But Hilda had it well in hand. She pulled up the brake with gentle ease, as though they’d simply been going on a Sunday drive.
Maisie panted. Sweat was pooling in her shoes and dripping from under her hat. Hilda was as cool as if she were ice-skating. But she was also a coiled mass of eager tension, a mongoose ready to spring on a snake. Maisie knew that as soon as they were clear of this intersection, the mad dash would begin again.
“Where did you learn to drive like this?”
“Italy.”
The way was cleared and they jumped past two cars. Angry honks chorused after them as they rounded hard, plummeting down to the Embankment with a fury that had Maisie wondering if they were going to end up in the Thames. She wouldn’t be surprised if Hilda would simply propel the car along the water, primarily through force of will.
Maisie cast a quick glance behind them.
“I don’t think we’re being followed. I think we lost them ages ago.”
“We did,” Hilda agreed, a half smile playing on her lips. “But we’re behind schedule.”
Maisie dug in her bag, flipping over the notebook, and wrote, attempting to keep her hand steady as Hilda wove in and out of cars.
Maisie leaped from the car as Hilda pulled up before Savoy Hill and pelted through reception, knocking through a waiting choral group like ninepins.
“I say!” one of them exclaimed in delight. “It really is the jungle they say it is in here.”
The cheetah soared up the stairs, two at a time, Hilda just a few steps behind her.
Beanie was waiting for them, eyes wide and mad as if she, too, had torn halfway across London bearing a story fit to shock the nation. Phyllida was there, too, prepared to guard the door.
“Is the script legible?”
“We’ll write it as we go,” Hilda promised.
“You’ll what?”
Cyril came out of the studio, escorting his broadcaster. He stared at the deputation in astonishment.
Maisie seized him. “Is Siepmann still here?”
“Yes, but—”
“Get him into a meeting. Give him any old story. We only need ten minutes.”
His mouth opened. Then something seemed to click and she saw a spark in his eyes, something that reminded her of the day she came for her interview, a lifetime ago. He nodded and ran off.
“Go!” Phyllida yelled.
Billy watched with great interest as Beanie settled herself to the microphone.
“This isn’t exactly a planned broadcast, is it?” he asked, grinning.
“No,” Maisie told him. “And yes. Give it your best, Billy.”
He grinned and gave her a big thumbs-up.
Hilda was scribbling the whole time. She set the first of the pages before Beanie.
Beanie leaned forward and began to speak.
And this, Maisie thought, was the purpose of the aristocracy. Beanie’s voice could pitch deep, and those plummy tones, round and sharp, warm yet brisk, were effortlessly commanding. Beanie was young, but she sounded like a woman who had sat upon the throne for twenty years. She was awakening something atavistic in the nation’s core, even among the staunchest republicans. To not listen to her might mean decapitation. But it wasn’t fear. Not really. It was reverence.
“The BBC has discovered action and business that we felt the public ought to know and understand.”
Hilda selected passages from Grigson’s letter to Simon and wrote copy for Beanie, while Maisie tried not to be sick.
“The British Fascist Party, though of course small and of every right to its existence, seems willing to turn to dirty tricks in an attempt to make known its distaste for unions and Communism and even, it seems, the free press, while also attracting adherents. But in particular, we have found that men representing two great corporations, Siemens and Nestlé, have colluded in an attempt to go further. We have proof they secretly purchased the Daily Express and plan to buy several more newspapers, all in an attempt to print only that which they think is worth the public knowing. We ask, is this the way of a democracy? Is this the British way?”
Beanie was not outwardly editorializing, of course, but the disgust in her voice was unmistakable.
“But print is not enough for them. The British Fascists also intend to overtake the BBC. Not only would they remove all women from its ranks. They would suppress any programming that does not adhere to their narrow view. Beyond the BBC, they intend to cut wages, to roll back rights, and education. All this, so as to consolidate fortune and power, for corporations and a few select individuals. Their progress is such, they have forged an alliance with the Brock-Morland family to bring credibility to their mission.”