Lord Arthur glanced at Lloyd-Evans as he took his own seat. The man looked quite ghastly; he was sickly pale, and his forehead was damp. He seemed to Lord Arthur like a man in the last extremity of dread and terror; but what had Lloyd-Evans to fear?
The House itself was packed.
Every seat was occupied, and members jostled each other on the floor below the gangway. It was no longer a secret who was to step into the dead man’s shoes that afternoon to continue the speech which had been so disastrously interrupted the day before, and all eyes were anxiously fixed on the vacant space on the Government front bench. Lord Arthur looked at it too, and shivered a little. It was only twenty-four hours since a fine, honest man had died there, in the course of his duty; already it seemed like so many weeks.
In a perfunctory way the House concluded its earlier business. Even the most truculent of Independents seemed unwontedly satisfied with the answer they received to their awkward questions. A curious hush made the low tones of Ministers strangely significant.
Just before Middleton was due, Lord Arthur felt a nudge from behind. Turning, he saw Mr S P Mansel leaning towards him.
‘Call Middleton off,’ he whispered urgently. ‘For God’s sake call him off. It could be done somehow. Otherwise it’s death. I know it. You know I have interests in India. I have sources of private information too. These men mean what they say. If Middleton comes into the House, he’ll die.’
Lord Arthur shook his head. ‘It can’t be called off now,’ he whispered back.
The other’s words had increased his anxiety. Mansel knew what he was talking about. A warning from that quarter was a genuine one. But what could be done now?
Suddenly a little whispering sigh went up from the crowded benches. Middleton had come in.
He sat down fairly and squarely in his usual attitude of alert stolidity, arms folded, eyes looking straight ahead. One would have said he was unconscious of being the focus of attention, but for the slightly contemptuous little smile playing round the corners of his mouth. Those who were watching saw him straighten up with something of a jerk, before smoothing down the back of his neck with his hand in his usual mannerism; a mannerism as familiar to the cartoonists as that of Lord Wellacombe’s grasp of his lapels.
He had been sitting there scarcely thirty seconds before the Speaker called upon him.
There was a little susurration as pent-up breath was softly expelled. Then Middleton rose briskly to his feet.
chapter six
A Minister Falls
In the Press Gallery all was instant bustle.
Some of the reporters made their pencils fly over the paper, dashing off brief descriptions of the scene below them; others rushed away at once to telephone the news to their various papers that the speech had at any rate begun. It was as if the name of Lord Wellacombe’s successor, perfectly well known to the reporters in advance, had, so to speak, been officially released. Within an unbelievably short time the news would be available on the streets, to be bought by an eager public who, in spite of official reticence, had now more than an inkling that something was amiss and whose curiosity had been further stimulated by hints in the morning editions from an otherwise loyal Press.
A request had in fact been sent round to editors that nothing definite was to be stated in print about the threats to the Government, and public alarm at all costs was not to be raised; but though the letter of the request had been strictly observed, it had not been held to cover the most tantalising and luscious hints that events of terrific national importance, not to say peril, might be expected at any moment. The result might well have been to rouse public excitement even higher than if the truth had been baldly and calmly stated; but in point of fact so many people had so good an idea of what the truth was, and were so busy passing it on to others still in ignorance, that the public, beginning to realise that it was only their Ministers and not themselves who were threatened, felt less of alarm than of a sporting interest in the whole business. The idea of the Cabinet team going in to bat, as it were, one by one against an invisible demon bowler, appealed to their sporting instincts.
In the meantime matters in the House were pursuing their outwardly normal course.
Middleton began his speech with a sympathetic though noncommittal reference to his predecessor in the duty, delivered in his usual blunt, almost curt tones. The Government must not be thought lacking in respect for a great figure, he explained, in deciding to push ahead with their programme with no interval. The welfare of a great nation was at stake, and it could be served best only by this Bill being passed into law at the earliest possible moment; in such circumstances, whatever their private feelings might suggest, these must be subordinated to the larger necessity. The Government also, added Middleton flatly, wished to make it public that they were not to be intimidated by any vague threats, or by the very real opposition which existed in certain quarters towards the Bill, from carrying out what they felt to be their urgent duty.
With these few introductory remarks, which served to stretch the tensity of the House to still further lengths, the Colonial Secretary passed on to the more flowing periods of the prepared speech. With a word of apology for troubling the House with remarks which it had already heard once before, he began at the beginning and went steadily ahead.
As the speaker passed into the sentences which he already knew by heart, Lord Arthur glanced at his watch. The hands said twenty-six minutes to four.
By twenty to four there’s a good chance, he thought to himself. By a quarter to four we ought to be over the danger-mark.
He glanced up at the Ladies’ Gallery, but could not see Isabel behind the heavy grille. Bending forward with his elbows on his knees, he sat staring at the floor, trying to keep his eyes away from his watch.
Slowly the minutes passed. Middleton reached the point at which his predecessor had collapsed, paused for a moment with a touch of drama unusual in him, then read steadily on.
Twenty minutes to four came, a quarter to four, thirteen minutes to four, ten minutes to four. And then it happened.
At exactly six minutes to four Middleton’s voice suddenly faltered. He seemed to look down with some surprise towards his legs, and there was an instant’s pause while he obviously braced up his sturdy, stocky body against some unknown weakness. He began to read again.
But only for a few minutes. Then he paused again, and slowly lifted a hand towards his eyes, as if he were actually trying to lift up their drooping lids. He splashed a little water with a shaking hand from the carafe into the glass on the table before him. The glass slipped through his fingers on to the floor.
With an almost superhuman effort the Colonial Secretary could be seen to pull himself together. He struggled somehow through another sentence or two, his words becoming more and more blurred, while Members, leaning forward in their seats, watched him with an incredulous horror. Then from under his drooping eyelids he swept a haunted look along the Opposition front bench, muttered weakly a few jumbled words which only those sitting nearest could interpret as ‘Not very well… must sit down a minute,’ and staggered, his head lolling grotesquely on his shoulder.
The Chancellor of the Exchequer and the President of the Board of Trade both tried to help him on to the seat, but they were too late. Before he could reach it Middleton slumped down, his legs folded up underneath him exactly as had Lord Wellacombe’s, and he toppled impotently to the floor.
As one man the House rose to its feet, the silence of awe and disaster stilling the comments of even the most determinedly loquacious. Lord Arthur scrambled over the back of the bench in front of him, followed by Mansel. They reached the fallen man at the same moment, and helped the two ministers to lift him into an easier position. The member for East Surrey reached the little group only a second later. They made way for him, and he grasped Middleton’s pulse, while in uncanny silence the House watched, scarcely venturing to breathe.
It was the Home Secretary who put the question t
hat was on everyone’s lips.
‘Well, man?’
The member for East Surrey looked at him with distaste.
‘He’s alive,’ he said, briefly, ‘but…’
Again that curious little sigh rustled through the House. The doctor’s words had been spoken in little more than a whisper, but they had carried to every corner.
‘The House is adjourned,’ said the Speaker, in a low voice.
A tall, burly figure pushed its way without ceremony through the rapidly gathering groups on either side of the Speaker’s chair. Sir William Greene had been waiting, filled with anxiety and impatience, in the lobby. Lord Arthur, seeing him coming, hurried to meet him. Together they made their way to the stricken man’s side, the others falling back before the pathologist.
Sir William did no more than glance at the helpless man.
‘It’s all right, my dear fellow,’ he said to him, in a curiously gentle voice. ‘You’re not really so bad as you’re feeling. I know exactly what you’re feeling. You’re quite conscious and can hear and understand everything, but you can’t lift a finger. It’s alarming, and very unpleasant for you, but the danger’s over now. We’ll pull you through, at any rate. I’m going to have you taken out of here at once, and in half an hour you’ll be pretty well normal again.’
He turned to Lord Arthur.
‘There’s an ambulance in the Yard, by my orders. Send one of the attendants for the stretcher and the bearers.’
Already the news was round that Middleton was to recover. The atmosphere had lifted instantly. Members smiled with relief, and one or two Ministers even spoke a word or two of encouragement and congratulation to the paralysed victim.
In less than a minute the stretcher-bearers had arrived, lifted the Colonial Secretary deftly on to the stretcher, and carried him with gentle gait from the Floor. It was not until they had actually disappeared from view that anyone thought to ask where Middleton was being taken.
‘To the Secretary for India’s room,’ replied Sir William, shortly. The questioner had been Mr Beamish, the Home Secretary. He looked at Lord Arthur. ‘Is Middleton married?’
Lord Arthur shook his head.
‘Thank Heaven for that.’ He made as if to follow the stretcher.
‘But if he’s all right…?’ said the Home Secretary. ‘If he’s going to recover…?’
‘He isn’t,’ returned Sir William curtly. ‘Within a quarter of an hour he’ll be dead. But I couldn’t let the poor devil know that. Now I must go and make his dying easier. Ah, Lesley!’ He joined the Commissioner, who had been waiting impatiently by the Speaker’s chair, and they passed, talking rapidly in low tones, out of the Chamber.
Within half a minute Sir Hubert was back.
‘Mr Beamish,’ he said, formally, ‘I have men at every exit. Have I your confirmation, sir, that no one is to leave here until further orders?’
The Home Secretary looked taken aback.
‘Is that necessary?’ he asked.
‘In my opinion, absolutely,’ replied the Commissioner in a wooden voice. ‘Sir William agrees with me that Mr Middleton must have been poisoned in this Chamber, here, by a person probably still present. It is my duty to recommend to you, sir, that every single person here, on the Floor as well as in the galleries, be searched before leaving.’
The Home Secretary cast a harassed glance round. Preposterous questions about privilege leapt into his mind. To search the whole House of Commons, member by member! The idea was fantastic. And yet…
‘Of course we must be searched, and I for one should insist upon it voluntarily.’ The dry tones of the Foreign Secretary made Mr Beamish wince. ‘The course is no doubt unprecedented, Beamish, but so is the situation. You will, of course, confirm the order.’
‘Of course,’ muttered the Home Secretary. He pulled himself together. ‘Of course,’ he repeated, firmly. ‘And you’d better begin with the Government front bench.’
The President of the Board of Trade turned a palsied face to Lord Arthur. ‘What’s this? We’re all to be s-searched? But this is prepost – ’ He collapsed without warning at the other’s feet.
‘Good God! Another of us gone?’ ejaculated the First Lord of the Admiralty, who looked almost as shaken as the President of the Board of Trade himself. No longer was there the least trace of the breezy sea dog about Mr Comstock.
The member for East Surrey made his second examination of the afternoon.
‘No,’ he announced. ‘He’s only fainted.’
‘Now why,’ the Secretary for the Dominions demanded of the Minister of Health, ‘why should Lloyd-Evans faint?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ replied the Minister of Health.
The Commissioner was quietly taking charge.
‘There’s no need to make an announcement, I think. If you gentleman will just file out in the usual way, my men will see to everything.’ He spoke soothingly, as to a body of schoolchildren at an alarm of fire.
‘And as the order is my responsibility,’ said the Home Secretary, importantly, ‘I will be the first. By the way, Commissioner, Sir William gave us no information. I suppose it was – h’m – curare?’
‘Oh, it was curare all right. No, sir, please don’t step there,’ added the Commissioner to the Minister for Agriculture and Fisheries. ‘We’re keeping that space free.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ muttered the chidden Minister, with a glance at the two or three plain-clothes men who had already marked out the area on the floor where the Colonial Secretary had stood and fallen and were now gently edging the great men off it.
To search the entire House of Commons sounds a formidable task. Actually, it passed off with remarkable smoothness, though it was nearly two hours before the last Member had filed up to the little groups of Scotland Yard men who were carrying out their task. By their faces these latter revealed that it meant no more to them than the searching of a petty sneak-thief or of any insignificant person pulled in for loitering with intent; but behind those stolid countenances there must have been an unholy joy at frisking a Minister of the Crown. However dignified a bearing one may try to preserve, to be searched by the police is an ignominious procedure at the best of times; and when one cannot help feeling that one is after all rather an important person, the ignominy increases in proportion.
At the exits from the galleries the same procedure was followed. Each man in turn was subjected to no perfunctory search by experienced hands, the contents of every pocket was examined, coats were scrutinised under lapels and collars, trouser turn-ups were made to yield forth their fluff, even the underside of shoes had to be offered to probing eyes. At the exit from the Ladies’ Gallery two stalwart police matrons conducted a similar investigation, and Isabel Franklin herself was the first to offer herself to their efforts. Sir Hubert’s plans had been thorough. They had been laid to cover the event of death itself, as well as to try to guard against it.
Long before the last person was free to go, the Colonial Secretary was dead, and his body removed from the building. He had died on his stretcher, with no one present but Sir William Greene, Lord Arthur, Sir Angus MacFerris, hastily summoned, and the Commissioner of Police. They hoped that right up till the end he did not know for certain that he must die. It was thought inadvisable to give him morphia, for fear of confusing the subsequent analysis.
Out of all the thousand-odd persons, Members, public attendants, and even Distinguished Strangers, who had undergone the ordeal by search, only one had been examined in private. That one was Mr Lloyd-Evans, and he was given no cause to suspect that the special arrangements in his case were by the express orders of the Commissioner himself. The fainting fit gave those detailed to attend to him an excellent chance to carry out their orders in the most natural way. Supporting him tenderly when he came round in a minute or two, they half led, half carried him out of the Chamber and, with soothing words, took him into one of the private rooms. Still with the same soothing words they there examined him, outside his clothe
s and inside them, with a thoroughness that was intended to leave nothing to chance. At the same time others were searching the floor in front of his seat, and probing down behind it where the cushions of seat and back met. The Commissioner was not sure whether he really suspected Mr Lloyd-Evans or not, but he was taking no chances.
The results of this methodical work were communicated by Sir Hubert to the Prime Minister when he reported to him personally an hour or so after Middleton’s death.
The Prime Minister had insisted upon receiving all reports in person. Sir William had already been to Downing Street, and was now performing the necessary autopsy with the minimum of delay. Lord Arthur had given an account of the scene in the House, and Isabel had contributed her own story.
The Prime Minister’s face, as he received Sir Hubert in his library, was drawn with anxiety. Clearly the strain and this twofold shock was telling on him badly, added to the fact that he was a sick man. A week ago he had not looked within ten years of his age. Now he looked ten years more than it.
‘It’s incredible,’ he muttered, waving the Commissioner into a seat. ‘Quite incredible. One wouldn’t believe that anything like this could happen nowadays. Open assassinations, public servants shot down by fanatics in the street: God knows we’ve had plenty of them. But this mysterious poisoning… why, it sounds more like a page out of the history of medieval Italy.’
‘There’s been no analysis made yet,’ hesitated the Commissioner, who liked his facts ticketed and proven. ‘Sir William says he has no doubt it’s curare just the same, but…’
‘Oh, Sir William knows. I understand the symptoms are exactly the same as before. In any case you found more – more thorns?’
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