by Jo Walton
Carmichael put the receiver down and sighed as he went back to his press release.
The Gresham was in the heart of the old City of London, the square mile of banking and finance that lay in the warren of tiny streets around St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was squeezed between two banks on Pudding Lane, where the Great Fire of London was said to have started. The facade was Victorian, and so was the decor; heavy dark paneling, heavy leather-covered furniture, dark portraits in oils of lord mayors and pudgy aldermen. Carmichael gave his name and Kinnerson’s to a gloomy clerk who took his hat and led him to the dining room.
Carmichael hated clubs. He belonged to one himself only for the convenience of having somewhere to collect his mail and meet people. At least his club, the Hamelin, was a little lighter in atmosphere and had younger members. Most of the members of the Gresham on show in the dining room seemed old enough to be stuffed and put in glass cases. Carmichael was not late, but Kinnerson was there before him. He rose as Carmichael reached the table. In these surroundings, Kinnerson looked less in control of the situation than he had in his home.
“I wanted to say again first how sorry I am about the misunderstanding on Friday evening,” Carmichael said, as they both seated themselves. “I hope Mrs. Kinnerson has recovered from her distress?”
“She’s still relieved I’m alive,” Kinnerson said. “But let’s not talk polite nonsense, Inspector Carmichael, we’re both sensible men. Let’s order and get that out of the way.”
The waiter, a young man of typically Jewish looks, bowed at Kinnerson’s elbow. “Brown Windsor soup or mulligatawny, fish or beef, apple pie,” he rattled off.
“I’ll take the Windsor soup and the fish,” Kinnerson said. “And a half-bottle of Montrachet, I think, as we both have work to do this afternoon.”
Carmichael nodded at the wine, and did his best to smile as he ordered the same. The Montrachet came immediately and the waiter poured and waited for them to sip. It was adequately chilled, and tart on the tongue. He set the bottle down on the table—1946, a good year. The label was written in cursive French on the left and angular German on the right.
“You had something to tell me about my mother’s death, I believe?” Kinnerson said, as the waiter withdrew.
“Did you know your mother’s friend Peter Marshall?” Carmichael asked.
“No.” Kinnerson sounded very sure, and very sincere.
Carmichael supposed Tambourne could have been wrong, but tried again. “Lieutenant Peter Marshall?”
Kinnerson’s eyes widened. “In that case I do know him, though I haven’t seen him for years and wouldn’t have thought of him as my mother’s friend. Marshall and I were in the Navy together.”
“When did you last see him?”
“I don’t know.” Kinnerson seemed perplexed. “He was at my wedding. I think I’ve had lunch with him a couple of times since then, here as a matter of fact. I send him Christmas cards. But the last time I saw him would be at least two years ago.”
“You didn’t know he was a friend of your mother’s?” Carmichael took another sip of his wine.
“Now you mention it, I think she did mention now and then that she’d seen him, that he went to her first nights, that sort of thing. He and Nash were much more interested in theater than I was.”
“Well, it seems he had lunch with her from time to time when he was in London, and he was with her on Saturday morning and the two of them were attempting to build a bomb, which subsequently killed them both.”
Kinnerson’s face gave nothing away. He took a large swallow of his Montrachet. “If I could have chosen, I’d have had her die at the end of a performance as Cleopatra at the age of ninety, but I suppose blowing herself up in an act of misguided idealism is much more like her than being killed by someone else would be,” he said.
“You don’t seem very surprised,” Carmichael said.
Kinnerson shrugged. “The idea had occurred to me over the weekend. I’ve been thinking about it, and it seemed the most likely thing. Not terribly likely, you understand, but more likely than the other, if it wasn’t a complete accident.”
“Have you any idea why your mother and your friend would be building a bomb?”
“Presumably someone persuaded them it was a good idea.” Kinnerson shook his napkin onto his lap as the waiter brought their soup.
“But who would have been their intended target?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. It’s the wrong time of year for Guy Fawkes, but perhaps the Houses of Parliament?” Kinnerson looked at him directly. “She wasn’t an especially sensible woman, you understand. And I told you about her politics. Perhaps she heard the Prime Minister talk about anarchists and bombs and decided her politics were anarchist so she should take action.”
Carmichael tasted his soup. It was even worse than he had expected, and not very warm. “And Marshall? Was he an anarchist?”
“Not when I knew him,” Kinnerson said.
“You do sound remarkably unsurprised.”
“That’s not a crime, is it, Inspector?” Kinnerson’s eyes met his, still cool.
“Not a crime, but very unusual,” Carmichael said.
“I didn’t know anything about it in advance, I can assure you of that.” For the first time, Kinnerson looked uncomfortable. “You do believe me?”
Carmichael did, but he wasn’t about to say so. In any case, it wasn’t what he believed that mattered. It wasn’t even what was true that mattered. He spooned up his soup and changed the subject. “You mentioned politicians she liked, Mr. MacDonald and Mr. Bevan; were there others she didn’t like?”
Kinnerson grimaced. “Mr. Normanby. She loathed the whole Farthing Set if you want to know. She thought they tried to keep people down. That was her big thing, the idea that everyone should have chances, whoever they were. I can imagine her thinking she was Boedicea, if you can believe that.”
“Were these thoughts what you wanted to tell me?” Carmichael asked.
“No. No, what I wanted to tell you wasn’t about my mother at all. I’m not sure if you’re the right person to tell, but you’re the only person I know who might know who to pass it on to.” Kinnerson pushed away his soup bowl.
“Go on?” Carmichael invited, neutrally.
“You know I work at Solomon Kahn,” Kinnerson began.
Carmichael nodded. The waiter came and removed their soup, and deftly replaced it with plates of limp sole and gray mashed potatoes.
“I know this confidentially, but I feel someone ought to know. Mr. Kahn is moving large quantities of money out of the country. It isn’t illegal, as far as I know—banks can do what they like with their money—but it does seem suspicious, especially when there’s so much talk of Jewish conspiracies.” Kinnerson looked at Carmichael and then away.
Carmichael was surprised. He also knew nothing about the state of the law on such things. It wasn’t a matter for Scotland Yard. “How much money?” David Kahn, he remembered, had given money to an organization that smuggled Jews out of Nazi Europe.
“Hundreds of thousands of pounds,” Kinnerson said. “Perhaps millions. Of course, we move money around all the time, but never so much, so fast.”
“Where’s it going? The Continent? The States?”
Kinnerson laughed. “You couldn’t get it into either place—well, you could, but Solomon Kahn couldn’t. They won’t take Jewish money, either place. Also, it would be subject to review. This is all going to Canada, which doesn’t get any review, because it’s part of the Commonwealth, so it’s all under Imperial Preference, just the same as if it was going to another bank in England.”
“And he’s moved all that there this morning?” Carmichael couldn’t see that it had anything to do with anything, but the sheer amount of the money made it interesting.
“Over the last two weeks,” Kinnerson corrected him. “Since . . . I’ve noticed the amounts going, and today I decided to say something.”
Over the last two weeks, Carmichael thought, then real
ized. Since Normanby came to power. Since Kahn’s son had hidden or fled. “You think Kahn may be planning to move his bank to Canada?”
Kinnerson relaxed a little. “Either that or he’s moving a lot of money out of the country ahead of a lot of customers. Or after them, if they’re there already.”
Were David and Lucy Kahn in Canada? Carmichael hoped they were. He hoped old Kahn would join them safely, and all the money as well. It wasn’t illegal. He wasn’t going to tell anyone. He wondered why Kinnerson had told him. Kinnerson had called him, wanting to tell him. He took a forkful of tepid over-cooked sole and studied the man across the table.
Kinnerson was a successful man, a man who had been to public school and in the Navy, a man who could afford to buy a house for his actress mother, but not a rich man, a man who needed to work for a living. Carmichael remembered the house, the nervous little wife. “He works for the Jews!” she had said. Had he suffered for working for the Jews? Would he have done it if there had been plenty of choice of jobs? Did Solomon Kahn pay better to attract men like Kinnerson? “Are you looking for a new job, Mr. Kinnerson?” Carmichael asked.
Kinnerson started. “I think I will be.”
“You think Solomon Kahn is going to Canada and leaving you behind?”
“I’ll find another position,” Kinnerson said, confidently. “What’s important now that my mother has done something foolish is to establish my good faith.”
He held Carmichael’s eyes a moment, and Carmichael was surprised to see that the confidence that was Kinnerson’s natural state was assumed, that underneath the man was badly frightened. “Your good faith,” he repeated.
“With you, Inspector,” Kinnerson said, and gave an awkward little laugh.
Carmichael put it together. Kinnerson had guessed that his mother might have been building a bomb, and realized that he would look suspicious, and doubly suspicious because of his job, his association with the Jews. So he was selling out his employers in the hope of making himself seem trustworthy. That was why he had come to Carmichael instead of whatever the proper regulatory body was. Carmichael had no idea, but he was sure Kinnerson did. He didn’t care about the money, and he could get another job, but he wanted to establish his good faith with Carmichael.
“You do believe me?” he asked.
“People like you usually treat the police like servants,” Carmichael said.
“People like me aren’t usually in this position,” Kinnerson said. “I—my mother. My job. I do, in my job, sometimes have information in which a man who has a little money can make a little more money.”
Carmichael felt sick suddenly and put down his fork. “This is not Nazi Europe,” he said. “The innocent have nothing to fear from the British police. There’s no need to bribe me with information or with money.”
“You’re saying what I’m sure you wish were true, Inspector,” Kinnerson said. “And I am in fact innocent. But these days it seems safer to be sure.”
13
Take a look at the theater,” Devlin said as he pulled up on the Strand by the front-of-house entrance to the Siddons. The theater was dark, of course, as the last play had closed and we hadn’t opened yet. “What it’s like to get in and out of, where the exits and entrances are, where the boxes are, what the security’s like, that sort of thing.”
I looked at him blankly. “I don’t know anything about that kind of thing.”
“You can find out where all the doors are though,” Devlin said. “On the day there’ll be much more security, bound to be, so it might be as well to get the thing in well in advance, if there’s somewhere to stash it.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said. This morning I was absolutely sure I was just stringing them along, there was no way I was going to go through with it.
“That’s my good girl,” Devlin said, and leaned over to give me a kiss. “When are you going to get out?”
“I have no idea,” I said, and I didn’t. “First rehearsal can take any amount of time. With Antony—well, I don’t suppose I’ll be out of here before five at the earliest. I’ll call you.”
“No you won’t,” he said. “The fewer calls the better. I’ll wait here from five on and pick you up.”
“But it might be hours,” I said. “And surely waiting here will be even more conspicuous.” He’d driven me in his own car, a relatively ordinary Hillman, not Loy’s flashy toy, but even that would be noticed waiting on the Strand for hours.
“I’ll do it tonight. Just you try to find out what time rehearsals are going to be over normally,” was all he said.
I kissed him good-bye and walked down the alley to the stage door. The doorman recognized me, and let me in without me needing to give my name. I smiled and tipped him. It’s always good to keep such people sweet.
I had the star dressing room, which had my name on already. Mollie’s room was next to mine. She was there already; she put her head out as I came by and offered me a cigarette. “Antony says Mrs. Tring can dress us both, if that’s all right with you.”
I remembered sharing dressing rooms with Mollie, when we were on tour. “That’s perfect,” I said, taking a light from her. “Are the costumes going to be complicated, did he say?”
“Elizabethan,” she said. “Lots of changes for me, I don’t know about you. And how are you this morning? You look exhausted.”
“Like the cat who got the cream,” I said, because it was all I could say. I gave her a smile; not a real smile, a theater smile. “He’s meeting me after rehearsal. He’s smitten.”
“You’re the one who’s smitten,” she said, accurately enough. “He’s rich, I take it, with a car like that? What does he do?”
I had no idea what Devlin did, besides building bombs. “I haven’t asked him,” I said. “He wasn’t rushing off anywhere this morning, he drove me to the theater.”
“Idle rich,” Mollie said, dropping her cigarette end and grinding it with her heel. “Well, I wish you joy of him, though he isn’t at all your usual type.”
“What is my usual type?” I asked.
“Oh, the useless type. Pals you kid yourself you’re in love with, but who you easily detach yourself from when you’re sick of them.”
“Devlin isn’t at all like that,” I said, thinking of him.
“You watch out for him,” she said. “I’ve never seen you this taken about a man, and never when you’ve got a part.”
I stubbed out my own cigarette. “That reminds me, I need to go over my lines before Antony calls us up.”
She rolled her eyes at me and went back into her dressing room.
I had about ten minutes’ concentrated memorization, then Antony called everyone on stage.
That first rehearsal was bloody. I was nervous because I was tired and knew I didn’t know my lines properly. Charlie kept fooling around, making jokes and trying to corpse everyone. Tim Curtis, who was a dear old queer, about ninety years old, and our Polonius, didn’t take well to this at all. Antony had actually done something rather clever, and got Pat McKnight for Ophelia. The thing about Pat is that he looks rather like Charlie, only fair where Charlie’s dark, and Antony’s idea was that they’d have their hair done the same, and so would Tim, to bring out their being family. He also wanted Mollie and me to have our hair the same—different from the boys, but the same as each other—and our clothes were apparently going to echo too.
“Your clothes will be a kind of virginal echo of Mollie’s,” Antony said, addressing me but looking past me to the wardrobe mistress, who would make the clothes, or have them made. “More restrained colors, higher necks, that kind of thing.”
As we only had two weeks, we were rehearsing on the stage from the start, though without any props, clothes, or scenery at first. Antony, naturally, wanted to do a cold run-through first, but before that he wanted to talk to everyone and arrange rehearsal schedules—because there’s no point in having everyone at every rehearsal, though I would have to be at most of them. I told him I’d make an
y rehearsal he wanted, but it would be really useful if I knew in advance when I’d be able to get away. Antony isn’t a total slave driver, and I think Mollie may have told him I had a new boyfriend, because he was quite reasonable about giving me a schedule and saying he wouldn’t change it without warning.
Then he introduced us to Bettina, the wardrobe mistress, and the ASM and the stagehands, and then he said he wanted to talk to everyone individually about their characters. I boned up on my lines as best I could, during this, though he kept calling me over so I could “bond” with Charlie and Pat, and then with Doug James, who was Horatio.
I told Doug about my idea about Hamlet getting a Ph.D. and teaching and not wanting to go home, and he asked whether, in that case, I saw Horatio as a colleague or a pupil, and it struck me that there was something about their relationship where perhaps Horatio had been a pupil and was now nominally an equal but still used to deferring. Doug liked this a lot, and we went through some of our exchanges quickly.
“It especially makes sense with her being a woman,” he said. “Because if she’d taught him, it would have reversed the usual male/female dynamic, she’d have been in charge, and even if, as Antony says, he wishes to be more than a friend, that would have been a reason for not speaking out.”
“And yet the suppressed romantic thing is a reason for him coming home with her, when she heard that her father has died,” I said. “He doesn’t want to leave her.”
“I’m so glad Antony decided on you and not Pam Brown, as he thought at first,” Doug said.
So much for the only woman Antony could picture as Hamlet, I thought. “It’s lovely to be acting with you, too,” I said.
“What do you think their subject was, at Wittenberg?” Doug asked.
“I hadn’t thought.”
“Well, I wonder if it might have been—well Horatio’s at any rate, and Hamlet’s too if she was teaching him—philosophy. If in the ‘more things in Heaven and Earth’ thing he meant to say our Philosophy, our subject of philosophy, if you see what I mean, rather than just Horatio’s own personal philosophy.”
