Miss Tuffley looked down at the group on the pavement. Slowly the enjoyment ebbed from her face. "You know, it doesn't seem quite right, really. All those uniforms. Makes them look more official than they really are."

"I suppose that's the point. Are you tempted to go?"

Miss Tuffley shook her head. "I went to one of their meetings once. Some of the chaps look all right but they're awfully boring once they start talking."

"Like so many men."

Miss Tuffley squealed with laughter. Mr. Smethwick looked up, clearly wondering whether he was being mocked. Mr. Reynolds clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth but said nothing.

Lydia lowered her voice. "You don't happen to know if there's a typewriter I could use over the weekend?"

"Here? They wouldn't let you into the office. Mr. Shires is ever so strict because of the files." She wrinkled her nose. "But there's my old machine in the walk-in cupboard on the landing. It's just sitting there gathering dust."

"Would they mind if I borrowed it?"

"You couldn't take it home, dear. Not by yourself. The nasty thing weighs a ton. You'd need about five of them Blackshirts to lift it."

"Could I get into the house?"

Miss Tuffley glanced at Mr. Reynolds, who was hunched over his ledger. She pulled out the drawer underneath the telephone switchboard. Among the sc.r.a.ps of paper and stubs of pencil was a Yale key with a pink ribbon tied to it. She looked at Lydia, making sure she had seen it.

"Perhaps you happened to be looking for a rubber or something and you saw that," she said softly. "Perhaps it happened to fit the street door." She closed the drawer. "But don't come when it's dark if you can help it because Howlett or the caretaker might see the lights, and remember the cleaners get here at seven thirty on Monday. The other offices are the same-there's usually no one here at the weekend."

"What about the cupboard?"

"There's a spare key on the ledge over the door-just run your hand along and you'll feel it. You'll either have to lift the typewriter down to the floor if you can, or stand up and use it on the shelf. Are you really sure you want to be bothered?"

"Yes, quite possibly," Lydia said. "And thank you."

Miss Tuffley put her head on one side. "Well! I must say you're full of surprises."

Mr. Shires was as good as his word. Shortly after midday, he emerged from his room with a large brown envelope in his hand. "Mrs. Langstone, would you take this to the Inner Temple for me? I want you to deliver it by hand and right away. Mr. Reynolds has given you your wages, I take it? Good. In that case you might as well leave now. I don't think there's any point in your coming back to the office afterward."

The errand was genuine, and it was nearly one o'clock by the time Lydia reached Bleeding Heart Square. She avoided Rosington Place and walked round to the Charleston Street entrance by the Crozier. The van with the loudspeaker was still doing its work. "Find out what British Fascism can do for the British businessman. G.o.d save the King!"

She let herself into the house. No one was in the hall. She looked through the little pile of letters on the table. There was one for her father. She didn't recognize the handwriting, though it looked faintly familiar, as did the envelope itself. She took it upstairs.

There were voices in the sitting room and she heard her father's hoa.r.s.e, croaking laugh. The old man had extraordinary powers of recuperation. She pushed open the door. He was standing astride the hearthrug, cigarette in hand-Turkish, judging by the smell in the air-shaved, combed, wearing his one good suit and his regimental tie, and looking every inch like an elderly but well-preserved gentleman with four thousand a year to live on and not a stain on his conscience.

He looked up as Lydia came into the room. "My dear. Ah! There you are!"

"There's a letter for you, Father." She put it on the table.

He dismissed it from his mind with a lordly wave of the cigarette. "Why didn't you tell me you had such a charming sister?"

The back of the sofa had concealed Pamela. She scrambled up and fluttered toward Lydia, arms outstretched. "Darling! You look so frightfully businesslike. Your father says you've been working all morning." She swept Lydia into a soft, perfumed embrace and drew her over to the sofa to sit beside her. "Isn't this nice? Your father and I have been getting along splendidly. We were just saying how strange it is we haven't met before. After all, there's no reason not to, not nowadays, when almost everyone one knows has these complicated families. Anyway, how are you? I must say you're looking wonderfully well. Anyone would think you'd been to a health farm or something."

"And what about you?" Lydia asked. "Is everything all right? How's Mother?"

"Oh you know-much the same as ever. Life just seems to bounce off her like water off a duck's back." Pamela seized Lydia's hand. "I expect you are dying to know why I've come."

Lydia banished the unworthy hope that Pamela had come to ask her out to lunch. "I expect you're going to tell me."

"I'm engaged! Well and truly. Absolutely sign here on the dotted line and then love, honor and obey. It's going to be in the papers next week, but I wanted to tell you first."

"Oh darling," Lydia said. "I hope you'll be very happy."

"Of course we shall." Pamela smiled at Captain Ingleby-Lewis. "And it's only fair you should know before it's announced too-after all, aren't you my stepfather or something?"

He took both her hands in his and stared down at her, just as a proud and happy stepfather or something should do. "I'm sure you'll be very happy, my dear. You certainly deserve to be. And who is the lucky chap?"

"Rex Fisher. He's a friend of Marcus's, actually."

"If you ask me," Captain Ingleby-Lewis said, "this calls for a celebration."

Simultaneously Lydia said, "Rex's here today-at the meeting in Rosington Place."

Pamela glanced up, bright-eyed and as quick as a bird. "Yes, I know."

"What?" Ingleby-Lewis said. "At that Fascist affair? They've had that wretched loudhailer blaring away all morning. Woke me up."

"He's the main speaker, actually. Rex is their Deputy Director of Economic thingummy."

"I remember. Saw the name on the posters. Isn't he a bart?"

"Yes." Pamela stubbed out her cigarette. "And it's just as well he's not a viscount or something because then I'd take precedence over Mother, which would absolutely infuriate her."

"Are you going to the meeting?" Lydia asked.

"No-Tony Ruispidge is home on leave and I promised Sophie I'd have lunch with them. To be honest, it's not really my thing."

Somewhere a clock struck the half-hour.

"Good Lord," Ingleby-Lewis said. "Is that the time? I'm afraid I shall have to dash. Got an appointment."

"It's been lovely to meet you," Pamela said, holding out her hand.

"My dear, the pleasure has been all mine. And I hope I shall be able to renew the pleasure very shortly. Goodbye, Miss Ca.s.sington."

"You must call me Pammy. Everyone else does."

"Pammy then. I'm not sure what you should call me. Uncle William, perhaps." He took her hand and raised it to his lips. "Or plain, homely William, even? Until we meet again."

He swept his overcoat off its hook, seized his letter from the table, set his hat on his head at a jaunty angle, and left the room. They listened to his footsteps going downstairs. The front door slammed.

"I am so, so sorry," Lydia said.

Pamela patted her hand. "You don't need to be. He's a pet."

"No, he's not. He's an awful man. He sponges off everyone, he's an old soak, and he's my father."

"All I can say is that he was very nice to me."

"He can put on an act for five minutes but that's all it is. An act. He's probably hoping you'll persuade Mother to ask him to the wedding so he can get sozzled on Fin's champagne." Lydia was suddenly aware that tears were rolling down her cheeks. "Oh d.a.m.n and blast it."

Pamela, nothing if not practical, opened her handbag and produced a freshly ironed handkerchief smelling of musk and flowers, Jean Patou's Sublime. Lydia dabbed her eyes. Pamela kept hold of Lydia with one hand and opened the platinum cigarette case with the other.

"There, that's better. Try one of these. I'm not sure I like them very much but they're meant to be frightfully good. Rex has a little man who makes them up for him."

Automatically Lydia took a cigarette. "To be fair, he's given me a home." She remembered yesterday evening, when she had settled him down for the night. "And he can be very sweet sometimes."

Pamela clicked her lighter and Lydia bent her head over the flame.

"You know Marcus is at the meeting too?"

Lydia inhaled and sat back nodding. "I saw him this morning."

"Did he see you?"

"No. Thank G.o.d."

"You're very bitter," Pamela said gently.

"There's a good reason for that. In fact there are several."

"Do you want to tell me?"

Lydia shook her head. "Another time perhaps. Are you really sure about Rex?"

"I know you don't like him, but yes, I am. We understand each other, you see. I know what he wants and he knows what I want."

"If it doesn't work out, you can always come and share my room here."

Pamela giggled. "That would be lovely. We could become chorus girls or something. And we'd have rich protectors, awfully vulgar but with hearts of gold, and they'd simply dote on us." Without warning, which was characteristic of her, she changed the subject. "So you'll have seen Marcus in his uniform? He looks frightfully dashing. I say, he's convinced you've got a boyfriend. Is it true? Do tell-I won't breathe a word. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it's not true."

"You're going pink on your cheekbones, darling. That always means you're lying. You're a dark horse, I must say. Anyway, I don't want to know. Or rather I do but there's no immediate hurry. The thing is, Marcus thinks you have. He got some of his toughs to warn him off. Did you know they call them the Biff Boys because they go around biffing people? It makes them sound like some dreadful music hall act but really it's not very nice, is it? I heard Marcus telling Rex they were interrupted and he's going to get them to finish biffing up the boyfriend if there's another chance. That's why I thought I'd better pop in. Not that I didn't want to in any case."

"So it was Marcus. I thought it probably was."

"Ah-so there is someone."

"No, there isn't. Anyway, what gave him the idea?"

"Apparently your father told him that somebody had been hanging round you in a rather objectionable way."

"But if anyone fits that description, it's poor Mr. Fimberry. Not-not the one who was attacked."

"So you've got two? How super."

"I haven't even got one. Mr. Fimberry's a bit tiresome but there's no harm in him. He certainly doesn't deserve to be beaten up. His nerves are all to pieces."

"That won't help him if Marcus gets hold of him. So you're saying Marcus has got the wrong one?"

"I keep telling you, there isn't one to get," Lydia snapped. "And yes, he has got the wrong one. If I did have one, I mean. Oh d.a.m.n. Typical b.l.o.o.d.y Marcus."

"All I can say, darling, you'd better tip the wink to your young man who isn't your young man. If he's planning to be at the meeting, he should watch out. The Biff Boys are jolly good at keeping order, you know. When they've roughed him up to their satisfaction, they'll probably pop a knuckleduster in his waistcoat pocket and claim he's a communist agitator. But he's not going to the meeting, is he?"

"Oh yes, he is," Lydia said. "He'll probably be sitting in the front row taking notes."

"They look like Girl Guides," Fenella said. "Only bigger and blacker."

She and Julian were standing in the cloister by the doorway into the undercroft. Rory was a couple of yards behind them. They had a view of the line of trestle tables running parallel to the west wall of the undercroft. The tables had been covered with white cloths. They were laden with crockery, urns, teapots and food-sandwiches, a great vat of soup and plates of biscuits. Between the tables and the wall were half a dozen women Blackshirts repelling those members of the audience who wanted to start their lunch without delay.

"You can tell they were all very good at knots and helping Mother," Fenella said.

"I wish you'd go home," Julian said. "I'm sure Wentwood agrees. This is really no place for a woman."

"Stop fussing, Julian, and don't be so old-fashioned. Look at all those Blackshirt girls. They've come along-why shouldn't I? You're not really saying that women shouldn't get mixed up in politics, I hope?"

"Of course I'm not."

"I think Dawlish is right, actually," Rory murmured. "About your being here, I mean."

Fenella glared impartially at them. "I'm not leaving. That's flat. I think you're both being most unreasonable. Besides, you shouldn't be seen talking to us, Rory. Go away."

Dawlish opened his mouth but said nothing. For the first time in their acquaintance, Rory felt a stab of sympathy for the man. Where Fenella was concerned, the poor devil really had it bad.

"Can we meet afterward?" Rory said. "There are some things I need to tell you-not just about the meeting."

Dawlish nodded. "Shall we say the American Bar again? Five thirty, all being well?"

"Fine," Rory said, though it wasn't, because if he got there before Julian, or if Julian failed to turn up, he might have to pay for a drink, which at the Savoy's prices would probably wipe out most of his budget for December. Besides, Julian had paid for the champagne last night so really Rory couldn't get out of paying. And then there was the tip: he had no idea how much one left in a place like that.

"Good man," Dawlish said. "Good luck."

"Wait a minute," Fenella said. "Why don't we meet at the flat instead? It's nearer and more private."

Dawlish shrugged. "All right. Are you happy with that?"

Rory nodded, feeling simultaneously relieved and humiliated; he suspected that Fenella had guessed what he was thinking.

"If we're not there, the spare key's in the coal hole opposite the area door," Dawlish went on. "There's a tin of whitewash on the floor. It's underneath that."

They separated, Julian and Fenella waiting in the cloister, and Rory going down into the undercroft. A couple of uniformed Fascists were manning the door and stood aside to let him pa.s.s, their faces impa.s.sive. A very pretty girl, also in Fascist uniform, smiled at him as he pa.s.sed the tables and said, "Lunch in the interval, sir. Sir Rex is going to open the proceedings first."

The undercroft was already filling up. As he walked down the center aisle beside the line of posts, Rory tried to make a rough headcount: he estimated that there were chairs and benches for at least three hundred people, as well as some standing room at the back. Perhaps two thirds of the seats had already been taken. He found a chair near the front at the end of a row.