Death in the House

by Anthony Berkeley

  The Foreign Secretary, answering for the India Office, regretted that in the opinion of the British Government the Bill was necessary; the Government’s intention was to pass it into law as quickly as possible. Threats and attempts at intimidation were neither here nor there.

  It might have seemed to a stranger in Downing Street that the Government was in a small minority, and the Prime Minister himself in almost a minority of one. Reports, however, from the party organisers indicated that the country as a whole, having by this time obtained more than an inkling of the facts, was united in support of the Government’s firmness. The country, in fact, did not mind how many Ministers it sacrificed so long as terrorism was defied and intimidation ignored.

  Perhaps the Prime Minister was able to find some consolidation in this as he sat down to lunch after his harassing morning. Not even Prime Ministers, however, can always expect to enjoy their lunch in peace. Not half a dozen mouthfuls had passed his lips when he was summoned by an agitated secretary once more to the telephone.

  It was the Commissioner of Police at the other end of the line, scarcely less agitated than the Prime Minister’s secretary.

  ‘That you, sir? Exceedingly sorry to interrupt your lunch, but thought I’d better report to you personally at once. We’ve discovered how it was done.’

  The Prime Minister was torn between a horror of State secrets passing over the telephone and intolerable curiosity. Curiosity won.

  ‘How?’ he asked.

  ‘Poisoned thorn,’ replied the Commissioner briefly. ‘We went over his clothing again with a tooth-comb; found it stuck under his coat collar; must have got pushed up there when he was moved. Rushed it round to Sir Angus MacFerris. He identifies the same stuff on it. Asked Sir William to make another examination of the body. He’s just reported a minute puncture on left side of the neck; microscope shows traces of the substance round the puncture. What did you say?’

  But the Prime Minister had said nothing. Visions of unprincipled natives, propelling poisoned thorns through blowpipes from the Distinguished Strangers’ gallery, had left him speechless.

  chapter five

  A Minister Rises

  Sir William Greene, Senior Pathologist to the Home Office, was a man of painstaking disposition, as, indeed, he had need to be. While his colleague, Sir Angus MacFerris, was at work in his laboratory nearly the whole night through, analysing everything analysable that had been brought to him, Sir William had been equally sleepless in reading up everything about curare on which he could lay his hands. It worried Sir William that he had never personally encountered a case of curare poisoning, and though he had imagined himself to have a sound enough working knowledge of the drug it was not long before he found that his knowledge did not work quite so well as he might have wished. Half a dozen telephone calls, which brought half a dozen equally eminent gentlemen out of their beds, confirmed his wish that the murderer had chosen any other substance out of the toxicological list.

  Seated in the Prime Minister’s library soon after lunch, with Middleton, Lord Arthur, and the Commissioner of Police in attendance too, Sir William explained his difficulties.

  ‘Curares vary so much in strength, and consequently in effect. Different authorities give quite different results, and the recorded cases, both on animals and men, vary enormously. Naturally, the stronger the curare the more quickly it takes effect, and the more quickly death ensues. As regards this particular case, I must admit to considerable perplexity. From the vehicle employed, a thorn, one would have said that the curare must have been of a strength quite unprecedented to cause death; yet the time that elapsed before death seems to point to a very weak extract.’

  ‘Didn’t you suggest that snake venom might have been mixed with it, to quicken the action?’ put in the Prime Minister.

  ‘I did, to account for the rapid onset of the symptoms – if,’ said Sir William, darkly, ‘we are correct in relying upon the evidence that seems to point to the onset having been rapid. And I still think that snake venom or some similar substance was mixed with the curare, and this may well have hastened the symptoms; but it would equally seem to have delayed the death, for the best authority we have in this country on curare tells me that a latent period of forty-five minutes or thereabouts after the appearance of the symptoms means that the victim will probably recover. I think, however, that I have a theory which would cover this point.’

  ‘Yes?’ said the Commissioner, quickly.

  ‘I should say,’ replied Sir William, with maddening deliberation, ‘that the intention was not to cause death. In this connection it is interesting to remember that in its native place, that is to say South America, curare is used far more as a paralysing or terrifying agent than as a means of death; though I am bound to add that the natives have an unpleasing habit of torturing their victims to death while they are lying helpless and paralysed by the drug. That, however, is neither here nor there.’

  ‘Interesting idea,’ commented the Commissioner. ‘But if true, why did he die?’

  Sir William shrugged his shoulders. ‘He was not a young man. His heart was sound for his age, but…! Possibly there was a sudden respiratory embarrassment, which, in the absence of endotracheal oxygenation, is liable to prove fatal. One can’t say.’

  ‘Curare kills by paralysing the breathing system, doesn’t it?’ asked Lord Arthur.

  Sir William inclined his head. ‘Eventually, yes. The first symptom is a vague and general muscular weakness, rapidly becoming more intense, with collapse of the legs and arms, drooping of the eyelids, paralysis of the tongue so that speech becomes incomprehensible, the neck muscles unable to support the head, which lolls, and finally, of course, paralysis of the respiratory muscles, leading to death.’

  Lord Arthur shuddered slightly. ‘Not a nice death, either.’

  ‘A singularly unpleasant death,’ agreed Sir William equably, ‘with consciousness active to the last.’

  ‘You hear, Middleton?’ said the Prime Minister.

  ‘I hear,’ Middleton replied grimly.

  The Prime Minister glanced at the others. ‘I asked you to come here, because I want Middleton to understand exactly the degree and the nature of the danger, and the measures which you, Sir Hubert, are taking to guard against it. Equally I want Middleton to realise that he has still time to withdraw, and none of us will think the worse of him if he does.’

  ‘He’s a fool if he doesn’t,’ said Sir Hubert bluntly. ‘A danger you know and understand, yes: no need to funk that. But a danger you don’t know and can’t face… well, no man can be called a funk for side-stepping while there’s time. Give us forty-eight hours, sir, and hold Middleton back till then.’

  ‘No,’ said Middleton, with his tight, unhumorous little smile.

  The Prime Minister sighed. ‘Well, shelving that for the moment, have you anything else to tell us, Sir William? Anything that can give Middleton any hint as to how to protect himself?’

  Sir William leaned back in his chair, crossed his knees, and hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat. ‘We-e-e-ll,’ he said, and communed with the ceiling. ‘Yes, there is one point. I mentioned the unlikelihood, not to say impossibility, of a single thorn being able to inject subcutaneously sufficient curare to cause death. But supposing there were more than one thorn?’

  ‘Eh?’ said the Commissioner. ‘But there was only one. I’ll swear to that. Since we found that one I’ve had the floor examined where he was standing, and every place where the body rested, in case anything dropped out of his clothing. There was no other thorn.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Sir William replied benignly, ‘I have reason to believe there was at least one other thorn. For only a short time ago, thinking I would make another and still more exact examination of the exposed parts of the body, I found beside the scratch on the ball of the thumb, which I had already reported, another small puncture; and I have already been able to establish that both this, and the scratch itself, show definite traces of curare on the surr
ounding skin.’

  ‘The devil they do,’ observed the Commissioner, blankly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sir William.

  There was a silence.

  ‘But how could thorns possibly have been used?’ demanded Lord Arthur. ‘I mean, presumably they must have been propelled somehow. A – a blowpipe is too fantastic. And one can’t see a Member throwing them from the back benches, like darts. The whole thing’s a nightmare.’

  Sir William bestowed on him a quizzical look.

  ‘But why assume that they were used on the floor of the House itself? Why shouldn’t someone have – er – stuck them into the poor man as he was passing along a corridor?’

  ‘Because of the time factor,’ Lord Arthur replied, glibly, remembering the information Isabel had given him. ‘Onset of symptoms within ten minutes, and – ’

  ‘Ten minutes?’ interrupted Sir William. ‘Not at all. The symptoms can make their appearance at any time, according to the strength of the curare, from five minutes till forty-five after the attack.’

  ‘Then I’m all at sea again,’ said Lord Arthur, helplessly; for when experts disagree, as it seemed that in the matter of curare they did, a mere layman had best keep quiet.

  ‘Anyhow,’ said the Prime Minister, ‘let us take comfort from Sir William’s theory that it was not intended to kill poor Wellacombe, and hope that the intention in the case of his successor is equally absent. Nevertheless, we should like to hear what Sir Hubert proposes.’

  ‘Well,’ said the Commissioner, briskly, ‘I think I can guarantee him immunity at any rate until he’s on the floor of the House; so if the attack was made on Wellacombe before he reached his seat and they’re relying on the same plan again, we ought to be able to put a spoke in their wheel. He’s to speak at half-past three, isn’t he?’

  Middleton nodded.

  ‘Very well. Till 3.20, with your permission, Prime Minister, I shall keep him here in this house, remaining with him myself. It’s just past a quarter to three now, so I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with my company for the next half-hour, Middleton. At 3.20 a closed and, so far as we use ‘em in this country, bullet-proof police car will come to a halt outside the front door, facing towards Whitehall. And when I say bullet-proof, I can promise it will be thorn-proof at least. Two of my best men will meet us at the entrance to the House; others are posted in the Yard, the lobby, and at every useful point. The other two and myself will accompany Middleton right up to the Speaker’s chair, taking care that no person, not even the Chancellor of the Exchequer himself, comes within arm’s length of him from the moment he leaves the car till the moment he passes the Chair.

  ‘According to our time-programme, he should be in his seat by 3.28. Once he’s there, he ought to be safe. Lord Arthur tells me he’ll be sitting just behind. There’ll be other Ministers on either side, and Lord Arthur has undertaken to get two Members whom he can trust absolutely on either side of him. That should make a fair screen for Middleton’s sides and back. As to the rest, we thought it better not to close the Public Gallery officially, but I think any unknown member of the public who tries to get in this afternoon will find there is no seat left. I’ve made arrangements for enough Distinguished Strangers whom I can rely on to act as unofficial escort to any Distinguished Strangers whom I don’t know personally, particularly foreign ones. All Indians have been given a strong hint that they would help us by keeping away. I don’t know what more we can do – and I don’t know how anyone with a blowpipe is going to get through that cordon,’ added the Commissioner with force.

  The Prime Minister nodded. ‘That certainly sounds effective.’

  ‘Good lord!’ observed Middleton, with undisguised scorn.

  ‘Do you really mean we’re to be driven by this bluff to such lengths?’

  ‘Middleton, my dear fellow, I don’t for one minute believe it is bluff,’ said the Prime Minister, earnestly. ‘Neither does the Commissioner. We half assumed it was bluff before, and poor Wellacombe paid the penalty of our neglect. This time I intend to run no risks.’

  ‘Then you really want me to conform with Sir Hubert’s somewhat elaborate programme, Prime Minister?’

  ‘I not only want you to,’ said the Prime Minister, with the quiet authority which he knew how to use at times. ‘I insist on it.’

  Middleton shrugged his shoulders. ‘Then, of course, in that case…’ His tones were frankly sceptical. ‘But personally I think we’re making a mistake. We’re letting this fellow, whoever he is, see that we’re frightened by his threats. I should much prefer to walk over to the House from my own office, in the usual way.’

  ‘No,’ said the Prime Minister.

  Middleton, having made his protest, subsided.

  The Prime Minister turned to Sir Hubert Lesley.

  ‘You’ve made no progress in tracing the man who left that note this morning?’

  ‘The feller disguised as Lloyd-Evans?’ The Commissioner shook his head. ‘None, I’m afraid. We’re up against a blank wall there. Unfortunately, you see, those spectacles and that drooping moustache of his make it easy for anyone with only moderately similar features and build to pass muster for a few minutes as Lloyd-Evans, with the help of the right sort of coat and hat. The reports agree that the man apparently put something through the letter-box, or pretended to, and then knelt down to tie his shoelace. Naturally, thinking he was Lloyd-Evans, my men paid no particular attention to him beyond noting his movements. Obviously the shoelace was a blind to push his note quickly under the door.’

  There was a little pause.

  ‘But why under the door?’ Lord Arthur asked. ‘Why not through the letter-box in the ordinary way?’

  ‘Just what we’ve been asking ourselves, naturally,’ replied the Commissioner. ‘But we can’t find the answer. Must have been some point in it, though not necessarily very much. These people have their kinks and fads, you know. Perhaps he thought that depositing his warning on the hall mat was a more dramatic way of doing things. Or perhaps he thought it might throw suspicion on someone inside the house.’

  ‘It’s queer, all the same,’ Lord Arthur murmured, as if not quite satisfied. ‘I should have thought that at all costs he’d have wanted to avoid being unnecessarily conspicuous.’

  ‘Well, perhaps there’s a pointer there. What if he wanted to be conspicuous? That would mean he was deliberately trying to throw suspicion on Lloyd-Evans himself. Though why he should want to do that, Heaven knows. Well, I’ve nothing more to report, Prime Minister, so no doubt you’d like Middleton and me to be getting along.’

  ‘Yes, no doubt you’d better. Arthur, take Sir Hubert and Middleton down to the morning-room, will you? Isabel will be somewhere about. Tell her they’re not to be disturbed. By the way, I take it that you and Middleton have finished conferring?’

  ‘I think so, sir,’ Lord Arthur replied, holding the door open for the other two to pass. ‘He has the notes I made out for him, and the full text of Lord Wellacombe’s speech. I don’t think there’s any more we can do together.’

  The Prime Minister nodded dismissal, and the three made their way downstairs.

  Downing Street outside was empty, but for the plain-clothes men. A hundred yards away the traffic in Whitehall made the familiar prosaic rumble. It seemed strange to Lord Arthur, as it did to the Commissioner, to realise that the life of their charge, a Minister of the Crown, was in danger. It seemed still stranger to reflect that the danger was a threat against the Government of the greatest Empire the world has ever known. It seemed strangest of all to reflect that the danger, hidden, baffling and deadly, was a real one and that the entire forces of the said Empire had hitherto proved inadequate to cope with it.

  As if in answer to such thoughts the Commissioner remarked, as they turned into the morning-room: ‘Anyhow, there isn’t an Indian in this country that we haven’t got the tabs on.’

  ‘You still think it’s an Indian then?’ Lord Arthur asked.

  The Commissioner shrugged
his shoulders. ‘India’s at the bottom of it. That’s plain enough. But as to who may be doing the actual dirty work…’ He passed into the morning-room.

  Lord Arthur hesitated for a moment, then went in search of Isabel. There was a bare twenty minutes to wait, and his nerves were on edge. Isabel, he thought, with her sound common sense and calm, might prove a sedative for them.

  Isabel, however, was not at home. Dean told him that she had already gone over to the House, to occupy the seat she had bespoken in the Ladies’ Gallery. After telling the butler that no one was to be allowed to approach the morning-room until after the two persons now in it had left the house, Lord Arthur made his way into Downing Street.

  Unconsciously he found himself hurrying down Whitehall. There was plenty of time, but he felt suddenly that he must hurry. Something might be happening in the House; he ought to be at his post.

  His post was on the second bench, just behind his Chief, so that if any information were wanted at the last moment he could go out and get it. Middleton would sit on the front bench, next to the seat occupied by the Prime Minister when the latter was there to lead the House. The Chancellor of the Exchequer, who was still acting as Leader, was already in his place behind the despatch box; beyond the vacant space which Middleton was to occupy was again Lloyd-Evans.