A tiny fire burned in the grate although it was early August, and the sheets had been carefully turned back in the great four poster. A nightdress Ann supposed it to be one of Veronica's lay across the bed. A dressing gown, slippers, and everything else she could possibly require also seemed to have been provided, but there was no other exit than the door by which she stood with Kenyon.
'I'll never forgive you for this,' she said slowly. 'Never!'
He smiled slightly. 'We're making rather an early start in the morning, I'm afraid, so you will be called a six o'clock. Good night, Ann sleep well!' He shut the door softly behind him, and with renewed fury Ann heard the key turn in the lock.
Kenyon went along to report to his fellow conspirator.
'Well?' asked Veronica curiously. 'How did she take it?'
'Damn badly. I had to lock her in!'
'Phew!' Veronica let out a peculiarly vulgar whistle. 'You'll find yourself in Bow Street, laddie, if these troubles blow over.'
'I don't care. She comes with us if I have to carry her all the way now. I love that girl like hell!'
Nevertheless, when Kenyon decided to call Ann himself in the morning, he found the door still locked but the bed unslept in and the window open. Ann Croome had gone.
?7
Nightmare Day!
Kenyon walked over to the window. There was an eight foot drop to the leads of the music room, then a short fire escape down to the empty garage, from which it was easy to get into the Mews. That was the way she had gone.
'Damn!' he said briefly, and striding back into the passage he knocked on Veronica's door.
'Yes, who is it?' came a petulant voice. Veronica was never at her best in the early morning.
'Me Kenyon.'
'You can t come in, darling, I'm naked!'
'All right, but look here Ann's cleared out.'
'More fool you for letting her. Where were you in your bath?'
'No; in my room, of course!'
'Ye Gods the man is crazy.'
Kenyon laughed angrily. 'I'm perfectly sane, thanks; we'll talk it over at breakfast, then.' He strode off to his room.
Veronica did not prove helpful or particularly sympathetic when they met over the bacon and eggs and tea. 'You had your chance last night, my boy, and it" you mucked it you've only yourself to blame,' was her somewhat cynical comment.
'What did you really think of her?' Kenyon asked.
'Oh, she's quite a sweet and too devastatingly bed worthy for words!'
'Veronica! Why must you drag that in?'
Her eyes opened wide. 'Snakes and ladders! Why not, my poor fool. You don't want to discuss higher thought with the wench, do you?'
'Of course not… but…'
'But what?'
'Oh, nothing.'
Veronica put down her teacup with a deliberate bang.
'S welp me Gawd, but I believe 'e is thinkin' of makin' an honest woman of 'er after all!'
'No,' said Kenyon 'I'm old fashioned enough to feel that I do owe something to the family and it would pretty well break old Herbert up.'
Veronica shook her head sadly. 'My dear, you are loopy, there's not a doubt about it. You don't want to marry the girl, you don't want to discuss the state of your soul with her, and you don't even want to play slap and tickle at least you say you don't. What the devil do you want?'
'I want to get her safe out of London; after that we'll see. Are you game to put off our departure till after I've been down to Gloucester Road?'
'Yes, my quixotic numskull, if you like. Let's start after lunch. That will give me a chance to see Klinkie again; she may have brought another infant into this world of sin by now.'
'All right. I'll go straight away.'
'Oi!' she called after him, 'chuck us the piper, lovey.'
He picked it up and glanced quickly through it. 'My hat! It's down to four pages now; that's bad.'
'Anything in it?'
'No, nothing new that matters; martial law declared last night… Train derailed at Peterborough… Further trouble at the London docks, and lots about a new scheme for rationing all commodities, but it's all fill up; bound to be now that the Press is muzzled by the Government censorship. Well, I'll be off; see you at lunch if not before.'
Although it was only just past eight a considerable number of people were about. Little groups of servants, from the big houses and blocks of flats which were still occupied, stood talking together. As Kenyon passed the Dorchester he noticed that some wag had chalked up the words: 'To Let Furnished' in large letters on the wall, but the big commissionaire still stood impassive and important at the front entrance. The Park displayed a bustle of activity. Troops, Special Police and long lines of lorries moved up and down between the food dumps, and sentries were posted on the gates. At Hyde Park Corner Kenyon saw half a dozen khaki figures, and some black blodges which he knew to be machine guns, high up on the great arch that spans Constitution Hill; an admirable strategic position commanding three main thoroughfares one side of Buckingham Palace, and the two Parks. In Knightsbridge there was quite a crowd, yet the streets looked empty, and after a moment he realised that it was because there was not a single bus in sight. The crowd thinned again, and he sped down Cromwell Road.
Mr. Rudd received him on the doorstep. 'Sorry, sir, Miss Croome ain't in not likely to be for that matter.'
'Why?' demanded Kenyon, with a sudden sinking feeling. 'Did she sleep here last night?'
'Yes, sir, same as usual; but she asks to be called at six when she come in lars' night. In a rare state she was too, that dirty! an' a temper! Well, I ain't never seen 'er like it before. Then she ups an' packs this mornin'; give me me money, an' 'ops it, rahnd abart a quarter of an hour ago.'
'Where to? do you know?'
' Liverpool Street I 'eard 'er tell the taxi. Don't know fer sure but I think she's got relations down Suffolk way.'
'Right. Thanks!'
'You're welcome, sir.'
Kenyon was already back in his car. Liverpool Street was the other end of London so he ought to be able to beat her to it if she only had a quarter of an hour's start. He was determined to see her again before she left.
Knightsbridge was more crowded now. Still no buses on the streets, but many cars loaded with luggage and streaming westward out of London. He raced up Piccadilly, wondering at his swift progress, then he saw the explanation. The traffic signals were not working, but farther on he paid the price; at the Circus there was a solid jam which took him twenty minutes to get through. In Trafalgar Square a crowd was collecting, but the police moved steadily through them, breaking up the groups. When he reached the Thames Embankment he was able to put on speed again, but had to pull up momentarily for a full battery of Field Artillery horses, guns, and limbers which was reversing preparatory to parking along the roadway under the windows of the Savoy. Blackfriars was almost deserted, and as he entered the City by Queen Victoria Street, he was reminded of a Sunday when he had attended a special service at St. Paul 's. The place was dead, empty, desolate. Long rows of closed offices and shuttered shops without a pedestrian in a hundred yards, and this was Friday.
Within a quarter of a mile of Liverpool Street he was brought to a halt. A long line of taxis and private cars, all heading for the station, barred his way; several thousand people, like Ann, were making for the Eastern Counties.
Kenyon fumed and fretted. He dared not leave the car in case it was stolen. Then he had an inspiration. If he took a side turning he could work his way round to the Bishops gate entrance; it was a risk, for Bishopsgate borders on the East End, but there would be nothing like the traffic, and after a few moments of twisting in and out through narrow streets he reached the eastern entrance of the station.
There was no sign of any crowd hostile to car owners such as he had feared, and a loafer in a battered hat stood nearby on the pavement. Kenyon beckoned him over.
'Can you drive a car?' he asked
'Not me, Guv'nor no such luck.'
/>
'All right,' said Kenyon… 'Come and sit in this one. I may be half an hour or so but there's a quid for you when I get back.'
'Strite?'
'Yes, I mean it.'
'Orlright, Guv'nor,' grinned the loafer.
Kenyon hurried into the station. From the top of the staircase he could see the wide platform spread beneath him. It was one black seething mass of humanity; it seemed utterly hopeless to try and find Ann in such a crush, but he went down and shouldered his way in amongst them.
After a few moments he reached the footbridge and crossed it, knowing that the departure platforms were on the other side. The space there was even more densely crowded, but he managed at least to edge his way through the crush to the gates, beyond which lay the trains. There were a number in the sidings but to his surprise all that he could see were empty, and not one showed any sign of imminent departure. A tired looking porter who sucked at an unlit cigarette leaned over the barrier, and the nearest members of the crowd were bombarding him with questions. He only shook his head.
'It's no use blamin' me,' he kept on saying. 'There won't be no more trains till further orders.'
Kenyon questioned the people who stood around him and learned that the provincial towns had become very alarmed at the influx of visitors in the last few days. Now they were employing their local police to prevent any but permanent residents in their municipalities from alighting. Thirty or forty trains had returned to Liverpool Street during the night, still loaded with their human freight and the railway company, not unnaturally, refused to sanction the departure of any more.
Obviously Ann could not have left London then. Kenyon turned and looked at the closely wedged mass of people who stood there, speechless for the most part and waiting in the hope that the Company might reverse its decision. She must be somewhere among them if only he could find her, so he buffeted his way back towards the booking office. That too was crammed with patient careworn humanity.
For ten frantic minutes Kenyon squeezed and pressed his way through the throng, standing on tiptoe at every second step to peer above the heads of the surrounding people. Then he gave it up as hopeless and made his way back to his car.
His new acquaintance uncurled himself from the seat, and Kenyon handed him the promised pound. The fellow grinned sheepishly.
'Don't seem fair to tike it reely does it? Still, h'easy come and h'easy go, as they say. Well, so long, Guv'nor I only wish there was a h'upset like this every day!'
Kenyon sped back through the deserted City and along the Embankment, but he passed the end of Northumberland Avenue, thinking it better to cut out Piccadilly and Trafalgar Square. Yet near Victoria Street he got caught again. This time by a long religious procession. It was headed by priests from the Cathedral who carried Crosses and an image, while they chanted an age old hymn. Dozens of little boys in surplices followed meekly in their train. Free of it at last the rest of the journey was easy, and he pulled up once more outside 272 Gloucester Road. The door was open so he went straight up, not expecting to find Ann, for he did not think she could have returned so quickly, but determined to wait for her. Rudd was in sole possession of the sitting room and he was busy. Two large automatics lay on the floor in pieces, and he was polishing their parts with loving care.
'Hullo!' said Kenyon. 'Where did you get those things?'
Rudd grinned. 'Mr. Sallust give them to me, sir told me to clean 'em up just in case like.'
Kenyon did not ask 'in case of what.' He knew, so he sat down to wait for Ann, and Rudd meanwhile entertained him.
Eleven o'clock chimed from the hideous pale bronze clock on the mantelpiece, then twelve, and he began to wonder what had happened to her. If only she had been reasonable the night before they might have been out of London by this time. He found himself taking cigarette after cigarette out of his case until it was exhausted; Rudd, who had long since reassembled his dangerous looking battery, but continued to bear him company, came to the rescue with a packet of Gold Flake.
Kenyon sat on, but by the time the clock struck one he was thinking of Veronica. To delay much longer would not to be fair to her, and he must get her down to Banners somehow, yet every moment he wanted more desperately to see Ann. At twenty minutes past he pulled himself together, and stood up to go.
Rudd promised faithfully that he would telephone the very second that Ann returned, and with that slender comfort Kenyon descended to his car.
He took the by ways to Hyde Park Corner, but there he found a block; thousands of people and several hundred police. The sailors from Portsmouth with the aid of commandeered vehicles had completed their march, and were due to arrive any moment. Arrangements had been made for them to camp in the Green Park. A dozen people, cheerful but unapologetic, immediately occupied the bonnet and back hood of his car, so Kenyon, knowing it would be useless to protest, took the invasion without comment and stood up in the driver's seat.
Over the heads of the crowds, from the corner of St. George's Hospital, he saw the bluejackets go by. Shepherded by mounted police and cheered by a considerable proportion of the people, they passed quite peaceably to their temporary encampment. With them were quite a number of soldiers, sympathisers Kenyon supposed, from the Aldershot Command which, rumour said, had failed to head the sailors off.
He looked meditatively again at the tall arch. The men up there were hidden now, but at the first sign of trouble they could mow the malcontents down like ripe corn.
The crowd suddenly thinned, overflowing into the street. His uninvited companions who were using his car as a grandstand smilingly descended, and at a foot pace he edged his way towards Hamilton Place. A few minutes later he was back in Grosvenor Square.
Veronica had started lunch without him, and she felt quite shocked as she gave a quick glance at his drawn face.
'What is the matter, darling?' she asked.
'Oh, nothing,' he said wearily, and sitting down, told her the events of the morning.
'I see,' she said slowly. 'Well, as a matter of fact, Alistair rang up. He wants me to meet him this afternoon at a tea shop behind Wellington Barracks; and I said I would if you were agreeable to postponing our departure till this evening.'
'That's not true, Veronica! You thought of that story to give me another chance to see Ann.'
'My sweet, I may be an habitual liar, I am with most people, but I don't have to be with my own brother!'
'Honestly?'
'Yes, honestly!'
'No, I've got to get you down to Banners this afternoon; perhaps I'll come back tomorrow, we'll see.'
'I suppose you're worried stiff about her?'
The fact that I don't know where she is, and the thought of what may happen to her, if she is not out of London by tonight, is driving me half crazy.
I like your little Ann, Kenyon.'
'Do you really?'
Veronica thought him almost pathetic in his eagerness for her approbation. 'Certainly I do,' she said firmly. 'She's got guts, darling, guts. And I adore the way she hopped out of the window; I've been thinking about her all the morning.'
'Thanks, Veronica; you've been damn good about this business.'
'Don't be a fool! I'm never good about anything unless it suits my book. Now I'm going to leave you to finish your lunch alone.'
'Right. We'll get along in half an hour's time.'
When he had finished he rang for his man and asked:' 'Did you go up to Euston this morning, as I told you?'
'Yes, milord, and the cigarettes from Foyer and Co. had arrived. I had an awful job to get them, though.'
'Had they, by Jove! Good old Yorgallidis! What a performer not to let us down, even at a time like this. Were the crowds very bad?'
'Shocking, milord, no trains running, and by the time I left the people were that angry they were wrecking the booking offices.'
Kenyon nodded gloomily. 'It's about time we cleared out. Pack a good sized picnic basket, and put it with the cigarettes and luggage in the car.' Ca
rter's usually impassive face showed sudden surprise.
'Am I to take it that you are going without her ladyship?'
'Of course not; she's upstairs getting her things.'
'Excuse me, milord, her ladyship left the house about ten minutes ago, and I was to tell you that she would be back round about half past six.'
'I see. We must wait till she gets back then.' Kenyon did not believe the story about Alistair for one moment. With quixotic disregard of danger to herself, Veronica was giving him a few more hours to try and get in touch with Ann; between the two of them he was now at his wits' end with anxiety and worry.
There was no alternative but to take advantage of her generosity so he decided to telephone to Rudd. When he dialled the number there was no reply. He dialled it again and a man's voice spoke:
'Number, please?'
'I dialled it,' said Kenyon.
'If you will give it me, I will ring you as soon as I can,' said the voice.
Kenyon gave the number, thinking as he did so how greatly it would add to the Government's difficulties if the telephone service broke down. For half an hour he sat beside the instrument, then the call came through. Rudd had no news of Ann, nor could he suggest any place that she was likely to have gone to. He promised to telephone if she did return to Gloucester Road.
For an hour Kenyon paced the library in growing desperation. He tried to read but could not settle to a book. Where, in all this vast stone wilderness of London 's streets, could Ann be at that moment, was the thought that racked his mind; and what would become of her in the days ahead if he could not make certain of her safety.?
At half past four he rang up again, waited half an hour rang up the supervisor, and was begged by the much harassed operator to be patient. It was a quarter past five before his call came through still no news of Ann.
With a sudden feeling of guilt he remembered that he had not been in touch with Party headquarters that day. They might have work for him in connection with rationing or some emergency committee, so he put through a call to the office. After another long wait he got through to his immediate Chief, but the man was worried, irritable.
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