‘I have a letter here from the Prime Minister, Mr Hudson. He says that Her Majesty’s Government will pay for any necessary repairs to any hotels in Brighton that follow any operations mounted by Lord Francis Powerscourt and the Chief Constable of Sussex. Here, you may read it.’
This was the result of Powerscourt’s one word telegraph to Whitehall. He had explained the likely position in an earlier message. ‘Schomberg’ simply asked for McDonnell to come in person.
Hudson stared hard at the notepaper, as if he suspected that it might be a forgery.
‘I too have had a message from the Prime Minister.’ The Chief Constable was moving in for the kill. ‘It gives me powers to take over any hotels I think fit in the Brighton area for the next forty-eight hours. Of course, I have no wish to use these powers. Co-operation will be much more satisfactory than coercion. If we can all work together then the final outcome is much more likely to succeed.’
Powerscourt wondered briefly what a hotel run by the police force would be like. Lots of minor rules and regulations, he suspected. Proper dress to be worn at all times. Drunkenness punished by a quick visit to the cells. Meals served exactly on time.
Albert Hudson looked round the room once more. Joe Hardy thought he might burst into tears, so sad had his face become as he thought of the flames and the smoke ruining the building he had tended for nearly fifty years.
‘Very good, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘With great reluctance, great reluctance, I place the King George the Fourth at your disposal. If anything should go wrong with this operation I shall tell my directors that the blame cannot be laid at my door. I presume that I may evacuate all my guests in the course of this evening.’
The Chief Constable looked at Powerscourt.
‘I’m afraid that would not fit in with our plans, Mr Hudson.’ Powerscourt spoke in his most emollient voice. He was wondering if Lucy had got the message, sent up to her through the windows of the hotel. ‘Most of this fire will take place on the upper floors of the west wing. The people we are concerned with are in Rooms 607 and 608 on the top floor, as you know. Mr Hardy here is a fire expert from London. He and Chief Fire Officer Matthews beside him from your local brigade will work out later this evening exactly how they intend to achieve the conflagration. But it is very important that the rest of the guests are evacuated at the time of the fire. It will make things look more convincing. With any luck – from our point of view, that is – there will be a certain amount of confusion. Maybe some of the women will scream. Maybe some of the children will cry. That is regrettable but it helps our purpose. These noises will carry up to the sixth floor. I hope they will help convince the two villains holding my wife that they have no alternative but to evacuate their rooms. Otherwise, they must feel, they will be burnt to a cinder.’
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.’