Theresa Schuster came to stand directly before him. A thin beam of watery sunlight edged its way through the window behind him and threw her scar into sharp relief.
‘Would you?’ she said. ‘Would you do it for me?’
‘No,’ he said.
She laughed, not at all offended.
‘No, I did not think so,’ she said. ‘You are not so weak, or so stupid. I knew I should fool you only once, so I waited carefully for my moment, as I did not want to waste it.’
‘I suppose I ought to thank you for the compliment,’ he said. ‘Then I take it you’re going to pin the blame on me? How do you propose to do that?’
‘Oh, there’s plenty of evidence against you,’ said Peacock. ‘Or there will be, at any rate. We have a good few photographs of you and that mandarin sitting in the park together. But not only that: we also have a man in East London who has a most interesting tale to tell about a chap who approached him while he was cleaning a gun on his back step a few months ago, and asked to buy the gun off him. Being a law-abiding citizen, he refused, but later found the gun had gone missing.’
‘I expect this chap who wanted to buy the gun looked like me, did he?’ said Freddy.
‘I expect he did,’ said Peacock. ‘Then there are the documents that Theresa planted in your flat last night. Lots of letters with official letterheads, instructing you to do all sorts of things. They don’t mention murder in so many words, but the inference is clear. The Government will probably claim they’re forgeries, but that doesn’t matter, as the doubt will have been planted in people’s minds. Then you’ll be found with the gun, of course.’
‘Won’t they notice my death wasn’t natural?’ inquired Freddy. There was an air of unreality about the whole conversation that made him almost inclined to laugh.
‘A terrible car smash, it was,’ said Bishop. ‘Nobody could possibly have survived it.’
‘I see you’ve thought of everything,’ said Freddy.
Theresa Schuster gazed at him affectionately.
‘It is a glorious thing you are doing,’ she said.
‘Perhaps, but I’d prefer to have the choice,’ said Freddy. ‘Where’s your husband, by the way? What does he think of this little hobby of yours?’
‘Anton is a darling,’ she replied. ‘He was proud to marry a daughter of the revolution, and he supports me in everything, but he is old, and prefers to live more quietly than I. He is very rich, and gives me money when I need it.’
‘What do you mean, a daughter of the revolution?’
‘My father was a Bolshevik and a Commander in the Red Army,’ she said. ‘He was killed in the civil war, but I preserve his memory with care. The battle has been all but won in Russia, but we must not stop there, and so I continue the struggle elsewhere.’
Freddy suddenly remembered something she had said once, about having lived through a revolution, and wondered why her meaning had not struck him at the time.
‘You’re Russian?’ he said in surprise.
‘Of course. Did you not know?’
‘No, I thought you were Austrian. Don’t tell me you’re Russian too,’ he said to Peacock.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Peacock. ‘I’m as English as you are.’
‘Then what do you get out of all this?’
‘Why, the chance to change things. Everything’s too deadly dull these days. I missed the war, but that doesn’t mean I can’t stir the country up a bit, eh?’
‘Do you mean you’re doing it purely for the fun of it?’
Peacock shrugged.
‘Why not?’ he said.
Freddy had no reply to this. He, too, had done many things for the fun of it, but it had never occurred to him to murder someone or foment social unrest as a means to relieve his ennui. It struck him now that Peacock was a very dangerous man—perhaps the most dangerous of all of them, in fact—and he resolved to be very careful in his dealings with him.
‘Does Trevett know about all this?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Bishop. ‘As a matter of fact, we originally meant to give him the—er—credit for doing the job, but then you came along and we changed our plans. It’s probably for the best. If he’d got wind of it he’d have been bound to give us away. Can’t hold his tongue, you see. He has to be the centre of attention.’
‘I thought you were an admirer of his.’
‘Perhaps I was, once,’ said Bishop. ‘But that was a long time ago. Just because a man has a talent for speaking doesn’t mean he’s any good to the cause. Trevett’s a feather-brain, Mr. Pilkington-Soames. We won’t need his sort when the revolution comes. We need people with brains and strength, and the sense to shut up at the right time. I hope you don’t mind staying with us a while longer, by the way. Today might be a bit dull, but there’ll be plenty of excitement tomorrow. Tie him up now,’ he said to Peacock, then turned and left the room.
Peacock handed the gun to Theresa Schuster, who levelled it at Freddy as his hands were bound once again.
‘There’s no point in that, is there?’ said Freddy, as Peacock made to put the blindfold back on. Peacock glanced at Theresa, who shrugged.
‘Let him see,’ she said. ‘After all, it is his last day.’
Freddy suppressed a shiver at her careless tone, then the door was shut and the key turned in the lock, and he was left alone in the room once more to make himself as comfortable as he could. He sat down on the bed and set himself to thinking hard. Now that he knew what Bishop and Peacock had planned for him, his future looked gloomy, to say the least. To be murdered was bad enough, but to be used ignominiously as a pawn in a political game after his death was even worse. He brooded glumly over this for a while, but could see no way out for himself, for there seemed no escape from that dingy room—and even supposing he managed to untie himself and pass through a locked door, how could he creep past his captors, who were dangerous men, and would clearly not baulk at killing him in cold blood if necessary? Besides, more people had begun to arrive at the house now; three or four times Freddy heard a knock at the front door, and then footsteps and the creaking of stairs as a newcomer was admitted and brought downstairs into the next room. It was only to be expected, given that such a conspiracy would be difficult to execute by only three people, but from his point of view it made the prospect of escape look even more remote. Still, if Freddy was about to meet his end, he was certainly not about to go along with it like a lamb—in that, at least, his captors had made a mistake, for by telling him of his fate in advance, they had left him with nothing to lose. It was not exactly a cheerful thought, but Freddy, who was by nature a generally accommodating sort, had a streak of obstinacy in him which rose to the surface once in a while, and which was now demanding satisfaction.
‘If this is the end, then I’m damned if I’ll go quietly,’ he said to himself. ‘Never let it be said that a Pilkington-Soames died a coward’s death. If Rowbotham can be saved then I’ll do it by hook or by crook even if I have to take a bullet in the back to do it.’
Fine words, but it was easier said than done, and Freddy was not at all sure of how he was to go about it, stuck in his prison as he was. The first thing to do, it seemed, was to find out the exact details of what was planned for the next day. Would the plotters take Freddy with them to Hyde Park? Surely they would have to, for how could they get away with pinning the assassination on him if he were not present that day? Of course, there was always the danger that he would try to escape or attract attention, but it was a risk they must take if their plan were to work. But what was the plan? Freddy grimaced in frustration. He could hear the sound of scraping chairs and muttered voices in the next room, and wanted to know what they were saying. Was there any way in which he could listen to their conversation? The walls of the house were thin, and to judge by the sound of footsteps, there were no coverings on any of the floors. Freddy’s eye fell on the cast-iron fireplace, which was cold and bare, for no fire had been lit there. He moved over to it, then knelt down in the thin carpet of ashes which had not been swept up. He poked his head inside the fireplace, being careful not to overbalance, since his hands were still tied behind his back, and listened. Now he could hear some of the voices much more clearly.
‘—stand outside if it’s raining,’ said someone, although the rough-sounding voice was not one he recognized.
‘Well you’ll just have to,’ came Bishop’s voice. ‘We’ll need you to move as quickly as possible, so it’s no good your sitting there all cosy-like in your van when we’ll need you to take a hand. Now, you park where we told you, keep the engine running and wait just outside.’
The first man grumbled, but he had evidently walked away from the chimney, for he could no longer be heard clearly. Freddy set himself to listen. The floor was cold and grubby, and with his hands behind his back he could not find a way to get comfortable, but this was his only chance of hearing what the conspirators were saying, and so he settled down to find out as much as he could. At midday he had to move away from the fireplace when Peacock came in, a plate of cold food in one hand and a gun in the other. Freddy was untied and allowed a few minutes to eat. He was not at all hungry, but judged it was better not to arouse suspicion—and besides, he wanted to keep his strength up. Afterwards, Peacock tied him up and left the room without having said a word, and Freddy returned to his station in front of the fire. By the end of the day, he thought he had heard enough to understand what was intended. After Mr. Rowbotham had finished his speech, he was to leave the stage and enter a tent which had been set up next to it for the benefit of the speakers, for the weather was expected to be wet. At that moment, somebody—Freddy did not know who—was to create some sort of diversion outside. While it was going on, Rowbotham would be set upon and knocked out with chloroform, then thrown into a motor-van parked at the back of the tent, and driven away before anybody had time to realize what was going on. Once he was in the van his fate would be sealed, for presumably he was to be shot dead there—perhaps while still unconscious. Nobody would witness his death, making it all the easier for the plotters to set the scene and place the blame for the crime on Freddy’s shoulders.
‘There’ll be thousands of people there tomorrow, and in all the confusion nobody will be able to say for certain what’s the truth,’ he said to himself. ‘But rumours spread like wildfire, and if they can produce a witness or two—as I’m sure they will—then I’ve no doubt they can convince plenty of people that I was the one who did it, on the orders of Intelligence. That will set the cat among the pigeons, all right! I shouldn’t wonder if it were to cause a fearful scandal. I suppose the intention is to drive the workers into the arms of the Communists and whip up unrest. At least, that’s what Bishop wants, and Theresa Schuster too. But Peacock, now; he’s not a Communist—I’d bet my life on it. I’ve seen the type often enough. He’s an out-and-out trouble-maker, who’s doing it for the fun of the thing. I must try and stop them somehow, but I can’t do that if I’m stuck here. Are they going to take me with them? I only hope so. I must get to Hyde Park tomorrow one way or another.’
With this and other reflections the day passed slowly and the shadows lengthened, and at last, long after darkness had fallen, Freddy lay down on the bed and eventually fell asleep.