We collected our greatcoats and caps, turned into the thronged Strand, and began to walk westward. The Strand was lively that evening, full of soldiers and girls, all filled with the same kind of somewhat spurious high humour which had so affected my spirits at the theatre. We turned in at last through a gate marked 'Out'. Jameson's club was the Naval and Military in Piccadilly, whose premises were the late Lord Palmerston's old house; the club was known throughout London as the 'In and Out' because those words, in white lettering, appeared upon its stone gateposts as directions for cabbies and other drivers.
After about an hour of quiet companionship, during which we sat relaxed with our drinks in deep armchairs, exchanging little but the occasional word, one of the stewards approached Jameson. Thinking he was seeking our supper order, Jameson waved the man away, but the steward persisted.
'Beg pardon, sir, but I see your guest is Mr Dikeston.' His eyes were on the braid at my cuff, two wide bands and one narrow. 'Would he be Commander Dikeston, sir?'
'I would,' I said.
'Commander H.G. Dikeston, sir?'
'The same.'
'Then, sir, there is a gentleman at the porter's desk asking for you.'
"Who is he?'
'Didn't give his name, sir. Said he was from the Admiralty.'
I excused myself to Jameson and made my way to where the man stood. He wore mufti; a dark tweed Ulster and a somewhat rakish billycock hat. I approached and stood before him. 'My name is Stott,' he said. 'From the Admiralty. Will you collect your coat and hat, please, Commander, and come with me?'
I remember that I stood regarding him for a moment, and not liking what I saw. It may well have been a premonition of some description, for truly I liked nothing of what came afterwards. 'Can you prove who you are?'
He flung back the cape of his Ulster in an irritated way and produced a card: it was nothing I had seen before, but bore the Admiralty crest and his name and some signature I do not recall. 'Very well. I must tell my host -'
But he interrupted me. 'No time for that. The porter will tell him you have been called away. Your coat, please, Commander. I have a car waiting.'
Shortly afterwards I descended the steps with him and we entered a Daimler car which stood waiting, its engine running. The car at once moved off, without any instruction being passed to the driver.
'What's all this about?' I asked the man Stott.
His sole reply: 'You know better than to ask, Commander.'
Naturally I was puzzled. Makesure, my ship, was being fuelled and munitioned at Harwich, and could not sail until Monday's morning tide - though it's true her remarkably shallow draught rendered her less dependent upon tides than other vessels. Still, she would be all of two days making ready for sea. I could not therefore see why my forty-eight-hour leave was being interrupted. Stott next said, rather querulously it seemed to me. 'You had notified your captain that you were to stay at the Hotel Russell.'
'I have a room.'
'But you were not there. We have been looking for you, Commander Dikeston.'
I confess I did not bother to reply. Did the fool imagine that officers on leave sat alone in hotel rooms, eating off trays? Looking out of the Daimler's window, I was curious to know our destination. The car stood halted at the head of St James's Street and was awaiting a break in the oncoming ranks of cars, buses and horse-drawn vehicles, to turn. The street down there was naught but clubs, anyway: had I been prised out of one to be taken to another?
The turn accomplished, we proceeded down St James's and my curiosity diminished. Pall Mall and then the Admiralty: I had guessed by now where I was bound. Still, it was odd on a Saturday night, when I knew my ship would not yet be half-loaded. But the Daimler halted again at the foot of the street instead of turning left into Pall Malclass="underline" looking out of the window, I saw, and pitied, for it was a night of sharp winds, the khaki-clad guardsmen standing their duty at the entrance to St James's Palace. Then we were turning again, and turning right, and the car was passing the guard, actually entering the confines of the Palace!
'Follow me,' Stott snapped, climbing quickly from the car. He made his way across the yard to a door and rapped upon it sharply. The door was opened by a footman in livery and I had barely come to Stott's shoulder before he was setting his foot across the threshold. He glanced impatiently at me over his shoulder, said, 'Hurry, please!' and began to mount a stair.
We entered an old and ornate ante-room, dominated by pictures of the Hanoverian Georges, I remember, each uglier than the last.
'Wait here. Commander Dikeston,' snapped Stott. Then he wheeled back to the stair and left me. Now, of course, I was curious indeed: not every day is one hustled in so mysterious a way first into a closed car and then into a royal palace! Instinct led me to inspect the shine on my boots and the creases in the doeskin of my trousers. These first were satisfactory, for I had an excellent naval servant, but even he was unable to persuade doeskin to accept and retain a good crease, and there was some bagginess at my knees. I therefore spent a moment or two nervously straightening myself, brushing at my tunic and so on. But before I had time to think beyond that, a door opened and a four-ring naval captain appeared.
'This way, Commander.'
He stood back to let me pass, and closed the door, himself remaining in the ante-room, though it was a short while before I realized he had left. Other matters now clamoured for my attention, for as I entered the room a dark-suited man who stood before a table on the far side of the drawing-room in which I now stood, turned to face me.
'Dikeston?' he enquired.
I was rigid at once. 'Yes, Your Majesty!'
Malory pinched the bridge of his nose, where his spectacles pressed indentations into the flesh, and thought about Pilgrim's dismissive words. 'Some old guy's reminiscences' indeed! A few pages of the narrative, and this Dikeston, whoever he was, had already been taken in secret to meet the King! Didn't Pilgrim understand that such a thing was unheard of-especially in 1918, when a remote God of a King-Emperor ruled a quarter of the earth . . .
The frisson was in him now, right enough, and hardening into a nasty little knob of unpleasant anticipation somewhere in his chest. Sighing, Malory replaced the spectacles, took a mouthful of whisky, and resumed reading.
The King took two or three paces towards me. 'Thank you for coming,' he said gravely. Now, looking at him, I could see he was grave altogether, his brow lined, his eyes weary, and there were white flecks in his beard. The war, I thought, is taking its toll of him, as it is of all of us. I remained rigid. The King then drew my attention to two other men in the room, stretching his hand out towards, first, a tall man with piercing, dominant eyes, and a small white moustache and beard cut in an old-fashioned French manner. 'Mr Zahar-off,' the King said, 'is a director of Vickers, Maxim and Company.' I made a small bow, knowing the man's name and something of his curious and menacing reputation. Zaharoff looked imperious enough to be Sovereign himself: commanding, and cold and steely as the armaments he produced. He did not return my bow, though some small motion of eyes or brow gave acknowledgment. Now the King's hand indicated the other man present. 'Mr Clark,' he said. There had been no need to explain Zaharoff, but His Majesty clearly felt Mr Clark required further introduction; and that was hardly surprising, for Clark was a most unimpressive individual, obviously wearing his Sunday suit. He was small, stooped and, I judged, in his seventies. He looked like a rather shabby clerk, and it struck me that his name was remarkably apropos. 'Mr Clark,' said the King, 'is employed in the library of the British Museum, and has been so for -?' The royal eyebrows rose enquiringly. The old man's voice cracked a little as he answered. He was evidently greatly overawed and had to begin his answer a second time. 'For fifty-seven years, Your Majesty. Since 1861.1 should have retired .