Ned Beauman - Boxer, Beetle

‘Sir, I—’

‘—they were once a very useful way of knocking some sense into people.’ Sinner smelt cigar smoke. ‘So what can we put in their place? That is the question Erskine and I asked ourselves several months ago. We concluded that with a little bit of trickery — no more than the Jew himself uses every time he goes to the vegetable market — we could achieve something masterful. You know about the London Jewish Sentry ?’

‘I’m aware of it, yes.’

‘I thought so. The idea, you understand, was to spill a few secrets that the Jews would never spill themselves, and to do it so that people would have no reason to doubt what they read. Propaganda with an honourable heart. Very effective. Now, publishing a newspaper isn’t cheap, especially when it has to be done largely in secret, but Erskine and I felt that money should be no object when the future of the British Empire is at stake. We took out our cheque books quite happily.’

‘You mean to say that you and Mr Erskine were funding the whole thing?’

‘Don’t play stupid with me, Morton. As you must know, we had no choice but to involve one or two dullards from Mosley’s gang. Erskine and I don’t go to London very often, and they know the lie of the land. But I always knew it would be our undoing. Those bloody Blackshirts — I’d rather entrust my secrets to a six-year-old girl. Which is how, over the last few months, Erskine and I came to be receiving letters of the most despicable kind. All anonymous. The first ones were just full of sinister innuendo. But now we’ve been threatened with exposure if we don’t hand over cash.’

‘Blackmail?’

‘Yes, my boy, blackmail. That’s what it is. Nothing less. I’m glad you realise that. And Erskine and I wouldn’t normally give a damn. If it did get in the papers that we’d been paying for the London Jewish Sentry , we’d be heroes to every fascist in the world. Hitler would probably give us a medal. If we were vain men, we’d be begging this blackmailer to go to The Times . But the point is, it would set back the cause. Not only would we lose influence — and before long, mark my words, Parliament will be trying to take us to war with Germany, so we will need our influence more than ever — but all our work on London Jewish Sentry would be wasted before it had really borne fruit. We can’t let that happen. But we also don’t want to give in to a common criminal. So we won’t pay a penny. What do you say to that?’

‘Quite right. I think you should go to the police.’

‘Don’t taunt me, Morton. You know perfectly well we can’t go to the police. They’d start poking their noses everywhere. A disgraceful affair like this has to be settled man to man.’

There was a pause. ‘You’re not suggesting …,’ began Morton.

‘I’ve been watching your face, my boy. You’re as guilty as they come. You’re not a real fascist, you’re just a blasted opportunist.’

‘Oh, please be serious — does Mr Erskine realise you’re making these accusations?’

‘Since you’re marrying his daughter he’s had to pretend you’re a decent fellow, and by now he’s spent so long pretending that he doesn’t know any better. He wouldn’t listen if I tried to tell him. But now you’re going to come with me and confess to his face. Then you’ll break off the engagement, which, by the way, is to your own advantage — I assume you didn’t realise what you’d have been faced with on the wedding night — and you’ll make some sort of restitution to Erskine and me. Then I expect you’ll either hang yourself or go off and live amongst the wogs for the rest of your life.’

‘Mr Bruiseland, I’m sorry, but this is utterly absurd. I had no inkling that you and Mr Erskine had anything to do with this ersatz newspaper. In fact, I would have thought rather better of both of you.’

‘Admit it, and we can settle this.’

‘It would be more sensible if we could both talk this over with Mr Erskine.’

‘You’re caught, boy. Don’t embarrass yourself.’

‘Perhaps we should just go to bed and in the morning we can—’

‘Oh, you Blackshirts are scum. You’re as bad as the Jews. I don’t know why I even bothered to give you the chance to behave like a hargh margh nargh nargh nargh nargh gentleman. Come here.’

‘Mr Bruiseland, for God’s sake!’ screeched Morton, and then for an instant Sinner found himself looking directly into Morton’s panicked eyes through a gap in the machinery as Morton’s face was smashed into the side of the brass brain. Morton seemed to recognise him, but then Bruiseland grabbed him by the hair, jerking him back out of view, and the metal around Sinner reverberated with blow after blow, droplets of blood spraying like some evil lubricant grease over the cogs and levers. There was a final thud as Bruiseland dropped Morton’s body on the carpet of the library, and after that all Sinner could hear was the older man’s loud phlegmy breathing. He could smell blood and tobacco and it reminded him of Premierland.

During the murder, Sinner had been too bewildered to try to intervene. He now thought of confronting Bruiseland; but the trouble was, he was still so drunk that it wasn’t impossible that Bruiseland might get the better of him with a curtain rail; and it wouldn’t do either Sinner or Morton any good if Sinner was discovered beating up a house guest; and anyway, Erskine had said that Morton was an arsehole and Evelyn hadn’t really disagreed, so perhaps Bruiseland had basically the right idea, even if he was obviously loony himself to have gone as far as he had. Frink would have known what to do. But Sinner didn’t. So he just stayed where he was, listening to Bruiseland’s grunts as he dragged Morton’s body feet-first out of the library. He felt a draught of cold air, and a little while later there was a faint splash from outside the house followed by some startled quacking. When it was obvious that Bruiseland wasn’t going to come back to clean up the blood or even to turn the lights off, Sinner dolloped himself out of the brass brain, stretched his tingling legs, and staggered upstairs to Erskine’s room.

Evelyn came into the hall while Erskine was still sitting there in the bentwood chair. He jumped up.

‘I suppose you’re pleased,’ she said.

‘Oh, no, Evelyn, please don’t say that — I wouldn’t wish what’s happened on my worst enemy. Certainly not on my sister’s fiancé.’ Actually, he had wished humiliation, torture and death on Morton dozens of times, but he decided now that he hadn’t really meant it. ‘I’m so sorry, it’s the most awful … I don’t know what to say.’ Gingerly he reached out to touch her shoulder but she rolled her eyes and pushed his hand away.

‘You’re not cut out for sentimentality, Phippy. Anyway, I’m in shock, they insist, so it doesn’t really make any difference what you say now. Save it up for when I’m crying myself bald. Have you seen Tara?’

‘No.’

‘I must find Tara. She will know what to do. But she seems to have disappeared from the house. What about your chap?’

‘Do you mean, was he, er, responsible?’ said Erskine, wondering how Evelyn had already come to share his suspicions.

‘No, of course not — one of those fascist fuckers did it, that is absolutely obvious to anyone with even a knitted brain. I mean, where is he to be found?’

‘He’s asleep.’

‘Where?’

‘In my room. Why?’

Evelyn smiled. ‘Oh, yes, Tara told me you’d persuaded Father to let him sleep up there with you. I don’t know how on earth you managed it but clap clap clap.’

‘I did not “persuade”—’

‘No, dear brother, of course you didn’t. No. Well, I’m off to smoke a hundred cigarettes, so I’ll see you at lunch.’ As Evelyn started up the stairs to her room, she turned and added, ‘And if you want to gawp at the blood with all the others, they’re in the library.’