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Screening Ulster
Cinema and the Unionists
Richard Gallagher
Screening Ulster
 Richard Gallagher

Screening Ulster
Cinema and the Unionists
Richard Gallagher
Co. Donegal, Ireland

ISBN 978-3-031-23435-4    ISBN 978-3-031-23436-1 (eBook)

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-23436-1

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer
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 Acknowledgements

I started this project, which started out as doctoral research, with someone
who is not here anymore and ended it with two people who are here and
were not at the beginning. It is these people that I would like to acknowl-
edge first and foremost. My father, Daniel Gallagher, will forever have a
huge influence on my life, whereas my sons, Daniel and Tadhg, made what
would have been one of the worst times of my life (the COVID years) one
of the best. It is also my father that this book is dedicated and I took great
joy in writing, albeit briefly, about his favourite film, The Quiet Man.
This book could not have been completed without the help of many
others. My fiancé, Anna Duffy, has always been there to pick me up. My
mother, Elva Gallagher, has been a rock throughout my entire life and was
no different as I carried out this research. My PhD supervisors, Professor
Cahal McLaughlin, Dr. Sian Barber and Professor Dominic Bryan (in fact,
the whole Bryan family deserve a mention) have been crucial throughout
this period, and I am so glad I was able to choose such knowledgeable,
kind and helpful people to aid my PhD journey. I would also like to thank
my fantastic examiners that saw me over the line, Dr. Des O’Rawe and Dr.
Stephen Baker. I must also say thanks to some other people who have
helped me track down some of the films included in the study or have
generally offered valuable advice: Professor John Brewer, Tim Loane, Dr.
Laurence McKeown, Lucy Baxter, Dr. Jennie Carlsten, Dr Gordon
Gillespie and Martin Lynch. Compiling a comprehensive list of films that
depict unionist characters was also made easier by consulting previous lists
of films about the conflict. These lists were created by the CAIN database,
Brian McIlroy, Kevin Rockett and John Hill and I also wish to thank them

v
vi ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

for providing these valuable resources to the public. I must also thank
Queen’s University Belfast’s The Institute of Irish Studies, under the
guardianship of Professor Peter Gray, for creating such a welcoming and
informative environment to learn about Ireland. I will also be forever
grateful to Dr. Markus Schleich for letting me share an office with him!
 Contents

1 Introduction  1

2 An Emergence of Unionist Representation in British Cinema 21

3 The
 Rural and the Repressed: Unionists in December Bride
(1991) and This Is the Sea (1997) 53

4 Paramilitaries
 Begin to Dominate Representations of
Unionists 67

5 The ‘Troubles Comedy’ and Unionism101

6 Unionist
 Screws: Prison Officers in H3 (2001), Silent
Grace (2004) and Hunger (2008)119

7 The Kids Are Alright: Adolescent Unionism135

8 The End of ‘Troubles Cinema’?157

9 Conclusion177

Index185

vii
 About the Author

Richard Gallagher is from Donegal, Ireland and was awarded a PhD

from Queen’s University Belfast in 2021. His research focuses on media
studies and British and Irish cinema. He has published an article in a spe-
cial edition of Alphaville: Journal of Film and Screen Media titled “The
Troubles Crime Thriller and the Future of Films about Northern Ireland”.
A forthcoming article titled “Unionist Screws: Analysing a Primary
Approach to Depicting Northern Irish Unionists in British and Irish
Cinema” will be published in a future edition of the Journal of British
Cinema and Television

ix
 CHAPTER 1

Introduction

The unionist community in Northern Ireland’s treatment in commercial

narrative cinema has been a topic of discussion for many decades now
without a focused and comprehensive study into the issue being produced.
The prevailing thought has been that the community has largely been
either ignored or maligned, particularly in comparison to their nationalist
counterparts, and that they have never really been given much thought by
filmmakers. Some have even argued that this cinematic deficit is reflective
of how the community is treated by the media in general. This book seeks
to address this issue by providing a detailed analysis of unionist representa-
tion in cinema over the last 40 years. The objectives will be to determine
the validity of such claims and to offer explanations where possible.
However, the complexity of the Northern Irish unionist identity can-
not be overstated, and it may therefore be necessary to start this study into
the community’s cinematic representation by attempting to unpack this
identity and its many fractures and contradictions. Northern Irish union-
ists are primarily of Protestant faith and in a political sense, whilst wishing
to maintain the union between Britain and Northern Ireland, generally
profess loyalty to the monarchy, support the existence of the Northern
Irish state and assert that its position within the United Kingdom has been
to the state’s benefit. At the core of the Northern Irish unionist identity is
an imbricated British identity—an identity that, unlike unionism, has been
well catered for by cinema and a proper assessment of the unionist com-
munity’s representation in film is particularly difficult as a result. The

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 1

Switzerland AG 2023
R. Gallagher, Screening Ulster,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-23436-1_1
2 R. GALLAGHER

British identity itself is also characterised by its difficulty to define; it

merges four nations into one, is constantly being negotiated and has his-
torically needed to be flexible to incorporate empire. When overlapping
versions of the Northern Irish unionist identity such as loyalist (a term
usually used to define working-class unionists), Protestant (as both an
ethno-communal designation and indicator of religious belief) and Irish
(both Northern Irish and Irish in a general sense) are factored in, the com-
plexity becomes even greater and significant tensions arise.
This complexity is in part owing to an identity crisis caused by the for-
mation of the Northern Irish state in 1921. The island of Ireland was
partitioned into two states following the 1920 Government of Ireland
Act. One, a state which would eventually become known as the Republic
of Ireland, predominantly Catholic and made up of Irish nationalists who
sought independence from Britain and the other, Northern Ireland, pre-
dominantly Protestant and made up of unionists who wished to maintain
the union with Britain. Despite this new state being crucial to their new
sense of identity, generally seeing themselves as either British-Irish or
Ulster-Scot, like nationalists, unionists had not an established affiliation to
the new state; even Ulster as a province was not represented by the new
Northern Ireland state as three of the nine counties in the province lay
beyond the state’s boundaries and in the Republic of Ireland. Alex Kane,
a prominent unionist, explains that:

[U]nionists didn’t want partition, they didn’t want the break up of Ireland,
they didn’t want the break up of Ulster ending up with the six counties.
Because we lost the union between Britain and Ireland, because we were
contained to six counties and a majority that we knew would not be stabi-
lised at 30%, and because we thought things would grow against us, union-
ism became paranoid. It became insular and afraid of everyone.
(Spencer 2006)

This identity crisis is best exemplified by understanding the nature of

the Orange Order, an international Protestant masonic-style fraternity
order founded in County Armagh in 1795. The institution itself is perhaps
universally accepted to be synonymous with Northern Irish unionism, yet,
given as the organisation pre-dates partition, something of a paradox exists
as it continues to operate in Ireland on an all-Ireland basis and is headed
by the Grand Orange Lodge of Ireland.
 1 INTRODUCTION 3

This complexity that has come to characterise Northern Irish unionism

is found to be largely absent in cinema. Therefore, this research looks for
this complexity but finds that representations offer a much narrower defi-
nition of the unionist identity that rarely escapes a polarised relationship
with Irish nationalism, the term given to the predominantly Catholic,
ethno-nationalist group in Ireland who support some sort of indepen-
dence from Britain and who are the majority in Ireland. In further contrast
to unionists, Irish nationalists also tend to assert that Northern Ireland’s
place in the United Kingdom has been to the detriment of Irish interests,
to support a united Ireland and oppose the existence of the Northern
Irish state.
Irish nationalism, or at least a soft nationalist perspective, has domi-
nated the landscape of cinema about Northern Ireland with the majority
of characters depicted coming from this background, and this appears to
have happened at the expense of portrayals of unionists. This is an under-
standing supported by much of the previous writing on the subject; refer-
ring to the religion that most unionists subscribe to, John Hill defines
Protestants in Northern Ireland as “a group conspicuously absent from
most films about Ireland” (Hill 1987: 191). One of the only self-­identifying
unionists to have been significantly involved in filmmaking in Northern
Ireland—a revealing fact in itself—is the writer Gary Mitchell who explains,
“If you judged Northern Ireland purely on the basis of films you would
think there are no Protestants here” (McKittrick 2008). Brian McIlroy is
another who, referring to depictions of unionism generally being insuffi-
cient as a result of this absence, finds that “one must look hard for a like-
able or sympathetic Protestant character in films dealing with Northern
Ireland; in fact, one rarely discovers a well-rounded protagonist or antago-
nist” (McIlroy 2006: 87). Writing in 2019, Ruth Barton also argues that
in the current political landscape the loyalist perspective should be “treated
with greater complexity than has previously been the case” (Barton
2019: 143).
Given that the dominant form of British identity is understandably the
identity most people around the world will associate with the British iden-
tifying Northern Irish unionists, it could be expected that the community
would be similarly depicted in cinema to how British people are generally.
However, typical depictions of Britishness are found not to apply to the
Northern Irish unionist community. What this research has detected is
that in actuality unionists are often ignored or even presented in opposi-
tion to that dominant form. In all the representations of unionism that
4 R. GALLAGHER

exist, you might also expect to see some sympathy towards the existing
status quo, particularly given the general idea—promoted in other forms
of media—that republican paramilitaries are terrorists, yet none of these
types of portrayals appear with any substance. This is also particularly
interesting in the context of the conflict in and about Northern Ireland,
commonly referred to as the Troubles, which lasted from the late 1960s to
the 1990s and has been the dominant theme throughout almost all of the
films about Northern Ireland. One might expect the unionist narrative of
British people under attack and fighting a benevolent force to be met with
the same sort of appreciation in cinema as when people from mainland
Britain have historically found themselves in similar situations. However,
this narrative concerning Northern Irish unionism has never been vali-
dated in either British cinema or cinema in general; for example, no
‘Troubles film’ has ever presented Northern Irish unionists in the way
British people have been presented in films such as Zulu (Endfield, 1964)
and Dunkirk (Nolan, 2017). It is this phenomenon that this research will
seek to explain.
Their maligned status in cinema has not gone unnoticed by unionists
themselves. In fact, their lack of cultural and political representation in the
media is a common grievance. In this way, an interesting parallel can be
drawn between unionism and deprived minority communities elsewhere
in the world. However, important differences include the fact that union-
ists once enjoyed relative power and privilege. Theirs is also an identity
that attempts to link with the master narrative of the state and whose cul-
ture and historical narratives are prioritised in other arenas specifically in
public spaces. Unionism also once assumed superiority over others and
other ethno-nationalist groups, in particular, Catholic nationalists who
were discriminated against for decades in the unionist-dominated Northern
Ireland state. The lens through which they now look at issues of equality
is often considered skewed as a result. Typical debates surrounding Third
Cinema also cannot quite be moulded to fit in the context of Northern
Irish unionism.1 Stephen Baker explains, “For many, the idea of loyalism’s
association with Third Cinema or a ‘poor Celtic cinema’ will seem incon-
gruous given its historical defence of monarchy and imperial power”
(Baker 2015: 96). Unionist political power over nationalists can be seen to
gradually deteriorate in the years after the Troubles started, as did the

1
An introduction to Third Cinema is provided by Mike Wayne in Political film: the dialec-
tics of third cinema (London: Pluto Press, 2001).
 1 INTRODUCTION 5

British Empire which provided Protestants in Belfast relatively prosperous

careers in shipbuilding, once the material expression of pro-union
Protestant power, influence and prestige. This makes unionism somewhat
distinct and as Baker explains, “its attempts to appropriate the language of
the oppressed have been treated with incredulity and have, at times, looked
absurd” (Ibid.). A cruel irony, regarding the lack of unionist representa-
tion in fiction film, is that the Belfast shipyards where shipbuilding once
took place is now a post-industrial hub for Northern Ireland’s fledgling
film industry and home to production facilities for HBO, an American
film and television production company.
Unionism’s inability to adopt Third Cinema principles to better the
community’s cinematic representation is an example of how the inability
to adopt models perceived to be left-wing or progressive is endemic within
unionism more generally. This is particularly noticeable when looking at
working-class unionists as class-consciousness has always been stifled, and
continues to be, in one way or another. It is hoped that this study will
show how this problem contributes to the community’s external represen-
tation in popular cultural forms, with a focus here obviously being on
commercial fiction films.
However, it can be said that representations have not all been positive
for Irish nationalists and that the absence of unionist characters has also
been a cause for concern to nationalists. Martin McLoone suggests that
several false assumptions are often made; one of which is that although
nationalism is generally viewed as being treated more favourably than
unionism “just because you’re up there on the big screen doesn’t mean
that you are being shown in a favourable light or that your politics emerge
with supreme clarity” (McLoone 2008: 196). Furthermore, he claims that
although cinema might appear to serve well the ideological position of
Irish nationalism, this should not imply that people from the Irish nation-
alist community do not take issue with representations of the Troubles as
well. He explains that the absence of unionism, and especially of loyalist
paramilitaries, has cemented the impression that republicans alone have
been to blame for the violence and at the same time it has exonerated
unionism, loyalism and the British from any culpability (McLoone 2006:
157). Although the majority of killings during the Troubles were commit-
ted by republican paramilitaries, a significant number were also carried out
by loyalist paramilitaries, and McLoone argues that the cinematic deficit
causes yet another failure in regard to presenting a comprehensive picture
6 R. GALLAGHER

of the conflict.2 This grievance at filmic representations can also be under-

stood to be more in keeping with how nationalists view the media in gen-
eral as there is traditionally scepticism within nationalism towards the
media, specifically the news media, due to the perception that it is in some
way pro-British and that it downplays loyalist violence and particularly col-
lusion with security services. Furthermore, Hill identifies a general failure
in films, specifically British films, to place violence in a social and political
context that might explain it. In this way, he can also be seen to identify
perhaps less a bias in favour of Irish republicanism than initially was under-
stood as the implication is that a justification for republican violence is
seemingly not as apparent in these films as it could be were the likes of
nationalist discrimination and state violence and collusion accounted for
appropriately.
If working-class unionism’s inability to meaningfully challenge the
unionist status quo has been obvious, this is not to say that unionism is
wholly incapable of rebellion. In fact, a specific characteristic of unionism
that is noticeably omitted to a large degree in cinema thus far has been the
resistant nature of unionism regarding its relationship with the British
establishment. In reality, rarely has unionism been obedient or servile to
British governments with unionism instead seeing itself as an integral part
of the United Kingdom and often engaging in Anglophobia, protest, civil
disobedience and even terrorism to challenge decisions made in
Westminster.
Key tensions exist within unionism owing to this contradictory rela-
tionship with the British state and understanding how loyalist paramilitar-
ies function in relation to the state can identify a further example of this.
Cahal McLaughlin explains, “Their loyalty has always been conditional.
They have links with the British military and intelligence sources in a joint
battle against republicanism […] and yet they are also subject to assassina-
tion and imprisonment by that state, if they are caught or if it is expedient”
(McLaughlin 2004: 242). James McAuley also explains how loyalism has
proved such an enigma in this regard when he states:

For many observers, their pledge of loyalty to the British state is at best an
unrequited love affair, while the paradox of those asserting to be its most

2
According to Malcolm Sutton, who undertook extensive research into killings during the
Troubles, republican paramilitary groups are responsible for 2,058 deaths whilst loyalist
paramilitary groups are responsible for 1,027 (Sutton 2002).
 1 INTRODUCTION 7

devoted citizens directly challenging the statute, imperative and representa-

tives of the same state remains all but incomprehensible. But conflicts
between loyalists and the state are long-standing and have manifested
throughout the history of Northern Ireland. Indeed, it is possible to argue
that it was loyalist resistance and defiance that gave rise to the existence of
Northern Ireland and contributed directly to the framing of its politics for
the next fifty years. It remains central to its future political direction.
(McAuley 2016: 1)

Furthermore, although unionists are proud to identify as British and

loyal to the British monarchy, they can also be characterised as deeply dis-
trustful of those in mainland Britain and resentful of any notion that those
in Scotland, Wales and particularly England have a monopoly on what it
means to be British. Gillian McIntosh even argues that anti-Englishness is
shown in the stereotypes rehearsed in unionist culture and literature in the
first half of the twentieth century to be a general feature of unionism’s
complex relationship with Britain (McIntosh 1999: 70). Unionists argued
for their separateness and were critical of both the southern and British
states; the work was also elitist, professedly loyal to the crown and empire,
and at times openly Anglophobic (McIntosh 1999: 3). Following more
contemporary cultural examples and in keeping with how representations
have tended to steer clear of complexity, this oppositional element is
largely ignored in cinema in favour of unionists being depicted as a more
subservient people. Despite loyalist paramilitaries dominating cinematic
depictions of unionists and therefore violent resistance being implicit, the
antagonistic nature of loyalist paramilitaries is also curtailed significantly
by cinema’s preoccupation with presenting loyalist paramilitary collusion
with British security services as the ultimate transgression; this preoccupa-
tion results in loyalist paramilitaries principally being portrayed as another
arm of the state rather than a terrorist resistance group.
This book will also explore the explanations for such a cinematic deficit.
The most dominant explanation historically has been the hegemony of
Hollywood cinema and its desire not to upset the sensibilities of an Irish
nationalist supporting, Irish American audience. Using Tom Nairn’s
notion of the ‘anti-imperialist myth’, McIlroy argues in favour of this by
including American filmmakers as those “who prefer to accept the anti-­
imperialist view of Northern Ireland’s existence” (McIlroy 2001: 11).
North American depictions have generally produced an image of the
Troubles that sees Irish nationalists as an underdog liberation movement
8 R. GALLAGHER

forced into fighting a malevolent British superpower with virtually no

acknowledgement of the existence of unionism. Although the liberal con-
sensus around the use of violence is never troubled and the characters with
a nationalist political outlook are sometimes portrayed as the uncivilised
Celt and of low intellect, their cause is generally seen as being more wor-
thy and examined in much more detail than the cause of the unionists.
This is particularly surprising when you consider how Irish republicans
(republican is a term that tends to be used to describe the more militant,
rebellious elements of Irish nationalism) are typically maligned and vilified
in other forms of media, particularly in the British news media.
These depictions have played a significant role in framing the conflict
and establishing traditions of representation given that up until the 1980s
Ireland had little autonomy over depictions of itself, with depictions
almost entirely being produced by either Britain or the United States. The
type of depictions produced from these countries also largely reduced
Ireland to a primitive backward place and implied a contrast between the
characteristics of Irish society and those of an apparently advanced modern
society. This type of depiction also took two forms according to Hill, with
Ireland either being presented as a “blissful, rural idyll” or a “primarily
dark and strife torn maelstrom” (Hill 1987: 147). Due to large-scale Irish
emigration to America encouraging a different perspective on Ireland, it is
argued that Hollywood was more inclined to present Ireland as the for-
mer, whereas, due to Britain’s more direct legacy of military and political
involvement, British productions were more inclined to present Ireland as
the latter. This view of Ireland adopted by British productions is also
claimed by Hill not to have emerged newly born, but rather “drew on the
reservoir of ideas and images inherited from earlier historical periods”
(Hill 1987: 148). Hollywood productions are also understood to present
violence differently; whereas British films often see violence as the prob-
lem—or danger—that the narrative must resolve if the status quo is to be
confirmed, Hollywood productions are more likely to see violence as a
mechanism for problem-resolution (Hill 1987: 152).
This is not to say that all depictions of nationalists are favourable in
Hollywood films; a number of Hollywood films have irrefutably heinous
Irish republican villains. However, the narratives are always careful to
explain that these characters do not represent mainstream republicanism
but are an extreme splinter group whose actions are detrimental to what
would otherwise be a morally just republican cause. Mark Connelly notes:
 1 INTRODUCTION 9

Movies like Patriot Games (Paramount, 1992) and Blown Away (MGM,
1994) however, made it clear that the heartless terrorist was an IRA rene-
gade, making the actual organization appear more reasonable in contrast
and avoiding offending the IRA’s American supporters. (Connelly 2012: 2)

A similar dynamic is also apparent in a more recent film, Martin

Campbell’s The Foreigner (Campbell, 2017), which is based on Stephen
Leather’s 1992 novel, The Chinaman.
However, this explanation—that the cinematic deficit is generally the
result of Hollywood’s pro-nationalist sympathies—doesn’t adequately
explain why the cinematic deficit still exists in the films produced outside
of North America and specifically in the United Kingdom. Furthermore,
this explanation becomes increasingly problematic as despite Hollywood
not producing any films about the Troubles since the beginning of the
twenty-first century, specifically the 9/11 terrorist attacks in New York
and the new relationship the United States was forming with Britain in the
run-up to the Iraq War, the cinematic deficit can be seen to continue.
Another explanation often proffered is that unionists do not make films
or at least don’t make films about the Troubles. Moreover, it is a stereo-
type that unionists are generally uninterested in the arts in comparison to
their nationalist neighbours. This is a stereotype that has its origins as far
back as 1944 when the Dublin dramatist Seán O’Casey wrote an article in
the magazine Time and Tide that questioned whether Northern Ireland
had ever produced anyone of the same calibre as Yeats (McIntosh 1999:
147). This seeming aversion to the arts is often seen as being reflected in
the fact that there are so few unionists making films about the Troubles.
An explanation suggested by the aforementioned Gary Mitchell is that
working-class loyalists see the arts as a realm belonging to nationalists. He
has stated:

I believe there is a deep-rooted ignorance of the arts within loyalist com-

munities. This is the reality I have always come across within loyalist areas—
that they do not trust drama. They will tell you coldly that drama belongs to
the Catholics—drama belongs to the nationalists. (McKittrick 2008)

Mitchell’s analysis correlates to how, particularly in Belfast, unionists

traditionally worked in manual labour, either in the linen factories or in
shipbuilding. Perhaps explaining nationalism’s dominance of the arts,
these were jobs that nationalists largely didn’t have access to due to
10 R. GALLAGHER

discrimination and preference in industries; access to education and the

arts can be understood as a way for discriminated against nationalists to
find a way out of unemployment. Mitchell’s analysis also correlates with
Max Weber’s definition of the ‘Protestant work ethic’. This is a concept
that emphasises that hard work, discipline and frugality are a result of a
person’s subscription to the values espoused by the Protestant faith (Weber
1930). Although it may be essentialising, this concept offers one theory as
to why the production of art, generally seen as the antithesis of the values
that constitute the ‘Protestant work ethic’ concept, may not be tradition-
ally considered as salient to the predominantly Protestant, unionist com-
munity. At the very least, this can be understood to have contributed to
the creation of the stereotype. Indeed, this phenomenon, between union-
ism’s world of work and nationalism’s world of culture, is commented on
in many of the films analysed in this book.
In comparison, working-class nationalist communities appear to be a
hub for creative talent as many of those involved in the production of the
films explored within this research come from that background. McIlroy
also attributes Irish nationalism’s interest in the arts to the republican
movement, stating:

Unquestionably, the republican movement in Ulster has sparked a remark-

able rise of interest in the Irish language, history, music, dance and the visual
arts. The Foyle Film Festival and the West Belfast Film Festival are part of
this trend. In the 1980s and 1990s, the Field Day project and the success of
Seamus Heaney in gaining the Nobel Prize for literature have underscored
the general sympathy for Irish nationalism. (McIlroy 2001: 18)

Perhaps this perceived bias towards nationalism is only natural then

given that nationalists are more active in making films about the conflict
and the solution, therefore, is for unionists themselves to make more films
and not to rely on films produced by outsiders. This necessity is made
greater due to so many films produced in Northern Ireland funded and
produced with the help of Screen Ireland and others in the Republic.
Screen Ireland, formerly known as the Irish Film Board, is the Republic of
Ireland’s state development agency for the Irish film, television and anima-
tion industry. The agency has also presented something of a problem in
this regard as, despite Screen Ireland being set up to reap financial gain for
the Republic of Ireland, it has always been all-Ireland in cultural orienta-
tion. This is a reflection of the art world in Ireland in general which, in
 1 INTRODUCTION 11

truth, has never embraced partition. To counter this reliance on others,

Baker suggests:

Loyalism needs to be the subject of a politically informed cinema and it

needs to be a participant in a critically engaged film culture if it is to chal-
lenge and change its lamentable image and reputation on screen. In short, if
loyalism feels it has been misrepresented and misplaced in the films made by
others, then the obvious solution is for loyalists to make their own.
(Baker 2015: 95)

In 2008, the Chief Executive of Northern Ireland Screen (the national

screen agency for Northern Ireland), Richard Williams, commented on
the lack of unionists writing films. He argued that proposals for movies
told from a unionist point of view are rare and states:

There isn’t a pile of projects in our office that we’re somehow rejecting.
That sort of material is rarely written—we receive more material that has a
broad nationalist slant to it. Interestingly, writers from a Protestant back-
ground have a tendency to just shift away from here and ply their trade
elsewhere. But even when they do stay here, they’ve a tendency not to write
about this sort of thing. (McKittrick 2008)

The most dominant form of cultural expression espoused by unionist

communities can be identified not on stage, in films or books but in the
loyalist musical bands that accompany the Orange Order during their tra-
ditional and often-contentious parades. It is this specific form of cultural
expression that led the Nobel Prize-winning poet and board member of
the aforementioned Field Day Theatre Company, Seamus Heaney, to
describe Lambeg drums (a loud percussion instrument historically used by
loyalist bands) as presiding over unionist culture “like giant tumours”
(Bennett 1998: 210). Terence Brown has also commented on the inade-
quacy of art produced by unionists when he states, “That [Protestant]
imagination is one that in modern times (at least since 1886) had recourse
to a vision of the protestant community’s history which is starkly simple in
outline and depressingly lacking in emotional range and complexity”
(Brown 1985: 5). The Belfast-born novelist and screenwriter, Ronan
Bennett, expands on this by claiming that many of the actors who do
come from a ‘Protestant’ background such as Kenneth Branagh and
Stephen Rea have had to discard unionist culture to achieve artistic fulfil-
ment. He explains:
12 R. GALLAGHER

What Branagh shares with Rea, (Van) Morrison and (James) Galway and a
host of other lesser known artists, is the realisation that to find artistic fulfil-
ment he would have to look beyond the confines of the Protestant world.
To remain is to be enclosed in a world where ‘culture’ is restricted to little
more than flute bands, Orange marches and the chanting of sectarian slo-
gans at football matches. (Bennett 1998: 210)

However, Gillian McIntosh argues that unionist expressions of their

culture are not as redundant as some have claimed. She states, “Contrary
to the argument of some commentators, unionist visions of their history
and their expressions of their culture, in common with their nationalist
counterparts, were neither lacking in emotional range, nor in complexity”
(McIntosh 1999: 2). She justifies this point by claiming that, since the
beginning of the state, rich political culture was key to presenting a
homogenised Protestant state and creating a particular identity for
Northern Ireland and an endorsement of unionist culture and rule. The
manifestation of this unionist hegemony was most clearly identified in the
large-scale public demonstrations and political culture associated with
them in events such as the erection of the statue to the state’s founder,
Edward Carson, in the Festival of Britain in Northern Ireland in 1951,
and in the numerous royal visits which culminated in the triumphal coro-
nation visit of Elizabeth II in 1953 (Ibid.).
This also makes the cinematic deficit even more inexplicable as it poses
the question: If unionists are competent, or at least were competent, in
promoting their culture in such a way, why have they been so lacking
when it comes to cinema? One theory is that unionists have traditionally
been excellent at controlling and promoting narratives through mediums
or in arenas that they had control over, for example, street marching dis-
plays, statues, monuments and royal visits, and unqualified at it when it
comes to arenas they do not control, for example, film, literature, theatre
and music. The latter arenas, unlike the former, thanks principally to polit-
ical dominance in a state created for them, were always susceptible to
being impinged upon by outsiders such as Britain, the Republic of Ireland
and dissidents from within Northern Ireland.3 Likewise, an argument

3
Some arenas have a more complicated relationship with unionism; the BBC’s regional
Northern Irish division, BBCNI, was heavily controlled by the unionist state, although again
was not impervious to being impinged upon by BBC in London. Extensive work on this
subject has been done and can be found in Robert Savage’s The BBC’s ‘Irish Troubles’:
Television, Conflict and Northern Ireland (2015).
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 “Yes?”
“Well, it’s like this—​by the way, what’s your name?”
“Hopford—​Harry Hopford.”
“Come and sit down, Hopford—​here, have a cigar. Now then, I am
in a position to be able to do you a good turn now and again, in other
words, to benefit you pecuniarily, if in return you will do as I suggest
and at the same time keep absolutely silent about it. Don’t think I am
going to ask you to do anything terrible. I am not,” and he smiled.
“I dare say it could be managed,” Hopford answered dreamily, as
he began to enjoy the cigar. “Hadn’t you better tell me exactly what it
is you want me to do, then I shall be able to give you a
straightforward answer at once. Anything you may tell me I shall, of
course, consider confidential.”
“That’s the spirit; that’s the way I like to hear a young fellow talk.
Well now, listen.”
Stapleton glanced towards the door to see that it was shut, then
continued:
“There are several things you may be able to do for me from time
to time, and the first is this. I am practically certain I know who took
the diamonds and the notes, and the rest of the stuff stolen that
night, and though naturally I don’t intend to mention the lady’s name,
I can hint at it. I believe the thief—​yes, thief—​to be a young widow
whose husband died in tragic circumstances nine or ten months ago
—​he was found dead in his bath one morning; possibly you recollect
the affair.”
“I ought to, seeing that I was sent to the house the same day to
obtain particulars of the tragedy. The house is not far from Portland
Place—​am I right?”
“Quite.”
“So the widow was among Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson’s guests at
supper that night?”
 “She was not. She was not even invited. Yet I have a good reason
for supposing she was admitted, though the hostess never saw her.”
“Would that have been possible?”
“Certainly. There was a great crush. At one time during the night
one could hardly force one’s way through it, and it was then the
widow was admitted, the footman believing her to be an invited
guest.”
“Could you get me an interview with the footman?”
“Quite impossible, my dear fellow. Besides, it may not have been
the footman who admitted her. That was merely my conjecture. It
may have been one of the other servants.”
“The butler, for instance.”
“No, not the butler.”
“And you are sure that she was there? You saw her?”
“No, no; don’t jump at conclusions. I didn’t see her—​myself.”
“Then who did?”
“That I must not tell you. It would be unwise.”
“I have promised to respect your confidence.”
“Quite so, or I should not have told you what I have. But names,
you know, are sacred things. If I mentioned names it would be
impossible for me afterwards to swear I had not done so, should an
occasion for taking the oath, by some unforeseen chance, arise.”
“I see your point. Well, can you, without committing yourself, hint
to me the reason you believe the lady, whose identity you have
practically revealed to me, ransacked Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson’s
safe? Was it, should you say, for the intrinsic value of the things
stolen, or was there some deeper reason?”
“Such as?”
“Documents, compromising letters, anything of that sort?”
 “I am afraid I must not answer that either. You see, one has to be
so careful. My idea in telling you as much as I have is that you
should, without, of course, making any definite statement, hint in
your paper that the crime was committed by a young widow well
known in Society; you might go so far as to say the widow lost her
husband in tragic circumstances comparatively recently, and you
might also work in some fancy padding of your own. You could add
that you had obtained your information from a trustworthy source.”
“Meaning you.”
“Of course. Who else?”
“And what terms do you propose?”
“That I must leave to you to suggest.”
“I would sooner the offer came from you, Mr. Stapleton.”
Stapleton hesitated a moment, then:
“Would a ten-pound note about meet the case? You see, you
score by getting what I believe you call a ‘scoop’ for your paper.”
“And run the risk of being fired if the lady hinted at should think fit
to bring an action against my paper. Oh, no, Mr. Stapleton, I am not
out to take sporting chances for the sake of pocketing a tenner. If
you had said eighty or a hundred pounds I might—​I say might—​have
felt tempted to take a chance, but a tenner—​—”
He rose, preparatory to leaving.
“Wait a minute, Hopford, wait a minute,” Stapleton exclaimed,
trying to conceal his eagerness as he laid a hand on the lad’s
shoulder to detain him. “I asked you to name a sum, remember—​I
have no idea what terms are usual in such cases. Sit down again
and I may, after all, be able to meet your wishes.”
With assumed reluctance the reporter sank back into the chair
from which he had just risen, and for another ten minutes he and
Stapleton continued to converse. And when, finally, the former left
the house, he carried in his breast-pocket five new ten-pound notes,
and chuckled as he thought of Stapleton’s promise to hand him five
more notes on the publication of the scoop.
 CHAPTER X.

A PARAGRAPH FOR THE PAPERS.

“Fifty pounds easily earned,” Hopford murmured as he strolled
along Maida Vale, looking about him for a taxi. “I thought all along
that fellow was hot stuff, in spite of the way the papers cocker him
up. And so he wants people to think Mrs. Hartsilver committed, or at
any rate had a hand in, that theft? What a blackguard! Now, I wonder
why he owes her a grudge? Yes, he must owe her a grudge, and a
pretty bad one, or he would never go so far as that.”
Quickly his train of thought ran on. There was not an empty taxi in
sight, so he decided to walk part of the way. One thought led to
another. Solutions to the problem which puzzled him suggested
themselves, only to be dismissed one after another as improbable.
Then suddenly an idea occurred to him. Could there be another
woman in the case? Some woman who was jealous of Mrs.
Hartsilver?
Instantly the name Jessica Robertson rose to his lips. Why, of
course, that must be it! At a loss to suspect any of her guests of
having robbed her safe, she would take the opportunity, if
opportunity occurred, of casting suspicion on the widow who lived in
Park Crescent, and whose beauty and personality rivaled her own.
Stapleton’s partiality for Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson was common talk.
She, no doubt, had hinted her desire to him, and he had happened
to remember it while being interviewed on the subject of the
approaching ball.
So far, so good. A mystery to a newspaper reporter is like red
meat to a tiger. Hopford felt that he had struck a mystery now which
might develop later into a scandal. Then he remembered that at the
Chelsea Flower Show he had met Mrs. Hartsilver. He must become
friendly with her, and then he would play his cards.
He entered his office with a light heart. Those five ten-pound
notes would be most useful, but what gratified him most was the
thought of the news “story” he felt he was on the track of. Not the
“story” Stapleton had hinted at. From the first he had not had the
slightest intention of using that. Even if it possessed a grain of truth,
which he doubted, that was not the sort of stuff he wanted for his
paper, while to set out deliberately to wreck a woman’s good name
on no evidence in return for payment, was not to be countenanced
for a moment.
No, he would never see that second fifty pounds. And, so thinking,
he sighed.
“Hullo, what’s up?” asked a colleague who sat near him. “Got the
hump or something?”
“Oh, shut it!” Hopford snapped. “I’m dog tired.”
“For that matter so am I, but I don’t groan over it,” his neighbor
rapped back. “And yet I well might, after reporting two inquests and a
cremation in one afternoon.”
Hopford laughed.
“Never mind,” he said. “Yesterday you attended two parades of
mannequins, one in swimming suits. You told me so yourself, so you
haven’t much to grumble at.”
For some minutes both went on writing, turning out their “copy” at
a great pace.
“Odd thing this suicide—​what?” Hopford’s friend remarked as he
laid down his fountain pen at last and pinned his sheets of copy
together.
“What suicide?” Hopford inquired, while his pen ran swiftly on.
“You haven’t heard? Everybody is talking about it in the clubs,
though none of the evening papers has the story. I got details at the
Junior Carlton, where I dined to-night. Lord Froissart belongs there.”
 “Froissart! You don’t mean that Lord Froissart has committed
suicide!” Hopford exclaimed, stopping in his work and looking up.
“Why, yes. His body was found at the foot of the cliffs at
Bournemouth about six o’clock this evening. Nobody saw him go
over, apparently, but while I was at the Junior Carlton the man I was
dining with, a friend of Froissart’s, got a telegram from a friend in
Bournemouth saying that an open letter had just been found in the
dead man’s pocket, in which he confessed that he was about to take
his life. My friend says Froissart never really got over the shock of
his daughter’s suicide—​it was suicide in her case, too, of course. He
also said that of late Froissart had been looking terribly ill and
worried. It’s a good story, anyhow, and I think I have more facts than
any other morning paper will get hold of. Lucky I happened to be
dining with a man who knew Froissart intimately—​what?”
Next day the papers were full of the tragedy. Lord Froissart had, it
seemed, left his house in Queen Anne’s Gate about eleven o’clock in
the morning, the time he usually went out. He had called to see his
lawyers, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, shortly before noon, and remained
there about three quarters of an hour. From there he had gone,
apparently on foot, to the Metropolitan Secret Agency, “the house
with the bronze face,” and after interviewing Mr. Alix Stothert, head of
that concern, had lunched alone at Frascati’s. He had caught the
three thirty-seven train to Bournemouth, and after that nothing more
was known until his body had been found at the foot of the cliffs by
some children, who had at once run home and told their parents,
who, in turn, had notified the police. All this the newspapers had
succeeded in ferreting out before their late editions went to press.
The report written by Hopford contained certain intimate and
exclusive details, however. Lord Froissart had stayed late at the
Junior Carlton the night before, writing one letter after another. A
waiter of whom he had inquired at what times fast trains left for
Bournemouth said he had thought his lordship seemed “excitable
and nervy.” Before leaving the club, he added, deceased had
pressed a five pound note into his hand, greatly to his surprise, for
he had never before known Lord Froissart to infringe the club rules.
 In addition this report stated that the writer knew for a fact that
Lord Froissart had on several occasions recently spoken about
suicide, a subject in which he appeared suddenly to evince a deep
interest. Further, he had asked a friend of the writer’s, two days
previously, if he had any idea what height the highest cliffs at
Bournemouth were, and if he had ever heard of any one committing
suicide by jumping off them. A sealed letter found on the body was
addressed in deceased’s handwriting to his elder and only surviving
child, the Honorable Mrs. Ferdinand-Westrup, then living in Ceylon
with her husband, who was a tea planter. No motive could be
assigned for Lord Froissart’s having taken his life, though the shock
of his daughter’s death the year before might have unhinged his
mind.
Some days later the usual verdict was returned—​“Suicide whilst
temporarily insane,” and within a fortnight the tragedy had been
virtually forgotten.
By all except one or two people. Captain Charles Preston
remembered it; so did Cora Hartsilver, and so did Yootha Hagerston.
And the reason they remembered it was this.
Lord Froissart died quite a rich man. His sole heir ought by rights
to have been his daughter, Mrs. Ferdinand-Westrup. Instead, the
bulk of his fortune and property were left to an individual of whom
nobody, apparently, had ever heard—​a Mrs. Timothy Macmahon,
described as the widow of Timothy Macmahon of Cashel, Co.
Tipperary, and the will, which was not yet proved, had been executed
on the morning of the very day of the tragedy, at the offices of
Messrs. Eton, West and Shrubsole, solicitors, of Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
Now those solicitors, as Preston happened to have heard from his
servant, whose brother was a clerk in Eton, West and Shrubsole’s
office, were solicitors also to Jessica Mervyn-Robertson. A
coincidence, perhaps, as Preston said to Cora Hartsilver a day or
two after Froissart’s death, yet in his opinion a curious coincidence.
And when, ten days later, Hopford succeeded in obtaining an
interview with Cora Hartsilver, and told her of his interview with
Aloysius Stapleton, and what Stapleton had tried to induce him to
hint at in the newspaper—​feeling it his duty to tell her, he had no
hesitation in breaking faith with Stapleton—​events in the life of
Aloysius Stapleton began to look peculiar.
But still Stapleton and his intimate friends, Archie La Planta and
Jessica Mervyn-Robertson, were to be met everywhere. Still their
movements were chronicled almost daily in the social columns of the
London press, while their portraits appeared frequently in the weekly
periodicals.
But perhaps nowhere was Jessica so much noticed as at Ascot.
The daily and the weekly papers had apparently laid themselves out
to give her as much publicity there as possible. She was seen in her
car arriving on the course, accompanied by half a dozen friends,
among them of course Stapleton and La Planta. She was seen
walking on the course; she was seen in the paddock congratulating
the owner of the winner of the Gold Cup; she was seen smiling at a
duchess and shaking hands with a peer; she was seen conversing
with a foreign premier.
Then the fashion papers “featured” her costumes—​the gown she
wore on the first day of the meeting, on the second day, and so on;
the gowns she wore on different nights at the opera; the gowns she
wore at Hurlingham, at Ranelagh, at the Military Tournament at
Olympia, at the Richmond Show, on her houseboat above Henley
until at last even her friends began seriously to ask one another who
this woman was who, coming from nowhere, and unknown, had thus
conquered London Society by her charm, her personality, and her
beauty, but most of all, perhaps, by her lavish display and her
extravagance.
And naturally people who were not her friends, women more
especially, whispered. Others, when her name was mentioned,
would smile significantly; smiles which did more harm than the
whispers. For though nothing could be openly said against her, yet
her would-be detractors were glad to insinuate evil.
That friend of hers, for instance, Aloysius Stapleton, why was he
always at her heels? There might, of course, be no harm in the
relationship; but on the other hand there might be harm, and as there
might be there probably was. That was the attitude many adopted
towards her who nevertheless accepted her hospitality and were
glad to be invited to her receptions—​receptions which certainly were
the talk of all the town. Yet, curiously enough, she had refused to act
as hostess at the great ball to take place at the Albert Hall; more,
she had declined to be included among the society hostesses who
would receive the three thousand or more guests that night.
Why was that?
It was Hopford who asked the question, and he put it to Captain
Preston. In short, while the social world of London for the most part
worshiped at the shrine of the mysterious Jessica Mervyn-
Robertson, Captain Preston, Hopford, Cora Hartsilver, Yootha
Hagerston and George Blenkiron were banding themselves together
—​a little group of skeptics determined to find out who Jessica
actually was, and who her friends were.
Perhaps had they known the sensation the approaching great ball
at the Albert Hall held in store for them they would have hesitated
before meddling with the affairs of Jessica Mervyn-Robertson, the
idol of London Society.
 CHAPTER XI.

HUSH MONEY!
You would think, judging by the newspapers, that the great balls
which take place periodically in London at the Albert Hall and
elsewhere presented scenes of wild delight approaching revelry.
Many, in reality, are deadly dull affairs, and respectable beyond
words, while others are so crowded that dancing becomes an
impossibility. Of course there are always people who like to be “seen
everywhere” in order to give their friends the impression that they are
“in the swim” of London life, fashionable and otherwise. Such folk
you will usually find to be poseurs of a peculiarly unintelligent type,
the sort of men and women who are never natural, never
“themselves” as it is called, and who act and talk always to impress
those who may see or hear them.
Among the three thousand or more men and women who had
bought tickets for the great ball organized and ostensibly to be given
by Aloysius Stapleton and young Archie La Planta, were hundreds of
people of that type, the class of individual who, before the war, loved
to squander money and still more to let folk see how recklessly they
squandered it. Stapleton, who knew his world, had purposely
advertised his ball with a view to what he called “roping in” these
people by making a great to do regarding the many well-known
social representatives who would be present, in addition to theatrical
stars and other more or less Bohemian folk.
What he went nap on, however, were the social representatives.
Like most people who move about he had noticed that since the war
the glamor which in pre-war days enveloped well-advertised stage
folk had faded considerably, and that, owing possibly to the sudden
rise to affluence of profiteers and their wives and other beings of
common origin and snobbishly inclined, men and women of birth and
breeding and real distinction now held the limelight almost entirely.
“I think I can say without conceit that it will be the most talked of
event of its sort, not only of the present season, but of any season
for years past,” he observed complacently to Jessica, some days
before the great night, “and I will admit that for that I am largely
indebted to you, Jessica. By the way, I wish you would tell me what
your dress is to be.”
“Why waste time trying to make me tell you what I have already
told you I am not going to tell you?” Jessica asked, as she lay back
in a great soft fauteuil and blew a cloud of smoke into the middle of
the room. “You will see enough of it on the night, I can assure you.
Our supper party ought to be a great success,” she added, changing
the subject.
The telephone on the escritoire rang, and she went over to
answer it.
“It is the Metropolitan Secret Agency,” she said a moment later.
“They want to speak to you.”
Stapleton picked up the receiver, and as he did so the door
opened and a middle-aged little man with a semitic cast of
countenance was shown in.
It was the Hebrew, Levi Schomberg, who, Stapleton had told La
Planta some weeks before, “lent money to his friends.” He had told
him at the same time that Schomberg had warned him against
“Hartsilver’s widow” on the ground that she was a designing woman.
Stapleton had difficulty in concealing his annoyance at Levi’s
arrival just as he was on the point of conversing with the house with
the bronze face, and after replying to one or two questions which the
Agency put to him he hung up the receiver and went across to
Schomberg, with whom he shook hands.
“I need an extension to this house badly,” he said pointedly to
Jessica. “You might remind me to-morrow to see about it.”
 But Levi did not, or pretended that he did not note the point of that
observation.
“And to what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Stapleton asked as
he pushed an arm-chair towards Schomberg. “Is it business this
time, or pleasure? And why have you come here instead of to my
flat?”
“Some of each, and a little of both,” the little man answered with a
grin. “You guess what I come about, no doubt?”
“Not being mentally incapacitated as yet, I do,” Stapleton
answered, biting his lip. “I think you might have waited until after the
ball on Thursday night,” he added in a tone of annoyance.
“Several thought that when I approached them to-day,” the Jew
said slyly. “But, as I ask them, why after the ball instead of now?
What is the matter with now? Isn’t now good enough?”
“Well, out with it. How much do you want this time?”
“Eight thousand. Only eight thousand—​this time.”
Stapleton glared at him, and had anybody caught sight of Jessica
at that moment he would have had difficulty in believing her to be the
same woman, so distorted with fury had her face become.
“Eight thousand!” Stapleton exclaimed. “It’s preposterous—​I
haven’t the money.”
Levi Schomberg made a little click with his tongue, which might
have meant anything.
“I am sorry to hear that, Louie,” he said carelessly. “Is it not
strange that though you appear always to have unlimited cash to
fling about, yet whenever I call to see you the cupboard is bare? Still,
I need that sum, and you know that what I need I always end by
getting, even if in order to get it I am forced to tighten the screw.
Come now, when can you hand it to me? Shall we say to-morrow at
twelve, at the same place as before?”
Stapleton had begun to pace the floor. Jessica, her fingers
twitching nervously, watched him with an evil expression. It was easy
to see that for some reason the man and the woman, usually so self-
possessed, were in their visitor’s power.
Thus a minute or two passed. Then, all at once, Stapleton came
to a halt and, turning sharply, faced Levi Schomberg.
“If I give you that sum, say on Friday—​to-day is Tuesday—​will you
undertake, in writing, to stop this persecution?”
“In writing? Oh, no. Besides, I could not, in any case, promise to
stop what you are pleased to call ‘this persecution,’ for where else
should I go for the money? My demands are not exorbitant, Louie,
judged by the length of your purse. Were you less rich, my requests
would be moderated in proportion to your income. That, as I think
you know, is my invariable rule. I find out exactly what my ‘client’s’
income is from all sources, and I regulate my tariff accordingly. That
is only fair and just. May I take it then that on—​Friday—​—”
“Get out of my sight!”
“No, don’t say that, don’t employ that tone,” the little Jew went on,
in no way disconcerted. “I have news to give you—​good news,
Louie, think of that!”
He crossed his legs, and lay back in his chair. Then, thrusting his
hands deep into his trousers pockets, he said:
“Louie—​and Jessica,” glancing at each in turn, “you will be happy
to hear that though secret inquiries are being made about you on all
sides, nothing, as the newspapers say, ‘has as yet transpired.’”
“Who has been making inquiries?” Jessica asked quickly.
“Why, who but the lady to whom you are so devoted—​Cora
Hartsilver, also her shadow, Yootha Hagerston, also a Captain
Preston, also a young journalist named Hopford, and lastly a friend
of the lot, whose name is Blenkiron. Those five have set themselves
the task of discovering all about both of you, and about Archie, and I
should not be surprised if presently they hit upon the right trail. If
they don’t hit it they won’t fail for want of trying, and if by some
mishap the douceur I have mentioned should go astray on Friday—​
—”
 “Good heavens, Levi, you wouldn’t do that—​you couldn’t!”
Jessica had sprung to her feet and, abandoning her habitual
calm, seemed beside herself.
“Naturally I wouldn’t do it, though I disagree with you that I
couldn’t, Jessica,” the little man said in his even tones, partly closing
his eyelids as though to get her profile in better perspective.
Jessica looked relieved.
“Always supposing,” he went on, “you keep your part of the
bargain.”
“Bargain!” Stapleton exclaimed. “I never made a bargain. You
wanted me to, but I refused—​we both refused. You can’t have
forgotten that!”
“I forget everything I don’t wish to remember,” Levi replied, his
eyes now only slits. “Jessica, you look very beautiful to-day—​more
beautiful than you have ever looked, or than I have ever seen you
look. I am not surprised that London raves about you.”
He rose before she could reply, and extended his hand, which she
took reluctantly. He held it a moment longer than the occasion
seemed to warrant, then dropped it.
“On Friday, then,” he said, addressing Stapleton. “On Thursday
night we may not meet, you will both be so very busy, or should I say
so much in demand? Unless of course you invite me to join your
party. So good-by for the moment.”
Stapleton did not go down to see him out, nor did he ring for the
servant. Instead, he shut the door directly the little man had left the
room.
The front door slammed, and still the two sat in silence. At last
Jessica said in a metallic voice:
“What are we to do, Aloysius?”
“There is nothing to be done,” he answered. “We must go on
paying, and paying, until—​—”
 “Until what?”
Suddenly his expression changed. Then, after a pause, he said:
“Supposing Levi were to die unexpectedly; how convenient it
would be, Jessica.”
Their eyes met, and he knew that the same thought had just
occurred to Jessica.
“People die suddenly of all sort of common complaints,” he went
on. “Heart failure, apoplexy, stoppage of the heart’s action, natural
causes—​—Supposing he died of a natural cause,” he added in an
undertone.
“Supposing! Well, it would mean one Hebrew less in the world.”
“And many thousands of pounds left in our pockets which, under
existing conditions, will have to come out of them.”
“It is worth considering.”
“Certainly.”
“As long as he remains alive, remember, we shall be subjected to
repetitions of the sort of visit he has just paid us.”
And, while they talked, Levi Schomberg, threading his way along
the crowded pavement of Oxford Street, had but one thought in his
mind.
Jessica.
He had always admired her, but now she had completely
bewitched him. Surely—​surely with the woman in his power, and with
Stapleton, too, in his power, anything and everything should be
possible? But how set about it? What would be his best and most
direct mode of attack?
Another thought came to him. Where was Mervyn-Robertson? He
knew the fellow was not dead, but what had become of him, and in
what corner of the world was he at that moment? If only he could find
out, Robertson himself might be employed in some capacity to
achieve his end. When he had last heard of Robertson, some years
before, the man had been in dire straits, and when a man of his type
and way of living came to be in dire straits, he reflected, he generally
remained in that state until the end of the chapter.
Then there was Mrs. Hartsilver. Hating Jessica, and striving all
she knew to find out all about her, she might serve sooner or later as
a useful lever. When two women, both beautiful, and both moving in
the same social circle, come to entertain a bitter enmity for each
other, anything may happen, or be made to happen, he reflected.
And Jessica had other enemies as well among “the people who
count,” he remembered. Yes, with the aid of a little tact, a little
ingenuity—​—
People passing glanced at him in astonishment, wondering why
he smiled.
He wandered into the Park at Marble Arch, for it was a beautiful
afternoon and the sight of the trees in full foliage always appealed to
his artistic eye. Scores of cars containing people obviously of leisure
kept rolling past, and as he watched them his imagination wove
romances round some of the occupants of the cars. Among the
faces many were familiar to him; he recognized two of his clients.
A self-satisfied smile parted his lips.
“Who would think, to look at them,” he said aloud, “they would not
have a shilling in the world if I chose to foreclose? Yet there are folk
who no doubt envy them, and tradesmen who would not hesitate to
give them credit—​big credit—​unlimited credit. Fools, oh, what fools
there are! Was it not Thackeray who wrote that ‘long customs, a
manly appearance, faultless boots and clothes and a happy
fierceness of manner’ would often help a man as much as a great
balance at his bankers?”
“How true!” he went on murmuring to himself. “Here in London a
man or a woman need only dress in the height of fashion in clothes
they never pay for, and hire a big car and pretend they own it, and be
seen in good society, and the world bows down before them and
craves to do them homage. Look at Stapleton and that young ass
Archie La Planta, and a dozen others—​to say nothing of Jessica.”
“Ah, Jessica!”
 CHAPTER XII.

YOOTHA’S PRESENTIMENT.
Meanwhile Yootha Hagerston was secretly becoming more and
more enamored of Captain Preston. It was the first time in her life
she had ever really cared for any man; until now she had followed
the fashion prevalent among many women of pretending to consider
love and deep affection “all nonsense” and the hall-mark of a weak
intelligence. She had come to know his movements and had
discovered some of his haunts, with the result that she rarely missed
an opportunity of meeting him “by chance.”
And, though he would not have admitted it, even to himself,
Preston had for some weeks past been singularly attracted by
Yootha. He had liked her that day he had met her for the first time, at
lunch at the Ritz and afterwards at Jessica’s musical At Home,
though the woman who had most interested him then had been
Yootha’s friend, Cora Hartsilver. But now it was different. There was
something about the girl, apart from her looks, which appealed to
him. What it was he could not have explained. It might have been
her sympathetic nature, or her personality, or her temperament; in
any case he felt strangely drawn towards her every time they met.
On the lovely July afternoon Levi Schomberg had called to see
Jessica and Stapleton, and had afterwards wandered into the Park,
Yootha was on the river with Preston. A friend of his whose home
was at Pangbourne had, he had told her, on being suddenly ordered
abroad, told him he could, during his absence, make use of his punt
if ever he felt inclined to; though Preston had himself just rented a
house-boat which was moored close to Maidenhead. Until now he
had not felt inclined; punting alone is a dull form of amusement, and
Preston had comparatively few friends in London. Then one day,
while thinking of Yootha, the idea had occurred to him that she might
like a river picnic from time to time, and he had hinted as much to
her; Pangbourne was more solitary than Maidenhead he reflected.
They were in a narrow estuary—​it was not a backwater—​with the
punt moored to a tree, and for some moments neither had spoken.
No sound, save of birds singing in the woods around, broke the
almost perfect stillness. The air was sultry, as though thunder were
in the air.
“How fortunate I should have accepted La Planta’s invitation to
lunch at the Ritz that day last August,” Preston said suddenly. “I did
not want to lunch with him, I remember, but now I am glad I did.”
“Why are you glad?” she asked, looking across at him. She was
lying in the stern, propped up with cushions, and made a pretty
picture in her big hat and the becoming boating frock which revealed
her figure.
He gazed at her without answering. Then, as if to conceal his
embarrassment, he began to light his briar.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied awkwardly, tossing the match into
the water. “That was the first time I met you, if you remember.”
If she remembered! Could she ever forget? That was the thought
which flashed into her brain, but she did not utter it. Instead, she said
carelessly:
“So it was. And the first time you met Jessica, too, wasn’t it?”
He made an impatient movement.
“Please don’t remind me of that. Every time I think of that woman I
feel positively vicious.”
“I thought that day,” Yootha continued, after a pause, “that you
had eyes for nobody but Cora. You do like Cora, don’t you?”
“Of course I like her, though not, perhaps, as much as you like
her. Nobody could help liking her—​nobody who counts.”
“I am glad you say that. In my opinion she is the one woman in
the world. I simply worship her, and always have. She is so true, so
absolutely free from insincerity. You never met her husband, I think?”