“Oban is not at its best in November,” Turner said. He was an athletic man of about forty, of similar height to Donald at just over six feet. His eyes were tired and bored, the eyes of a disappointed man. His voice was monotonous, except in bursts when he tried to sound enthusiastic but then gave up. Donald found himself the focus of those bored eyes, to a degree he found offensive. He looked straight back until they shifted to Nightminster.
“How can I help you gentlemen?” Turner asked.
Nightminster gave his opening spiel that they were here on a matter of extreme delicacy. As soon as he mentioned the name Lawrence Aldingford, Turner nodded at Donald.
“You’re his elder brother.”
“That’s true,” Donald said.
“How did you follow the trail here?”
“His girlfriend contacted me.”
“Why?”
The bored eyes had come alive with a direct, probing intelligence. Donald was not going to tolerate being cross-examined.
“The question answers itself surely?” he said.
“Your visit is no surprise. What does surprise me is how long it has taken. Lawrence was fogged back in July.”
“You need not be concerned for your position,” Nightminster said.
“I’m not even slightly concerned for my position. What do you want?”
“Account-Captain Peterson-Veitch will attend a conference this afternoon. You can tell no one else, nor can he, not even his wife. His Decency insists on absolute discretion. Peterson-Veitch must be at Dunstaffnage Harbour at fifteen minutes after noon to board a motor yacht called Lydia. The purpose of the conference—”
Turner just pulled a wan grin and shook his head.
“I can guess.” He glared at Nightminster. “What are you, anyway? Some big-shot from the Ultra Guild? You have the air of those thugs, the flashy style… Swanky metal flying boat indeed! I’ll bet it cost the better side of fifty thousand ounces. Christ, to think TK is stooping to such people.”
He shook his head again, switching his hard eyes back to Donald.
“What do you know about Lawrence anyway?”
His tone was jeering. A smirk flickered about his mouth, as if amused by some private joke at Donald’s expense.
“Apparently he flourished in General Wardian—which amazes me. Lawrence railed against regulations,” Donald said.
Turner considered this, leaning back, staring over their heads.
“Actually, what distinguished him was just how faithfully he practised the regulations. That’s why he flourished.”
“He must have changed from the brat I knew.”
Turner smiled at that, rather smugly.
“He definitely did, Donald. He was a most useful officer for an organisation such as ours. Then again, times change; his sort of dedication is going out of fashion.”
“The case of Lawrence is one that will be dealt with quite separately,” Nightminster said. “Now that he is in the Night and Fog, any extrication will be a matter of negotiation.”
Turner shook his head, the smile cooling.
“It will be a matter of blackmail.”
Nightminster stood up.
“We are finished here now.” He laid a hand on Donald’s shoulder. “Let’s get some lunch. There’s quite a decent grill in town.”
“Just a minute, I want to know what Lawrence did here.”
Nightminster stepped back. An icy sweetness crept into his voice.
“I’m sure the account-captain can provide all the gory details.”
He sat down again well to the side, relishing some private joke of his own. Donald was perfectly aware they were both laughing at him. What he could not work out was whether they were laughing at the same joke.
“You need to understand he abandoned his family ten years ago. We know nothing at all of his life. I don’t even know how long he was stationed here.”
“Three and a half years,” Turner said.
“What did he do?”
“Customer liaison—he was my face at Oban Castle. He soothed all the whining officials and accounting fuck-ups, flew the flag at social functions, that kind of thing.”
“That does not sound very Lawrence. Did he like it?”
“No. Lawrence was no courtier. I think that was why he drifted into criminality.”
“If he hated it so much, why did he do it for three and a half years?”
“He only did it for three months, before that, he was a barge commander in my Oban Flotilla.”
“He was a barge commander for three years and a bit?” Donald was as much amazed as amused to think of brother Lawrence transformed into a hearty mariner.
“He was executive officer in the first year, then commander for two years.”
“What were his duties?”
“Patrolling the Irish Sea to prevent surplus flow.”
“What do you mean by ‘preventing’?”
“Stopping it,” Turner said.
A question hovered over Donald’s tongue. As a wave might knock a boat onto a new course, so his curiosity veered away from what he did not really need to know. Was he afraid of surplus knowledge? The brutal four barrels of the brass-munchers on the patrol barges came to mind. So did the crates of ammunition in Rackland’s warehouse. To know was to take responsibility. At that moment, he would not have admitted even to himself that in the hinterland of his mind a terrible suspicion had just begun to smoulder.
“Did he excel at this?”
“Absolutely! He would still be doing it, except that he was hell-bent on promotion to account-captain. You have to prove you can butter the client, so I put him in customer liaison to tick the box.”
“You’re saying he built up a grand scale of contraband trade in just three months?”
That shut Turner’s smug mouth.
“Thank you, account-captain. That was the fullest answer I could have asked for,” Donald said.
About two minutes later they were out on the promenade, walking back towards the town centre.
“Tell me, Donald, what do you think will happen this afternoon?”
“TK will fry those scoundrels alive. It won’t bring Lawrence back but it will be a delightful come-uppance. Am I right?”
“You’re getting warm, I’ll give you that.”
Chapter 12
They took off that afternoon at around one o’clock and flew along the north coast of the island of Mull towards the open Atlantic. Nightminster kept the flying boat low and slow, below the hill tops, the engines just cantering. Donald felt he was inside an enormous limousine. He asked Nightminster about the flying boat. It was not an heirloom of the Public Era, Nightminster had designed it and supervised its construction in a factory of the Battersea asylum, from where it had been man-hauled piece by piece to North Kensington basin for assembly. Finding the skills to work aluminium sheet had been the big problem. Every sheet had to be hand-rolled and beaten, since there were no longer rolling mills to supply sheet metal as there had been in the Public Era. Power came from four twelve-cylinder diesel engines, each boosted by a device called a turbocharger. Craftsmen working under Nightminster’s direction had created the turbochargers at a cost in excess of their weight in gold. They doubled the altitude the flying boat could reach, from four miles to eight miles. Strange to think these four gadgets alone, each only the size of a kettle, enabled Nightminster to enjoy his cavalier lifestyle above the reach of Naclaski. For the most part, he used the flying boat as a freighter to carry premium value products from his Value System in the north. He mentioned, with another of his irritating smirks, that Donald should visit the Value System one day.
“I only invite my most privileged associates,” he said. Donald by this time had put up with quite enough smarminess. He let the conversation lapse and watched the scenery flow by. Mile after mile of screes, bare oak woods, orange slopes of bracken and boiling green groves of rhododendron. This area had been s
parsely inhabited even back in the Public Era. The flying boat’s shadow swept over a neat white motor ship running at speed, her bows throwing off sheets of spray. Donald waved down and was amused to get a wave in return from an officer on the bridge.
“Is that the Lydia?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s she going?”
“The same place we are—in there.”
Nightminster tipped the flying boat on one wing and banked north to fly into a narrow sea loch meandering inland as far as the eye could see. The mouth of the loch was sealed by a floating barrage topped with barbed wire. To either side, wooded slopes rose up into screes and higher still to crags scowling down at the flying boat.
“This is Loch Sunart nature reserve, the garden your brother was accused of plundering. Look—see the elephants?”
Nightminster pointed to the shore below. Donald was astonished to see a herd of elephants ripping up clumps of seaweed with their trunks.
“Elephants? Seriously?”
“There is a favourable micro-climate here. Global warming and all that. Look there! A pride of lions dozing in the sun.”
“Good God!”
“This is TK’s private delight. He was outraged to discover that leading citizens of Oban were in a conspiracy to rob him—and had sent an innocent man to the Fog. TK is in a dangerously touchy mood. If you want to stay out of the Night and Fog, Donald, tell the total truth and do not cheat.”
Nightminster backed off the throttles and put the nose down. After a deliciously creamy landing on the sheltered water, they taxied towards a stone house perched at the top of a pebble beach. It was built of thick, dark blocks, the windows were small and barred, peering out from under a roof of slates an inch thick.
Donald eyed the windows. A man could waste his life staring through those bars…
“Sunart Sans-souci,” Nightminster said. “You are honoured to be here. Not even TK’s wife has ever visited—you’ll see why when we get inside.”
Nightminster enjoyed another of his chuckles.
*
Just before Nightminster reached the iron-studded front door, it was pulled open by a welcome of two tall young women, one blonde and the other red haired. They wore tight black skirts and Harris tweed waist coats. Their hair was pinned up in chignons. As they smiled, the eyes of the two men devoured them alive.
“Welcome back to Sunart Sans-souci,” the blonde said. She stepped forward and held out her hand to Donald. “I am Vanessa.”
“And I am Isabelle.”
Donald kissed both their hands, growing vaguely aware there was more to this pair than just décor. They had strong, square shoulders for women, their smiles held a restrained contempt.
TK broke out into the sunlight. He wore his favourite dark green woollen jumper, full of holes, oil-stained tweed trousers and woollen slippers. He glared at Donald and then at Nightminster.
“What the fucking hell did you bring him here for?”
“Your hospitality is famed the world over, Your Decency”
“Answer the question Nightminster.”
“I think he deserves to see this. After all, it’s his brother.”
TK was forced to accept what was done was done.
“Come in Donald—I was not expecting an extra visitor, or I would have made arrangements.”
“Yes, Your Decency.”
Donald’s legs were a little wobbly after the confrontation. He kept in the background and was relieved that Wingfield did not make an appearance.
Nightminster informed TK they had flown over the Lydia and she should be at the dock within the next half hour.
TK said: “OK. Isabelle and Vanessa, I want you to receive our four guests and show them into the lounge, stoke up the fire and give them drinks and snacks. After about ten minutes I will enter and give them a spiel, after which, I will interview them one by one to check their stories. You, Vanessa, will lead them to the Gun Room. Donald, you can wait in the adjacent store room. You must be quiet. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Decency,” the two women and Donald said together.
“Good. To your stations.”
TK led Donald down the main corridor, through a large white-washed rustic kitchen and on into what was obviously the more utilitarian end of the residence. The Gun Room was hung with racks of Lee Enfield and Mauser bolt-action rifles. Donald helped TK lift a desk and some rude chairs into the Gun Room from a store piled up with large white, sheet-metal caskets, obviously of Public Era vintage.
“What are those, Your Decency?”
“You can drop the ‘Your Decency’ here. Those are heirlooms. In the Public Era, they were known as white goods, they did the chores we employ servants for today: washing dishes, washing clothes and so forth. I think they still run if you put the right juice in them. They used AC in the Public Era, as I expect you’re aware.”
Donald had not the slightest idea what he was talking about.
TK continued: “Somewhere I’ve got an old 240V AC generator about. We may need all that stuff once again, if Mr Banner and his National Party get their way. Now, you keep out of sight in there and I shall get dressed. Whatever happens, do not make a sound.”
Donald secreted himself in a small store room adjacent the Gun Room. It was stacked with cases of ammunition. Presently, he heard voices and laughter followed by TK’s distinctive brisk march clapping down the tiled corridor and into the next room. A slower, languid gait followed—Donald was fairly sure that was Nightminster. Some time passed. Now came footsteps and Vanessa’s tones.
“Mr Gustavus Rackland, Your Decency.”
“Thank you, Vanessa. Please take a seat Gustavus. I must apologise for—”
Donald heard an impact, like a leather saddle hit with a metal bar.
“Come and take a look, Donald,” invited TK.
Donald came out to find the plump form of Gustavus Rackland sprawled across the floor in the process of being ‘packaged’ by Nightminster; the wrists bound tight behind the back and the same rope used to bind the ankles and pulled tight so that heels touched palms. Nightminster shoved a balled-up rag in Rackland’s mouth and then wrapped most of his head inside a scarf. Out the door went the ‘package’. TK stooped and wiped some smears of blood off the tiles.
“Well that’s one down,” he said. He smiled at Donald. “We’ll get these traitors out of the way and then discuss Lawrence.”
“All this came of my report from North Ken basin?”
“I know a hell of a lot about barging I never knew before,” TK said, smiling. “In seriousness, yes, it helped direct our enquiries.” A quiet smile hinted at how the enquiries had been pursued. “It seems a pretty little scheme has been running here since my grandfather’s days to steal exotic skins and ivories from Loch Sunart Nature Reserve and sell them into the fashion trade at substantial profit. It’s been going on so long it was considered a kind of right. What a pity a few take advantage of trust—those few will vanish into the Nameless Gone; let the rest savour the harvest of virtue.”
“What about Turner?”
“I can’t get everyone. Turner is out of the deal. The executive-marshal of General Wardian was adamant he’s keeping the bugger—too good an officer to lose, by which he means… Supposedly a straight man surrounded by crooks, or so I was told.”
Donald did not press the point. He was too relieved TK’s hammer had fallen on others. He had nothing personally against Turner, after all.
*
The Lydia departed down the loch, heading for the open Atlantic, where her crew would repaint and rename her before continuing to the Caribbean. She would never sail in British waters again.
Nightminster and Donald loaded the bound-up condemned into the hold of the flying boat, which was moored to the pier. The condemned were all conscious by this time, communicating with terrified, pleading eyes. Peterson-Veitch was the most awkward, being a large man. He put up a struggle like
a tuna, until Nightminster beat his knees with a steel pipe. He lay still after that.
“What will happen to them?” Donald asked.
“You don’t need to know.”
Nightminster’s tone warned Donald off taking responsibility. They returned inside, where TK beckoned them up to the top end of the big lounge to bask in armchairs before the open fire. Vanessa served whiskeys. Donald dropped the first in one gulp, glad to feel it soothing off the jittery edge of his mood.
The exhibition of violence had shocked him, truth be told. Urbane, intelligent men—exceptional men—were thugs beneath. They gulped prey whole like Great White sharks. As he sipped at the second whisky, Donald looked from one to the other. Were these men really fit to rule? It was a pointless question, since they did rule and Donald could not change the fact.
They were all laughing together like family. Nightminster had Vanessa on his knee, carnivore grin leering at her neck, while he shot a few quick jokes and she laughed and wrapped an arm around his door-like shoulders. If ever they decided that he, Donald Aldingford had become a problem, would they be laughing just as loud after they had beaten him unconscious and bound him up? Yet he faced a lifetime as their servant—and there was nothing he could do about it except restrain the seething objection in his guts. His eyes drifted into the flames of the fire. When he died, the last thing he would ever feel in this world was that seething objection carried across decades, only for it to die silent within him.
Isabelle announced it was dinner time. They shifted to the modest dining table. The ladies served the first course of fish soup and sat down to join in, Vanessa beside Nightminster and Isabelle beside TK. Donald sat alone with his ears open and his mouth shut.
The dining conversation provided Donald the best panorama of the world he had ever had. The National Party was part of an international ‘fungus’ of radical politics, which had returned from the Continent in the years since the purges following the Sack of Oxford in 2073. The fungus had even crossed the Atlantic to grow across the Northern Occident. That was what made it so dangerous. The sovereign caste had no international assembly. Even the clubs that had developed from the old nation-state parliaments were nowadays only squabbling shops. They were not remotely competent to mount unified action against the wave of international radical politics. No doubt in about a century, one sovereign land would emerge as the de facto national sovereign of Britain, much as Athelstan had emerged as the first king of England in the tenth century. Such tortoise reform was being left in the dust of history by the radical hare.
Sovereigns of the Collapse Book 1 Page 15
