There was his treasury in the vault under the house. It contained slightly more than six thousand ounces of gold, forty-five thousand ounces of silver and a number of paintings sealed inside a durable, totally water-tight heirloom skin called polythene. The vault had a steel door half an inch thick and the walls were surrounded by earth. No mob could endanger the contents. Even if the house burned to the ground overhead, the treasury would survive. The safest thing he could do was leave his fortune behind, counter-intuitive though that appeared.
Donald marched through to the bedroom to find Sarah-Kelly snoozing. He shook her awake.
“Get dressed. Lawrence is out at North Kensington basin.”
He threw clothes at her and repeated the message.
“What?” she mumbled. He laid the letter before her. She frowned at it, blinking the sleep from her eyes. When the truth sank in, she sat on the edge of the bed, subdued and thoughtful. Donald sat beside her. Neither looked at the other, nor said anything for perhaps a full minute. Finally, Donald said:
“TK is going to give him a cushy number out on the Lands of Krossington. He’ll have a nice new life ticking boxes for promotion to account-captain. I’m sure he’ll be very happy.” He added: “And we needn’t have anything more to do with him.”
Sarah-Kelly still said nothing. She fidgeted with a fold of sheet, twisting it into a tight knot.
“Are you worried about what he’ll think of us?” he asked.
“A bit—I don’t know. I don’t suppose he would expect me to wait. I wouldn’t expect that of him.”
Donald felt a knot in his stomach much like the fold of sheet Sarah-Kelly was twisting.
“Get dressed,” he said. “I’ll get the house shuttered and locked up.”
“I’m not going back to the basin.”
“It won’t kill you.”
“Don’t challenge me, Donald—I’m not going back. Not after the way they treated me.”
“Then wait in the customs house and I’ll go in and get him.”
“Why do we have to go now? He’ll still be there tomorrow. It’s dark and freezing out there.” She leaned heavily on him. Her warm body was enormously tempting.
“It’s foolhardy to stay here,” he said. “There’s nothing to stop a mob getting in this far—if it did, there’d be no way out.”
“Then let’s go out to Brent Cross. We’ll stay with Theresa. She’s my old chum from school I’ve been staying with. You can go and see Lawrence tomorrow.”
“Right,” Donald said, jumping up. “That’s what we’ll do.”
*
The lane from the house out to the main boulevard was so dark they had to feel their way along the garden wall holding hands. They moved silently in socks, boots hung about their necks by the laces. Where the lane emerged onto the boulevard, they paused in the cover of a tree, gathering the situation. A slim moon provided a touch of grey light, although much of the boulevard was black in shadow. Donald could only see four figures—definitely male and large—up to their waists in shadow clustered about a faint red glow. They seemed to be examining a sheaf of documents and murmuring together. Another little group shifted past heading north towards the radiance of the frontier gatehouse of Bloomsbury at Euston Road, visible a quarter mile away. It was a mix of women in hoods and a couple of escorting men. Some inner caution kept Donald focused on that huddle of four large men. They seemed to be wearing berets. If so, then they must be glory troopers. One of them turned and walked right at Donald, who instinctively edged back behind the bole of the plane tree. Boots softly padding on gravel, the figure crept past into the shadows of the lane, the high brick walls amplifying the sound. Donald and Sarah-Kelly remained silent and still in the shadow of the tree. Its shadow was only slightly wider than they were. They could not move without the three other men seeing them.
The figure padded back into view, there was a brief murmuring, now all four filed into the lane.
“What are they bloody up to?” Sarah-Kelly murmured.
“Wait behind that next tree up the boulevard. I’ll go and find out.”
“Shouldn’t we stay together?”
“It would be too confusing in the darkness. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful—and I do have this.”
“This” being the Colt 38 pistol. He glided back down the lane, holding his boots against his chest to stop them scraping the wall. The lane was a dead end, which made Donald highly cautious about any signs of the return of the four troopers. He stopped just before a neighbour’s gate, as the moonlight shone across the lane through its bars. From here he could see the first floor and roof of his own house above the garden wall. Minutes passed and nothing happened. How long should he wait? Should he risk crossing the band of moonlight to check the rest of the lane? His instincts jangled danger. He stayed where he was, Colt at the ready, safety catch off.
The lights of his bedroom sprang on, bathing him in light. Donald had left all the first-floor curtains open so that the house would appear occupied in daylight. He ducked instinctively and leaped across into the shadow of the opposite wall. Now he could not see anything, only listen. A window slid up and a hoarse whisper called to those below:
“There’s no one here. Zilch. No servants, no Aldingford.”
“Right, take any obvious stuff like jewels and coins, make it look like it was done in a tearing rush.”
Donald pocketed the Colt, unhitched
