Keep It Quiet

by Richard Hull

  ‘Why,’ enquired the letter before him, ‘is the contract for sherry being removed from the merchants who have so long supplied Oloroso sherry to the complete satisfaction of all, and given to another firm, if rumour is accurate, whose only recent contribution to the Club’s cellars was some very indifferent Burgundy?’

  Ford looked at the letter despondingly. It would have been quite useless to reply that it was the choice of the Wine Committee, decided without knowing the names of the suppliers; that he liked to give each of the wine merchants an order in turn in the vain hope of keeping them all happy; or that the Burgundy in question was excellent and anyhow was nothing to do with it. The truth, as Ford well knew, was that the writer was an old friend of the firm that was in danger of being supplanted, and was writing definitely in that capacity without any regard to the merits of the case. Ford’s only hope was to shelter behind the Wine Committee; but then he had offended them very definitely, which in reality is the type of result always achieved by trying to satisfy everyone; but that was a piece of logic that Ford would never assimilate.

  He turned to the next letter. A complaint from Pargiter about Morrison’s behaviour. Odd that it should not have been received until the Monday.

  ‘However,’ remarked Ford to the pigeon outside, ‘thank goodness that complaint has dealt with itself.’ He then blushed at his lack of proper feeling, for he still thought that though he could not really feel the smallest regret at the fact of Morrison’s death as distinct from its manner, he ought to do so.

  He was still suffering from a slightly guilty conscience when the door opened to admit a small birdlike man whose smooth, clean-shaven face looked youthful despite his white hair. Probably the youthfulness of his heart was assisted by the fact that he always managed to pass the responsibility of his every act on to someone else. None of his colleagues in the Home Office was more adept in this, and so far as his daily work was concerned, it seemed to answer, so far as he was personally concerned, at any rate. One of his objections to being Chairman of the Committee of the Whitehall Club, even for one year, was that he occasionally had to make decisions.

  He twittered in a birdlike way, rarely finishing his sentence.

  ‘Well, well, so Morrison – very sad.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Ford wondered if Laming really found it sad. ‘Awkward for the Club, too, sir. It would never do for anything to get into the Press.’

  ‘The Press? Why should it? Man dies – heart failure. Why Press?’

  Ford shifted the weight of his large body to the other foot and murmured something a trifle incoherent.

  ‘Chef ill too, I hear,’ went on the Chairman. ‘Saw Cardonnel – tiresome fellow, but often right – seemed to be wondering if there was some connection. Was saying it was lucky man’s doctor was in Club.’

  A nasty sensation of prickly heat began to spread all over Ford’s body. If Cardonnel started nosing around, there was no knowing what might happen. A good fellow really, Cardonnel, but a sore trial! And in this case, an absolute menace!

  Now if Ford had been a wise man, he would have quickly, and without unnecessary emphasis, denied that there was any connection between the two events. But Wisdom and Ford were barely on speaking terms. In a moment of panic he found himself making a half confession to his chairman. Benson, he said, had got into an absurd panic that he had accidentally confused a bottle containing flavouring with one temporarily used for medicine, which he believed to be poisonous. It had given him a shock naturally, when he had heard that Morrison was dead, but fortunately Anstruther, the dead man’s own doctor, had been able to certify that it was a simple case of heart failure. Then, seeing the alarm on Laming’s face, Ford had plunged recklessly on.

  ‘As a matter of fact there is no reason to believe that the flavouring in question was used for anything Morrison had eaten.’

  ‘My dear fellow, do stop, do stop. No need to tell me anything. Keep it to yourself. Much better if I heard nothing about it. Why drag me in?’

  Horrified at the possibility of being involved in something which might prove unpleasant, the chairman hastily turned the subject to the great sherry question.

  ‘Better approach the old suppliers. Tell them to send a similar wine. Call it the same. No need to tell everyone. Never is any need to tell. Haven’t heard what you said just now. No. Good morning.’

  He drifted out, masking the wisdom of the serpent beneath the appearance of the dove.

  Ford sat down and mopped his brow. Well, there was another accomplice however much he might refuse to listen. Whatever happened they could never own up now!

  A polite knock on the door, and Benson came in and shut the door with an air approaching to the mysterious. Then with a triumphant smile of relief, he addressed his fellow conspirator.

  ‘It’s all right, sir. It’s absolutely all right. My wife’s a wonderful woman; she thinks of everything!’ He seemed quite surprised about it as well as highly gratified.

  ‘And what did she think of this time?’

  ‘Of marking the bottle. She tore a bit off the label. She says she told me, but I’m not like her, sir; I don’t remember her telling me.’

  ‘But what’s that got to do with it?’

  Benson looked at the secretary with disappointment. He ought to have seen the point long ago.

  ‘Why, sir, don’t you remember my saying that the bottle with the piece torn off the label was the one I had not used. So you see, sir, I just flavoured that soufflé with pure vanilla – if vanilla ever is pure. I hate the stuff – and Mr Morrison dying was, as you said, sir, just a coincidence – a pure coincidence. Isn’t it splendid? Why, what’s the matter, sir, you’re looking all funny.’

  Ford hurriedly pulled himself together and declared that it must have been a trick of the light. He was feeling perfectly well. He even managed to congratulate the chef on the proof that Morrison’s death was due to nothing but heart failure, and was in no way connected with vanilla or perchloride of mercury.

  ‘So all’s well that ends well,’ he added.

  Benson hurried back to his work. He hated leaving it for a moment, but he had just had to make Ford comfortable about that business.

  5

  Doctor’s Orders

  Comfortable was about the last thing that Ford was.

  If Morrison had not died as the result of being poisoned with perchloride of mercury, how had he died?

  There seemed to be three possibilities. First, the chef might be wrong after all. Ford began to hope that that was so. But, fool that he was, why hadn’t it occurred to him to see if perchloride of mercury tasted? Was it possible that Morrison, whose taste in food was admittedly difficult, would eat a soufflé glacé perchloride de vif-argent, or whatever the French was, without noticing it? Perhaps, though, the stuff was tasteless? Ford made up his mind to find out unobtrusively.

  The second possibility was that it really was heart failure. Clearly that was the most desirable thing. It would be very pleasant if he could believe that. But unfortunately he could not be sure. Anstruther’s hesitation might have been merely due to his natural caution, to some slight surprise at finding Morrison’s heart worse than he had thought, or to the fact that his most recent examination was more than a month old.

  On the other hand, was it possible that there had been something to conceal? Something really wrong? If he had thought that it was heart failure, surely he would have said so straight away without all the hesitation he had shown? Ford found it impossible, as usual, to come to any decision, but clearly the only thing to do was to relate the new turn in events to the doctor and see what he advised.

  As to the third idea which crossed his mind, it was too horrible to contemplate. Surely Anstruther would not say that he knew that Morrison had in fact been poisoned? Because then – well, how had he been poisoned? And by whom?

  With the obstinacy of all weak men Ford dismissed the possibility. It could not have happened that way.

  Braving the draughts in th
e larger library, the secretary sought the encyclopaedia and hunted round to find out what was the taste of perchloride of mercury. But neither under mercury, nor under corrosive sublimate could he find any reference to the taste of the substance. All that he found was that white of egg was apparently the antidote to it as a poison, and surely there was white of egg in soufflé? The more he thought of it, the more he was afraid that Benson’s cooking was not responsible. That very thought gave him another idea. Did that particular sweet have to be cooked? And if so, what was the effect of cooking on perchloride of mercury? Ford plunged once more into the encyclopaedia, and emerged as ignorant as ever.

  He had not noticed that someone had entered the room as he was reading, but now he suddenly felt stealing over him the sensation that someone was looking over his shoulder, and he turned round quickly to find Cardonnel apparently in difficulty about finding the reference book he wanted.

  Shutting up the encyclopaedia with a snap Ford offered to help.

  Cardonnel put his finger to his lips and pointed to a notice painted on wood.

  ‘Members are requested to keep silence in this room. By order of the Committee. 1st January, 1880.’

  ‘And of course,’ he whispered, with mock sarcasm, ‘it’s never been broken since.’

  Ford managed a sickly smile and pointed to the shelf of books.

  ‘Baedeker’s Central Italy,’ continued the whisper. ‘Of course I’ve found Northern Italy, Southern Italy, and Italy – but not Central. Ah, here it is.’ He picked out a book immediately under his nose. Ford remained looking at the shelf. For the life of him he could see neither Northern nor Southern Italy.

  With a feeling of considerably more alarm, the secretary ambled off to seek Dr Anstruther.

  There are always some members of a club who are a slight mystery to their fellow members. They use the club house a good deal one way and another; they are known by sight to all those who are there frequently, but though they occasionally exchange such few words as civility may require, they clearly do not wish to be involved in anything of a social nature. They come in, take their meals or sit and smoke behind the barrier of a book or newspaper, and when they leave, their desire for taciturnity has been respected by the most hardened club bore. To them their club is a place for quiet and rest. Unremarked they come, and unnoticed they go, by any but the hall-porter. Of such appeared to be Dr Anstruther.

  All through his life he had quietly but efficiently done his job and avoided not only the limelight, but even the majority of normal human contacts. He was believed by those who came across him professionally to be a more than sound general practitioner. There was some surprise that he had not selected some line in which to specialise, but even his fellow doctors could not have said what his particular line was likely to be. In medicine, as in life, he offered a negative front.

  Despite the fact that it was his own doing that he had no friends and few acquaintances, there were moods when he rather resented the lack of notice which the world allotted to him. His fellow doctors, in his opinion, should have taken more interest in him, and as to the other members of the Whitehall Club, it was particularly galling that they should ignore him so completely. Considering that they were merely observing what seemed to be his own desire, and that he would have been bitterly opposed to any curiosity on their part, his attitude was weak in logic.

  Looking round the smoking-room Ford could just see Anstruther’s carefully brushed, slightly greying hair, the rest of his face being concealed behind The Lancet. The secretary was just a little shocked that anyone should be so immersed in his work as to be reading about it in what might have been his spare time. Ford could not imagine himself being so energetic.

  To his request that he should come up to his office, the doctor assented silently. His thin-lipped mouth showed no expression as he crossed the room, his slight figure of medium height and scrupulous neatness contrasting strongly with Ford’s tall and rather corpulent body, and consequent general air of having pushed his clothes out of shape.

  To the secretary’s disclosure that Benson had now practically proved that Morrison had not died as a result of being poisoned with the ice, Anstruther made no comment. So far as Ford could make out he intended to say nothing at all! The attitude seemed incomprehensible. Ford could never have remained silent himself.

  ‘Well,’ he broke in after a long pause. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Do? Nothing.’

  ‘But supposing – just supposing Morrison died of – look here, what did he die of?’

  Anstruther removed his gaze, which appeared to have been concentrated on a filing cabinet, and fastened it on the secretary.

  ‘I have already certified heart failure.’

  ‘But – but supposing it wasn’t?’

  ‘Why suppose anything of the kind?’

  Ford tried more direct methods. This was getting them nowhere.

  ‘Do you think it was heart failure?’

  The doctor considered a moment.

  ‘Very possibly,’ was his dry answer.

  ‘But supposing it wasn’t? Oughtn’t we to make certain that it wasn’t?’

  ‘And how would you suggest setting about that?’

  ‘Couldn’t you do a post-mortem now?’

  ‘Look a bit curious after I had signed the certificate!’

  ‘Well, couldn’t you say that Benson had told you afterwards about the perchloride of mercury, and you wanted to satisfy him?’

  ‘After he has, apparently, proved that it was vanilla all the time; and also when he is so happy, so happy that I should imagine anyone would see it. No. Too thin.’

  ‘But surely something ought to be done about it.’

  Anstruther got up deliberately and made what was, for him, quite a long speech.

  ‘No. It was you who suggested this idea of keeping it quiet, and now you have got to live up to it. For all you know, Morrison may have died of heart failure. Whether he did or not is absolutely immaterial. I see now that I have taken a risk, a stupid risk if you like, in signing that certificate. But the risk is slight, provided that you say absolutely nothing. If you begin talking, you will, at the best, lose your own job and get me struck off the Medical Register. What further trouble you may cause, I leave you to imagine. You may perhaps reflect on the harm you may cause to the Club and to Benson. You will therefore cease to consider the matter at all, if possible, and you will say nothing to anyone. If you must talk you will talk to me, but to no one else.’

  He started to go out, but as he reached the door he turned round once more.

  ‘For your benefit, I tell you once more, Morrison died of heart failure.’

  For some minutes after he left Ford crouched back in his chair, hardly able to move. Not for a moment did it enter his mind that it would be possible to disobey Anstruther. In the days that were to come he was often to regret that he had not at that moment taken the affair into his own hands and insisted on the whole thing being properly investigated. He might have made some excuse, that Benson’s discovery that the wrong bottle had possibly been used, had only just been made, for instance; that would have allowed him to raise the point again without involving Anstruther.

  But even had he done something of that kind at once, it would have sounded thin, and with every hour that passed it would sound thinner. At the moment, however, that Anstruther left his office that Monday, no such idea crossed his brain. Firmly fixed there was the idea that he must do exactly what he was told. He only hoped Laming had forgotten what he had said that morning.

  Dancing up and down like a puppet on a string when Fate holds a peep-show, the ungainly Ford weakly took the easiest road – or what seemed the primrose path. He even felt quite cheerful about it. He had to do nothing. Just keep quiet. Not a word to anyone. Morrison had died of heart failure. He resolutely pushed to the back of his mind his doubts as to what the doctor really had meant. He tried to forget the equivocal, the more than equivocal phrases. From his
recollection of the interview he expunged ‘For all you know’, ‘For your benefit’, and concentrated on the sentences he preferred, such as the last few words that the doctor had spoken.

  By dint of his incurable optimism he managed to obtain a certain tranquillity. After all, by keeping quiet, wasn’t he helping Benson? Wasn’t he shielding Anstruther? Wasn’t he doing his best for the Club? Once more he addressed the pigeon on the roof.

  ‘You can’t have murders in decent clubs. It does the place no good – no good at all. Best to let sleeping dogs lie.’

  He went to Morrison’s funeral quite happily, and returned from it in so cheerful a frame of mind that he even thought he could find a bye-law as to the sherry which would satisfy Cardonnel. A closer examination, however, brought disillusionment.

  It was then that he opened the letter.

  6

  Curled Or Filleted?

  It was quite a bulky letter. It was addressed to him by name and marked ‘Personal’. Suspecting that it was an advertisement, Ford nearly threw it away, and was only restrained by the thought that ‘Personal’ letters do not have typewritten envelopes. Glancing, however, at the end, he saw that it was not signed. Slightly puzzled, he turned back to the beginning and saw it began ‘Dear Ford’. He decided after all that it was not an advertisement. The opening paragraph was rather strange.

  I have for long wanted to be in a position to force you to run the Club properly. It is far too good a club to be allowed to go wrong simply on account of bad management. You have, so far as I can make out, an efficient staff in the main – at least they would be efficient if you kept them up to the mark. It is therefore only with yourself that I shall have to deal.

  Ford looked more and more puzzled. The writer seemed very confident, and to be making a large number of assumptions. He puffed his chest out and blew out his cheeks. He wasn’t going to be ordered about by anyone! Ford fancied himself a very determined person. He read on: