The four black funeral horses were standing very still outside Arthur Cooper’s house. The driver, also dressed in black, waited at his post. The back of the hearse was empty. Inside, in Arthur Cooper’s front room, three of his revolutionary colleagues were transferring money from a large container, sent under guard from the bank that held his account. In vain had the bank’s manager pleaded with Arthur to leave some of the money behind. Nobody, he said, should leave their accounts completely empty. Surely, the bank manager had continued, Arthur would need some reserves for the inevitable rainy day.
It was all in vain. The three comrades had taken it in turn to guard the container all through the night.
‘If you’d said to me when I joined the movement, Arthur, that I would spend an entire night guarding money from a bank rather than stealing it, I’d have said you were mad.’
‘But it was stolen in the first place, liberated from the capitalist class in Russia,’ Cooper had replied, ‘and think of the good use Comrade Lenin will put it to when he gets his hands on it.’
‘I tell you another thing,’ said the comrade from Stepney. ‘No customs man is going to be in a hurry to open this lot, I can tell you. I doubt if opening coffins is in their job description. Once it gets to the Continent, all those bloody customs men will be crossing themselves and saying their Hail Marys at top speed.’
Now the money was all tightly packed in the bottom of the coffin, with piles of bricks lining the upper levels. Very slowly, and with all due solemnity, the coffin was carried out of the door on four sets of shoulders and slid into position. On the top and the sides was a very clear description of the contents. Ballets Russes. Props Department.
Arthur Cooper took up his position beside the driver. Two other comrades rode at the back as the strange hearse with its four black horses set out west across London to the fruit and vegetable market at Covent Garden, where it would be stored along with all the other props in the Ballets Russes section of the storage facilities of the Royal Opera House.
General Kilyagin was tired of waiting for news from London. He rang Captain Yuri Gorodetsky at his post in the little office in Holborn.
‘What on earth is going on, Captain?’ he boomed down the phone line. ‘It’s days since I’ve had any news from London! What in God’s name have you been doing? Inspecting the Tower of London? Going to the bloody ballet?’
‘No, sir. I have news for you — important news that will change this case and take it out of my area of responsibility.’
‘Out with it, man. What have those Bolsheviks been doing?’
‘Everything is now secure in the luggage section of the Ballets Russes, General. Our English colleagues watched both consignments right into the building in Covent Garden.’
‘You’re still not making sense, Captain. What consignments?’
‘Sir, both the revolutionary tracts and the money are now in the care of the ballet people. There they will remain until the whole lot moves off back to France or wherever they’re going next.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Absolutely certain, General. Could I ask you a question?’
‘With that answer you could ask me anything. Fire ahead.’
‘What is going to happen to them now?’
‘I do not have full authority to tell you that, Captain. They will be watched all their way to the final destinations. And by that I don’t just mean Comrade Lenin and his revolutionary friends. We will watch the leaflets in particular right to their final destinations from Lenin’s address list, be that in Moscow or Siberia or Kiev. Once they have been delivered, the recipients will receive a visit from the Okhrana. They may end up joining Lenin in exile, or, more likely, they will find themselves taking a long journey to Siberia.’
They kept Powerscourt in bed in a private wing of a military hospital for five days. The wing was sealed off. In that time a number of doctors came to see him, all in uniform. They listened to his breathing; they prodded his chest; they asked him to walk up and down. They were particularly keen to inspect the yellow pallor on his face. They didn’t seem very bothered about his arm, though they did say it was healing well. They passed no judgement on his condition. They were waiting, they told him, for the man from London, who was a civilian and whose background had to be thoroughly checked before he was allowed to pass judgement. Dr Archibald Forester had a large and distinguished practice in Harley Street.
‘Lord Powerscourt, I am delighted to make your acquaintance,’ said Dr Forester, when he finally arrived.
‘Perhaps you could enlighten me as to what is happening,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I have no idea where I am, apart from the fact that this is a military hospital. Nobody has told me what is going on. I feel like a parcel that is being passed round and round except that the music never stops.’
‘Let me see what I can do to help. This hospital is near Aldershot. In spite of the best efforts of Mr Danvers Tresilian of the Cabinet Office and the military doctors, I have persuaded them to let me tell you what we know.’
Forester drew a chair up to the side of Powerscourt’s bed.
‘The problem with you, Lord Powerscourt, is that you are a medical freak. Indeed you are a freak in two ways, a double freak if you like. I don’t mean that in any personal sense. I mean that you should not be alive at this moment. You should have been dead five days ago. According to the calculation of these military doctors, you stayed in that Devil’s kitchen longer than anybody or anything, man or sheep or goat is meant to. Yet you are still here, and showing marked signs of improvement. You have caused a major headache for the military personnel preparing these lethal mixtures. Perhaps the dose is too small; let’s not beat about the bush, if the gas needs to be made more potent to kill or maim a lot of humans, they are going to need the formula — the recipe if you like — to be made more powerful. That is going to cost money. I have no idea what our friend Danvers Tresilian is going to do about that.’
‘Well, doctor, I am very pleased to be a freak. At least I’m still here.’
‘I haven’t finished yet, not by a long way. The other factor that makes you a freak is this. Nobody has ever tested this mixture on humans. Not properly. It’s hardly surprising when you think about it. The staff at that Devil’s kitchen have special clothes to wear, so they are protected. Because we have not tried these dreadful potions on humans rather than animals, we have no idea what treatment will work or what treatment will make it worse. If a patient comes into my rooms in Harley Street with a respiratory problem or a heart condition, we know what to do. There are textbooks. Among the medical fraternity there is a pool of educated knowledge. If I do not know the answer or an answer — God knows we’re not infallible, however much we try to give the opposite impression — I can send my patient to a colleague or to a leading teaching hospital where they will know more than me.
‘There is no medical textbook for you, Lord Powerscourt. You are first in the field. You are, quite literally, opening the batting. No doubt your case will feature prominently in the medical literature if anybody decides to use this form of warfare and our hospitals at the front are crowded out with victims. You are the first human, rather than animal, victim of gas warfare in this country. And, as far as I know, none of the animal victims has survived. So we are in terra incognita. We could try some form of treatment but we have no idea if it would work.’
‘This is all very gratifying, to know I am first in the field, Doctor Forester, but can you tell me how much longer I have left to live? I have had enough of members of your profession inspecting me as if I were some form of freak in a circus. Do I need to revise my will today? Or tomorrow? Or can I leave it for a while?’