Lord Malquist & Mr. Moon: A Novel (19 page)

‘What man?’

‘Moon. He should be recording me with Boswellian indiscrimination.’

‘My husband.’

‘Why so he is. You shall be re-united in a few moments unless he has already left for my residence.’

‘What do you mean, Falcon? – I don’t want to go home, I want to see the funeral.’

‘What an extraordinary desire. Don’t you want to have a bath and some breakfast and a long lie-in till luncheon? That seems to me the sensible course after a night in the cells.’

‘No, I don’t, Falcon. I want to see the funeral – you said you were invited.’

‘So I was. But I’m sending one of the servants. Funerals depress me so, they distort the meaning of honour.’

The ninth earl raised his stick and beat it against the roof of the coach.

‘O’Hara, turn back!’

He mused sadly. ‘The most honourable death I have ever heard of was that of Colonel Kelly of the Foot Guards who died in an attempt to save his boots from the Customs House fire. Colonel Kelly’s boots were the envy of the town, they shone so. His friends hearing of his death rushed in their grief to buy the services of the valet who had the secret of the inimitable blacking. Now
that
is a tribute to an officer and a gentleman, much more sincere than all the panoply of a state funeral, for it was a tribute despite itself, inspired by the self-interest … Poor Colonel Kelly.’

‘He sounds like a bit of an idiot to me. I’ve heard of people dying in fires to save their
pearls
or something.’

‘How vulgar.’

‘Or their relatives.’

‘How suburban.’

‘I don’t think that’s very nice, Falcon.’

‘South Street, home of George Brummell called Beau. When Brummell was living abroad in reduced circumstances he ordered a snuff-box costing more than his annual income. It was he who was the first to reach Colonel Kelly’s bootblack, by the way. You see, he understood that substance is ephemeral but style is eternal… which may not be a solution to the realities of life but it is a workable alternative.’

Jane pressed against him as they wheeled back into Park Lane and headed south.

Lord Malquist brooded on. ‘As an attitude it is no more fallacious than our need to identify all our ills with one man so that we may kill him and all our glory with another so that we may line the streets for him. What a nonsense it all is.’

Jane said, ‘I want to see it anyway.’

‘You’d think the streets would be lined with jeering Indians and miners and war widows … But it’s nothing to do with what he did or didn’t do, when you come down to it. He was a monument and when a monument falls the entire nation is enlisted to augment official grief.’

‘I don’t know
what
you’re talking about, Falcon – I want to see the bands and the soldiers.’

The ninth earl was silent for some while and then remarked: ‘K. J. Key who was captain of Surrey, kept a pair of gold scissors in his waistcoat for cutting his return ticket.’

‘Poor O’Hara,’ said Jane. ‘He must be getting awfully wet.’

The greys jogged handsomely down Park Lane shining with rain, and O’Hara huddled himself in the dripping cloak
of mustard yellow, his hat pulled low, his pipe jutting damply between the two.

‘You must give him whisky in hot milk when he gets home,’ said Jane.

‘My grandfather used to horsewhip his servants by day and offer them a drink before he went to bed, in case the revolution occurred during the night.’

‘Poor O’Hara,’ said Jane. ‘I bet he hates you.’

‘One must keep a dialogue of tension between the classes, otherwise how is one to distinguish between them? Socialists treat their servants with respect and then wonder why they vote Conservative. So unintelligent.’

He yawned behind his gloved hand. The coach swung round Hyde Park Corner past the memorials to the Machine Gun Corps and the Artillery, and started to climb Constitution Hill.

Jane squealed.

‘Golly! – what’s that?’

‘Rollo!’

A lion was crouched on the wall of Buckingham Palace Gardens, a pink bird in its mouth. It leapt down into the road in front of the coach and ran up the hill.

‘Chase him, O’Hara!’

O’Hara’s whip cracked and the horses heaved into a gallop.

‘Falcon, what
was
it?’

‘Rollo – poor thing, he’s been lost for days.’

‘He was eating something.’

‘I know, he has a weakness for flamingos. Her Majesty will not be amused I fear. On the last occasion she was distinctly unamused … Oh dear, this is going to require all Sir Mortimer’s delicacy.’

*    *    *

He waited under the trees until the rain stopped, and then
urged the donkey forward again. The donkey sneezed. They were wet and cold but the Risen Christ hardly noticed that. Now that he was alone again he felt a great peace and a conviction that took away his burdens of doubt and fear and choice. The donkey’s burden was not so nebulous but it protected him from the weather to some extent.

When they turned into the road the Risen Christ was gratified but not surprised to see that people were crowded thick on either side. He composed his features into an expression of modest disdain similar to the donkey’s, and they plodded on together.

*    *    *

Jasper Jones rode into the Square, his eyes as hard as flints. The rain had stopped but wet shined his leather chaps and drops of water fell from the brim of his hat. The horse was dulled dark as boot polish from the rain.

Jasper walked his horse into the Square and did not allow himself to acknowledge to stares of the people who watched him go by. Many of them recognised him and told each other, ‘Look, there he goes, the Hungriest Gun in the West man with the porkiest beans straight out of the can.’

He sneered under his hat, and rode across into the open space where the fountains were and when the horse lowered its head to drink he slipped off its back and looked around and saw Long John Slaughter leaning against the stone pedestal under George IV.

‘Slaughter!’

Long John turned.

‘Hello, Jasper,’ he said.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ said Jasper Jones.

Everything was suddenly quiet. They stood facing each other across twenty yards of empty ground. Jasper’s eyes were hard as silver dollars. He took a step forward and nicked his calf with the spur.

‘I told you to keep your cotton pickin’ hands off my gal, Slaughter.’

Long John looked around but most of the people were watching the other way. He licked his lips and smiled nervously.

‘Oh, leave off, will you?’ he said. ‘I want to watch the funeral.’

‘You’ll get one of your own, Slaughter. I’ve got a message from her and I’m deliverin’ it through a forty-five. So draw.’

Long John licked his lips again.

‘Listen, don’t be like that. She doesn’t care for you anyway.’

Jasper Jones grated, ‘You yeller coyote – draw.’ His eyes were hard as the Rocky Mountains.

‘No, I don’t want to,’ said Long John. ‘I’m finished with all that.’

‘Then you’ve got five till I shoot you down like a dawg,’ drawled Jasper Jones. He stood easy, his right hand loose by his hip.

‘You must be off your rocker.’

‘One.’

‘Jasper?’

‘Two.’

Long John licked his lips. The wall was behind him.

‘Three.’

‘It’s not fair!’ He started to cry. ‘It jest ain’t fair, I’m tired of all this, I’m tired of ridin’ an ‘shootin’ and runnin’ – you cain’t run away from yerself, my pappy tol’ me that! – I’m tired, I wanna hang up my guns!’

‘Four.’

Slaughter wept. ‘Wanna settle down, git me a woman, few kids, bit o’ land to plough—’

‘Five.’

With a sob Slaughter went for his gun. It fell on the ground and bounced and there was a roar from a .45 as Jasper out
drew him and shot himself in the leg. Jasper cursed and sat down. Fast as a rattlesnake Long John scooped up his gun and shot Jasper in the stomach and started to run across the Square past Jasper who was dying on his knees. A mountain lion with a flamingo in its mouth streaked across in front of him and seemed to leap over the backs of the crowd; and beyond, a pink coach was rattling down the Mall towards him. Slaughter ran towards it shouting, ‘Jane! Jane!’ and he had reached the edge of the pavement when Jasper Jones, rolling onto his stomach with his gun held in both hands, took careful aim at the middle of Slaughter’s back and shot him through the head.

*    *    *

The excitement of the chase brought a rosy flush to Jane’s cheek. Her eyes danced merrily as she smiled at the handsome aristocrat at her side.

‘Ah, my dear Jane,’ he said, his eyes twinkling, ‘you seem to be enjoying yourself.’

It was true. Yet she could but sigh. A shadow passed over her exquisite features and her soft ripe bosom heaved.

‘Too late, too late!’ a voice cried within her. ‘Ah, would that we had met when we were free!’

For him she would have gladly turned her back on Society and escaped with him to some perfect spot away from all this, but she knew deep down in her heart that this would not bring them happiness. They were duty bound to live out their roles in this hollow masquerade even as they recoiled from the hypocritical conventions that kept them apart. No, all they could do was to snatch a few precious moments together.

It was a dull rainy morning but her heart sang as the horses galloped along. The coach rocked violently and she laid her hand on her companion’s arm. He smiled roguishly down at her.

She leaned forward in excitement as the coach burst into the Square, thrilled to see the crowds around her. It was as if all the common people of the town had gathered there. She smiled and waved at them – and suddenly she gasped.

‘Look!’ she cried and pointed to where a man came running towards the coach with a pistol in his hand. She knew him at once, and seized her companion’s arm with a soft cry. She closed her eyes and heard a shot ring out.

When she opened her eyes the man was falling headlong into the road as the coach swept up the side of the Square.

Jane leaned back and felt her knee being patted calmingly. She could but admire his insouciance. She smiled bravely and glanced up at him roguishly and was pressed to him as the coach turned the corner.

The horses had slowed down and now moved quite gently down the slope between the people. Looking up, Jane saw a sight the like of which she had never encountered. She stared and involuntarily clutched Lord Malquist’s hand as all the blood drained from her cheeks.

‘Falcon,’ she breathed, ‘what is it?’

At that moment the door was flung open and her hand flew to her mouth.

‘My husband!’ she cried.

The drums beat against the tread of the funeral march. The Dead March swirled into the cold air and the minute-guns saluted with their regular detonations. The procession came breasted by the dark blue of the mounted police and stretched back until it was lost to sight.

Behind the rank of horses came two Royal Air Force bands with their light blue contingent, then the khaki of the Territorials and the Field Regiments, and the grey tunics of the Guards led by the band of the Foot. The Welsh, the Irish, Scots, Coldstreams and Grenadiers stepped past with pride and precision. Behind them the white helmets of the Royal Marines competed for the people’s admiration with the brass of the Household Brigade.

Two more bands preceded the bearers of the insignia and standards, and then came the front rank of the Royal Naval gun crew pulling the coffin with slow majesty on its iron carriage. The family mourners were in closed carriages drawn by black horses, the men walking behind carrying their top hats. Then came a second detachment of the Household Cavalry leading the bands of the Royal Artillery and the Metropolitan Police. A quarter of a mile behind the head of the procession marched the rearguard drawn from the Police Force, the Fire Brigade and the Civil Defence Corps.

Rather a long way behind them, but holding his own, came a white-robed figure on a donkey monstrously saddled with a carpet roll.

Moon, desperately but pointlessly measuring the ticks of his bomb against the march, squirmed through the crowd into the road with the intention of crossing behind the last line of policemen.

Under the statue of Charles I, the Risen Christ came plodding
into his view, disdainful as ever if not quite so modest.

Moon stopped dead. The donkey reached him and he recovered.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Moon furiously.

‘Oh, hello, yer honour.’

‘What are you playing at?’

‘I’m going to preach the Word,’ replied the Risen Christ with dignity.

The end of the procession was disappearing into the Strand, breaking up the crowds as it passed for it would not be returning. Moon looked round and whispered fiercely at the Risen Christ.

‘What about
them?
’

‘Go in peace.’

‘The bodies!’

The Risen Christ blinked down at him resentfully. ‘Faith, I can’t find a place for them, yer honour,’ he wined.

‘Well, you won’t find it in Trafalgar Square.’

‘I’m going to preach the Word.’

And with this finality the balancing act of the donkey, the carpet roll and the Risen Christ went swaying past him, stepping heavily on his right foot. The pain was so intense that Moon, hearing in the same instant a pistol go off behind him, thought he had been shot.

The crowd picked itself up and blew around the street like a gust of leaves. There was a second shot. Moon turned.

‘Mr Jones!’ he cried, and was knocked down by something alive that went by with a yellow whiff of zoos.

Moon lay with his coat tossed up around his head. Cannon boomed over him and boots panicked around him: he might have fallen on a battlefield. And through the confusion he heard – being played right against his ear with a music-box intimacy as though for his private audience – the National Anthem.

Automatically he started verbalising the tune –
gra-ay
shusqueen long live ah no-o-o b’lqueen, God save
– and scrambled up and saw the donkey sprawled on top of its load with the Risen Christ cradling its head in his arms, outraged, dumb; and Rollo streaking away down Whitehall; and, inexplicably, a dead flamingo lying at his feet.