Black August by Dennis Wheatley

yards or so.
    When he entered the residential district he was astonished by the activity which had invaded the quiet streets of Mayfair. Large private cars were being loaded up with trunks and boxes, and from many houses the more valuable possessions were being stowed into furniture vans.
    In Grosvenor Square he found two great pantechnicons drawn up outside his home and sweating men staggering down the steps under the burden of a large Van Dyck. The short, fat, rubicund Duke was personally superintending the removal of his treasures.
    â€˜Damnable, but understandable!’ was his comment when Kenyon told him of the decision to postpone the election. ‘Heard about the sailors? They seem to be out for trouble.’
    â€˜Yes,’ Kenyon nodded. ‘I should think the balloon is due to go up in about two days’ time now.’
    â€˜Less, my boy, less. The troops had to use the butts of their rifles on the crowd in the East End this morning. I have ordered the cars for three o’clock to take your mother and the staff down to Banners.’
    â€˜Hell!’ thought Kenyon, ‘that puts the lid on the cocktail party,’ for even in the stream of startling events his mind had never been far from Ann and he had persuaded himself thatshe would accept Veronica’s invitation. Now, if Veronica had to go down to Banners with his mother, Ann would find him alone in Grosvenor Square and probably imagine the whole business to be a put-up job. His father’s next words reassured him.
    â€˜I suppose you can fly Veronica down tomorrow?’
    â€˜Oh, rather!’ Kenyon agreed with relief.
    â€˜She had a fine rumpus with your mother—said she must go down with you tomorrow because she’s got some party on this evening that she doesn’t want to miss. What it can be at a time like this, heaven only knows—but you know how impossible she is, and I can’t force her, much as I should like to have her out of London tonight. They are going to proclaim martial law you know.’
    â€˜I don’t think so, sir.’ Kenyon reported the latest news from Westminster.
    The Duke grunted irritably. ‘I bet you a pony they will, whether the P.M. likes it or not. I saw J. J. B. this morning.’
    â€˜Did you?’ exclaimed Kenyon, much interested, for ‘J. J. B.’ was the First Sea Lord who had undergone a serious operation only ten days before. ‘I thought he was
hors de combat
in a nursing home.’
    â€˜So he was, or they would never have got away with that fool decision about the big ships. They’ve been keeping everything from him because he was so ill, but Jaggers broke through the cordon of medicos this morning and told him the whole position. He said J. J. B. ought to know even if it killed him!’
    â€˜I’d love to have heard his language!’ Kenyon had a vivid mental picture of the red-faced, autocratic sailor. ‘What did he do?’
    â€˜Had himself carried out in his dressing-gown there and then. He was still in it when I saw him. He said he’d choke the life out of that whimpering rabbit of a schoolmaster they’d had the impudence to foist on him as First Lord—and do it with his own hands if they hanged him for it afterwards!’
    â€˜Good for him! I bet the fur is flying at the Admiralty now.’
    The Duke chuckled. ‘Yes, but he’s a wily old fox. He went to the Air Ministry first. That’s where I saw him—I’d dropped in to offer them the cars as soon as they’d taken your mother to Banners.’
    â€˜What was the idea?’
    To get behind the Government, I think. Llewellyn was there and what’s-his-name—the War Office chap, and Badgerlake. It looked to me as if they were forming a kind of Junta. Jaggers told me that if the P. M. refused to declare martial law by midnight they meant to do it themselves, and Badgerlake will bring it out in all his papers