Farthing

  Tibs had the Home Office, and Richard Francis had the Foreign Office. Richard and Clarinda had been there at Farthing all weekend, and I don't think I've mentioned them once. That's probably because they were so absolutely boring. I don't believe they said a word or uttered an opinion or even dropped a fork the entire time they were at Farthing, any of the times. They are a totally gray couple, complete nonentities. Uncle Dud was given the War Office. Eden, who had been Prime Minister before the party vote, was given the Ministry of Education, which was Sir James's old job. Hamilton, who everyone had expected to be Prime Minister this time, had the Colonies. Churchill had apparently been offered and turned down Commerce, and it was being taken by Sir Thomas Manningham. So on all down the line, the plums for the Farthing people, and the others either in the wilderness or given the unimportant hard work. That nice Guy Philby who had played croquet with me the weekend before my wedding, was made junior minister at the Foreign Office.

  You could say that this was what Eden had done to them, and that this was what Parliamentary democracy was about, and I expect people all through the country were saying that. All the same, I was surprised to see Mark behave so unchivalrously. But none of that was really a problem, it was all backscratching business as usual. Once the Parliamentary Party had chosen Mark, he had the right to appoint who he wanted to the Cabinet.

  The bad things were all announced in the speech he'd made in the Commons after he'd made the "desperate measures" speech on the radio. The identity cards we had all carried ever since the war were to be tightened up, to prevent forgery, and they would carry photographs, which would help the police, and more information, such as religion. Apparently a young Labour hothead called Michael Foot had leapt up at this and said it amounted to persecution of Jews and Catholics, which Mark had answered by sneering that nobody was talking about making anyone wear yellow stars, it was equitable, we would all have our religion marked on our cards. The Times seemed very concerned about what atheists would put, though I didn't see why "atheist" couldn't just go on the card. I immediately thought that it's what I'd suggest David say he was—after all, he was racially Jewish, but hardly religious.

  Next came Mark's policy on foreign nationals in Britain, who were causing dissent, unemployment, and trouble. Unless they could find three British sponsors, they were to be repatriated to their original homes. The Times thought this was quite generous, as it was to be at Britain's expense. I wonder if they would have thought so if they'd heard about Mrs. Smollett's original home the way I had the night before.

  The Communist Party, along with its newspapers, was to be outright banned. The Labour Party was to be checked by MI5 for secret Communist "sleepers" that might have infiltrated their ranks. The line taken was that the innocent had nothing to fear. Nobody protested in Parliament at this, probably because they were all too afraid, or maybe somebody sat on Bevan and Foot. Even worse, if you believe anything could be worse, instead of being subject to party votes or votes of confidence, Parliament was to be set on a new footing with a regular general election once every four years, as in America. The Times wasted much ink in praise of this, and only at the end mentioned that the first such election would, of course, be in four years time, giving Mark what amounted to practically a dictatorship for those years.

  "They elected you leader of the Conservative Party, which made you Prime Minister—they didn't nominate you for God," I said, bitterly, aloud. Nobody heard me except the white cat, who was curled up on the rug in a patch of sunshine. She looked at me inquiringly. The sympathy vote, Daddy had said. The British care about liberty and justice, David had said, and all the time in London this was being put before the House, who had raised only quibbles. "Reichstag fire," I said.

  David came in. "I wondered where you were," he said. "Who were you talking to?"

  "The cat," I said.

  The cat rolled over, purring, showing her belly.

  "She's disgusted by politics," I explained.

  "Any politics in particular?" David asked, warily.

  "British politics this morning, and you might as well see for yourself how bloody it is," I said, handing him the paper.

  While he read it I went over to the window and stared out. It was another lovely day—the sky was that beautiful shade of blue it gets when the rain has washed out all the dust. The huge old ash tree on the edge of the lawn seemed to be reaching heavenwards in coils. The wood looked infinitely inviting. It's coppiced, of course, oak and hazel, so it's easy to walk in even off the path, and wonderfully shady. You have to stick to the path if you're riding, as Daddy and I had done the other day. I could just catch a glimpse of the blue of the lake, reflecting the sky. Would Mummy have allied with a Bolshevik? Could she possibly?

  "When I came in, you were saying 'Reichstag fire,' " David said, after a while, throwing down The Times.

  "Murdering Sir James," I said. "Having that Bolshevik shoot at us. It gives them an excuse for all this."

  "It's funny, I was just thinking that Chaim's going to say he was right," David said. He put his arms around me and rested his chin on the top of my head, and we just stood there like that for a little bit, taking comfort.

  "If we had to live in another country, where would you want to go?" I asked after a while.

  David stiffened, I felt him, every muscle instantly tensed. "Leave England?" he said, with such pain in his voice that I turned around and hugged him fiercely.

  "It won't come to that," he said after a moment. "If we had to go, well, one of the Dominions—New Zealand, or Canada perhaps."

  "You wouldn't want to go to Palestine?" I asked.

  "No, nor Brazil either, so don't be absurd," he said.

  After breakfast, at which we didn't talk about politics, David went off to telephone his father and I went to talk to Mrs. Simons about the marketing. There wasn't really anything to say, except that we didn't know how long we'd be here. I was hoping to ask her to pick up some talcum powder for me in the chemist by the butcher's, because I'd only brought a little travel bottle and I was getting rather low.

  I found her in her pantry, which was a tiny sitting room really, down by the kitchens. I didn't know her; she was new. Her predecessor, Mrs. Collins, had retired at Christmas. Daddy'd given her a pension and she'd gone to live with her married sister in Harrogate. They'd found Mrs. Simons somehow, not promoted her, so I'd never seen her before. I'd heard Mummy boasting how efficient she was, that was all.

  She was sitting at a little desk, an escritoire really. It used to be Sukey's before Mummy spilled indelible ink down it. She had lists on the drop-down shelf part, lined up very neatly, as if she were ready for Waterloo. She was about forty, I suppose, with very crisp pepper-and-salt hair shaped almost like a battle-helmet.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Simons," I said.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Kahn," she replied, frosty and thin-lipped.

  "As you know, Mr. Kahn and I will be staying for a few days, and we aren't sure how long," I said, as pleasantly as I could. "I'm sorry to put you to this inconvenience. Jeffrey thought I should speak to you about what might be necessary."

  "Yes," she said. "In future, should anything of this nature happen, I'd prefer to be told directly, rather than through the servants. And I've already had occasion to reprimand Mrs. Smollett for extravagance."

  My first impulse was to apologize and appease her, but hard on its heels followed my second impulse, which was to put my chin up and tell her to go to hell. I had to defend Mrs. Smollett in any case. "I believe it's up to Mrs. Smollett what to serve when the family are in residence, as it would be to Mrs. Richardson," I said, very evenly.

  "But the family are not in residence," Mrs. Simons said, with a smile that would have curdled milk. "You've married out of this family and you can't expect to keep the privileges that came with being born into it now that you've married to a Jewboy."

  I wasn't quite sure what to say. It was true in one way, and I didn't expect to keep the privileges—Daddy had talked
to me very plainly about that. On the other hand, I don't think staying in my parents' house in their absence was all that much of a privilege. On the other other hand, or should I start counting by feet at that point, I was conscious that we were in the wrong. Mrs. Smollett probably shouldn't have given us the caviar. On the last foot, she'd insulted me directly with the last word. If it had been "Jew," that would have been all right, but "Jewboy" was out and out insulting. I just stood there with my mouth open.

  Before I could make up my mind to say anything at all, Mrs. Simons went on. "As I understand the situation, you are not really even guests in the house. Mr. Kahn has been forced to stay here by the police as a kind of arrest. In the circumstances, I think my duty is rather to prevent his escape than to make him excessively comfortable."

  "Mrs. Simons," I said, my voice shaking. "I don't know what you imagine you can achieve by talking to me this way, but I think I am still sufficiently a daughter of this house that I could prevail upon my parents to have you sacked."

  "I doubt Lady Eversley would let me go at your behest," she said, openly sneering now. "She has often spoken of you in my presence."

  Yes, I bet she had too. I could just imagine what she had said. I thought of her remark about the Jews in front of Hatchard on Sunday morning. "Nevertheless, Mrs. Simons, I'd thank you to remain polite," I said, holding on to my composure with both hands, and probably both feet too.

  "Well then, Mrs. Kahn, do you have any special requirements while I am doing the marketing in Winchester? I'm not accustomed to providing for Jewboys, so please do inform me."

  I wanted to ask for roast duck and buttered lobster and perhaps some special wax polish for David's tail, but I thought better of it. "I simply came down to let you know you should be aware that the household will contain two more people for the next few days and to take that into account while in Winchester," I said, as icily as I could manage. I wasn't going to ask her for talcum powder—she'd probably buy itching powder instead.

  I swept out of her little room then, thinking the most uncharitable thoughts, such as being glad she had an ink-stained old escritoire while at home I had a gorgeous old Arts and Crafts writing desk, and that she was ugly and nobody had ever loved her. I wished she'd be hit by a bus in Winchester, or struck by lightning on the way. I was shaking a bit, and almost crying, but I didn't want to see David and have to explain to him what it was about. He'd be either in Daddy's little office (the one where Inspector Carmichael had been working) or, if he'd finished on the phone, in the library, so I went out into the garden and pretended to admire the lilies of the valley and harebells and primulas while I got control of myself.

  The funny thing was that normally insults like "Jewboy" and so on didn't upset me at all. They usually made me laugh. It took me a little while out in the garden on my own to work out what the difference was. It was power. Mrs. Simons had, or felt she had, power over us. She said her duty was to keep David here. She acted like a jailer. She took the petty little power she had of knowing Mummy didn't like me and used it to humiliate me. I thought of how she'd said she'd prefer to be told directly, rather than informed by a servant, when she was a servant herself. Probably she'd had to put up with a lot of slights and insults and unthinking cruelty; probably she had to put up with it regularly from Mummy. I'd gone out of my way to make the servants' lives easier. I always went out of my way to consider them as people, I had for years. But considering them as people only went so far; it was perfectly possible to dislike people as people. I didn't like how quickly I'd resorted to threatening to sack her, but at the same time I was quite sure Daddy would back me up in it. I wondered how she behaved to Mrs. Smollett, who had no redress at all. That made me think about the people with the stones in their hands smashing the windows of her restaurant. Mrs. Simons would have had stones in her hands. She already had them in her mind.

  I heard the sound of the station wagon puttering down the drive, and knew she'd gone off to Winchester. The very air seemed relieved to have her gone, almost as if she'd been a thunderstorm, or, for that matter, Mummy. I paced about the garden for a while, getting calm, and after a while David saw me through the library window and came out to join me.

  26

  The only new thing on Carmichael's desk at the Yard in the morning was a note about Captain Oliver Thirkie, the heir to the Thirkie baronetcy, should Angela's baby prove to be a girl. He was ten years older than Sir James, had two sons, one at Winchester and the other at Oxford, and was serving with the Army in India. He clearly had nothing to do with anything, just another loose end that led nowhere. Carmichael tossed the report onto a pile. One of these days he really should sort out the desk, he thought.

  Royston came in, looking not the least the worse for his indulgence the night before. "Taking the car to Southend, sir?" he asked.

  "Yes, I think so," Carmichael said. "We could go on the train, it's probably quicker, but we may want to go straight on to Campion Hall without bothering to come back here."

  "Yes, sir."

  They exchanged nods with Stebbings on their way out. "Seen the papers this morning, sir?" Royston asked, as he slid automatically into the driver's seat.

  "No, I didn't feel like facing the news," Carmichael said. He had lingered in bed, and got up in time to gulp a cup of tea and a biscuit. "Anything relevant to the case?"

  "Oh no, nothing like that. It's just that they're going to introduce new ID cards with pictures on them, like passports I suppose. That'll make this sort of thing easier, and a lot of other things too. If Brown had one of those, we'd know who he was for sure."

  "Any paper we can put out, some villain will find a way around it," Carmichael said, pessimistically. "And you know what they say about making things foolproof—do that, and God will come up with a better fool."

  Once they were out of central London, they drove quite fast. They were going almost due east most of the way and had the sun in their eyes, but most of the traffic was going in the other direction, into London. It was built up almost all the way, towns and suburbs, odd patches of fields, but no deep country such as they had been in at Farthing. The roads were good and they reached Leigh before ten, and stopped for a late extra breakfast at a little transport café next to a run-down secondhand bookshop on the high promenade. The Channel lay, chilly and rumpled, far below them—the high promenade ran along the edge of a steep slope leading down to the water. After a greasy but satisfying breakfast, which they justified by saying that now they would need no lunch, they walked along the upper promenade. "We'll try the photographer first," Carmichael said. The proprietor of the café had displayed no knowledge of the girl in the picture.

  There were benches every few yards on the side of the road that faced the sea view. The other side rejoiced in a little parade of shops. There were very few people about, as May was too early for Leigh to be enjoying the height of its "season." The photographer had a sign in the window saying that he would be open from eleven until four. Without discussion, the men continued to walk on past it, downhill, towards the lower promenade, and eventually, Southend and the actual sea.

  A little way down the road was a tea shop of enviable gentility, painted with pastel flowers and patronized by a group of elderly ladies whose hair was rinsed a delicate powder blue.

  "Let's try in there," Royston said, indicating it.

  "You can't want more tea already, sergeant," Carmichael said. "And if you did, that wouldn't be the place to get it." He pushed open the door, making a set of chimes jangle. A middle-aged waitress came bustling up from the back, clearly astonished to see two relatively young men in her domain.

  She squinted at the picture and thought there was something perhaps vaguely familiar about it. Carmichael was used to this reaction; he smiled and praised her. He tried it on the customers next, and got a bite at once.

  "That's Agnes Timms. She works at Chicks," the first blue-haired lady said.

  "Where is Chicks?" Royston asked, eagerly.

  "M
rs. O'Sullivan meant to say Colette's Chic Hair Salon," another blue-haired lady interrupted. "And it's just up the promenade, not a quarter of a mile." She indicated the direction in which they had just come.

  Colette's Chic Hair Salon lay just beyond the secondhand bookshop, and their car. Inside it was an old lady under a heavy hair-drying machine, a middle-aged lady seated at the cash register, and the young lady of the photograph, looking so exactly the way she did in the picture Carmichael had studied for so long that he almost wanted to poke her to be sure she was real. She was pretty as only girls of her class could be pretty, with a brief bloom that was destined to fade too quickly.

  "Miss Timms?" Royston asked. "We're police. We want to talk to you for a moment."

  "I'm working," she said, indicating the woman under the device, and giving a desperate look to the woman on the cash register.

  "I'll take care of it, Aggie," the other woman said, her face registering stern disapproval.

  "Come outside, if you would, Miss Timms," Carmichael said. It would clearly be hopeless trying to talk in the shop, where there was no privacy at all.

  "Shall we sit on a bench?" Royston suggested. They crossed the road and sat down, Agnes Timms between the two men.

  "I haven't done anything wrong," she said, as so many people did. A little breeze played with a strand of her light hair; she pushed it back impatiently.

  "Do you know a man called Alan Brown?" Carmichael asked.

  She didn't try to deny it. "He was my fiancé," she said.

  "Do you know what has happened to him, Miss Timms?" he asked.

  "It was in the paper," she said, and tears came to her eyes. "I knew something had happened when he didn't ring me Sunday night like he said, and then on Monday it was in the paper. It had all gone wrong, and they'd killed him."