David Dickinson - Death and the Jubilee

‘It’s a perfect lookout post,’ said Powerscourt. ‘You could see people, or policemen, coming at you from three directions.’

Chief Inspector Tait was to tell his wife later that he knew even then how Powerscourt proposed to free the hostages. He didn’t know if it would work.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Powerscourt, ‘let me tell you how I think the rescue is to be effected. Any direct assault, either from the corridor outside or through the windows, might succeed. But the villains would have time to shoot Lady Lucy before they were overpowered. We could put something in their food, a powerful sedative of some kind, and then rush the rooms. But somebody might not eat the food. Lady Lucy might take two helpings and not wake up at all. If we had time, we could simply wait. But we don’t have time. In fact,’ he looked quickly at his watch, ‘we have fifty-seven hours and fifty minutes to effect a rescue.’

Joseph Hardy was adding to his drawing of the King George the Fourth, the west wing in particular. Powerscourt could see sheets of red and great blobs of grey pencil moving up the side of the building. Hardy was smiling to himself.

‘So, tonight or tomorrow night,’ said Powerscourt, ‘we have a fire. It won’t really be a fire, of course, mostly smoke. The fire will be concentrated up the stairs and in the areas adjacent to the sixth-floor rooms. We will be able to make the fire fiercer, if necessary, to smoke them out. We can do that, Mr Hardy?’

‘Yes, my lord, we can,’ said Hardy cheerfully. ‘That would be great sport.’

‘At some point,’ Powerscourt went on, ‘they will have to come out. We shall have to make sure that there are no possible exits to the roof. We may need men with blankets, or whatever you fire people use, waiting down below in case they jump. Once they’re out of their rooms and coming down the stairs, we seize them all. Especially Lady Lucy.’

Chief Inspector Tait looked sombre. Powerscourt suddenly suspected that he and his men might feel they were missing the fun. All the glory would go to the firemen.

‘The role of the police, of course,’ he went on, ‘is absolutely vital. Your men, Chief Inspector, and there may have to be quite a lot of them, will have to be ready to break into the rooms if necessary. The hotel may have to be cordoned off. In the meantime I presume that you have posted a discreet watch all around the hotel in case our friends decide to cut their losses?’

Chief Inspector Tait nodded. He was fascinated by Hardy’s drawings. The little blobs of grey pencil had now reached the sky. The top of the hotel was virtually obliterated.

‘There are two things I must do,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I must send a telegram to the Prime Minister’s office in London. I propose that we reassemble here at seven o’clock this evening. Mr Hardy, could you bring your colleague or colleagues from the local fire brigade? And could you in the meantime work out in more detail how our fire could work to the best effect? Chief Inspector, could you bring your Chief Constable with you to the meeting? And could you also ensure that the hotel manager attends?’

Both men nodded their agreement.

‘And the second thing you have to do?’ This time Tait had no idea what was coming.

‘I presume, Chief Inspector,’ said Powerscourt, ‘that you can smuggle me into that hotel by the back door or through the kitchens? And I would be most grateful if you could find me the conductor of the orchestra who plays there in the evening. They do have a bloody orchestra, I presume?’

‘They claim,’ said Tait loyally, ‘that it is the best one of its kind in Sussex.’ He wondered if Powerscourt had gone out of his mind. Was he going to have specially selected music wafting up the stairs to Room 607, Music for the Royal Fireworks or something similar? ‘Could I ask why you want to see the orchestral gentleman, Lord Powerscourt?’

Powerscourt smiled. Tait noticed that his eyes stayed cold.

‘Of course you may, Chief Inspector. And no, I’m not going mad. I’m going to send a message. A message to Lady Lucy.’

Hold on, Lucy, he said to himself as Tait led him off towards the rear entrance to the King George the Fourth Hotel. Hold on. I’m coming.

He stopped at the telegraph on his way and sent a one-word message to London. ‘Schomberg.’

The orchestral gentleman was a tall man in his late thirties, painfully thin. Like so many in his profession he felt that his abilities had not been properly rewarded. In his youth there had been so much talent. People had said that he would end up as a great conductor with a great orchestra in one of the great capitals of Europe. Even Paris or Vienna had not seemed beyond the realms of the possible. But his dreams had faded now. Here he was, on duty every evening with another collection of embittered violinists and mutinous sections of horn and brass, churning out waltzes and melodies to accompany the soup and the fish courses, the steaks and the creme brulees of the Brighton holidaymakers. Sometimes, very late at night in the little garret the hotel gave him at the back of the building, overlooking the kitchen rubbish dump, he would dream again that he might escape from the King George the Fourth and find his proper station.

‘How can I help you, sir?’ he said to the man in the fisherman’s jersey who had asked to see him. Powerscourt had avoided giving any name.

‘I am staying in the hotel with my wife this evening and it is our wedding anniversary.’ Powerscourt gave him a friendly smile. ‘I would be most grateful if you could play this piece of music at precisely seven o’clock.’

He handed the conductor a piece of paper.

‘Why yes, I think we could,’ said the conductor. ‘We played the whole thing at Eastbourne last year. I hope the orchestra haven’t left their scores at home. They normally bring everything with them. Sometimes people ask us to play the oddest things, you know.’

Powerscourt handed over ten pounds.

‘It’s not the usual sort of thing we play here,’ said the conductor defensively. ‘I hope there won’t be any trouble with the management or the guests.’

Powerscourt handed over a further ten pounds. The conductor looked more cheerful.

‘There won’t be any trouble with the management,’ Powerscourt assured him. ‘Don’t worry about the guests. It’ll be good for their souls.’

Powerscourt felt his arm being tugged as he walked back to the Prince Regent. He looked across. The tramp was speaking to him.

‘Francis, for the love of God, I tell you, I’m sure they’re in that hotel you’ve just walked out of.’

It was Johnny Fitzgerald. ‘Johnny,’ said Powerscourt, ‘how very nice to see you. How in God’s name did you find that out?’

‘Well,’ Fitzgerald went on, ‘I’ve spent part of the last two days being a fortune teller on the West Pier. I gave the Great Mystic Merlin five pounds to clear off for a bit. I’ve been watching all these hotels from my pitch, just inside the entrance. There’s a set of windows on the top floor of this King George place where somebody looks out every now and then. As if they don’t want to be seen.’

‘You’re absolutely right, Johnny. The police have found them in Rooms 607 and 608. There’s a conference in my suite at the hotel at seven this evening. We’re going to plan the Great Fire of Brighton. We’re going to smoke them out.’

The conductor looked around the great dining room. The room was nearly full. The conductor noticed that all the windows looking out to sea seemed to have been opened. He tried to spot the man who had asked for this piece of music but he couldn’t find him. The conductor was running a little late. He nodded to his orchestra. He raised his baton. Very softly at first the third movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony floated out into the evening air of Brighton.