by Iain Pears
Come immediately. Elizabeth.
The first word was enough to turn all my steely resolution a little rusty. All sorts of stories flooded into my mind. A lost twin. Devoted sisters torn asunder, and now reunited. All nonsense. It could not possibly be so. Could it? The doubt was small, but enough because I wanted it to be so. I washed and shaved and dressed in clean clothes, and by the time I was ready to face the world I was decided. I would see her. Just in case. But I would make her wait, and use the time to find out some more. It was the first time she had wanted to see me more than the other way around, and I liked the feeling too much to lose it quickly.
I went back to Fleet Street. Hozwicki wasn’t in the King & Keys so I went to the Telegraph, walked up the stairs to the newsroom, and found him, sitting alone in a corner with a typewriter. He was the only person in the entire place to use one; everyone else wrote their stories out by hand, and I noticed he kept on getting irritated glances from others in the room every time he pressed a key. It was a woman’s machine, not for men.
“I need to talk to you.”
“I’m busy.”
“I don’t care.”
I must have said it in an impressive fashion, as he stopped typing and looked up at me. “So, talk.”
“Not here. I don’t want your colleagues to learn about Comrade Stefan.”
I hadn’t meant it to come out as a threat. But that was how he took it. He stared stonily at me.
“Come outside for a walk. It will only take five minutes.”
He considered for a second, then stood up and put on his coat. I could see he was angry; I imagine I would have been as well. From his point of view he had extended a hand of friendship, and I was using his gesture to blackmail him. I would have felt guilty about it, if I’d had the leisure to think straight.
“Well then? What do you want now?”
He stood on the pavement as the crowds of people parted to walk around us, and indicated he was going to go no further. We were just outside the Telegraph’s doors.
“I didn’t mean to threaten,” I said. “I had no intention of saying anything. But I have to talk, and I don’t have a great deal of time.”
“What happened yesterday? I heard you came, then left. Too boring for you?”
“It probably would have been, but I didn’t find out. There was a woman there. She called herself Jenny. In her forties, German accent.”
He nodded.
“Tell me about her.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Not unless…”
“No,” I interrupted. “No games. Not today. No bargains, no you-scratch-my-back nonsense. I need to know now. I must know. Who is she?”
He looked at me carefully, then nodded. “And you won’t say why you want to know?”
“Not a single, solitary word. But you must tell me.”
He stared at the pavement for a few seconds, then turned on his heel, and walked off, turning up Wine Office Court, past the Cheshire Cheese, where there was no one around. Eventually he stopped and turned.
“Her name is Jenny Mannheim,” he said. “But that’s not her real name. She arrived from Hamburg about six months ago. It appears she was involved in a murder there and had to flee the country. When she got here, she contacted some groups of exiles, but has steered clear of the Germans. She doesn’t want anyone to know she is here. She’s afraid of the police, or of being murdered herself in revenge. She’s a very tough woman, ruthless in argument and quite capable of being ruthless in action, I imagine. Her life is the struggle. It is all she cares about, and all she talks about. She is entirely cold and deeply unpleasant. So I’m afraid I cannot tell you much more. Even what I know did not come from her. I avoid her as much as possible. And so should you, if you’ve any sense.”
“So how do you know about her?”
“She approached these groups which—well, they don’t trust many people. They’re used to spies and informers and police agents trying to infiltrate them. They’re careful. Naturally they wanted to make sure she was who she said.”
“How did they do that?”
“Easily enough. They wrote letters to comrades in Germany. They checked she was on the boat she said she was on. They used people in the police there to see if she’s done what she said. She had. She’s a nasty bit of work. Even by the standards of her type.”
“Quite pretty, though.”
“It would be interesting to see the reaction if you said that to her face.”
“She left yesterday with a man.” I gave a brief description, as best as I could. It wasn’t necessary.
“Jan the Builder,” Hozwicki said flatly. “That’s what he’s called. He sometimes works on building sites. Josef pointed him out to me once, and told me to beware of him. Again, no one knows his real name. And, since you no doubt already know, yes, he is a member—probably the leader—of the Brotherhood of Socialists.”
“And are they…?”
Hozwicki looked at me. “Dangerous people who you do not want to know. You remember the hold-up at Marston’s brewery? The armed robbery at that Cheapside jeweller’s about a year ago?”
He was referring to two violent, but unsuccessful, crimes. “They were what are called expropriations, to fund the cause. Anarchism is split into two; those who think such things justifiable and necessary, and those who believe they ruin everything we are striving to achieve.”
“We?”
He nodded.
“So tell me more about these people.”
“Hard. It’s not as if they advertise themselves. But there can’t be many of them. Most are Lithuanian or Latvian, most would be executed or imprisoned if they went home. They hate Russia and all things Russian. And everyone else. They seem to have money. Presumably from robberies. More than that, I cannot tell you. I don’t know. They are not interested in listening to speeches or theoretical discourses. They think that is bourgeois. They think violent action is the only true revolutionary activity. I think that if they could, they would happily murder Kropotkin as well as any other Russian.”
“What is all this to you, Stefan?” I asked. I was genuinely curious. “Why are you part of all this rigmarole?”
He frowned as he turned to look at me. “I’m Jewish and I’m Polish,” he said. “Why do I need to say anymore? I do not wish to kill anyone, Matthew. I want to set the world free, so mankind can realise its full potential and live in harmony. An aspiration you no doubt think is foolish, naïve and absurd.”
I shrugged. “As aspirations go it is not a bad one. I am merely sceptical about its chances of success.”
“You are not alone. But compromise…” Here he turned with a smile playing over his mouth, which made quite a change. He had a pleasant smile. He really should have used it more often. “Compromise is a weapon of oppression wielded by capitalists to ensure nothing ever changes.”
“Of course it is,” I said heartily. “Damn good thing too.”
He grinned. “And now we understand each other. I’m glad. I’ve always appreciated your efforts to be kind. Do not think I was unreceptive. But I grew up in a world of suspicion and it is not a habit I can abandon easily. You are a good man. For a lackey of the system.”
“I will take that as a compliment,” I said. “And I in turn appreciate your willingness to talk to me. I will use the information—cautiously, shall we say. And one day I will give you a proper explanation.”
He nodded. “If you know what is good for you, you’ll steer clear of Jan the Builder and anyone associated with him.”
“We’re old drinking mates,” I said.
“And whatever you do, don’t start making eyes at Jenny Mannheim. She’d eat you for breakfast and pick her teeth with your bones.”
He nodded, and strode off to his work, leaving me pondering his last words. They had brought me back to the subject of my obsession. I had forgotten about her for the time I was talking to him. Now she came flooding back to my mind. A
n associate of Jan the Builder.
I had information, but no understanding. In fact, I was worse off than before. Every time I added a nugget of information to my paltry hoard, it made the rest seem the more confusing. So I now knew more about this band of anarchists; knew a small amount more about this woman I had encountered the previous day. But I still knew nothing about their connection with Ravenscliff. What was more I did not care; my obsession with Elizabeth had grown to the point that it was almost uncontrollable. I agonised over whether I would go and see her, as I had been asked to do.
I knew I would, sooner or later. I knew I would not be able to keep away. But I put up a fight. I did not embrace my fate eagerly or without resistance. Even as my feet took me down Fleet Street, past Charing Cross, up Haymarket and to Piccadilly Circus, I told myself I had not made up my mind. I could, at any moment, hop on to a bus and go home. I had free will. I would decide, in my own good time. I went through all the reasons for treating her command with the disdain it deserved, and they were overwhelming. Went through all the reasons for obeying her, and they were paltry. And still I walked on, hands in pockets, eyes looking down at the pavement, getting ever closer, with each step, to St. James’s Square.
I still told myself that I had not yet made up my mind as I stood on the doorstep, and as I rang the bell. And it was true. I had decided nothing. The only decision I could take was to walk in the other direction; indecision made me sleepwalk towards her, go through the door when it was opened by the housemaid, climb up the stairs to the little sitting room where she was waiting for me. Had my heart given way then, I would not have been surprised, and might not have been ungrateful. But it did not; and I walked in to see her sitting on the settee by the fire, a book on her lap, looking at me gravely. And I felt that familiar flood of emotion coursing through my being, as I knew that I was back, exactly where I needed to be.
“Sit down, Matthew,” she said softly, gesturing to the place beside her. With an immense effort of will, I sat in the armchair opposite, so I would not have to suffer her perfume, the sound of her clothes as she moved or the feeling that, with the slightest gesture, I could reach out and touch her. I was safe, immune there. She noticed, of course, and knew why I had done it: it was a gesture of weakness, not of defiance; she understood it all.
She continued to look gravely at me, but was not trying to fascinate; there was a seriousness in her glance which hinted at sympathy and understanding, although I knew all too well that I read far too much into such things, and always tried to give the best possible interpretation.
“You asked, so here I am,” I said.
“I wrote because I received this distressing message from you. I thought the least I could expect was some sort of explanation.”
“Do you really think you need one?”
“Of course. I was entirely perplexed by it.”
I searched her face intently, trying desperately to see through to the thoughts underneath. I knew that everything depended on what I said next. Why, I do not know. I was simply certain.
“Do you ever tell the truth?”
“Do you ever do as you are told? If you remember, I told you quite plainly that you should not give any attention to the anarchists. You agreed, promised, and immediately broke your promise. I think I have more of a right to be cross than you, as your misdeed was premeditated.”
“That was you, last night?” I asked, still somewhat incredulous.
“Yes. It is necessary,” she said, and instantly, her voice, her expression, her face were all transformed. It was eerie and frightening, like seeing a wax puppet melt and reconstitute itself as a different character. The changes were infinitely subtle, but the effect was total. The lines of the frown around the bridge of the nose, the set of the jaw, the slightly hooded look of the eyelids, the tilt of the head and the hunched-up, wearied pose of the shoulders. Fragments of movement changed her from a society lady of aristocratic bearing into a grim, hard-living, independent revolutionary from the East End. I still could not believe it, and even worse could not see how she did it.
Then, in a twinkling of the eye, the anarchist Jenny vanished, and Elizabeth reappeared, smiling mockingly at me. “It is really not so difficult,” she said. “I always had a talent for mimicry and acting. It was merely a question of studying, to get the clothes and the look and the opinions just so. And I have spoken German since birth. It is my first language.”
“I suppose it would be too much to ask for an explanation—an honest, truthful one—of what you were doing there?”
She considered. “No. I think it might well be a good idea. Do you want the long version, which would indicate a willingness to forget about that unfortunate letter of yours? Or the short one?”
“The long one,” I said in a tone lightly tinged with reluctance.
She rang the little silver bell on the table, and asked for refreshments, then picked up my letter and tossed it onto the fire.
“I think I told you that John was preoccupied in the last few months of his life. One of the reasons was this. He always kept a careful eye on his businesses; it was his duty, he believed, to ensure that they were run well. Obviously, he could not watch everything. For this he had managers, on whom he relied to tell him what was happening and to implement his wishes. At the same time, he would often make visits to various plants and factories, to see for himself, so he could take the temperature, as he called it. He loved these trips. You think of him, no doubt, as a financier, a man who sat far away from everything, dealing with the abstractions of capital. He wasn’t like that at all. What he liked was putting it into operation, in the shipyards and the foundries and the engineering plants. He liked to see how a decision on his part could galvanise thousands of people into action. He loved his factories and, although you would no doubt not believe it, he loved the people who worked in them. The engineers, the fitters, the builders, the skilled workmen. He valued them far more than the people of his own society. Jenny the anarchist hates him; he was the worst sort of capitalist because he believed it was more than mere exploitation. He was proud of paying more than his competitors, proud of providing decent accommodation for those he employed.
“Last October, he went up to the shipyard in Northumberland and stayed for nearly a week. He often did this; every year I think he spent about ten weeks away, going round one plant or another. Sometimes there was a good reason; a huge decision on investment, problems with a contract, or something like that. Other times there was no reason at all. He simply wanted to be there, and smell the smell, as he put it. He spent as much time on the factory floor as he did in the offices, spent time talking to the men, and stood, watching. He believed you could tell the health of a company by the way it looked and felt. You didn’t need to see the books.”
“Did you ever go with him?”
“Not often. But then he didn’t often come with me on my trips either. Each of us to our own particular universe. He was happy in his, I in mine. There were somethings we could not share. And he needed to be without distractions. He would say that the factories would talk to him, and he had to listen. Sometimes, they would say one thing, the accounts another. Then he would become curious, and stay until he was satisfied. This time he came back perplexed. All had been well, he said. The yard was happy, the operations were smoothly run. They had recently finished a gigantic project to dig out a new dock which involved dredging a large part of the river itself so ships could be launched more easily. The cost of dreadnoughts is so astounding that I was always amazed by his ability to contemplate it. It didn’t bother John at all. For him, large sums of money were just small sums, with more noughts on the end. Something was either a wise investment or not. Whether it was for one thousand pounds or one million did not alter the principle.
“All was well. He was satisfied. Apart from one small thing. One of the accounting clerks had been dismissed for peculation. A small amount of money, nothing more than twenty pounds, completely insignificant. But he had b
een a young man, full of promise, who had been earmarked by one of the managers as someone who could be trained up and given a great deal of responsibility in years to come. The manager felt to blame, that his assessment of the young man’s character had been at fault. He had decided not to bring charges, but mentioned it to my husband.
“Most people in John’s position, I am sure, would not have bothered about it. All companies mislay a certain amount of money; it is considered inevitable. John thought differently. He had spent years developing his organisation and wanted to achieve perfection. It did not matter to him whether it was twenty pounds or twenty thousand or even two shillings; it should not have been possible, and if twenty pounds could disappear, maybe twenty thousand could too.
“So he looked further and came to the conclusion that this was not the only time such a thing had happened, although he could not discover many details. But he found out where they were going to, an address in East London which only a small amount of investigation revealed was occupied by this man known as Jan the Builder.
“What infuriated John was that he could not discover how these payments were being authorised. The man responsible clammed up and refused to say anything at all. So he decided to tackle the problem from the other end. And that was where I came in.”
“Yes,” I said. We had now got to the point—the only point, if truth be known, which interested me. Embezzlement and failures in accountancy procedures were all very well, but I was still fixated on the eyes of Jenny the Red, staring icily in a meeting hall. “Why did you come in?”
“Perfectly simple. I offered, and he accepted my offer. Not willingly or readily, but I am quite persuasive. You find it all perplexing, no doubt. That is because you know nothing of me apart from what you see. You think of me as a pampered lady, used to gliding through a ball or a dinner party, but quite unfitted for real life. Too delicate and refined, shocked even at the vulgarity of a middle-class hotel. Is that correct?”
