The high times come from the dark times—just keep believing it.
Chapter 6
“Donald, Contact Wilson House immediately on your return home, [signed] TK.”
Wilson House was the town palace of the Krossington clan. It stood in the district of Mayfair more or less bang at the centre of the Central Enclave along with most of the town palaces of the richest sovereign clans. The message left Donald with a sense of having rotated a full circle; still not knowing what His Decency TK wanted. What Donald wanted was work—that came from solicitors, not heads of clan. If a head of clan called, it was make an offer you could not refuse.
His exasperation grew as he opened a succession bills that had accumulated during the eleven days of internment. The first was for two tons of fresh water and ten tons of seawater to replenish the tanks of his house. The next was for one hundred and fifty gallons of oil for the generators. Then there was the servicing of the household battery, which included the replacement of two cells. The honey-man had dug out the septic tank. Donald signed all the cheques off as nothing else could be done. They had to be paid.
The next message provoked a ferocious muttering. The clerk of his chambers advised that his case load had been redistributed to the rest of the set. He tossed it away. The set would bloody well redistribute the case load back first thing on Monday morning.
Damn it! His girlfriend Tanya had written to him. Donald’s jaw hardened with anger. It was outrageously foolish of her to contact him in writing. She was angry at having been “dropped like a dirty rag”. Of course, there was no way for her to know about his captivity. That made her no less dangerous if she made a fuss and Lavinia picked it up. He wrote her a hasty note on a standard blank message slip, folded it and sealed it with wax. He would send Okeke the chauffeur out to despatch it from the local messengers’ office. Okeke would keep his mouth shut; that was a basic duty of any chauffeur.
The last message was addressed to Donald’s late father, Morton Aldingford. Its contents so completely startled him that he read it several times over. The handwriting was crammed into the limited space of the standard message slip by a hand trained in script, although not sophisticated. That suggested one who had worked in a large household staff, a someone whose name meant nothing to him. The message read:
“Dear Mr Aldingford. My name is Sarah-Kelly Newman. I’ve got to speak with you about your son Lawrence. I know he was not good at keeping in touch, but he desperately needs your help. He’s in a lot of trouble. I’ve called at your house twice. Your butler keeps sending me away because he thinks I’m just a trollop, so I’m spending my own silver on this message in the hope that you’ll receive me when I next call. That will be Saturday 16th October.”
This was the evening of Saturday 16th October.
Donald rang for service. He learned from the footman that a “tarty sort of bint” had been hanging around the gates on and off for about a week. The butler, a starchy Scot named Campbell, had instructed the staff to get rid of her “by any means” as she was obviously some sort of fortune teller or similar charlatan.
“Did you see her today?” Donald asked.
“Yes sir.”
“What was she like?”
The footman tried to gather words.
“What particular aspect, sir?”
“What age was she?”
“About twenty-five or thirty, sir.”
“What was she wearing?”
“A waist coat and… and trousers, sir.”
“Really?” Donald laughed. Women did not wear trousers, that is, respectable women did not. “Oh my word, no wonder Campbell told her to shift. Thank you, Blake.”
This Newman woman might be genuine. Then again, Donald could not shake off a suspicion she was in cahoots with Team Lieutenant Haighman—the coincidence of her approach otherwise seemed far-fetched. He put the note in his safe; it was documentary evidence he could show Lavinia should she ever jump to the conclusion Miss Newman was a romantic liaison. He burned the note from Tanya. Then he drafted a quick note to His Decency Tom Krossington to say he awaited instructions, after which he rang for service to have it relayed to the local messengers’ office.
The reply came back less than an hour later. It was personally drafted by Tom Krossington. There was no mistaking the flourishes of his handwriting, nor the rich turquoise ink with which he habitually wrote. The message was so absurd Donald frowned with disbelief.
“Dear Donald, so relieved you are safe and free. That was a real tragedy. Be at the Palace of Westminster Wednesday 20th noon sharp. Let your chauffeur drop you at the visitors’ gate, everything will be arranged from there, [signed] TK. PS, be prepared to make a public speech!”
The Palace of Westminster had been the seat of government of the old nation state in the Public Era. Now it was the most exclusive club on the Island of Britain. It was where the sovereign clans and richest factory owners met to connive and bicker. Donald just shrugged. He felt no excitement at the prospect of visiting such a prestigious club. Rather, he was disappointed His Decency did not seem to have any work on offer.
There was an additional problem; the Krossingtons had not paid him what they already owed. An invoice for three thousand Troy ounces of gold he had submitted to Wilson House more than three weeks ago had not been paid. Normally he would have a message from the clerk of chambers to confirm the funds had been received.
Donald stared at his desk.
