Edith, page 22
Yet London is beguiling in the particular way it knows how to be. Sometimes, she avails of its pleasures by catching a red double-decker omnibus drawn by three horses – her leg won’t allow her to climb to the top, unfortunately – at other times, she walks the thronged streets. A visit to Hatchard’s at 187 Piccadilly allows her to check its stocks of her books. She finds her latest title, plus all three of the Irish R.M. collections, but considers their placing could be more prominent. Furtively, she rearranges the shelf display.
Outside on the street again, she makes an effort to conjure up Flurry. Inside her head, she says: ‘The setting: Piccadilly Circus. Flurry Knox strolls into view wearing evening clothes. He stops by the statue of Eros to light a cigarette.’ But he refuses to be invoked.
Thanks to her network of relatives and literary contacts, she is invited to a merry-go-round of social events. A distant cousin on her mother’s side summons her to luncheon in an unattractive house close to Hyde Park Corner, whose interior has an extravagance of plush which injures her eye everywhere it lands. Her hostess is resplendent in a burnt sienna frock with a sheen as if raindrops were captured in the cloth. Edith is relieved she took Mabel’s advice and wore her most boastful hat.
‘My dear, may I ask, is your chapeau from Paris?’
‘Skibbereen,’ says Edith.
Her hostess recovers herself and points to a man with a weathered face and lavish moustache, glumly inspecting some cloisonné eggs. Although he’s not wearing uniform, he radiates a pukka, military-type aura.
‘Field Marshal Sir Henry Wilson, dear. Chief of the Imperial General Staff during the war,’ she hisses in Edith’s ear. ‘He’s just been elected Member of Parliament for North Down – somewhere in the north of Ireland, apparently. Resigned from the army especially to stand. I’ll introduce you.’
Edith shakes hands with a tall man, a year or two younger than her, with the face of a hanging judge. He has a brisk manner and old scarring above his left eye. They have never met, but she expects they know people in common. Cameron told her Wilson was one of the people pushing hard in 1918 for conscription to be extended to Ireland, but Lloyd George knew it wouldn’t fly.
When they are seated for luncheon, she finds herself beside the field marshal. A conscious look passes between her and their hostess on the opposite side of the table. Edith is being given a place of honour. In return, she’s to keep the great man amused.
Over pea and mint soup laced with an excess of salt, Edith makes conversation.‘I believe you grew up in Ireland, field marshal?’
‘Just outside Edgeworthstown. The Currygrane estate.’
‘The dear friend of an ancestor of mine lived in Longford, too. Maria Edgeworth. Perhaps you’re familiar with her work?’
‘More of a Kipling man. We know, when all is said, /We perish if we yield.’
‘Yielding can take strength. Sometimes, it’s the right thing to do.’
‘Nonsense! Can’t think of a single instance.’
‘I can.’
‘Well, naturally.You’re one of the fair sex.You’re predisposed to yield.’
‘Am I really? Anyhow, I believe Britain ought to grant Ireland dominion status.’
‘That would be a mistake.’
‘Because it looks like weakness?’
‘Because surrendering to those renegades in Ireland would have a deplorable impact on Palestine, India and Egypt. There are larger issues at stake, Miss Somerville. Irish self-government doesn’t suit the strategic unity of the empire.’
A die-hard. Edith sets down her soup spoon and prepares to do battle.‘How is there to be a peace settlement if concessions aren’t made?’ The arrival of beef wellington interrupts their conversation, and Edith makes small talk with her neighbour on the other side. Conscious of eye signals from her hostess, she returns to Wilson, determined to avoid politics.
‘Do you hunt, field marshal?’
‘When I can.’
‘I have a couple of topping young hunters for sale. One of them could jump St Paul’s Cathedral.You might know someone in the market for a mount?’
‘Afraid not.’ He drains his glass of claret and nods at the footman to replenish it. ‘I suppose you’re an admirer of Collins.’
‘I haven’t met him.’
‘Second-rate chap. All he’s good for is spreading atrocity propaganda. Every law of civilized warfare’s been ignored by that rabble he runs. Better men did their duty in Flanders, up to their eyes in muck and blood. Better men are buried there.’
‘And some of them were Irish.’
He spears a piece of meat. ‘Ulster did her duty during the war. We stand by Ulster now. Anything less would be a betrayal.That’s why we’ve partitioned Ireland. Ulster Unionists won’t live under a Roman Catholic government and I, for one, don’t blame them.’
‘But you aren’t standing by Ulster, field marshal. I understand this new Northern Ireland territory consists of six counties, not nine. Donegal, Cavan and Monaghan are to be included in the southern state.’
A gridwork of broken veins on his cheeks pops up. Loudly, he says, ‘Better for two-thirds of passengers to save themselves than for everyone to drown.’The eruption of passion simultaneously repels and intrigues Edith. Their hostess leans across the table, around a dramatic silver centre-piece composed of two swans with their wings outstretched for flight. ‘Miss Somerville has written some topping novels, field marshal.’
Wilson clears his throat. ‘Yes. Splendid.’
‘Do you read novels, field marshal?’
‘Not much. Lady Wilson’ – he nods down the table – ‘is susceptible to them.’
Edith casts round.‘Are you a playgoer?’
‘Now and again.You?’
‘When I have the opportunity.’
‘And have you managed to see anything during your current stay in London?’
‘Indeed, I made a point of it. I had a most enjoyable evening at The Beggar’s Opera at the Lyric Hammersmith.’
Unexpectedly, his tone of perpetual exasperation softens. ‘Lady Wilson and I saw that production. It’s a little off the beaten track but we’re enormously taken by the show. Hoping to go again, as a matter of fact. Tickets are in short supply. But I’ve left my name at the box office for cancellations.’
‘What draws you back to it, field marshal?’
‘Lady Wilson is musical. She rates the songs.’
‘Miss Somerville is on close terms with Dame Ethel Smyth,’ says their hostess.
‘Ah, the composeress,’ says Wilson. ‘Lady Wilson was favourably impressed by one of her operas. Ships in it. Didn’t make it along, myself.’
‘The Wreckers. And what do you like about Beggar?’ asks Edith.
‘Seeing that degenerate Macheath get his comeuppance.’ The field marshal’s fingers seek out his moustache.‘Although I must say, the young lady playing Polly Peachum is most awfully talented. It’s well worth a return trip for her alone.’
—
‘Mr Playfair, how do you do?’
Nigel Playfair looks as surprised as if Edith has just fallen from the sky at his feet. Armed with the knowledge of his arrival time, which he told her was a golden rule on performance days, she has been waiting by the stage door in advance of the matinée.
‘Miss Somerville, to what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘Might I tell you my business inside, Mr Playfair? It’s a little chilly out here.’
Courtesy wars with prudence on his face.
She hunches her shoulders in a shiver. ‘I’m hoping for a few words of advice. Nothing more.’
‘Of course, forgive me. Do come in.’
He settles her into a chair in his office – even more shabby by daylight – but offers no refreshments. She understands this meeting will be brief and takes out her copy of the script, along with a notebook and pencil.
‘I hoped you might do me the courtesy of showing me where you felt my script could be trimmed. It’s an imposition, I know, but I’d be terribly grateful.’
‘Miss Somerville, with the greatest respect, I simply don’t have the time to go through your work line by line.You said you wanted my advice – here it is. Abandon playwriting and return to novels and short stories, where you excel.’
Abandon playwriting? She feels winded, as if thrown from a horse. ‘I’ve no doubt.’ She clears her throat and starts again. ‘I’ve no doubt Flurry’s Wedding could use some spit and polish. But you’d … consign it … to the scrapheap?’
‘Madam, let me be clear.You’ve taken bread and turned it into stones. I wish I had happier news. As regards playwriting – many are called but few are chosen.You have other gifts. Concentrate on them.’
‘Is it because my play is set in the 1890s? I could advance it a few decades, set it just before the war, perhaps.’
‘It’s not the period, it’s the material. You’ve seen what Bennett did with an old John Gay play – he fashioned new clothes for it. Bennett’s a novelist like you, but he took a vicious political satire, out of copyright, and transformed it. He didn’t just salvage it. He unpicked it, reimagined it and revolutionized it.’
‘But surely that’s what I’ve done. Taken my own material and re-worked it.’
Playfair stands. ‘I’m afraid you haven’t. Your characters are drawn with a blunt pencil.Your plotting is unintentionally farcical. And you have written so many scenes, it would require a platoon of stagehands to change them. In short, your play is beyond redemption.And now, Miss Somerville, if you’ll excuse me, a great many matters are pressing on my attention.’
He opens the door and walks into the corridor. She has no choice but to jam the script back in her bag and follow him.
‘You, there!’ Playfair clicks his fingers. “Fellow with the paintbrush.’
A stagehand in overalls is touching up a piece of scenery. He looks over his shoulder.Then, still holding his paintbrush and pot, he walks off in the opposite direction.
Playfair calls again. ‘I say, are you deaf? Come back and escort this lady out, please.’
The stagehand sets his brush on the paint-pot lid, pulls the peak of his cap over his forehead and moves towards them.
From a distance, his face is fuzzy. But prickles on Edith’s skin identify him. Her heartbeat lurches and judders, before resuming at a staccato skip. Aghast, she looks to Playfair for help, but he is in the process of bowing, retreating and closing the door.
She’s alone with the whistler.
The stagehand keeps his eyes on the floor. ‘This way.’
She doesn’t budge.
His tongue darts across his lips, moistening them.‘This way, lady.’
She remains pinned to the spot.
‘Want to get me the sack? Guv’nor says show you out.’
The accent is pitch-perfect Cockney, but she isn’t fooled.Those eyes like rain-drenched pebbles – she’d know them anywhere.
‘He’d kill a fella and ate him after.’
This is the beast who kicked Dooley to death.The adrenaline of fear mixed with outrage gives back her voice.‘Why should I care if they sack you?’
He stretches out a meaty hand and pushes her in the small of her back. ‘Time you was going.’
Like it or not, she is propelled along by the force of his hand. ‘Robbed many horses lately?’
‘Dunno what you mean.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘You’re mixing me up wiv someone else.’
‘I never forget a face.We met in Ireland last year.’
‘Never been in Ireland.’
‘Liar!’
‘Served nearly four years in the Norfolks. ’Onourably discharged after the war ended. Robbing ’orses ain’t in my line.’
By the stage door, Edith manages to shake free. She purses her lips and whistles a few bars of the tune she heard from him in Drishane.
Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling From glen to glen and down the mountainside
His eyes slit. He pushes one fist into the other. ‘We can do this naice or we can do it nasty. Now, if I was you, I’d run along ’ome and put your feet up.While you still can.’
‘Scoundrel!’ she cries.
He catches her by the shoulders and gives a shake that sets her teeth rattling. ‘There’s more where that come from.’ Abruptly, he lets her loose and lumbers away.
Outside, Edith is obliged to lean for support against the brick wall of the laneway, smearing dirt onto her coat. Her vision blurs – the buildings in front of her appear to be wobbling. She shuts her eyes and fights to regain control.
What should she do? She could go back inside and tell Nigel Playfair he has an IRA man on his payroll. She could alert Scotland Yard. Or the Home Office. Or the Prime Minister. But what if the whistler tracks her down and pays her back for interfering? Or takes it out on some other member of the Somerville family?
Holding the wall for support, she inches out to the street and flags down a hansom cab. Expense be hanged, she doesn’t feel able for the Underground.
—
‘I expect those Republicans of yours are intending to blow us all to kingdom come,’ says Boney. ‘I bet they have barrels of dynamite hidden in the theatre.Your chaps are notorious for dynamiting.’
‘That was the Fenians,’ says Edith.‘And it was decades ago.’ Her gaze wanders across the stucco ceiling of the Lyons Tea House where they are meeting. ‘I can’t puzzle out why the whistler is working in a theatre.’
‘It’s cover for him to spy and plot without drawing attention to himself. Stage Land is a free and easy world. People come and go all the time. On no account must you go back to the Lyric, Edith – he might do something desperate.’
‘I wasn’t intending to.’ Apart from anything else, Nigel Playfair has shown her the door.
‘Promise me, dearest. I know how plucky you are. But I’m older and wiser than you. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened.’
‘I promise, Boney. Although you know perfectly well you’re only ten days older. It doesn’t really count.’
‘I wonder if he followed you over here for some reason?’
‘Highly unlikely. He looked as shocked to see me as I was to see him.’ Edith shifts position on her decidedly hard chair. ‘Is there a target near the Lyric, do you suppose? Someplace Irish separatists might want to attack?’
A barge hoots, passing under Blackfriars Bridge, which is within sight of the white-and-gold teahouse frontage.
‘That’s it – the river,’ cries Boney. ‘The Lyric is close to the Thames. It’s elementary, my dear Watson!’
‘Why does that matter?’
‘It’s a highway. Your rebels could reach all sorts of destinations by river.’ Her blue eyes bulge from their sockets.‘The Houses of Parliament are by the Thames. I bet they’re planning to do a Guy Fawkes!’
‘Steady on, we don’t have any proof.’
‘Proof be hanged. I have a gut instinct about this. What does yours tell you?’
That the whistler is a bad lot – he’d stop at nothing. ‘Perhaps we should go to the police.’
‘Delay could be fatal.We’d never forgive ourselves.’
‘You’re right.Where’s the nearest police station? Is there one around the corner on Fleet Street? Or up towards St Paul’s?’
‘There’s a station at Charing Cross. Let’s go at once.’ Boney signals for the bill.
‘You’re coming with me?’
‘Naturally, you darling dimwit. We’re two horses harnessed to the one chariot.’
‘What a ripper you are.’
Boney rushes her out to the street, where a gust of wind from the river causes Edith to clamp a hand onto her hat. As she does, a loose folio marked with newsprint flies past. Looking behind, she notices a man in a brown derby hat struggling with his newspaper.
—
As soon as he sets down his pen, Edith realizes the desk sergeant is a doubting Thomas. He shifts from one foot to the other, boots creaking. Probably, his bunions are acting up. Policemen always have bunions, in her experience.
‘So, let’s get this straight.You believe there’s an Irish rebel working in the Lyric Theatre who intends to blow up Parliament. Is that correct?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’ Bullish, Boney answers for them.
‘And you base this prediction on a hunch, madam? Is that it? Or a premonition?’
‘On the fact he’s a known IRA member. He’s part of a nest of cut-throats who trespassed at the home of Miss Somerville, where they robbed her of horses and other valuables. Look here, my good man, you’re not treating this with the seriousness it deserves. Fetch us your superior officer.’
‘I’m afraid you have to deal with me, madam. The duty inspector is otherwise detained.’
She slaps her calling card onto the incident book. ‘Send in this to him. Dame Ethel Smyth. I’m sure he’ll squeeze us in.We can wait, if necessary.’
Mentally, Edith groans. Ethel Smyth is going all Ethel on her. Two heads aren’t better than one when one of those heads is Boney’s.
The sergeant sets his elbows on the desk and leans across it, his metal uniform buttons tapping against wood. ‘Madam, the inspector has no time to squeeze anything in. We have a murder case on our hands. A young woman has been found strangled in her bedroom in Farringdon.’ He turns his attention to Edith.‘Now, what was that about trespassers in your home, Miss, um, Somerstown.Whereabouts in London was that?’
She reads his name badge. Holohan.Why, he’s one of theirs. Although his accent is Kent, if she’s not mistaken. ‘Not London, sergeant. I live in County Cork, in southern Ireland.We were raided several times by Irish Republicans.’
‘Did they threaten an explosion at any stage of your acquaintance with them, madam?’
‘She doesn’t have an acquaintance with them.’ Ethel Smyth gives the sergeant a look that could slice and dice onions. ‘They’re not neighbours, or people she knows from church. These men broke into her home and tied up her and her brother, Colonel Somerville. It’s a miracle they escaped with their lives.’
‘Did you report the break-in, madam?’ the policeman asks Edith.
