were uncomfortable to live in, the thatched cottages being damp and insanitary. The inhabitants lived a quiet rural life, but were saved from the misery of poverty which plagued other agricultural villages in England, for the earl was a generous landlord and made sure everyone had enough food and that there was a school for the children.
Two evenings later, the inhabitants went to bed soon after the sun had set, to save the expense of candles, and a deep quiet settled over the houses and the surrounding countryside.
But they were all awakened at midnight by a tremendous explosion. The braver ones rushed out to see what had happened; the others cowered in their beds thinking the Day of Judgement was at hand.
It transpired that just before the main entrance to the earl’s estate, where a pretty hump-backed bridge spanned a river, the whole bridge had been blown up. Just as several men from the village were exclaiming over the smoking ruin, there was another huge explosion, bigger this time, from the direction of the railway.
They set off in that direction, keeping together, looking fearfully to left and right. When they reached Stacey Magna Station, the smoke was just clearing. Great holes had been blasted in the platforms on either side and the railway line was a twisted wreck.
The blasts were too late to feature in the morning newspapers, but they hit the headlines the day after. The press arrived but were kept firmly outside the gates of the earl’s estate. Crowds of sightseers came to see the destruction wrought by the Bolsheviks. And, of course, it must have been the Bolsheviks, for all the papers said so, and all claimed to have received anonymous threatening letters. Police combed through the debris and Detective Superintendent Alfred Kerridge was on his way to supervise the search.
The visitors brought some prosperity to the village, where lemonade stands and pie stands were set up, and the small pub, the Stacey Arms, did a roaring trade.
In all the fuss, Harry and his manservant, Becket, travelled in one of the earl’s carriages to a railway station farther up the line and caught a train to London from there.
“Glad that’s over,” said Harry. “I thought I might blow myself up by mistake. I never want to handle dynamite again.”
“If I may venture an opinion, sir.”
“By all means.”
“I was surprised you went to such lengths.”
“I had to make sure the palace thought it the work of the Bolsheviks. Anything less, and they might have suspected Lord Hadshire of getting up to tricks. The palace sent a telegram just before we left, cancelling the king’s visit ‘for reasons of national security’. By the way, I was amazed to see Daisy Levine still in residence. Lady Rose appears to have made a pet of her. Does she eat with the servants?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They must make life difficult for her.”
“On the contrary, sir, Miss Levine is somewhat of a pet in the servants’ hall as well.”
“How did she manage that?”
“She sings very prettily and delighted the servants with impersonations of Miss Marie Lloyd.”
“Indeed! I trust they treated you well, Becket?”
“At first they were hoity-toity, you not being considered a gentleman.”
“Good heavens! Why not?”
“You are employed by the earl, therefore you work, therefore you are not a gentleman. But thanks to Miss Levine, I became popular.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I play the concertina, sir. I accompanied Miss Levine. The butler, Brum, declared we were both so talented, we should be on stage at the Gaiety Theatre.”
“Amazing. I have never heard you play, Becket.”
“I did not wish to disturb you.”
“Disturb me now. Got the instrument with you?”
“Yes, sir. That round box on the rack.”
“It’s a wonder you didn’t sell it when you were so poor.”
“I bought another when you paid me my back wages.”
“Let’s hear a tune.”
Becket lifted the box down and took out the concertina. He sat down and began to play ‘Goodbye Dolly’. Harry leaned back, the Boer War song bringing painful memories. “Play something else,” he said harshly.
Becket began to play ‘Down at the Old Bull and Bush’ while the train rocked and swayed on its way to London.
¦
At Stacey Court, Brum opened the doors of the drawing-room and intoned in a voice of doom, “Detective Superintendent Kerridge, my lord.”
“Come in. Sit down,” said the earl. “Something to drink?”
“No, I thank you, my lord. This gentleman with me is Detective Inspector Judd. He will take notes.”
Judd, a tall thin man with a black drooping moustache, carefully placed his bowler hat on a side table and took out a large notebook.
“Apart from yourself and the countess,” began Kerridge, “who else was there?”
“About twenty-five indoor servants.”
“Fll get to them later, with your permission. Did you have guests?”
“Just my wife’s cousin, Miss Durwant-Flint, and Lord and Lady Hedley.”
“Anyone else?”
“Let me think.” The earl screwed up his face like a baby about to cry. Then his face cleared. There was no harm in mentioning the captain’s name. It would mean nothing to Kerridge.
“Oh, yes, nearly forgot. Captain Harry Cathcart.”
“And is the gentleman still in residence?”
“No, he’s tootled off to London.”
“May I trouble you for his address?”
The earl tugged at a bell-rope by the fireplace, and when a footman appeared asked for his secretary to be sent to him. Matthew appeared. “Get Cathcart’s address for the superintendent,” ordered the earl.
“I may have lost it,” said Matthew cautiously.
“No, you haven’t,” said the earl, and winked furiously.
“Quite right, I haven’t,” said Matthew. “I’ll fetch it now.”
What was that all about? wondered Kerridge. He continued the interrogation but the earl said he had been asleep at the time, and as the bridge and station were miles from the house, he hadn’t heard a thing.
Later, Kerridge did not get any further with the servants, thanks, he thought, to the perpetual presence of Brum. He got only one thing. A little scullery maid said that the king was to come on a visit but couldn’t now and Brum had snapped at her and sent her from the room.
Kerridge wondered about the king’s proposed visit all the way back to London. Certainly a visit from King Edward, who would arrive with a retinue of servants, guests and hangers-on could mean a crippling amount of money to the unfortunate host, but the earl’s home and his estates showed no signs of penny-pinching. He shook his grey head. To think that the earl would blow up a railway station and a bridge just to put the king off was ridiculous. All Bolshevik sympathizers in London were being rounded up and interrogated. Still, he’d better see this Captain Cathcart and find out what he had to say.
The first motorized taxi cabs were beginning to appear on the streets of London and were regarded with suspicion by most, who preferred the horse-drawn variety. But as Kerridge was driven in the new Scotland Yard police car to Captain Cathcart’s address, he felt like a king. He wished he could take this splendid vehicle home to show his wife.
He had decided to interview the captain alone. He knew people were often intimidated by the sight of a policeman or a detective in the background, taking notes.
At the house in Water Street, Becket announced him and led him into the front room, where the captain was sitting at a desk at the window.
Kerridge’s first impression of the captain was that he was a dangerous man. His brooding saturnine good looks gave the impression of action and power.
