‘She’s certainly getting maximum enjoyment out of her peerage,’ said Amiss.
‘But she has a great sense of duty as well.’ Pooley nodded approvingly.
‘Anyway,’ said Milton, ‘the most useful thing you can do, Robert, is to keep a close eye on what she’s up to, let us know if she’s being particularly reckless and watch your own back.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Got to be off. I need to look in at the Yard and then catch up on some sleep.’
‘How’s Ann?’ Amiss asked Milton as he ushered them out.
‘Still absent. Possibly permanently.’
‘What!’
‘She’s been offered tenure at that American university, wants me to chuck it all in here, join her, and find a new way of making a living.’
‘But why?’
‘You know she never liked the police. I think she wants to save me.’
‘And you?’
‘I think I’m unsaveable. It’s in my blood. How’s Rachel?’
Amiss groaned. ‘Latest news is there’s no chance of her being back here for at least six months. And now these murders have happened she wants me to go back to Delhi. But I can’t. At least, I won’t. Not till this is cleared up.’
Pooley looked at them sympathetically. ‘I must say, you two are certainly doing your best to bring home to me the advantages of being single. At least then you know where you are.’
***
As Milton put the phone down, there was a knock on his door. ‘Come in.’
‘Sir, I’ve been thinking.’
Milton surveyed Pooley with that familiar mingling of wariness and hope. ‘About what?’
‘About the Animal Avengers. I’m sure they’re modelled on the Four Just Men. You know. Edgar Wallace.’
‘Sorry, Ellis. You know this stuff is a closed book to me. Elaborate.’
‘Well, Wallace wrote about these just men who set themselves up as judge, jury, and executioner in cases where the law had failed. They used to get together—with cloaks and black caps and the rest of it, if I remember correctly—survey the case dispassionately and then decide how to carry out the sentence. So, for instance, they once murdered the Home Secretary for passing a bill they thought unjust and another time, and this is more relevant, they killed a man who was about to eradicate the common earthworm.’
‘Well, even I would kill someone who was about to eradicate the common earthworm since that act in itself would probably bring about the end of the world.’ There was a silence. ‘So, Ellis, what particularly makes you suppose that these Avengers, if they exist, are inspired by this low literature?’
‘Tone, really. The righteousness seemed very familiar.’
‘Almost more in sorrow than in anger, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
Milton shrugged. ‘You may be right, but so what?’
‘Well, nothing much except that it suggests that somebody old is in on it. My guess would be that anybody young wouldn’t even have heard of Edgar Wallace, unless they were crime fiction fanatics like me.’
‘OK, Ellis. Thank you. I’ll bear it in mind. You might bring me a sample of the literature sometime. Just at the moment I could use some tips on how to murder the Home Secretary.’
Pooley rushed out with that eager gait that so endeared him to a boss who often required a respite from the company of his jaded, cynical colleagues.
***
‘You’d have thought the demonstrators would have been a bit embarrassed by what has happened. Instead they seem to have redoubled their efforts.’ Amiss sounded slightly breathless, for he and the baroness had just struggled once again through a screaming mob, their path made possible by an honour guard of police which had, from time to time, almost given way under the sheer weight of protestors.
‘Don’t be silly. We’re not dealing with people with finer feelings. If you ask me, we’re dealing with a lot of fucking anarchists who choose to march under the banner of animal activism. They’re trying to bring down the state, not stop people kicking hedgehogs.’
‘I’m sure I saw some woolly hats.’
‘Just because you’re old doesn’t mean you’re not an anarchist,’ she growled. ‘Christ, I need a drink. Come on.’ And she sped off in the direction of the bar.
***
They were sitting at lunch with Deptford at the same table they had occupied the day after Jack’s introduction, with the same waitress, the same menu, and the same conversations going on around them about the merits of roly-poly over sticky-toffee pudding.
‘You know,’ said Amiss, ‘the place seems completely unaffected by what has happened. It continues to be a sea of tranquillity.’
‘The point of great institutions,’ said the baroness, ‘is that they stand up to disasters without losing their nerve. After all, when you think how the Lords has managed to hold off the waves of modernizers, you can’t expect them to be overexcited by a few corpses.’
‘Come off it, Jack,’ said Deptford. ‘And Robert, for that matter. First of all, there’s only half the usual number here. And second, I bet quite a few of ’em’s covering up blind panic. It’s not going to be easy to get ’em to turn out for the Committee, I can tell you.’
‘Well, we’ve just got to stir them up and rally them with the old Agincourt spirit,’ said the baroness firmly. ‘And we’re starting with a meeting of the hard core on Tuesday to take stock and decide who’s going to do what.’
She turned to Amiss. ‘Book the committee room, then, for eleven o’clock, Tuesday morning. Try to get 4. I like the royal iconography. Order the hard core…’ She smiled grimly. ‘Or at least those that are left, to turn up. Say Bertie said they have to be there. I cleared it with him this morning before he hightailed it to Buttermere. Say there’s to be no backsliding. Won’t stand for it. Got to show these buggers who’s boss.’ She became aware of the hovering form. ‘Right, Agnes. Yes, please. I’ll have the soup. And then the lamb, but make sure it’s pink.’
Agnes betrayed no sign of having heard. ‘My lord?’
Deptford gestured towards Amiss. ‘I’ll have the same. But I’d like the lamb well done, if you don’t mind?’
‘My lord?’
‘Soup and sole, please, Agnes. And we’ll start with a bottle of Chablis.’
Lips pursed, Agnes made a note.
‘Cheer up,’ said the baroness. ‘The sun’s shining.’
‘I hardly think cheerfulness is appropriate, my lady.’ With a sniff, she stalked away.
‘It needs a Scottish accent like hers to extract the maximum venom from a line like that,’ observed Amiss. ‘You really annoy her, don’t you?’
‘Can’t say she’s too keen on anyone,’ said Deptford. ‘She can’t stand Bertie, of all people. And ’ee’s usually the waitresses’ dreamboat. Tries to avoid serving him. Told Lillian she thought he was patronizing.’
‘No point in dwelling on miserable sods.’ The baroness laughed. ‘Only in a place like this could one be rebuked for inappropriate behaviour a few days after eight of the inhabitants had been mown down by a maniac. You’d think she’d be glad to see someone. The joint’s hardly jumping.’
‘Are you surprised?’ asked Amiss. ‘Business has been suspended all week and most of your colleagues seem understandably inclined to sit at home and nurse their wounds rather than instantly plunge into working out next steps on what is, after all, only to do with fox-hunting.’
‘It’s no good lying down under adversity. At the risk of sounding bathetic, Reggie and the rest of them wouldn’t want to have died in vain. It’s our job to ensure they haven’t. So we’d better get on with it.’
Deptford smiled at her. ‘You’re an example to us all, luv.’
‘Forget the flannel, Sid. To work. Who can we find to share the media burden? Requests are coming in thick and fast and you and I seem to be the only prohunting peers left in town. Except for Tommy.’
‘No, no. Not Tommy,’ said Amiss. ‘Not unless you want to throw in the towel with the pu
blic immediately. Fox-hunters would become a laughing stock.’
Deptford groaned. ‘Robert’s right, o’course. I’ll back you up by doing the ones you can’t do, Jack. But you’d better face it. You’re going to have to take the lead for the moment. At least until Bertie gets back on Tuesday.’
‘Don’t know if I’ll be any good at it.’
‘Just be yourself. That’ll be enough to hold everyone’s attention.’
Chapter Eighteen
‘So fill me in then,’ requested Milton.
‘As I told you before, between mainstream, fringe, and splinter groups, there are probably a couple of dozen,’ said Paul Jarrett. ‘Though I can’t say we’re really experts on them yet. It’s only recently we began to realize that some of them really are terrorists. They fall more or less into four groups. First, what you might call Establishment animal protectors: the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty of Animals, the League Against Cruel Sports, and so on. They write letters to MPs, pass resolutions, send out press statements and try to win arguments.’
Milton scribbled a few words. ‘OK. Next.’
‘Groups like Compassion in World Farming which are ninety per cent full of nice, decent people, concerned about cruelty to animals, whether it be battery farming or transporting animals in inhumane conditions to be slaughtered cruelly abroad. They got strongly involved in the hunting issue in recent months because of the barrage of one-sided propaganda. Groups in this category believe in peaceful protest, but increasingly they’ve been infiltrated by members of the third group—animal rights people—who to say the least have a pretty loose definition of the word “peaceful”. Some of them want straightforward civil disobedience, and others—like the sabs—actively encourage violence.’
Milton nodded. ‘With you so far.’
‘Now to confuse the issue, what you might call categories B and C have also been infiltrated by Trotskyites—members of the Socialist Workers’ Party and others less well known and even more sinister. The Trots don’t give a tuppenny fuck for animals; their agenda is simply to foment discord wherever it arises. Poll-tax riots, motorway protests, nationalist street protests in Derry, demonstrations against cuts in the NHS—and now animal issues—it’s all the same to them. All they want is to take the peace out of peaceful and try to get us to overreact and injure members of the public. So they shout and scream and throw things and by fanning flames and encouraging a riot here and there hope to undermine our democracy.’
‘Are they potential murderers?’
‘Doubt it. Not most of them, anyway. Though not everyone would agree with me. But the fourth group certainly are. They’re the terrorists who send letter bombs, plant the odd car bomb, and are so fanatical I believe them capable of anything. Because they’re undercover we don’t know much about them. We think Jerry Dolamore is their public face.’
‘You mean you think he’s in favour of murder?’
‘I think so. But I can’t prove it.’
‘What about the peaceful fruitcakes like Brother Francis? Hasn’t he got some organization called something like “Bunnies for Jesus”?’
Jarrett grinned. ‘Not quite. But he calls the manor house he inherited from his father the Sanctuary; it’s a kind of retreat for animals and animal activists. Dolamore’s been there a lot.’
‘Do you think they’re in cahoots?’
‘Definitely. Though I don’t know who is the leader and who the led. At the moment we’re dredging up information on Dolamore and we’d be grateful if you’d do the same on Brother Francis. He has to be a suspect since he’s such a fanatic. And he could have fired the stun-gun. Contrary to Lords etiquette, he had left the chamber immediately after speaking and at the time of the murders, he was allegedly praying in his room. So what we really want to know is what he’s capable of, and you’re more likely to be able to find that out without attracting attention than we are.’
‘Sure. I’ll get to it straightaway. Talk to you tomorrow.’
***
‘When did he leave his order?’
‘Not long after he got the title, I gather, sir. About two years ago. Shall I get the clippings?’
‘Please, Ellis.’
The file was thick, but most of the contents were pretty repetitive. Milton glanced through some poems, but when he got to the lines
The lion’s tender with his cub
Gently licking and cuffing him in the scrub
he grimaced, and put the rest on one side.
Until very recently material about Brother Francis had been mainly confined to women’s magazines, with the occasional saccharine piece in a tabloid. ‘Saint Who Puts His Kitten First’ was a not atypical article, focusing as it did on how Brother Francis had spent an entire night sitting beside the sick bed of his kitten, Tiddles. ‘Millionaire Peer Gives His All To His Animals’ came when he announced on his father’s death that he would use all his material possessions for the good of animals and would not renounce the Purseglove title, since it would give him a platform from which to defend them. He would not, he explained to a reporter, sell up and give the proceeds to the recognized animal charities, for he felt that they were too much part of the Establishment. He wanted to harness the idealism of the young, so he had decided to set up a little commune of animals and their lovers in his family home.
In a profile in a particularly glutinous women’s magazine a few months later, there was much about Tiddles and Georgie and Becky and Bobbie, respectively cat, dog, hamster, and donkey, and how they and all the other little birdies and animals were in communion at Locksleigh Manor, along with those visitors who came for spiritual refreshment. Brother Francis was happy, but he admitted it had been a great wrench to leave the monastery where he had lived so happily for so many years. But he had had no option, for he knew the legacy to be a sign from God that he had been called to a special vocation. His abbot was quoted as confining his remarks to the press to a terse message on behalf of the community wishing their brother well.
Apart from reports of speeches at public meetings and in the Lords, the only other interesting piece was from a reporter who had recently enquired of inhabitants in his local village what they thought of their saintly lord. Attributed comments included, ‘proper gentleman’ and ‘holy man’; unattributed ranged from ‘potty’ and ‘barmy’ to—in an outbreak of rural wit—‘two brain cells short of a halfwit’. A few locals grumbled that the ban he had placed on hunting across his land had caused deep and bad feeling.
Milton sat and thought for a moment, then rang directory enquiries.
***
‘I came alone. I thought it might make it easier to talk.’
‘Ah, so you are looking to me, Chief Superintendent, to be indiscreet about my brother in Christ.’ The abbot giggled. Although their telephone conversation had led Milton to expect a friendly response, the friar’s sheer joviality took him aback. His features were as plump as Brother Francis’ were drawn, as rubicund as the other was colourless.
‘Well, fire away. What do you want to know?’
Milton put down his tea cup. ‘Is he capable of murder?’
‘If you’re asking me if I think Brother Francis might have been capable of devising such a sophisticated method of dispatching his ideological enemies and of then carrying it out, certainly not. As it was too painfully clear here, he is not what you would call a practical man.
‘The jobs he was capable of doing, other than writing his unspeakable poetry…You look surprised. Just because I’m a Franciscan doesn’t mean I’m daft. It is wretched poetry, which is an insult to human beings as well as to animals. I don’t want to be duly anthropomorphic, but if I were a tiger described as “gentle pussy of the jungle,” I would be inclined to hire a lawyer and sue for defamation.’
‘However, as I was saying, Brother Francis was so hopeless with his hands and so entirely without…’ He paused to search for the mot juste. ‘…Without a shred of common sense, that he was frankly an encumbrance.�
� He tittered. ‘I can tell you that it is proof of our Christian charity that we didn’t end up murdering him ourselves. I mean, for a start, he couldn’t do gardening because he was obsessed about not killing insects. He couldn’t look after the hens because he disapproved of eating eggs. He was really a Buddhist, was Francis, masquerading as an Anglo-Catholic friar. So mainly we put him on cleaning duties, but he was so dozy that most of that was beyond him too. If there was anything to break, he’d break it.’
‘Nursing?’
‘The sick, you mean? Trouble there was that he was frankly irritating. When you’re sick, you want somebody calm, confident, and good with their hands, not somebody who’ll fret and drop things. So for most purposes, we left him to himself to do the best he could. Treated him essentially as our village idiot—a cross sent to us by God to test us.’ The abbot laughed. ‘Does that answer your question to your satisfaction?’
‘Yes. I can see he doesn’t appear cut out to be a criminal mastermind. But might he have helped?’
‘You mean is this funny colony of his a mask for taking arms against persecutors of animals?’
‘Yes. A violent cult, in other words.’
‘I believe that Brother Francis would be more upset at the death of a kitten or indeed a fox than of a human being. I often wondered why and came to the conclusion that the great attraction of animals was, shall we say, that they were uncritical. But that is not to say that he disliked people. No, by and large, he was a peaceable creature who would not wittingly do anyone any harm. Indeed, I would describe him where people are concerned as tender-hearted.’
‘But could he be brainwashed?’
‘He’s certainly weak-minded enough for that. But I stick to the belief that there is nothing violent in the man. I could see him throwing himself in front of horses and hounds to save the life of a fox and thus cause injury and death but only unintentionally. And you could, in any case, rely on him to launch himself at the wrong time and generally’—the abbot sighed rather wearily—‘once more demonstrate his capacity for messing everything up.’
Ten Lords A-Leaping Page 14
