Beaverbrook’s journals had thundered on for weeks about the dangers. It was just a matter of time and opportunity, they asserted. Significantly, the words ‘desperado’ and ‘hooligan’ had been replaced by the more alarming ‘terrorist’. There was a large population of Irish settlers in London, many with military training in the British army. They would have easy access to the arms and ammunition which lingered on in anonymous dumps in discreet places after the war and they would have the will and the skill to use them. In a city crowded with immigrants from many nations, the Irish blended in better than most, being indistinguishable in appearance from the native Englishmen. And unless they cared to engage you in conversation, revealing their accents, or announce to you at gunpoint that they were Irish, you would never know who was about to blow your brains out.
Sandilands seemed to have been handed a list of endangered politicians and public figures. Police squads had been allocated to these gentlemen. But before his plans could be put into action, the patrols had been stood down at the request of the potential victims themselves. Copies of their letters to Sandilands had been kept. Dear Commander … frightfully grateful and all that … military man myself … not in my own capital … no necessity … must therefore decline …
With the protection withdrawn and the admiral shot dead, questions would be asked in the press and in Parliament — to say nothing of every public bar in the land. ‘And where were our policemen in this?’ was likely to be the most politely phrased enquiry. Resignations would be expected. Sandilands was quite right to have fallen on his sword — Lily feared that his position was, indeed, untenable. Until she turned up a note he had carefully kept. The note authorized — indeed, demanded — the instant suppression of the police guard on the gentlemen concerned, who had no wish for it to continue. It was judged an expensive manoeuvre and an unnecessary one. The note was signed by the Home Secretary himself.
Lily put it conspicuously at the front of the file.
The investigating CID officer at the scene of the assassination of Dedham, a Superintendent Hopkirk, had been there in minutes and seemed to have done a thorough job in the short time that had elapsed. She noted and admired the neat handwriting, the succinct phrasing. The officer must have been miffed to find a deeply involved, guilt-ridden and angry commander on site and breathing down his neck, she guessed. With the map of London she always carried with her and the pencilled sketch on squared paper provided by the inspector, she was able to pull together the outline of the atrocity. And Lily was left, after absorbing all the dimensions, bullet counts, and initial witness interviews, with a feeling of sorrow for the dead man. And for his wife, who had reacted to the outrage with incredible courage, throwing herself into a firefight with the retreating gunmen. A formidable pair, the Dedhams.
Everyone in the land knew of Lord Dedham. Naval man turned politician, speechmaker extraordinaire, rather in the simple style of Mr Churchill, he told the truth as he perceived it with a clarity that appealed to everyone.
When it came to political speeches the admiral used the tactics of the bare-knuckle fighter: get the first blow in and make it a cruncher. His views on the unrest which had preceded and accompanied the signing of the Anglo-Irish Treaty had been delivered with the gloves off very recently in Dublin. He’d accused the prime minister himself, Lloyd George, of working with the king’s enemies and had gone so far as to condemn him for having ‘shaken the bloody hands of murderers’. Dedham was a clear enemy of Sinn Fein and denouncer of the bombs and bullets that organization used instead of words.
The admiral had been sure of many things, but after his years of service in the Navy he was most certain that ‘if we bale out and leave Ireland, Britain is faced across the sea with an enemy that blocks its trade routes. And that is to say — the end of the British Empire. Shall all the gallant sacrifices made fighting the German foe to the east count for nothing, set at nought by a treacherous stab in the back from our neighbour to the west?’
Sandilands had inserted a news cutting reporting this speech, delivered to an enthusiastic audience on 24 May — Empire Day. The occasion had been a memorial supper to mariners lost at sea and Lord Dedham had further stoked the fires of patriotism by finishing with a quotation from Rudyard Kipling:
The tumult and the shouting dies;