The tug had started to edge the freighter round towards the estuary, the Donskoi’s siren bellowed again, but there was no one on the launch who could hear her warnings. Again and again the whistles continued and the Bully Boy came on, like David’s slingshot against Goliath.
“Drunken capitalist swine!” Janet imagined what the Donskoi’s deck officers were probably thinking, and they were probably right, she supposed. Her uncle and Mackenzie and Peter Kent had once been capitalists, but they were dead now. No money, no finance or human orders could halt the Bully Boy’s final effort.
She watched the launch reach her target. She saw the bow cut into the Russian’s side, and that was all she saw for a long time. The Thames – London River, exploded.
Sixteen
“HOLOCAUST” – “WAVE FROM HELL” – “WALL OF WATER”. Tom had been reading the newspapers and their treatment was dramatic; why not?
Thirty-eight people were killed when the Bully Boy blew up and there were over a hundred injured; half of them seriously. Apart from the Donskoi, which had been already declared a total loss, four other vessels were badly damaged. The tidal wave which followed had created havoc ashore, and the public were very angry. Everyone was most upset and the Daily Globe listed the aggrieved in order of importance.
The British and the Soviet Government – the Ministry of Health and the Home Office – the London Authorities (Outer and Inner) – the Thames Conservancy Board – the relatives and dependants of the victims – the Gas and Electricity Boards – the ship owners and the owners of property. All these bodies, their representatives and many more individuals were after blood and only two men stopped them getting it.
Mr Angus MacTamil QC had based his defence on temporary insanity, but Tom and Mott were not present to hear his opening address. They and Janet were in hospital at the time, though Kirk gave evidence.
“Yes, Mr MacTavish, I knew Simon Vale very well and was extremely fond of him,” Kirk stated confidently in the witness box and then looked rather embarrassed, at the correction. “Ah, it’s MacTamil, of course. Do apologize, sir, very foolish and rude of me.
“Now, as to your question.” He paused again to consider it. “Difficult point for a man to answer when he’s under oath, but I’ll try to do my best.
“No, Mr MacTamil, it is not for me to swear whether Sir Simon was capable of running a vast business like A.C.E. but the results seem to speak for themselves.” Tom imagined his bow to the judge and smirk at the jury. “Fifty shillings up, last Friday, my lord and ladies and gentlemen.
“However, though I know little about financial matters, I am a general officer and a former Commander of the British Army’s Intelligence Corps, and those qualifications give me the right to speak on the subject of psychology. Here are the facts, as far as I know them.” He clicked his heels and stared soulfully around the room. “A man of authority” – “a man you could trust” – “a true bulwark of Britain, were just a few of the reporters’ comments.
“As Mr MacTamil has mentioned, Sir Simon Vale and his two deceased partners suffered horribly during the last world war. Three weeks in an open boat, during Arctic conditions. Could you stand such an ordeal, members of the jury?” He drew out a purple silk handkerchief and dabbed his eyes. “Well, probably not, and neither could I, but those men did. They never complained or grumbled. Not for one moment did despair cross their hearts. They stuck to the traditions of the service and . . .
“Oh, thank you, my lord. You are most kind and a seat would be very welcome.” The judge had told the witness to sit down if he wished and Kirk lowered himself into a chair and groaned. “As your lordship and the jury have been informed, those men did not break. They came through their torment unscathed and more action followed.” A gulp, a sob and another application of the handkerchief. “When hostilities ended, Sir Simon, Mr Kent and Mr MacDonald . . . I beg your pardon, sir.” He frowned at counsel’s interruption. “Do apologize – just a simple old soldier and tend to find Scottish names a bit repetitive at times, Mr MacTamil.” According to the Globe, the simple soldier appeared bewildered by emotion and grief. “The third partner was William Mackenzie of course and he and his comrades started A.C.E. as soon as the European war was over. They had hardly any capital, very little experience, but somehow the business prospered.”
Hardly any capital! Why was Kirk perjuring himself, Tom wondered, glancing at the newspaper. The simple soldier knew all about the Russian gold. He knew about the transactions in Tangiers. General Charlie knew just about damn near everything, so why had he lied to protect the good name of a man who had deserted his son?
“A good business, Mr MacCamel, and I use that adjective in every sense of the word.” The handkerchief was raised once more, but this time to blow Kirk’s nose. “Good for the investors, good for the staff and good for this our country too.
“Not a single strike or industrial dispute in almost forty years – quite a record.” Kirk lifted a glass of water and drank deeply. “But years pass, as they do for us all, and Sir Simon Vale grew old and prepared for the great meeting with his Maker. We all know that explosives were lodged in the Bully Boy’s hull, though to my own mind, for the most innocent reasons.” The glass jangled as his shaking hand replaced it. “Sir Simon wished to die at sea and the detonation was intended to occur in deep water. And in complete safety, my friends, so what went wrong? What, indeed, went wrong? Who is to blame for the terrible tragedy which followed?” He faced the judge and gave another frank and slightly bitter smile. “I am, my lord. I, Major-General Charles Kirk, accept full responsibility.” The Globe’s text was interrupted by a photograph of the major-general staring soulfully towards the camera. “A Man of Courage”, read the caption beneath it.
“Yes, I, members of the jury; foolishness, perversity, blind panic – call it what you like, but I am the culprit – the malefactor.” The handkerchief was in use again and tears – real tears – trickled down Kirk’s cheeks.
“When I heard that Miss Janet Vale, Sir Simon’s niece, had been taken aboard that launch, I imagined the worst. I honestly believed that a mass suicide attempt could be in the offing and more, much more, was to follow.
“I voiced my foolish suspicions to Mr Thomas Mayne and to Mr J. Molden-Mott, the world famous explorer and they believed me. On my stupid orders and with great gallantry, they leapt off that bridge and boarded the yacht. Poor MacIntyre – Mackenzie, I mean – was crushed when Mayne fell on him and the unfortunate Peter Kent . . .” A sob, a gulp and a moment’s silence. “Nobody knows what happened to Kent, but I – I do not ask for human mercy, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, though may the Great God, whom I worship, show pardon on a most repentant sinner.”
“Why – why?” Tom spoke aloud. The article ended with a notice that the trial would continue tomorrow and he tossed the paper aside and paced the floor of his shop. “Why should Kirk behave in such a way? Why chop his own head off for nothing?”
“General Kirk’s head is still firmly on his shoulders and it will remain there.” Tom had imagined he was alone, but he stopped muttering and swung round as he heard the voice. “Why did he lie, Tom? Surely you can guess the reason? Money, of course, rather a lot of money. The major-general required his pound of flesh, but who cares?” Janet Vale smiled at him from the doorway. Her left arm was in a sling, plaster covered her right cheek, but Tom had never seen her look more lovely: vital, radiant and shining with happiness. “The case ended an hour ago, and though damages haven’t been formally agreed, MacTamil feels sure that three million should settle the score. That’s not including Jimmy and Kirk’s costs naturally. They want full control of the firm. Ninety per cent of my holding, but what does that matter? I’ll still be a moderately wealthy woman and A.C.E. will remain an independent concern, though under different management.”
“Jimmy.” The name conveyed nothing to Tom except Janet’s ac
quaintance, the Honourable Stewart-Smith. “Where the hell does he fit in?”
“He was so wonderful, Tom. In spite of Jimmy’s injuries, he limped into court at the final moments and confirmed everything that Kirk had said.”
“Limped indeed! Fallen off another polo pony, I presume.” Tom had heard that Stewart-Smith was liable to such accidents. “And what evidence had Jimmy to offer on Kirk’s behalf?”
“Polo pony! What are you talking about, Tom?” Janet stepped forward and frowned at him. “Jimmy merely stated that he and Kirk were men of honour and integrity, and the judge fully agreed. He said that they were two of the finest gentlemen he had ever listened to, and no criminal charges would ever be preferred against them.”
“Blimey!” Tom’s mind reeled at the extent of human iniquity. “And Mr MacTamil QC promoted this scheme, I presume. He arranged for Kirk to go into the box and lie himself stupid.”
“No, and do stop swearing and talking in clichés, Tom.” Janet stamped her foot petulantly. “Kirk suggested the idea himself and Jimmy naturally backed him up. Why not?
“Why slander the dead? My uncle’s body! Peter Kent and Mackenzie were blown to pieces by the explosion and the last copy of that damned book went with them.
“I know they were bad men once. Evil possibly, but regarded as heroes and benefactors by the general public. How can you discredit a benevolent hero without evidence, Tom? Why attempt to do so?” Janet suddenly looked really angry. “Peter Kent imagined that I wanted power. He also believed that I might be a bastard.
“Could be right, on the second point. I don’t know, but I’m completely sure he was wrong on the first. Never had the slightest wish to control A.C.E. Something like this would be more my line of country.” She looked around the shelves and frowned. “Been gathering a lot of dust in your absence, though that’s no business of mine.
“But, does the name Sanity Fair mean anything to you, Tom?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “Sanity Fair was a second-hand bookshop off the Edgeware Road kept by an insane young woman called Rosalie de Retz. Can’t remember the details, but I think she went bust and committed suicide.”
“Balls!” Janet fingered the pile of books she had bought from Mrs Rayner. “Rosalie was a friend of mine and she never killed herself. She slipped in front of a Number Nine bus when she was tight, and she had a thriving business and an excellent gimmick. It sometimes pays to be against things.
“Things that many people disapprove of, Tom.” She considered his question. “Politicians and the H-Bomb – blood sports and the colour bar – capital punishment, class distinctions and the House of Lords.
“You name the pie, and Rosalie had a finger through its crust. Her shop was always full of well-meaning loonies, who paid a lot of money to foster their discontent.
“Got you.” Janet had picked up the first volume of Roger’s Poetical Works and twisted the cover slightly. Like a conjuring trick, the gilt edges faded and a landscape seemed to leap into focus. A brightly coloured picture of a farmhouse beside a stream with a line of blue hills stretching away in the background. The illustration had been made while the book was held bent in a vice and only became visible at its present angle.
“And let’s see what the second volume has to offer. Ah, better still.” Another twist and a group of nymphs and satyrs appeared. “Mildly erotic, and they’re having a high old time on the grass. Well, Tom, few people may read Sam Rogers today, but everyone likes a good fore-edge painting. A pity they’re not double-edged, but worth a damn sight more than I paid.”
“At least ten times more.” Tom felt extremely envious. “And I never spotted them. Your property, Janet, and you’d make a damned good bookseller.”
“I think I might if anybody offered me a partnership, but those are yours.” She pushed the books aside with a gesture of irritation. “What use are two heavy Victorian volumes to me, when Jimmy has asked for my hand in marriage?”
“Congratulations, my dear.” Tom reluctantly decided that courtesy costs nothing. “And when will the happy union take place?”
“Next month at Saint Gloria’s, Hanover Square, if we can arrange it, providing Canterbury is available to take the service. Jimmy is such a wonderful man, you know. When I told him how neurotic I was about marriage – how I imagined that any man who proposed to me would be after my money – he just laughed. Said that as he and Kirk controlled the firm now, the problem no longer existed. Wasn’t that clever, Tom?”
“Yes, extremely clever.” Tom felt more than slightly sick. In his own mind he felt that the Honourable Mr Stewart-Smith could best be described as a right bastard.
“And so kind and thoughtful, too.” Janet prattled on like a schoolgirl. “Jimmy says he’s bound to be mentioned in the next honours list, and he has promised to adopt the title of Lord Vale. In that way we can keep the firm in the family tradition. His own name is far superior to ours of course, but . . .”
“But he just wanted to please you.” Tom’s voice snarled with contempt, but Janet seemed incapable of hearing criticism of her precious Jimmy.
“Yes, that’s right, and doesn’t it show what a fine and noble man he is?”
“It does indeed.” Tom made a note in his diary. “St. Gloria’s, Hanover Square, sometime next month.” When the ceremony took place, he intended to be present and sling a few rocks at the bridegroom. “Any date fixed yet?”
“No. That depends on the Archbishop being available, of course. I wanted a very simple service, but Jimmy said he had a debt to his public image. Archbishops come and go, but his name will live on forever.”
“Public image?” Tom couldn’t imagine what Stewart- Smith’s image might be. Perjury in court – fraudulent conversion – being drunk in charge of a motor car or a polo pony, came to mind, but they were hardly adequate.
“Yes, and the honeymoon afterwards; that will be exciting.” Janet’s eyes glowed. “We’re going to build a replica of that salvage tug, the Sam, and sail off to raise the Titanic.”
“The devil you are!” Once again, an image flitted through Tom’s head, and he saw the beautiful Janet Vale, though she was beautiful no longer. Janet looked wan and wrinkled and she was clad in oilskins. She was operating a pump to send oxygen down to Mr Jimmy Stewart-Smith.
No, he was wrong! He had to be wrong, and Stewart-Smith played no part in the picture. A very different figure dangled pompously in the replica’s diving bell.
“Janet,” he said. “You can’t – you don’t mean – Mott?”
“Of course, I do; who else? Jimmy Molden-Mott. Didn’t you know that his Christian name is James?”
“No, I didn’t know that. I didn’t know that there is anything Christian about him, but you can’t marry Mott, Janet. The man’s a brute, a boor and a human monster . . .” He broke off and saw the laughter in her face.
“No, of course I can’t,” she said. “But there’s only one thing that will stop me.
“Yes, Tom,” she started to say. “If you want to save me from a fate worse than death, you’ll have to . . .” She tried to say, but broke off as he opened his arms and came towards her.
There was really nothing more to be said.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Blackburn was born in 1923 in the village of Corbridge, England, the second son of a clergyman. Blackburn attended Haileybury College near London beginning in 1937, but his education was interrupted by the onset of World War II; the shadow of the war, and that of Nazi Germany, would later play a role in many of his works. He served as a radio officer during the war in the Mercantile Marine from 1942 to 1945, and resumed his education afterwards at Durham University, earning his bachelor’s degree in 1949. Blackburn taught for several years after that, first in London and then in Berlin, and married Joan Mary Clift in 1950. Returning to London in 1952, he took over the manageme
nt of Red Lion Books.
It was there that Blackburn began writing, and the immediate success in 1958 of his first novel, A Scent of New-Mown Hay, led him to take up a career as a writer full time. He and his wife also maintained an antiquarian bookstore, a secondary occupation that would inform some of his work, including the bibliomystery Blue Octavo (1963). A Scent of New-Mown Hay typified the approach that would come to characterize Blackburn’s twenty-eight novels, which defied easy categorization in their unique and compelling mixture of the genres of science fiction, horror, mystery, and thriller. Many of Blackburn’s best novels came in the late 1960s and early 1970s, with a string of successes that included the classics A Ring of Roses (1965), Children of the Night (1966), Nothing but the Night (1968; adapted for a 1973 film starring Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing), Devil Daddy (1972) and Our Lady of Pain (1974). Somewhat unusually for a popular horror writer, Blackburn’s novels were not only successful with the reading public but also won widespread critical acclaim: the Times Literary Supplement declared him ‘today’s master of horror’, while the Penguin Encyclopedia of Horror and the Supernatural regarded him as ‘certainly the best British novelist in his field’ and the St James Guide to Crime & Mystery Writers called him ‘one of England’s best practicing novelists in the tradition of the thriller novel’.
By the time Blackburn published his final novel in 1985, much of his work was already out of print, an inexplicable neglect that continued until Valancourt began republishing his novels in 2013. John Blackburn died in 1993.
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