Black August

'Well, I've got a little place in Gloucester only a glorified cottage, you know, but my cousin is Chief Constable of the county, so I thought I'd go down there for a bit, and take on any job of work he cares to give me; London will be no fit place to live in for the next few weeks.'

Kenyon nodded. It looked as if they would all have to get out soon if they meant to save themselves. His thoughts flew to Ann. How would she fare in London if the food supply broke down and there was really desperate fighting? He simply must get hold of her somehow, if only to persuade her to chuck her job and go back to Orford while there was still time.

Preoccupied with these thoughts, he said good bye to Archie rather hurriedly, but on his way through the hall old Lord St. Evremond stopped him.

'Have you heard?' he asked.

'No, sir what?

The old man nodded portentously and sank his voice. 'The King is dead died at five o'clock this morning.'

'Good heavens, sir 1 that is bad news especially at a time like this.'

'Yes, he was a great man too. Far greater than the bulk of the nation realised. He devoted his whole life to the service of his country and did a tremendous lot of good. It is an incalculable loss.'

'It is,' Kenyon agreed, 'and its effect on the public is bound to make things worse.'

'Oh, they won't let it out until this business has blown over. That would never do my information is strictly private, of course.'

I see but they can't hold the funeral over indefinitely and how do we know that this business is going to er, blow over?'

Lord St. Evremond gave an indignant grunt. 'Why, of course it will, my boy. We're British, ain't we? I hope you don't suggest that we should let a lot of out at elbows Communist fellahs run the country eh? We'll jug 'em. Yes, sir! jug 'em, and if necessary shoot the lot!'

'Well, I hope you're right,' said Kenyon mildly, and the old peer shambled away to spread his strictly private news elsewhere.

As Kenyon made his way up St. James's Street his thoughts were mixed. The King's death Communists and Ann. She was a Communist herself theoretically, but that was only stupid nonsense gleaned from the adolescent debating societies at Cambridge. One of half a dozen ways of blowing off excess of youthful steam. Probably, though, it partially explained her turning against him. How the deuce could he get hold of her again?

A familiar figure caught his eye as he crossed Piccadilly to Albemarle Street. Veronica sailing gaily along with a swing that displayed her supple figure and enchanting ankles to the admiration of the passers by.

'Hi!' he called. 'Hi!' as he hastened after her. A sudden inspiration had flashed into his mind.

'Hells bells! it's you!' She turned as he caught her up, 'I thought it was a street accident at the very least.'

'Where are you off to?' he asked.

'Home, lovie to fill my foul carcass with whatever cooked meats the chef offers us for lunch.'

'Well,' he paused opposite the entrance of the Berkeley, 'what about a cocktail first?'

'Angels defend me!' she exclaimed in a loud voice, apparently to the street at large. 'The Millennium is come my brother offers me a drink!'

'Do try not to be such an ass I want to talk to you.'

'Ha, ha! I thought there was a catch in it somewhere. But a drink's a drink, and talking costs nothing, so lead me to it, my most noble lord.'

In the lounge the maitre d'hotel himself, imperturbable as ever in this crash of empires, hurried up to them.

'We are not lunching today,' Kenyon told him, 'but you might send the cocktail man and some writing paper will you?'

'I take your order myself.' His teeth flashed in a quick smile. 'The cocktail man he is gone!'

'Gone where?' demanded Veronica with surprise.

The man gave an expressive shrug. 'I do not know, m'lady many of my waiters become frightened and they run away to Italy but I tell them they are fools. If they are not safe in England they are not safe anywhere. What cocktail would you prefer?'

Kenyon gave his order and turned quickly to Veronica. 'Look here I want your help.'

'Now, Kenyon darling, let's be quite clear. If it's money, for goodness' sake cancel the drinks I haven't got a cent.'

'It's not,' he reassured her. 'But you remember those flowers that came back last night?'

Tra-la-la! Do I not, my red headed Lothario.' Veronica rocked backwards and forwards in an ecstasy of mirth.

'Yes, I know you thought it devilish amusing anyhow, you were right the girl turned me down.'

Veronica's mirth changed to a. quick sympathy. 'Poor sweet!'

'You see, she's found out about the handle to my name, and she's sore that I didn't tell her in the first place.'

'And why didn't you, pray?'

'Because she's only somebody's secretary… oh, I know that sounds rottenly snobbish… but I picked her up in the train going to Ipswich.'

'Kenyon, you idiot! Why can't you confine your affairs to women in your own set? I know half a dozen who are dying to have an affair with you.'

'I dare say you do but that is beside the point as I happen to be crazy about this particular girl.'

'Don't tell me we are going to have prayers in the village church “to guide the footsteps of our young master” and, “Heir to Dukedom makes a Ruddy Fool of Himself” in all the papers?'

'Certainly not I haven't gone quite mad. But I do want to get on speaking terms with this girl again.'

'Then it's the young suburban Miss who must be batty my dear most of them would give their eye teeth to be ruined by a real live lord she must be a queer !'

'She's not a queer, or a suburban Miss on the contrary, she is damnably attractive, and I want you to be a darling and meet her.'

'What!' Veronica sat up as though she had been stung. 'Lord love us! the man is mad!'

'Shut up!' said Kenyon sharply, 'that piercing voice of yours can be heard from here to Leicester Square.'

'All right, darling don't get irritable, send for a spot more gin to help me to recover from the shock.'

'Sorry, my dear I'm a bit nervy, I'm afraid!' He gave the order and turned back quickly. 'Will you write a note saying how much you'd like to meet her, and ask her along to cocktails tomorrow night?'

'What, at home? Herbert would have a fit!'

'No he won't, he's too damned busy packing up the art collection and rushing if off to the bank.'

'Are you really serious about this, Kenyon?'

'Yes, honestly. It's the only way I can think of to break down this absurd class consciousness of hers in every other way she's a perfect darling.'

'But is she really presentable?'

'Absolutely I promise you. She wouldn't be at her best among a lot of smarts, because she has not acquired the gift of chattering like a parrot, and her Billingsgate is definitely poor but I wouldn't dream of asking you if I thought there would be any sort of gene. Her uncle is a country parson you know the sort of thing.'

'Do I not!' Veronica sighed resignedly. 'But I thought better of you, Kenyon. I expect she is the most deadly bore dull, dowdy and dumb!'

'No, she isn't. You'll find her charming if you'll only show a little bit of that nice generous nature that you persist in hiding under a flow of trashy wit.'

'Hark at the boy 1' she mocked him; 'never mind, give me the paper. Now what do you want me to say?'

'Oh, anything you like, provided that you make it clear that you really want her to come. Her name is Ann Croome, by the way.'

Veronica nibbled the end of her pen for a moment, and then covered two sides of a sheet of paper with her rapid scrawl.

'How's that?' she asked handing the result to Kenyon.

'Marvellous!' He folded the sheet of paper and thrust it into an envelope. 'Now just address it and we'll send it off right away.'

"There!' exclaimed Veronica when it was done, 'see how I cover your shameless amours with the cloak of my spotless purity come on, let's eat.'