Death in the House

by Anthony Berkeley

  Isabel hesitated. ‘His temperature was normal this morning, though the doctor said he’d better stay in bed a day or two. But I think he’d be happier up. No, I won’t interfere. Besides, you can’t rule a Cabinet divided against itself from a bed.’

  ‘How do you know the Cabinet is divided against itself?’ Lord Arthur asked quickly.

  Isabel gave him a faint smile. ‘I sometimes act as father’s unofficial and extremely private secretary, you know. Of course, he never gives away State secrets, but most things we discuss rather freely; it helps him, I’m sure. For instance, you needn’t fence with me about Lord Wellacombe’s collapse. I’ve seen this. In fact, I agreed with father that it was just a piece of silly bluff… heaven forgive me!’

  She turned away, overcome for the moment with emotion, as Lord Arthur took the folded piece of paper she held out to him.

  He smoothed it out and glanced hurriedly through it. It was a copy of a document which was now at Scotland Yard – and being feverishly subjected, Lord Arthur surmised, to every possible test for gleaning evidence where no evidence appeared to exist.

  To the Prime Minister and Members of the Cabinet:

  Gentlemen, – Take notice that you will not be allowed to proceed with the present Indian Restriction Bill which you are now contemplating. Not only is this Bill not wanted, but its whole spirit gives incalculable offence to a vast number of people of whom I am only the mouthpiece. We do not want it, and we will not have it. If the Secretary for India persists in introducing this Bill into the House of Commons, as at present intended, he will have to be removed. And similarly with anybody who attempts to take his place. This is a fair warning, and I must ask you gentlemen to believe that no measures will be shirked which we consider necessary to prevent this Bill from becoming law, even to the elimination in turn of the whole Cabinet.

  The Brown Hand.

  Lord Wellacombe died at a quarter to five that afternoon.

  chapter two

  Cabinet Pudding

  ‘We warned him,’ said the President of the Board of Trade, nervously. ‘At any rate we can’t reproach ourselves with not having warned him.’

  ‘Precious little warning needed,’ grunted the Secretary of State for War. ‘From us.’

  ‘He was a sportsman,’ the First Lord of the Admiralty asserted breezily. The First Lord of the Admiralty was always breezy. He felt it a part of his duties. Once he had been Secretary of State for War, and then had cultivated a toothbrush moustache. It was confidently expected by his colleagues that should he ever be appointed Secretary for the Colonies, he would turn up at his office in a slouch hat and sheepskin plus-fours. ‘Wellacombe always was a sportsman.’

  ‘Aren’t we tending to take for granted a state of affairs which we know cannot exist?’ asked the Foreign Secretary, dryly.

  ‘You mean?’ prompted the Home Secretary. Mr Beamish always preferred things in black and white. He was accustomed to describe himself as ‘a plain man’ (other people sometimes described him quite differently), and insinuation and innuendo were to him anathema. For one thing he very rarely understood them. ‘You mean…?’ he repeated, as the other showed no sign of amplifying his remark.

  ‘Why, that Wellacombe’s death was not a natural one, of course,’ replied the Foreign Secretary, in tones that were just not downright rude.

  ‘Oh, I see. Yes, perhaps you’re right. I mean, of course, the death must have been natural. We mustn’t alarm ourselves unnecessarily. After all, we have not only Davidson’s opinion but Sir William Greene’s. I made a point of ringing him up before I came. He’d only just seen the body, of course, and was inclined to be cautious; but he had to admit that on a very brief examination he was inclined to believe that death must have been due to sudden heart failure.’

  He looked round for approbation of his foresight, but the faces of his colleagues remained studiously blank. The Home Secretary was not a popular man.

  ‘Never knew Wellacombe had a heart,’ observed the Secretary of State for War.

  ‘He hadn’t,’ uncompromisingly replied the Chancellor of the Exchequer, who had been the dead man’s closest friend.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, it isn’t very much use discussing that point yet awhile.’ The Prime Minister, sitting by the fire and wrapped incongruously in dressing-gown and rugs, looked with uneasy eyes round the gathering he had called together. The Cabinet was present in full strength, and nerves were a little jumpy. ‘If the police have finished with the body, Sir William is probably performing the autopsy now. There will be an analysis later, of course, by Sir Angus MacFerris. Till then it is little use speculating. In the meantime we have Sir William’s opinion, as Beamish says and as Sir William told me on the telephone half an hour ago, that at a first glance the appearances are not inconsistent with death from some kind of a stroke.’ The Home Secretary looked a little crestfallen that his interesting news had been thus forestalled.

  ‘What I want to decide,’ the Prime Minister went on, ‘and that as quickly as possible, is who is to take Wellacombe’s place and see the Bill through the House.’

  He looked round, but for a moment nobody spoke. Then:

  ‘Have you still got that absurd note, Prime Minister?’ asked the President of the Board of Trade in his high voice. ‘It would be interesting to hear its terms again – in the circumstances,’ he added, with a nervous little laugh.

  ‘Certainly I have it,’ the Prime Minister returned, with unusual irritation. ‘In fact I have copies here with me of all three. The originals, of course, are with the police.’

  ‘Three?’ echoed several voices.

  ‘Three. The first two you have already heard about. Another arrived this morning. It was lying on the mat just inside the front door here. From the fact that one corner was actually under the door, according to the best of my butler’s recollection when he picked it up, the police are inclined to think that it may have been pushed under the door instead of put through the letter-box in the usual way; but they can suggest no explanation of why that should have been done. I will read it to you, gentlemen – though I must repeat that this is not the business for which we are assembled,’ added the Prime Minister tartly, with a glance at the President of the Board of Trade which caused that important gentleman to blush like a schoolboy.

  In a voice completely devoid of expression the Prime Minister read:

  To the Prime Minister and Secretary for India.

  Gentlemen: It is obvious that you have not taken our warnings seriously. We regret the necessity of removing so distinguished and honest a public servant as Lord Wellacombe, but you are leaving us no choice. He will die in the middle of his speech in the House of Commons this afternoon. In case his personal affairs are not in order, he would be advised to see his lawyer before he leaves for the House.

  We sincerely hope that Lord Wellacombe’s death will be enough to show that this Bill must be dropped. We would very much regret having to eliminate, in turn, the whole Cabinet.

  The Brown Hand.

  ‘Eliminate the whole Cabinet! Good God, this fellow’s got a cheek,’ laughed the First Lord, heartily, but his mirth did not ring altogether true.

  ‘Precise enough, in all conscience,’ remarked the Lord Chancellor. As a lawyer, the Lord Chancellor could appreciate precision. ‘It was a clear mind that formulated these letters.’

  ‘Infernal fanatic,’ muttered the Secretary for War.

  ‘No doubt,’ agreed the Lord Chancellor, mildly. ‘But then fanatics so often are clear-minded. That’s the real danger of them.’

  ‘You – er – showed… that is, Wellacombe saw this third letter?’ asked the Minister of Agriculture and Fisheries, somewhat hesitantly.

  ‘Certainly,’ replied the Prime Minister. ‘We discussed it this morning. Naturally Lord Wellacombe disregarded it entirely.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ The First Commissioner of Works drummed on the table with his fingertips. ‘He could hardly do otherwise. But still…’

  ‘I
n the middle of his speech!’ suddenly boomed the Minister of Labour. ‘You see? That’s a point, eh? Not before his speech, or anything like that. In the middle of it. And Wellacombe did collapse in the middle of his speech, didn’t he? Now how on earth could this chap have known he’d do that, unless he took steps? Killed him, in other words. Sorry to put it in plain words, gentlemen, but plain words never did anyone any harm. I’m saying Wellacombe was murdered, by the writer of these letters. Who’s going to contradict that?’

  The Minister of Labour had a reputation for being bluff. He was bluff with workmen who were contemplating a strike, and he was bluff with employers who were contemplating locking out workmen who were contemplating a strike. And somehow or other during his régime there had been singularly few serious strikes, and no lockouts. In consequence the Minister of Labour had been convinced that bluffness pays. He was bluff now even with his wife, to that lady’s vast irritation. The Minister of Labour also seldom allowed one to forget that he had had a Board School education. He had found that, properly handled, a Board School education pays better in these days than any public school and University career. As a matter of strict accuracy the Minister of Labour had been educated at a Grammar School and lived in daily dread of his political opponents discovering the fact.

  The Prime Minister took the situation at once in hand. ‘No one is going to contradict, or agree with you, Robinson, because the rest of us require proper evidence before coming to any categorical conclusion like that.’

  ‘Ridiculous, in any case,’ muttered the Secretary for Air, just not sotto voce. ‘Murdered in the House itself, right under all our noses. Fantastic!’

  ‘Still, the – the police haven’t been able to throw any light on the letters, Prime Minister?’ queried the President of the Board of Trade, with his nervous little giggle. ‘No news in that direction at all?’

  ‘None, Lloyd-Evans,’ replied the Prime Minister, shortly.

  ‘Slack lot, the police,’ asseverated the First Lord. ‘Better get on their tails and ginger them up a bit, Beamish.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ retorted the Home Secretary with some warmth, ‘that in so far as they come under the authority of my department, the police are perfectly – ’

  The Prime Minister waved a protesting hand. ‘We are here to discuss the matter of Wellacombe’s successor, gentlemen; not the efficiency of the police. The question we have to decide now is, who is to step into poor Wellacombe’s shoes tomorrow and take the matter up where he left it?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ echoed the President of the Board of Trade, uneasily. ‘You really mean to go on with the Bill immediately?’

  ‘Certainly.’ The Prime Minister’s tones were testy. ‘We have these next few days earmarked for it on our programme, and the business of the State cannot be held up for any private individual. Much though we may feel Wellacombe’s loss ourselves,’ the Prime Minister’s voice became more gentle, ‘and deeply though we may be mourning him, we cannot let our personal feelings stand in the way of Government. Our duty is perfectly plain.’

  ‘You don’t think…’ The First Commissioner of Works glanced round as if seeking support. ‘You don’t think it would be better to hold things up, till we have the result of the analysis?’ he asked, delicately.

  ‘Hear, hear,’ agreed the First Lord, somewhat unexpectedly. ‘No point in rushing things. Let’s know where we are first.’

  The Prime Minister looked at his future son-in-law with a certain surprise, but only remarked mildly: ‘To hold things up would be a confession of weakness which the Government must at all costs avoid. In spite of the efforts of ourselves and the police, there is no doubt that rumours of these threats against us and the Bill have been spread. The Press has loyally printed nothing about them, but I am in a position to say definitely that has not been through want of knowledge. To back down now, because it would appear superficially at any rate that threats have not been without foundation, would be an exhibition of miserable pusillanimity to which I could never consent. The second reading must go forward as before.’

  The Prime Minister’s words were enough. No one ventured to dispute his authority.

  ‘Well, have you anyone in mind for Wellacombe’s successor?’ asked the Secretary for Air, bluntly.

  The Prime Minister did not answer the question in so many words.

  ‘I was thinking more for the moment of asking one of you to take nominal charge of the Bill and see it through the House.’ He looked inquiringly round the circle. ‘I should like to hear any views that may be held.’

  There was an uneasy pause. From the expressions on the various ingenuous political countenances it was clear enough that every Minister was feeling awkwardly that perhaps he ought to volunteer for this singularly unwelcome duty, and at the same time consoling himself with the reflection that, upon his soul, it really was a bit too far outside his proper sphere for him.

  ‘I have learned that Wellacombe had written out his speech in full,’ the Prime Minister dropped into the silence. ‘It would merely be a question of reading it out. The debate, of course, can be handled by the departmental Under Secretary.’

  Still nobody spoke.

  The Prime Minister swept another look over his colleagues. A curious thought occurred to him: this was a parish council, met to decide a question concerning the parish pump. Were these really the first Ministers of the Crown, this undistinguished lot? Apart from the Foreign Secretary, the Lord Chancellor, and perhaps one or two more, there hardly looked a man among them fit to be anything more than a churchwarden or a rural JP. Just façade – and behind it nothing but wind. Were these really the best that the country could produce, to govern it? And he himself, just a very ordinary, rather tired old man: what was he doing, being Prime Minister of the greatest Empire the world had ever known?

  ‘I’m only asking for a volunteer to read the introductory speech,’ he said, wearily.

  ‘I’ll take the job on if you like, Prime Minister,’ said a voice from the other side of the room, and half a dozen breaths were expelled in a simultaneous sigh of relief.

  The speaker was the Secretary for the Colonies, a square, taciturn person who hitherto had not opened his mouth.

  ‘Thank you, Middleton,’ said the Prime Minister, quietly, but his eye was more eloquently cordial. The Colonial Secretary had been another of the Prime Minister’s own discoveries. Oddly enough, too, he really was a Colonial.

  Unlike most politicians, who speak whenever they get the chance and seldom relevantly, the Colonial Secretary spoke with reserve and when he did it was to the point.

  ‘I’d better have a look at that speech of Wellacombe’s as soon as possible,’ he said, briefly. ‘I’d like to go through it with Lord Arthur. Are they both handy?’

  ‘Arthur’s waiting downstairs,’ returned the Prime Minister, cordially. ‘He has a copy of the speech with him.’

  ‘Good! Then if you don’t want me for anything else?’

  ‘Mr Prime Minister!’ The Secretary for the Dominions, a large, swelling gentleman with a considerable presence, interposed with dignity and waved a big, white hand to keep the Colonial Secretary in his chair.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Without in any way making this a personal matter, I feel on reflection that it is I who ought to take Wellacombe’s place. Our departments after all are the most closely allied. I shall be happy to volunteer to do so.’ Though one might not have guessed it behind his imposing mien, the Secretary for the Dominions was feeling more than a little annoyed with himself. He had possibly missed a big chance. There would be extra-special publicity for the man who stepped into Wellacombe’s shoes. The Press knew about those ridiculous threats, and they could be trusted to play the game and hint discreetly at the courage required to take over Wellacombe’s job. It was all nonsense to suppose that there really was any danger, of course, but there would be no harm in dropping a word of dignified defiance to one or two favourite journalists. Besides, it was his prerogative. India w
as practically a Dominion. The Secretary for the Dominions had always felt a little jealous of the Secretary for India.

  ‘That’s very good of you, Lavering,’ said the Prime Minister, hiding a smile. The motive behind the offer was perfectly plain to him. ‘But Middleton’s already volunteered.’

  ‘I’m quite indifferent, if Lavering wants to do it,’ Middleton said, carelessly.

  ‘It is hardly a question of “wanting,”’ replied the Secretary for the Dominions, heavily. ‘I merely consider it my duty. I was, indeed, just about to offer when Middleton spoke.’

  ‘Exactly,’ soothed the Prime Minister. ‘But as Middleton did speak, I think we had better leave it at that.’ The Prime Minister stroked his chin with a thoughtful air. ‘And it might be wise if we kept the identity of Lord Wellacombe’s successor a strict secret.’

  ‘Decidedly,’ the Home Secretary agreed, officiously. ‘Very much better.’

  ‘There is not the least need for anyone to know, outside ourselves and Lord Arthur,’ the Prime Minister went on, disregarding this support, ‘right up till the moment when you get up to speak tomorrow, Middleton.’

  ‘Just as you like, Prime Minister, of course,’ the Colonial Secretary assented, a slight smile on his rather grim face as if to intimate that he would tolerate these precautions but was quite unimpressed as to their necessity. ‘I won’t mention the matter, at all events.’

  ‘No, I know that,’ agreed the Prime Minister, with just so much significance in his tone as might have given the Secretary for the Dominions cause to reflect, had he not been too busy nursing his chagrin.