The Fifth of November Read online

  The Fifth of November

  by

  L. A. G. STRONG

  For

  RUTH AND PETER GRIFFITH

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Appendix A

  Appendix B

  Appendix C

  Foreword

  This story is, of course, fiction: but I have been at pains to see that, in dealing with the Gunpowder Plot itself, it keeps as close as possible to the facts. The facts, in outline, are pretty clear. At the end of the book, in an appendix or two, you will find an account of the Plot, with dates, and a list of the sources from which it is compiled and from which I got other information needed for the story.

  I had, of course, continually to fall back upon imagination to fill in gaps in the record, and to interpret some of the statements in it. I had often to ask myself: ‘How did they manage that?’ and ‘What must they have done next?’ and ‘How did So-and-so feel when …?’ I allowed myself a good deal of freedom in describing the characters of the figures in the story, and I put in a figure, here and there, out of my head.

  Even so, I hope I have done no violence to the history of the Plot. This you can check for yourselves, from the appendixes. I have written, to the best of my knowledge, without bias one way or another.

  L.A.G.S.

  October, 1937.

  Chapter One

  Uncle Edward was coming to stay for five days. The news came suddenly at breakfast.

  All Uncle Edward’s visits were thus suddenly announced. He lived by himself, in a house in the country that was much too big for him; and, every six months or so, when he could bear his housekeeper and maids no longer, he asked himself, at the shortest notice, to his married sister’s in Lancaster Gate.

  She was always glad to see him, but found the extreme suddenness of his visits very trying. Now and then, there was someone already in the spare room; and Uncle Edward, who, like most country dwellers, could not be persuaded that Londoners might have other engagements, saw only the day on which he wished to come, and was seriously put out, hurt even, if she could not have him. There would follow a long exchange of letters, his sister—her married name was Mrs. Spence—asking him to come the moment the other guest had gone, and Uncle Edward protesting that all his plans were upset and he could not possibly leave home for another six weeks at the earliest.

  ‘Though what plans he can have, stuck away down there in that great barrack of a house,’ Mr. Spence would say, cracking a second egg, ‘passes human understanding.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, dear.’ And Mrs. Spence would rally to the defence of her absent brother, while the children exchanged glances.

  They exchanged them now. This time, though he gave one day’s notice only, there was nothing to prevent Uncle Edward from occupying the spare room: and the glances which Dick gave Margaret, and Margaret gave Dick, were charged with special meaning.

  ‘He’ll be here for Guy Fawkes day,’ said one glance.

  ‘We’ll have a most terrific show of fireworks,’ said the other.

  For Uncle Edward, whatever else might be said about him, was very free with his money.

  The exchange of glances over, the pair returned to what their parents were saying. Usually, it was Mr. Spence who exclaimed at his brother-in-law’s abrupt notice of his intentions. This morning there was a shade of vexation on Mrs. Spence’s pleasant features.

  ‘I do wish Edward would let us know a little sooner,’ she said. ‘I shall have to get Violet to give the spare room a thorough turn out. It’s her day for the drawing-room: and she hates to have her week upset.’

  This was the one thing needed to head her husband in the other direction.

  ‘Rubbish, my dear,’ he proclaimed. ‘The fuss you women make, if the slightest thing happens to upset your plans! You have no gift for organization. None whatever. What you’d do if something really awkward came along—’

  I don’t mind. It’s Violet I’m thinking of. She gets so angry when she’s asked to change.’

  ‘Angry? How dare she get angry? What does she think we pay her wages for? She’s paid to do what she’s told. Call her in: give her her orders: and have no more about it.’

  Mrs. Spence compressed her lips. Margaret caught her eye. It twinkled back at her.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said Mrs. Spence, ‘it isn’t as simple at that.’

  ‘I don’t see why not. You spoil the girl. How do you imagine we should get on at the office, if we had to spend half an hour wondering about everyone’s feelings before we gave an order?’

  ‘Well, anyway, that’s what we’ll have to do.’

  ‘What will you have to do?’

  ‘Turn out the spare room.’

  ‘If the man won’t give you enough notice, he’ll have to take us as he finds us.’

  ‘My dear! You know what Edward is.’

  ‘A blinking old woman. How those maids of his put up with him I’ve never been able to make out.’

  Mrs. Spence hid a smile: but Margaret could not resist the chance.

  ‘Why, daddy, he only keeps them up to the mark. Gives them their orders, and sees that they carry them out.’

  Looking up suspiciously over his paper, Mr. Spence caught his daughter’s eye. He rolled the paper into a tube, got up, grinned, and hit her cheerfully over the head with it.

  ‘Now then,’ he said. ‘I don’t want any of your impudence’: and, whistling happily, he left the room.

  ‘Come on, children. Finish up your breakfast. You’ll be late for school.’

  They had never been late in their lives, but each had plenty to think about, and ate on in silence.

  The children were exceedingly fond of their uncle, and welcomed his visits always: yet in die mind of each was a reservation, almost a touch of embarrassment. Uncle Edward was something of an eccentric. A bachelor, still young, dark, clean-shaven, with blue eyes and a complexion fresh as his sister’s, he was strangely old-fashioned. People called him a throw-back to the last century. His clothes, though of the best materials, and not noticeably odd in cut, looked odd the way he wore them. His collars seemed bigger than anyone else’s, his overcoat longer, his bowler hat taller and wider in the brim. Already, though he hated himself for it, Dick was becoming a little self-conscious at being seen about with one who attracted smiles and glances.

  And Uncle Edward’s behaviour matched his clothes. By nature the mildest of men, he went always in dread of being put upon, and so was always imagining slights and making scenes. Once, when he took the children to a marvellous tea at the Trocadero, the waiter made a mistake and brought Margaret the wrong sort of ice. She did not really mind, and was about to eat it in silence, when Dick saw what it was.

  ‘I say,’ he blurted out, before she could stop him, ‘didn’t you ask for strawberry?’

  Uncle Edward’s face crimsoned. He began to splutter.

  ‘What! What! Outrageous. Incompetence. What! Here—waiter!’

  ‘Please! It doesn’t matter. I like this sort. Really, Uncle Edward.’

  But it was too late. Failing to get his own waiter, Uncle Edward
got the head waiter, and made a most ridiculous fuss: with the result that all Margaret’s pleasure in the tea was spoiled, and, when their own waiter, with expressionless face, brought the strawberry ice, she could hardly get it down.

  That was the worst of it with Uncle Edward. In shops, in buses, everywhere—you never knew when there might be a scene. There was that awful occasion in the theatre, when a woman in front kept her hat on. It was quite a small hat. It really didn’t interfere in the least. But Uncle Edward got it into his head that Margaret’s view was being hindered. He leaned forward, and asked the gentleman who was sitting with the lady whether she would take it off. A whispered argument followed, causing people in front to turn round and say ‘Sssh’ to Uncle Edward.

  But, once his obstinacy was roused, nothing could stop him. He went on whispering. Angrier ‘shushes’ came from in front, and an attendant came and asked Uncle Edward to be quiet. Uncle Edward began to explain loudly about the hat, and a scene followed during which both children longed to die. It ended with Uncle Edward taking them out, demanding to see the manager, and threatening to bring an action against him.

  That was the worst of it. Kind as he was, generous, and thoughtful, you never knew when one of these scenes might not occur. To Dick, they were pure agony, and he set them down against Uncle Edward in the ledger of his mind. He had no defence for them, no way of getting round them.

  Margaret they affected differently. She hated them, if possible, more than Dick; but she did not chalk them up against her uncle. Instead, they made her feel even more affectionate towards him. She understood somehow the sensitiveness, the fear of being unequal to other people, from which they sprang. Instead of making her angry with Uncle Edward, they made her feel motherly towards him. She was, perhaps, young for such emotions: but, after each rumpus, when Uncle Edward’s brief heat of indignation had died down, and he was telling the children just how wrong the objects of his criticism had been, and how necessary it was to stand up for one’s legal rights and see that ‘the ruffians’ did not impose upon one: while Dick sat unresponsive with white, averted face: then, because she could read her uncle’s mind, and saw that he was miserable, trying to justify himself, she felt far, far older than Uncle Edward. Although he was forty-three and she was just thirteen, she longed to put her arms round him and say, ‘There, there,’ as if he were a small boy who had fallen down and must be comforted.

  Chapter Two

  Of the five days which Uncle Edward proposed to spend at Lancaster Gate, only two and a bit directly concerned the children. Those were Friday evening, Saturday—which was Guy Fawkes day—and Sunday.

  Dick and Margaret went each to a big London day school which had entirely separate departments for boys and girls.

  The children were perfectly happy, and would have ridiculed the idea that any boarding school could offer them a life as good as that they now enjoyed. Their parents, who had been bitterly sorry on their behalf, and still felt that Dick and Margaret had missed something, might have spared their regrets. Unless it is actively horrible, the school a boy or girl attends seems better than any other could be. He or she is proud to belong to it, and speedily learns the kind of patriotism which consists in thinking one’s own place better than any other.

  As a matter of fact, the school was an excellent one. Among its virtues was the practice of leaving Saturday a whole holiday, and of having no prep on Friday evening. The head master, a realist, perceived the obvious truth that prep is done for the next day only, and that it was unreasonable to expect anyone to remember on Monday morning what had been learned on Friday night.

  Thus the children had two whole days of freedom, plus the evening of Uncle Edward’s arrival.

  When they came back on Friday evening, they heard his voice in full blast from the drawing-room. Partly because he lived in comparative solitude, Uncle Edward’s voice was rather loud: and, under the influence of the same solitude, when he reached civilization, he talked nineteen to the dozen.

  A sudden rush of affection for him came over both Dick and Margaret at the sound of his voice. It was always a little louder, a little more absurd, than they remembered. Margaret hesitated outside the door, her eyes sparkling. Then, with a quick grimace at Dick, she ran silently upstairs to wash and pull a comb through her hair. Dick did likewise. Mrs. Spence, easy-going though she was, had one or two rules which nothing could shake. That the children should not rush straight in from school, untidy and unwashed, was one of them.

  Inside three minutes, they were down again. Dick was first. His toilet did not take so long, but he waited loyally outside the door. Margaret, as she leaped the last five stairs, flashed him a glance of gratitude. Then they burst in together.

  ‘… and, if you’ll believe it, my dear,’ Uncle Edward was exclaiming, ‘the rascals actually had the effrontery to allege—’

  He saw the children, and faltered a moment, but was too deep in his indignant narrative to stop.

  ‘… actually had the effrontery to allege that I was liable. I, mind you. When the infernal thing—’

  Now he had to see the children. He set down his teacup, and rose.

  ‘… when the infernal thing wasn’t on my land at all,’ he concluded, in a quick aside.

  ‘Hullo, Margaret, my dear.’ He hesitated, just long enough for her to notice his hesitation, then gave her a grave peck of a kiss. ‘Hullo, Dick.’ They shook hands.

  Uncle Edward sat down again.

  ‘So I wrote off at once to my solicitor, and—Geoffrey, you won’t credit this—do you know, the fellow as good as refused to act?’

  Mr. Spence winked at Dick, who, at once embarrassed, looked away and did not see the wink. However much fun the children might make of Uncle Edward themselves, they hated anyone else to laugh at him.

  Mrs. Spence came to the rescue with suitable exclamations, and, after several minutes, Uncle Edward’s indignation had sufficiently subsided to allow him to notice his nephew and niece properly.

  ‘No. No more tea, Eleanor, thank you. No. I’ve done splendidly. Besides, it’s late, you know. I mustn’t spoil my dinner.’

  ‘Take my advice,’ said his brother-in-law. ‘Eat while you can. You won’t get the sort of dinner Mrs. Phipps gives you.’

  ‘In view of the sort of dinner she’s been giving me lately, I’m glad to hear it.’ He turned to Mrs. Spence. ‘My dear, I must tell you. Mrs. Phipps has been positively insufferable. I don’t know what’s come over the woman.’

  The children groaned in spirit, and sent murderous looks towards their father. Now he had started Uncle Edward off again.

  Half-way through the catalogue of Mrs. Phipps’s infamies, Mr. Spence got up and excused himself. Mrs. Spence remained. Long experience of her brother had taught her the uselessness of attempting to stop him. The only thing to do was to listen patiently, to avoid interrupting, and rescue him if he showed any sign of straying down a side track: since, however far he might wander, he would always remember the original subject, and with a triumphant ‘Well, my dear, as I was telling you,’ pursue it to the end.

  The tale of Mrs. Phipps’s malfeasances took exactly eleven and a half minutes by the clock. Margaret, her nerves tense with the effort of self-control, timed it. At the first silence, into which Uncle Edward fell for want of breath rather than want of matter, Mrs. Spence rose and left him with the children.

  He wiped his thin, rather prim lips on a silk handkerchief; then turned to Dick and Margaret. At once his face was transformed with pure kindliness. His eyes twinkled and shone: the look of angular peevishness left him. Clean shaven, with his fresh skin, clear and unlined, he always looked younger than his years. Now, as the three gathered together, and began enthusiastically to make their plans, he seemed little older than the children.

  The first greetings and questions over, Dick came stolidly to the matter uppermost in his mind.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he announced, ‘is Guy Fawkes day.’

  ‘Bless my soul!’ cried Uncle Edw
ard. ‘I had forgotten. So it is.’

  He looked from one to the other, with an expression of mock ferocity.

  ‘We must go out this very minute,’ he proclaimed, ‘and get fireworks.’

  Margaret sprang up.

  ‘This very minute?’ she cried.

  ‘Certainly. I know what you’ll say. You’ll want to wait till tomorrow morning.’

  ‘No, no,’ they both cried, but he waved them to silence.

  ‘You’ll want to wait till tomorrow. I know you Londoners. But a slow old countryman like myself needs plenty of time. Besides, everyone will be buying fireworks tomorrow morning. We shall get a much better choice to-night.’

  ‘Have we time?’ Margaret’s agonized inspection of the clock had had more than mere impatience behind it. ‘It’s five-and-twenty to six.’

  ‘Have we time!’ scolded Uncle Edward. ‘Get your hat and coat this instant. Dick. Ring up a taxi.’

  ‘A taxi!’

  To the young Spences, taxis represented the height of luxury.

  ‘Yes. What do you think I said? A wheel-barrow? Steady, though! Steady!’

  For, with a bound and a rush, skidding on a rug as he went, Dick was out in the hall, dialling in a frenzy of delight, and Margaret flying up the stairs for her things.

  Mrs. Spence, hearing the telephone and subsequent sounds as of stampeding ponies, smiled happily. Her brother spoiled the children, and, in her heart, she was glad. They had not had much spoiling in the last five years, and a little would do them no harm.

  Chapter Three

  They got to the big store well before closing time, and the fireworks were safely bought. The purchase was not altogether without embarrassment. First of all, Uncle Edward could not be made to understand that one could not set off, in a tiny London garden—Mr. Spence always called it the cat-run—the same kind of fireworks as in a big garden in the country. The children had sadly to dissuade him from buying enormous rockets which, if they had not soared clean, would have blown their neighbours’ windows to smithereens, and in any case would have been unsafe in a town.