David Dickinson - Death and the Jubilee

Chief Inspector Tait made a note in his book. Powerscourt wondered if he was going to hire some actresses for the evening to scream to police orders. Brighton had always been well supplied with actresses.

Albert Hudson knew when he was beaten. ‘I see,’ he said looking mournfully at his perfectly polished shoes. ‘I see.’

‘Now,’ said Powerscourt, ‘the more closely you are involved in the planning of the business, Mr Hudson, the greater our chances of victory. The police and the fire department here both need to return with you to your hotel for the detailed planning of this operation. I suggest this should happen at once.’

‘I’m afraid, Lord Powerscourt,’ Chief Inspector Tait sounded apologetic, ‘that I should ask you and Lord Fitzgerald to wait here. Until it is dark, at least. I know it is unlikely that either of the two villains will come down into the body of the hotel but that is a risk we dare not take.’

Powerscourt smiled. ‘Of course. We shall wait for the dark, Chief Inspector. We have often done it before.’

As Albert Hudson led his party of arsonists and police officers back to the King George the Fourth, Powerscourt saw Joseph Hardy showing his colleague a long list of calculations. Powerscourt thought they were talking about tar and pitch and other inflammatory substances. As they went down the stairs he heard Hardy talking about some other fiery potion whose name he did not catch. ‘That stuff,’ Hardy said with a laugh, ‘it goes up like the fires of hell themselves. It’s terrific!’

Powerscourt and Fitzgerald sat waiting for another battle, as they had waited together so many times in the past. Powerscourt remembered the terrible strain, waiting hour after hour in the roasting Indian sun for the enemy to unleash their gaudy cavalry on the thin lines of redcoats and their guns. He remembered waiting in the Piazza San Marco in Venice for Lord Edward Gresham to come to a fateful rendezvous in an upstairs room of Florian’s restaurant. He remembered another Indian battle when he and Johnny had been surrounded in an ancient fortress near the Khyber Pass waiting for the Afghans to climb the slope and die in their thousands from the artillery.

‘Francis,’ said Johnny, I think I might take a little nap. Wake me in a couple of hours.’ He looked at his watch. ‘In six hours’ time, I can have a bloody great drink. I hope that hotel man can open his bar for the celebrations.’

‘One thing, Johnny, just one, before you go to sleep.’ Powerscourt sounded very solemn. ‘I realize that now may not be the best time to ask this question. It is after all a very personal matter. Forgive me for asking it. Feel free not to respond if you so wish.’

‘Get on with it, Francis!’ said Fitzgerald, draping himself neatly into the sofa.

‘It’s this, Johnny. What did you tell your customers when you were being Mystic Merlin on the West Pier?’

Fitzgerald laughed. ‘It’s terribly easy, really. Most of the customers are young girls. “Are you married, my child?” I would say, stroking their hands. “No, sir,” they would reply. I would pause for a bit and start talking about lines of the hand meeting in particular places. Then I would say I saw a little house with a garden and three children playing and a husband just coming home from work. Some of them would give me extra money for that.’

Powerscourt thought of legions of Lydia Bennets, asking for confirmation that the perfect officer was just around the corner, waiting at the ball in scarlet uniform.

‘Did you give anyone bad news, Johnny?’

‘No.’ Fitzgerald was yawning now. ‘Only one very pompous man. He looked very rich to me. God knows why he wanted to have his fortune told.’

‘Maybe he too wanted a little house with three children,’ said Powerscourt.

‘Well, I thought he had plenty of houses already. I told him I saw a mountain, a very long time ago, and a great crowd on the slopes gathered to hear a preacher man.’

‘What did the preacher man say, Johnny?’ asked Powerscourt.

‘The preacher man said,’ Fitzgerald was laughing now, ‘that the meek shall inherit the earth.’

Lady Lucy ate very little that evening. She wanted to stay alert for whatever the night might bring. She told her captors she had a very bad headache and needed to be left in peace. As she pretended to doze in her armchair she could almost hear her heart beating.

Francis has found me. Francis is coming.

Her husband spent much of the evening staring out of his window towards the West Pier. Various emissaries came from the King George with details of the plans. Chief Inspector Tait came with news that everything was going splendidly. He explained to Powerscourt that the police had evolved a system of sending each other messages by whistles for use in the smoke. They sounded very complicated. Powerscourt only remembered one. One long continuous blast meant that the fire could be stopped, the smoke engines turned off.

Joe Hardy came, looking very excited about the night ahead.

‘We’re going to have a proper fire in the rooms on the two floors underneath. Proper fire,’ he went on gleefully, ‘not just smoke like everywhere else. It should help them get hot in Rooms 607 and 608.’

He saw Powerscourt looking alarmed.

‘Don’t worry, sir. It won’t be too hot. And we’ll be able to put it out when we want to. It’s going to be tremendous!’

With that, Joe Hardy departed into the night, whistling happily to himself as he went. As darkness fell over Brighton the Chief Constable himself appeared.

‘I’m feeling rather nervous,’ he announced. ‘But I hope everything is under control. The inferno, as that charming young man from London keeps referring to it, is to start a few minutes after one o’clock.’

Shortly after midnight Lord Francis Powerscourt crept down to the front. There was a crescent moon and the stars were shining brightly over the sea. A slight wind came in from the English Channel. Powerscourt heard whispered greetings from the shadows and the doorways as he passed. ‘Good evening, sir.’ ‘Good luck, sir.’ Chief Inspector Tait must have his men posted everywhere tonight, he thought, as he saw a further posse of policemen lying on the beach behind the fishing boats. On the West Pier the moonlight was glinting off the girders, faint shadows reflected in the dark waters beneath. The great hotels lay sleeping on the sea front, like beached liners waiting for another voyage. A stray drunk was being escorted to a place of safety by yet more of Tait’s policemen. A stray dog, watched by twenty pairs of eyes, trotted slowly along the front in the direction of the Royal Pavilion to guard the ghosts of the Prince Regent and Mrs Fitzherbert.

By a quarter to one Powerscourt and Fitzgerald were waiting in a room on the second floor of the west wing of the King George the Fourth. There were no lights. Hardy crept in and gave them both a collection of dampened handkerchiefs. ‘Might be useful in the smoke,’ he whispered cheerfully before departing to tend his flames.

Powerscourt knew the plan. He felt like a theatre producer who has given the stage directions for his final act but does not know what the actors are going to say. The smoke was to be increased step by step. The fire in the rooms below 607 and 608 was to burn very fast, helped by some of Joe Hardy’s inflammatory liquids. The balconies were the key to the smoke. Each room in the west wing and in the section next to it had a small balcony overlooking the sea. All the guests in this part of the building had been transferred to another section of the hotel. They were told there was a temporary problem with the water supply. Tonight the balconies were occupied by barrels filled with a mixture of oil, tar and pitch, combined in a deadly recipe to produce the maximum amount of smoke. When the three residents of Rooms 607 and 608 finally came out a platoon of six was to take care of them. Two each for the kidnappers. Two for Lady Lucy, Powerscourt and Johnny Fitzgerald. Tait had tried to deter him, fearing that his personal involvement might make him hesitate when rapid action was called for. ‘I’m the only one who will recognize her,’ Powerscourt had said defensively. ‘In all that smoke, sir,’ Tait had said, ‘you wouldn’t recognize Queen Victoria herself.’ Powerscourt had prevailed.