Black August by Dennis Wheatley Page A

tomorrow.’
    Arm in arm father and son walked in to lunch. Veronica and the high-nosed Duchess were already there. A strained silence hung over the first part of the meal, punctuated by a wearisome little monologue of complaint from Juliana Augusta regarding Veronica’s obstinacy—folly—and lack of feeling in refusing to accompany her to Banners that afternoon.
    â€˜Well, father’s going with you,’ Kenyon attempted to pacify her.
    â€˜You are wrong, dear boy, it seems that I am to be packed off alone with the servants; your father is going to Windsor.’
    â€˜Windsor! Whatever for?’
    â€˜Well,’ the small red-faced Duke spoke with unusual decision. ‘We are faced with a national crisis of the first magnitude, and these Parliamentary people are all very well in their way, but they are a mushroom growth entirely. The whole basis of the throne is a loyal and responsible aristocracy. It is older, better, and more fitted to govern by centuries of practice than these—er—lawyer people. I do not suppose for one moment that I shall be called upon, but I feel that it is my duty to place myself at the disposal of whoever is acting for the monarch.’
    Veronica was mildly amused. She thought it incredibly comic to see her fat and livery parent mouthing the phrases of a knight at arms, but for Kenyon the little man was invested with new dignity in claiming this ancient privilege of his order.
    Directly the meal was over Veronica stood up. ‘Well, darlings,’ she declared. ‘I’m going to have a L. D. on the B. without my B. and C.’
    â€˜What
is
the girl talking about?’ muttered the Duke.
    â€˜A lie down on the bed without my bust bodice and corset,’ she laughed, kissing the bald spot on the back of his head. ‘Don’t be rash and get yourself strung up to a lamp-post or anything while we’re away.’
    As the two women left the room the Duke pushed the decanter over to Kenyon. ‘Have some more port.’
    â€˜Thanks.’ Kenyon filled his glass.
    â€˜Wish to God you’d got a son,’ was His Grace’s next rather unexpected remark.
    â€˜
Son,
father? I don’t quite understand.’
    â€˜Don’t you? You’re a fool then. To carry on, of course. Three generations stand more chance than two. Surely you realise that you and I will probably be as dead as doornails before the month is out.’
    â€˜Do you really believe that?’
    â€˜I do. The whole system is cracking up. Tomorrow is Friday, isn’t it? Do you realise what that means to the millions? It is the day on which nine out of ten people draw their weekly wage—and the banks are shut. This Government rationing scheme can only be a stop-gap because, now that the pound has gone to blazes, they won’t be able to pay for the food cargoes which are coming in from the only stable countries that are left. London will be starving in a week!’
    â€˜Yes, I’m afraid you’re right.’
    â€˜As a natural consequence the people will turn and rend their leaders. You can’t blame ’em after all. How can you expect them to understand the terrible scenes of shocks our finance has sustained. The man in the street judges by results after all, and if he can’t get food for himself and his family, he’ll go out to burn and rob and wipe out the upper classes that he thinks have been responsible for landing him in such a mess.’
    â€˜That won’t do him any good!’
    â€˜Of course it won’t, that’s the tragedy of it. But he will do it all the same, and you can take it from me that people like us are going to be hunted like hares before we’re much older.’
    The Duke pushed back his chair. ‘Well, I may as well go and see about the rest of the pictures. Directly they are packed and your mother has gone I shall leave for Windsor.’
    â€˜Then—er—I may not be seeing