. This was another of Carmichael’s improvements over the Yard, where getting a car was almost as bad an ordeal as being put up for a club. Carmichael nodded to the driver and then to Evans. “Is there room for us both under that thing?” he asked.

  “Should be, sir,” Evans said, putting it up and holding it more over Carmichael than himself. “Nasty day, isn’t it. April showers!”

  They hurried down the steps and into the waiting car.

  “Paddington Police Station,” Carmichael said to the driver. Then he looked at Evans, who was one of his favorite subordinates, being steady, intelligent, and with a sense of humor. He was also Welsh, and Jack had said once that he had the typical look of the British before the Romans came—small-boned, dark-haired, and clear-skinned.

  “What’s up, sir?” he asked.

  “It seems my ward, Elvira Royston, Sergeant Royston’s daughter, you remember, somehow got mixed up in the Marble Arch riot, and I need to bail her out. I’m just bringing you along for company, and in case we want to overawe the Mets with a uniformed presence.”

  “You should have brought Sergeant Richards for that,” Evans said.

  Carmichael laughed, despite his worries about Elvira. Sergeant Richards was six foot two. “You’ll do.”

  Paddington Police Station, when they reached it, seemed a grim place in the rain. Carmichael gave his name to a stern-faced constable at the desk who checked his papers thoroughly, squinting conscientiously from the identity photograph to Carmichael’s face. “Inspector Bannister wanted to see you, sir,” he said, when he was confident of Carmichael’s identity.

  “I’m here to collect Elvira Royston,” Carmichael said. He didn’t want to waste his time talking to the Met. Bannister, he remembered from his reports, was one of Penn-Barkis’s creatures, and Penn-Barkis’s continued supervision over the Watch was one of Carmichael’s constant irritations.

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Bannister would just like a word first.”

  Carmichael frowned, and the officer quailed a little.

  “Just in here, sir,” he said.

  Evans followed Carmichael into a little office as directed, where they waited for a few moments.

  Bannister proved to be a redhead in his late twenties, and a middleclass southerner, as Carmichael learned the moment he opened his mouth. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said, coming in, followed by a uniformed bobby. “This is extraordinary.”

  “Good afternoon, Inspector. I’d like to take Elvira home without wasting too much time,” Carmichael said.

  “Yes, certainly, but this is a very unusual situation. We’re anxious to cooperate with you, of course, but there are certain formalities in the case of any arrest. And in this case, we’re supposed to keep all the rioters and check on them thoroughly.”

  “Those are my orders,” Carmichael said. “I hardly think they apply in this case. My ward was caught up in the riot by mistake.”

  “It doesn’t look that way to me. Why did Elvira—”

  “Miss Royston.” Carmichael stressed her formal name. He didn’t like hearing “Elvira” on Bannister’s lips.

  Bannister looked surprised, but corrected himself at once. “Why did Miss Royston go to the rally?”

  “She no doubt went to the rally for the fun of it, probably never having heard of British Power until the fighting started.” It would have helped, Carmichael thought, if he’d had any real idea why Elvira did go to the rally. He should have asked Betsy Maynard.

  “Probably,” Bannister said. “She said she was your niece. Now you say she’s your ward?”

  “She calls me Uncle, but she’s my ward,” Carmichael said, trying to be calm but knowing that the Lancashire was coming into his vowels as it always did when he was agitated. Bannister was trying to get him on the defensive, and he wasn’t having it. He took a deep breath. “Bring Miss Royston in here immediately. We’re leaving.”

  Bannister nodded to the bobby, who left the room. “He’s just fetching her now,” he said. “What are Miss Royston’s political convictions?”

  “She’s an eighteen-year-old girl, she’s about to come out, she doesn’t ha
ve two political thoughts a year,” Carmichael said. “She won’t be old enough to vote for seven or eight years.”

  “A lot of the people we pulled in last night were young, the men especially,” Bannister said. “And some of the British Power ringleaders move in debutante circles. The connections seem to go very high.”

  He was drawing breath to go on, but Carmichael interrupted, tired of all this. “No doubt there’s a detailed report on all this on my desk at the Watch.”

  The bobby came back into the room with Elvira following him. She was limping and looked filthy and exhausted.

  “Uncle Carmichael,” she said, her voice wavering but determined not to cry, reminding Carmichael a great deal of how she had been when she was seven years old and had fallen down in the street outside her father’s house in Camden Town. She looked at Bannister with loathing, and stood beside Carmichael, as far from Bannister as she could be in the small room.

  “Soon get you away from this, Elvira,” he said. “Do you have the papers, Bannister?”

  Bannister hesitated. “I wanted to ask a few more questions,” he said.

  “Most Metropolitan officers find it to their advantage to cooperate with us,” Carmichael said, silkily. “Or you might find the price of noncooperation is rather high. If you get on the wrong side of me you might end up spending the rest of your career directing traffic in John O’Groats, or something considerably worse.” It would have given Carmichael no pleasure to ruin the man’s career, but he had done a lot worse.

  “Yes, sir,” Bannister said, his face wooden. “But this isn’t a Watch matter, is it? It’s a personal matter. You’re asking us to free Miss Royston unconditionally, not to transfer her into Watch custody. She looks to me like a crucial piece in the investigation. She and . . .” He peered at his notes. “Sir Alan Bellingham.”

  “I’ll take her into Watch custody if it’ll speed this up,” Carmichael said. Once in Watch custody the bureaucratic procedures were under his own control.