“What do you want done with Aldingford?”
“Oh Christ!” TK batted the heel of his right hand against his forehead. For once, he had lost control. He calmed himself, staring at his lap for half a minute before he spoke. “I apologise for that, Wings. The truth is Donald Aldingford has turned out to be my greatest error—but how could I have seen it? Back in October he was pure as the driven snow. And now? He’s been seduced to his doom by that Newman woman.”
“Things are not looking good for little Donny Boy.”
“We’ll have to bring him in and... Take him south, I suppose. Oh God, I’ve really no idea what to do with him.” TK shook his head. “I’m glad the Great Judge didn’t live to see the squalid end of his two sons.”
“I’ll get a squad up to take him,” Wingfield said. “Four men should cover it. They’ll have to go on foot as we can’t spare any transport.”
“Tell them not to be too rough. I need Donald compos mentis to sign the divorce papers—Lavinia was in a frightful state when I saw her earlier this evening, sobbing and ranting at how Donald had degraded her by taking up with a smelly little factory tart. Those are her words, certainly not mine—I’d love to have Sarah-Kelly Newman back in our household, we were bloody idiots to kick her out. As for Donald, well, he’s hanged himself. Marcus-John has made it absolutely clear I’ve got to vanish my ‘perfidious pet commoner’ or he’ll have me ousted at Land Council, and you and I will spend the rest of our days mowing the lawn.”
Wingfield acknowledged with a nod and departed to set the task in motion. TK took a quiet moment with his head down, letting the exasperation seep out of him. The next challenge was the night drive home to the Lands of Krossington. They would leave by the Beaufort Street fort, cross the marginal land between Wandsworth and Clapham industrial asylums and follow the turnpikes out to the public drains. The convoy’s firepower of four brass-munchers and four 2-inch cannon with coaxial 0.50 calibre machine guns would normally ensure safety. These were febrile times, however; fanaticism was in the air. They might have to cut through a mob. That would be messy. Horribly messy.
One of the sub-butlers arrived to say one Mr Nightminster had arrived at the gates asking for an audience with His Decency, insisting that his name would be known.
“Nightminster?” TK was flabbergasted. Even when in the best of standing, Nightminster would never have come anywhere near Wilson House. It went without saying that the Owner of the Value System could not publicly associate himself with his landlord, not under any circumstances.
TK tried to work through the logic of this. Nightminster was no fool; he would guess TK had spies amongst the Value System shareholders and must know about the escape of Lawrence Aldingford. Possibly Nightminster had come to find out where Donald Aldingford lived, in order to vanish him? It was unlikely that Nightminster would grasp he was under a death sentence. He was far too narcissistic to believe that could ever happen to him.
“What is his mode of travel?”
“An armoured staff car, Your Decency.”
“Is he alone?”
“Yes, Your Decency.”
“Is he wearing a uniform?”
“I believe he is an owner in the Ultramarine Guild, Your Decency.”
On any normal night, TK would have sent him away. However, this was not a normal night. The other sovereigns along Piccadilly had already evacuated. Only a skeleton of the most loyal staff remained here in Wilson House. Even with Nightminster in his fanciful uniform, the risk from inconvenient witnesses was minimal.
“Show him up—and send Mr Wingfield.”
A few minutes later, the impressive form of Captain Prentice Nightminster in the dress uniform of an ultramarine owner ducked under the door frame and stood with cap under one arm, smacking his leather gloves. He brought a smell of freshly polished leather and diesel fumes—and something else. It was in his manner. He radiated satisfaction and confidence. This was a man who had found his time—or at least, he believed he had.
“Most gracious of you to see me, Thomas.”
“Why are you here?”
“Is it all right if I sit?” Without TK’s reply he laid himself out as long as a canoe and placed one big, black jackboot on top of the other.
“Why are you here?”
“A diplomatic mission,” Nightminster said.
Wingfield burst in the door, stopped dead on seeing Nightminster, then looked to his master for instructions. TK gestured him to come in and close the door.
“Where is Lawrence Aldingford?” TK asked.
“I expect you know as much as I do. He was a dead man anyway, so his escape saves us a bullet.”
“I’m getting a little tired of asking the same question: why are you here?.”
“I represent the Ultramarine Guild.”
Wingfield snorted. He pulled out a small pistol—it was a Walther TPH—and began tapping the muzzle on his knee, gazing at Nightminster as a cat gazes at a bird cheeping just too high to leap at.
“Let me ask you this simple question, Nightminster,” TK said. “Why should I let you walk out of this room?”
The long, black form of the ultramarine exhibited not the least trace of concern. He replied with an airy confidence.
“You are demeaning yourself, Thomas. You know perfectly well I am untouchable. Without me, the Value System would disintegrate. My shareholders would abandon their duties leaving 1,800 head of value to the wilderness. Amongst my population of value there are some exceedingly tough men. I believe at least fifty would fight their way out to freedom and tell the world about the Value System.”
“So what if they did? The world does not know the Value System exists on Krossington land.”
“You are being quite obtuse, Thomas. My disappearance from the Port of Erith would be noticed. The emergence from the wilderness of a large number of angry men with
