“When he was hauled up and charged with violating neutrality, he had one sentence to say in his defence. I’m wondering whether you know it.”
“ ‘Blood is thicker than water.’ ” Joe repeated the famous phrase to the colonel’s evident satisfaction. “I believe that’s what he said. Stirring tale! What concept are you trying to sell me, Swinton? I warn you, I’m not the kind of man who breaks down under pressure and buys the full set of encyclopedias.”
“We live in troubled times, Sandilands. And they’re getting worse. Men are not for much longer going to have the luxury of remaining unaligned. Neutrality, as Commodore Tattnall demonstrated, can never be binding. In these islands we could well find ourselves caught between two Bolshevik blocks: Russia, certainly, and this may surprise you—potentially, the United States, if steps are not taken, the right alliances made.”
“Alliances?” Joe was not sure he wanted to hear the answer.
“Alliances of the blood,” Swinton said with a clear uplifted eye and not the slightest trace of embarrassment. “Many Englishmen in the war questioned why we were turning our guns on the Germans. So like us as to be indistinguishable, apart from the uniform. Our boys played football with theirs that first Christmas Eve, you know. They tried to hush it up but it went on. Jokes were exchanged across No Man’s Land, cigarettes changed hands. Prisoners were taken when they should have been bayonetted on the battlefield. Our captured officers played chess with theirs. Brothers, you know, under the helmets. The menace to our society comes from a different direction. I work, Sandilands, with men of foresight to keep the disasters of poor political decisions at bay.”
He looked at Joe with speculation and decided to lob another whizz-bang. “There are those—men of standing—who see universal suffrage as a symptom of disease and decay in a nation. ‘Why?’ the Duke of Wellington might ask, ‘Why does the vote of a drunken, illiterate wife of a Glasgow fish-seller carry the same weight as my own?’ ”
“Ah! The Duke’s met my aunt Kirsty?” Joe thought that if he didn’t laugh at the colonel, he’d reach over and strangle him.
A weary sigh brushed his facetiousness aside. “The men I work with are men of influence and integrity. Patriots. Your presence amongst us might be welcome.”
Joe laughed. “I’ve had more persuasive approaches in my time. I find champagne and oysters at the Ritz works best for me when it comes to seduction. Look—if we’re talking patriotics, I’ll lay down my cards. I’m with G.K. Chesterton. ‘My country, right or wrong,’ is a thing that no patriot would think of saying except in a desperate case. It is like saying: ‘my mother, drunk or sober.’ I love her but I hope I would always have the courage to tell the old bag when she was sozzled and snatch the gin bottle from her hand. I’d give my life for my land but I’d always want to know it wasn’t being thrown away in a bad cause.”
Joe picked up the sound of shuffling at the door and with relief called out to Orford to come in.
“Here comes the inspector. No, Orford, Colonel Swinton won’t be taking tea after all. Perhaps they’ll be able to oblige him down at Vine Street. I’ll be along later to charge him and take his statement. Remind the sergeant down there that the prisoner is to be kept incommunicado. Whistle up your lads, will you? No need for cuffs. The colonel knows what the rules are.”
The moment the door closed behind the prisoner and his escort, Joe sank back into his seat and put his head in his hands. For good or ill, he’d fulfilled his promise to Kingstone to attack the roots. With Swinton out of the picture for a time—probably all too short a time—the mainspring of the organisation was disabled. He wouldn’t be able to order Kingstone’s killing from the depths of Vine Street nick. Well, he’d managed a breathing space for the American at last.
At Kingstone’s request, Joe had asked Miss Snow to book two first-class cabins aboard the Naiad for him, sailing on Wednesday. He’d wave him off with relief, but relief mixed with regret for all the conversations they would never have, the arguments they would never settle. One short weekend in the senator’s company had made him his friend for life, Joe decided with no guilty twinge of sentimentality. He’d admired the way the man had dealt with the assassination attempt, he’d enjoyed the long talks they’d had, driving between London and Surrey. The president, in his troubles, was fortunate to have a steady man at his side, Joe reckoned. A man now forewarned about the clandestine forces intent on influencing the world’s affairs.
And Armitage, the occupant of the second cabin? Damned lucky to be getting away once more. Joe was not comfortable with the idea that the FBI man was watching Kingstone’s back but the two seemed to have an understanding that suited them both. What had Julia told him about her friendship with Natalia? As young things, they’d clung together, swiftly learning how much stronger a pair can be than a single soul working alone. And three was stronger still. Joe smiled at the idea that the Nine Men’s Morris mill of three would be operating again. Two tough men, standing on either side of their leader. All might yet turn out well.
Joe reached for his phone again. Belt and braces was never a bad policy. It was essential that these two good centurions got back home safely. There was one more thing he could do to ensure this.
“Get me the Admiralty, please, Miss,” he asked the operator.
But it was not about to turn out well for Joe. For the second time in his short tenancy in this office he’d overstepped the mark. Swinton would surface eventually and raise hell. Better prepare for it. Wearily, Joe took a sheet of headed writing paper from his desk and wrote out his resignation. He signed it, put it into an envelope and wrote the commissioner’s name on the front. The least he could do was save the old fellow’s face and reputation.
Suddenly free of the tiresome grind of fifteen years, Joe recognised that he didn’t want to grow old sitting at that desk. He’d had enough of investigating dubious people doing nefarious things in London’s underbelly. He was sick of politicians using him to poke their scorching chestnuts out of the fire. He promised himself he’d leave at once, pack a bag, go and find Dorcas and take her off to the south of France. Married first or unmarried, he didn’t much care. Always provided that she’d be willing to hitch herself to a man freshly without profession—and not much in the way of resources, come to think of it. And assuming her affections weren’t being directed to some other quarter. Bloody Truelove! He’d probably left it too late.
Two hours to go before he picked up Kingstone at the conference hall. At last a quiet moment when he could get up to date with his notes. He reached for his notebook and began to write.
As he wrote, an insuperable snag occurred to him in the matter of Natalia’s death. If the powers who decided these things were, when all the evidence was in, minded (or directed) to declare a suicide, they would come upon the problem of the absence of any .22 pistol in her hand, in the car or in the immediate vicinity. What the devil had Armitage done with it? How many more guns had he managed to smuggle into the country? Where was the .22 now? Joe lifted the phone again and left a message for Bacchus.
CHAPTER 27
“Bill! Shouldn’t you be with Cornelius?… What are you doing?”
“God! You startled me! I thought I had the floor to myself this afternoon. Kingstone said you were tying up Natalia’s loose ends. I thought you must have gone over to the clinic. What have you been up to, Julia? How long have you been standing there?”
“I haven’t started standing here yet and with a welcome like that I’m not going to. I’ve just come back from town. I’ve been to see Natalia’s lawyers. Had to be done. I sorted out her things before I left. There wasn’t all that much. There’ll be more at the theatre but I’ll do that tomorrow when I break the news that they’ll have to field a substitute for the opening night. Cornelius brought back some of her stuff from wherever it was she went and I’ve repacked everything in the cabin trunk. No idea what to do with it though. There it is if anyone wants it. Are you going to shoot me with that thing? If not, put it away. I don’t like guns.”