By half past three the great house was empty and deserted, dim from drawn blinds and comfortless now with covers over all the furniture. The removal vans had gone with their freight of pictures and old silver. The Duke was on his way to Windsor, and Juliana Augusta had departed with the staff for Banners.
Having seen them off Kenyon began to make preparations for his own departure. He rang up Selfridges’s roof garage where he kept his helicopter to give instructions that it should be overhauled and made absolutely ready for an early start the following morning, but he received an unpleasant shock. All private aircraft had been commandeered, and his helicopter with the rest.
That meant motoring down, so he went through to the garage in the mews at the back of the house, and spent half an hour tinkering with his car. E. C. G. was the next thing, every ounce that he could carry, so he ran her round to the nearest filling station. A long line of cars stretched ahead of him, all bound on the same errand. Many of them were stacked high with the weirdest assortment of luggage. The great exodus from London had begun, and everybody who had any place to go to in the country was making for it.
In the queue strangers were talking together with unaccustomed freedom and exchanging the wildest rumours. The news of the sailors' advance on London was now common property. A story was current that the Scottish Commander had been assassinated, another that one of the principal power stations on the Underground had been wrecked that morning. Certainly trains were only running on two of the lines, and those had curtailed their services. When at last Kenyon reached the cylinders he asked for 5,000 atmospheres, but the man shook his head. One thousand was the limit for any car, irrespective of its size, and the price of gas ten shillings a thousand.
'But the price is controlled,' Kenyon protested.
'Can't help it,' said the man, 'if the rush continues it'll be a couple of quid termorrer do I renew your cylinders or not?'
Kenyon promptly parted with his money and drove away, but the episode made him more thoughtful than ever. Events seemed to be moving now with such terrifying speed. What would London be like in another twenty four hours with all these people abandoning the sinking ship, and the services breaking down? He began to feel guilty about detaining Veronica for another night, but it had never occurred to him that the trouble would accelerate so rapidly, and the more he thought of Ann the more determined he became not to leave London until he had satisfied himself about her future safety.
He was neither rake nor saint, but had acquired a reasonable experience of women for his years, and he could remember no one who had aroused his mental interest and physical desire to the same pitch as Ann. Now, in the customary manner of the human male when seized with longing for the companionship of one particular female, he was endowing her with every idealistic and romantic perfection.
Back at Grosvenor Square he decided that he ought to discuss the increasing gravity of the situation with Veronica at once, but her maid, Lucy, informed him that she had gone out.
At the sight of Lucy's trim figure a pert young hussy he had always thought her it occurred to him that she and his own man ought to be given the opportunity to rejoin their own families if they wished, and he put the proposition to them.
Lucy tossed her head. 'That is a matter for her ladyship, milord, though I wouldn't leave her with things like this even if she wished it. She'd never be able to manage on her own.'
'If it please your lordship I would prefer to carry on with my duties.'
'Well, that's nice of you both.' Kenyon nodded. 'Unless I receive instructions to take on a job of work I propose to leave for Banners first thing tomorrow morning. You can drive a car can't you, Carter?'
'Yes, milord.'
'Then Lady Veronica will come with me, and you can take Lucy with you in her ladyship's two seater. Better do any packing tonight. I take it His Grace has sent the rest of the staff down to Banners?'
'There's Moggs and his wife still here, milord.'
'I see well, I'll have a word with them.' Kenyon went downstairs to the grim gloomy basement. He paused to look into the store room and satisfied himself that although tinned goods and luxuries had been difficult to procure for months past, the chef, with the ducal purse behind him, had not allowed his reserves to become depleted. The contents of the shelves would have stocked a fair sized grocer's shop. Then he went on to the house keeper's room where he found Moggs, and his wife, the laundry woman of the establishment, enjoying a large pot of very black tea. He told them that the situation was growing worse from hour to hour, and suggested that they might like to make other arrangements.
Old Moggs, who cleaned the boots and apparently spent most of his day in the area, jerked a grimy thumb at his wife.
'Me and the missis 'ad better stay 'ere, milord can't leave the 'ouse empty, can we?'
'I don't like to,' Kenyon replied, 'but I'm thinking more of you than the house at the moment.'
'Very good of your lordship, I'm sure, but we'd just as soon stay 'ere as I told 'Is Grace, if it's all the same to you ain't that so, Martha?'
'I'm willin', Tom,' said his wife.
'All right,' Kenyon agreed, realising suddenly that the couple might have no home to go to, but thankful not to have to leave the house untenanted. 'Take what you want from the storeroom, but I should go canny with it if I were you there is enough there to last you a couple of months if you're careful.'
"Thank you, milord, an' my best respects.' Old Moggs touched an imaginary forelock.
'Good bye then, and good luck to you both!'
'Same to you, milord, same to you,' came the quick response as he left them in the eternal half light which perpetually envelops the dwellers below stairs in most London houses.
Up in his own study once more he began to pack a few of his more precious possessions into a couple of suit cases. He was growing more and more certain that if they ever got back to Grosvenor Square they would find it sacked and looted. With a regretful glance he ran his eye along the bookshelves, faced in reality now with the old problem: 'What books would you choose if left on a desert island?' Windwood Reade's Martyrdom of Man, that wonderful survey of the history of every civilisation. Magee's great new achievement Time and the Unconscious, enough suggestive matter there to keep the most able brains speculating for a lifetime; and John Cowper Powys' Glastonbury Romance with its half million words. These were Kenyon's choice for the open boat, bound he knew not whither.
It occurred to him that he ought to ring up the Party Office and see if they had decided on any job for him. If they had, Carter would have to run Veronica down to Banners; but the man he wished to speak to was not in, and the secretary had no message for him.
Restlessly he wondered now if Ann would turn up, even if she had meant to in the first place. He could not expect her before seven anyhow, but would she come at all in this state of crisis and with transport breaking down? He began to hatch fresh plans in case of her non appearance, but he needed Veronica's help and she had not yet returned.
It was nearly six, so he switched on the wireless to hear the latest bulletin. The Sappers had performed miracles with the wrecked bridge and the trains were running to Glasgow. Negotiations were proceeding which it was hoped would pacify the sailors. There was now reason to hope that the United States would lift their embargo as far as Britain was concerned, and extend further credits to ensure an adequate food supply. The Government were taking active measures to cope with the situation.