Death in the House

by Anthony Berkeley

  ‘All, and more,’ said Lord Arthur.

  He returned to the Mansel front door. With this information up his sleeve, Lord Arthur fancied that the forthcoming interview might be an interesting one.

  Mansel received him in a small room at the back of the house, round which Lord Arthur threw a quick and curious glance. It was a room which seemed to him typical of its owner. There was a workmanlike desk, for instance, in one corner; in another was a baby-grand piano. The carpet was luxuriously thick; there were a couple of good etchings on the walls; there was also a very utilitarian calendar, obviously supplied as an advertisement by some commercial firm. The colour scheme was pale yellow-green and gold.

  As he seated himself Lord Arthur reflected how very different Mansel was from what the popular idea of him must be. In public Mansel cultivated the big cigar and the grey top hat, and the caricatures of him were not unlike those of Lord Lonsdale. Actually, so far from being the flamboyant figure of popular imagination, the man was a disappointment. Lord Arthur, who had met him several times outside the House as well as in it, had wondered each time to find a man who had done such remarkable things so unimpressive; yet there must be a dominant mind and a will of steel under that insignificant exterior.

  Mansel this evening was plainly depressed. It was almost without a smile that he greeted his visitor, mixed him a drink from a tray on a side-table, and asked what he could do for him.

  Lord Arthur murmured a preliminary apology for bothering him at all, and Mansel shook his head.

  ‘Poor Middleton!’ he sighed. ‘It’s upset me very much. Middleton was a good man. It was a pity to sacrifice him. I knew it would mean his death.’

  ‘You were right, Mansel,’ Lord Arthur agreed gravely. ‘But he took the risk with his eyes open. He was brave.’

  ‘The speech could have been called off, even at the last minute,’ Mansel said, almost petulantly. One got the idea that he was sincerely upset over the Colonial Secretary’s death, but at the same time piqued that his last-minute advice had been disregarded.

  ‘No,’ said Lord Arthur. ‘That was impossible.’

  ‘It’s something in connection with Middleton’s death that you want to ask me?’

  ‘Yes. You remember when you were speaking to me in the House just before Middleton rose, you said something about having your own sources of information concerning affairs in India. I want to ask you to put those sources at the disposal of the India Office.’

  Mansel shook his head. ‘They wouldn’t help you,’ he said frankly. ‘Besides, if my informants found out that I was doing anything like that, the stream would dry up at once.’

  ‘They’re “agin the Government,” then?’ Lord,Arthur suggested.

  ‘Well…’ Mansel looked as if he had said a word too much. ‘Well, they’re not in favour, certainly.’

  ‘Terrorists?’ Lord Arthur pursued.

  ‘Oh, no. Nothing like that. But… well, it’s possible they may be in touch with some of the Terrorists.’

  ‘Has their information given you any inkling at all who is responsible for these murders, and how they’re being committed?’ Lord Arthur asked, bluntly.

  ‘Good heavens, no.’ Mansel sounded shocked. ‘If it had, of course I’d have passed it on to you at once. Believe me, my dear fellow, no one is more upset about these terrible deaths than I am.’

  Lord Arthur believed him. He remembered, too, the note of desperate urgency in Mansel’s voice as he urged him to stop Middleton from speaking that afternoon.

  ‘Well, does the information reach you in the shape of written reports, or by word of mouth?’

  ‘Sometimes one, sometimes the other. Mind you,’ Mansel said, with an effect of defensiveness, ‘you mustn’t make too much out of what I told you. I only said I had my own sources of information. So I have. But I don’t get such a great deal of information from them. Nothing like regular reports, or anything of that sort. It’s just an occasional message, often no more than a dozen words; but valuable, because absolutely reliable.’

  ‘Would you let me see such written messages as you have had?’ Lord Arthur persisted.

  ‘No, I couldn’t do that.’ Mansel spoke gently, but this time the effect he conveyed was that of inflexibility. ‘You must believe me when I say they wouldn’t help you. For one thing, they’re almost entirely concerned with commercial matters. For another,’ said Mansel, with a slight smile, ‘you might find a few items of which as a Government official you would have to disapprove. And in any case I destroy nearly all the written messages the moment I’ve read them.’

  ‘But there must be some political information in them, or how could you have said with such certainty that these people mean business? You spoke as if you knew.’

  ‘I do know,’ Mansel returned, quietly. ‘That’s one thing I do know, with complete certainty: that any Minister who gets up in the House to introduce that Bill will die as surely as I’m talking to you now.’

  Lord Arthur felt chilled. Mansel’s conviction was infectious.

  ‘But how do you know?’

  ‘That doesn’t really matter, does it?’ Mansel parried. The facts on which I base my knowledge might not even seem compelling to you. But I know – and I passed my knowledge on. Why do you think I headed that deputation to the PM? I of all people would welcome this Bill, you’d say. I don’t know if you’ve heard what the brutes have done to me out there, but believe me it’s pretty serious.’

  ‘It’s put you in an awkward position, I believe?’ Lord Arthur ventured.

  ‘Yes, it has. Damned serious. In fact, about as awkward as any business position could be. There’s no harm in my telling you. The City’s summed it up all right.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’ll pull round.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not quite lost in the wood yet,’ Mansel said, with another small smile. ‘In fact, I don’t mind telling you in confidence that I’m even considering opening negotiations with the other side. That’s just one iron I’ve still got in the fire.’

  ‘The other side?’ Lord Arthur was puzzled.

  ‘Yes. The chaps who’ll be running India if they pull this Nationalist business off.’

  ‘Oh! You mean the Terrorists?’ Lord Arthur’s tone was properly disapproving.

  ‘No, no,’ Mansel said testily. ‘The Terrorists are only cats’ paws. They’ll win the game for someone else to scoop the prizes. That’s always the way. No, the men I mean are the men who are waiting till the Terrorists have won the game for them – lying low, not encouraging the factory-burners and the bomb-throwers (or not so that anyone would notice it), outwardly absolutely loyal to Emperor and Empire. Those are the fellows for whom it’s “Heads I win, tails you lose.” And if you want to know, it’s from among that lot that my information – such as it is – has been coming.’

  ‘I see,’ Lord Arthur said, thoughtfully. ‘And you’re opening negotiations with them. I suppose you’d hardly tell me on what lines?’

  Mansel frankly grinned. ‘Would you tell me if I asked you whether the Cabinet intends to go on with the Bill or not?’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Lord Arthur smiled. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind telling you,’ Mansel said, carelessly. ‘You don’t seem to me like a man who talks too much. And in any case it’s pretty obvious. I want to get my foot in on the right side of the line, just so that if India ever becomes a self-governing country again – or rather, I suppose, a loose collection of self-governing States – there’ll be Mansel factories running and Mansel stores operating with the full consent and benevolence of the new Authorities. That’s all.’

  ‘I see. Well, that seems reasonable enough. But really, Mansel, you almost sound as if you believed in India’s forthcoming independence.’

  ‘Of course I do,’ Mansel retorted. ‘In any case, it’s only a question of time, and in my opinion it’ll be sooner rather than later. I believe this Terrorism is going to win. The Cabinet can’t go on putting up Ministers like
Aunt Sallies one after the other. Of course, they could make special provision to introduce the Bill without a speech, I know, but that would be such a confession of weakness that it would be worse than quietly dropping the thing altogether. Besides, this Cabinet’s got no guts. They’re just a lot of silly old women, not three of them fit for the jobs they’re holding. That’s why I’m so upset about Middleton: he was worth all the rest put together, barring the PM. The PM’s got spirit, I grant you. But what will happen? Why, it’s obvious. He’ll call for volunteers to introduce the Bill, and there’ll be no volunteers. So he’ll get the idea that it’s his duty to do the job himself. Then he’ll get wiped out like the other two, and that will be the end. There’s no man, on either front bench, who could keep a Cabinet solid for the Bill, once the PM’s gone.’

  Lord Arthur said nothing.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mansel, in a different tone. ‘I see. That’s what’s happened. The PM’s already announced that he’s going to introduce the Bill, has he? No, I’m not asking you. I saw it in your face. You should learn to control your features better, Lord Arthur. They give you away too much. A mobile face may be all right for a politician, but it’s a rotten depository for secrets. Well, if that’s the case, let’s hope no one else is giving the game away. Not that it matters, in my opinion. Whether the secret is kept or whether it isn’t, if the Prime Minister once gets up to speak on this Bill it’ll be like a dead man talking. For God’s sake, can’t you stop him, Lord Arthur? You’re supposed to have influence with him. He’s the best man in the country, for all that the Opposition say about him: and in their hearts they know it, too. He mustn’t be allowed to throw himself away.’

  Lord Arthur rose. ‘I’ve already asked for permission to introduce the Bill myself,’ he said, admitting by default the truth of Mansel’s forecast and more than a little annoyed with himself for having given that truth so easily away.

  Mansel seized his arm. ‘Don’t do it, don’t do it, my dear chap,’ he urged. ‘I promise you, it’s death.’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t say that,’ remarked Lord Arthur, more easily than he felt.

  ‘But I do,’ Mansel returned.

  He did not ring for the butler, but saw his guest to the front door himself.

  As Lord Arthur was putting on his coat he remembered another point on which he had intended to question Mansel.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I think I can give you one piece of information in return for all you’ve told me, though it’s confidential for the present.’ He explained to Mansel how curare-smeared thorns had been found in Middleton’s coat collar and hair, and added the news, which had come through to Downing Street just before dinner, that Sir William Greene had discovered two or three small scratches across the inside of the dead man’s fingers on the left hand, though it had not been possible yet to say whether these bore traces of curare or not.

  ‘You remember when we picked the poor fellow up,’ he said, ‘you had hold of his shoulders, I think. Did you notice the thorns at all then?’

  ‘No, that I certainly didn’t.’ Mansel sounded alarmed. ‘If I had, I’m afraid I should have dropped him like a red-hot brick. Good heavens, this is getting too much. Why, any of us might have got a dose of the stuff too.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’ Lord Arthur passed through the door which the other had opened for him, and pulled his black hat down well over his right eye in his usual way. He paused on the top step. ‘But not a fatal dose, I fancy. That is, unless the stuff’s of a quite remarkable strength.’

  ‘Strength? Isn’t curare all the same strength?’

  ‘No, apparently it isn’t.’ Lord Arthur explained in a couple of sentences something of the vagaries of the poison, and added: ‘As a matter of fact, the Home Office experts are a bit puzzled. It’s been generally understood that even an arrow tipped in curare doesn’t necessarily kill a man, and here only two or three thorns are causing death. They say that’s all wrong. Apparently the theory is that it was mixed with some still more powerful poison, but they can’t discover what. Snake venom was the first choice, but now they say that isn’t good enough.’

  ‘Oh, experts,’ Mansel said, contemptuously. ‘It’s my opinion that an expert opinion isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. Still, if they do discover what this second stuff is, that may give you a better pointer to the man who’s using it than the curare.’

  ‘We hope so. Well, I mustn’t keep you shivering out here any longer. Good night.’

  ‘Good night,’ Mansel returned. ‘And for God’s sake use every ounce of influence you’ve got over – well, you know what.’

  ‘I will,’ promised Lord Arthur.

  As he walked rapidly through the square he wondered whether he had said too much. But there was something almost childlike about Mansel which seemed to encourage confidences. Or rather, not so much childlike as simple: the simplicity of a man who has never quite grown up. That no doubt was how he got things done: he would believe in simple, even in crude methods. And crudity often achieves results which not all the tortuous cleverness of the sophisticated ones can obtain. Anyhow, the man should be safe.

  Moreover, Lord Arthur reflected, if anything did leak out now about the Prime Minister’s intentions, the source would be obvious.

  He turned into Brook Street and stopped a passing taxi.

  It was too late now to try Lloyd-Evans again. Besides, the man would probably be exhausted after his gruelling at Scotland Yard. There had been a glint in Sir Hubert’s eye which indicated that he was not going to let the President of the Board of Trade off lightly.

  Lord Arthur’s conviction that Lloyd-Evans knew something had grown. The box of thorns in his pocket could be dismissed as unimportant; the chances were a hundred to one that it had been planted there by someone anxious to get rid of it. But Sir Hubert’s other arguments against Lloyd-Evans had been convincing, not so much that he was the actual murderer but that he had some kind of guilty knowledge. Lord Arthur was more than ever determined, if Scotland Yard had failed, to prise that knowledge out of Lloyd-Evans himself.

  His thoughts switched to the box of thorns. Who had slipped it, in the confusion and turmoil, into Lloyd-Evans’ pocket? The fact alone was an invaluable clue, for it showed that the murderer had been some person who had been close to Lloyd-Evans during those feverish five minutes – and that probably meant close to Middleton before them. The galleries were definitely out of it now.

  Lord Arthur knew he was far too restless to sleep. He would spend half the night in compiling a list of everyone so far as he could remember within a dozen seats of Middleton – a circular plan radiating out from Middleton’s seat on the front bench. Such a plan would almost certainly include the murderer. And after that he would ponder over each separate name on the list, to see if some hint, however slight, might not indicate that here could be the man.

  chapter eleven

  Introducing Our Mr Lacy

  Saturday morning found the people of England still laudably cool.

  A few of the curious had wandered down the evening before to Downing Street, but since there was nothing in the least degree unusual to be seen, they had had to content themselves with staring at each other. The Fascists, as usual, had thoughtfully supplied a much-needed note of comedy, by providing a van to drive slowly up and down Whitehall intoning at measured intervals, through a loudspeaker, ‘Stand by the King,’ which sounded good but a trifle out of date. There was also a Communist meeting in Trafalgar Square, to advocate Home Rule for India, with vigorous interruptions from certain Indians who did not want Home Rule, but did look to the Communists to carry out their expressed policy of supporting minorities against their oppressors. The difficulty of agreeing on the oppressor in this particular instance led eventually to the meeting being dispersed by the police. Otherwise there was nothing to report.

  Not that the Saturday papers intended to report anything. So far as they were concerned there was no crisis, no danger, and no threat to democratic gover
nment. Everything in the garden of England was lovely, and several weighty articles were devoted to the prospects of the team of cricketers then on the point of embarking for the Antipodes to engage the Australians in a series of Test Matches. The general opinion was that the odds were pretty tough, but England ought to pull it off.

  Lord Arthur wandered restlessly over to the India Office immediately after breakfast, but finding nothing at all to do there and few of the permanent staff in attendance, wandered back again.

  He felt fagged out. The seating plan on which he had been engaged had kept him busy until nearly three o’clock in the morning, and even then was far from complete. His memory left many gaps, which would have to be filled up with the help of the police, but there were nearly four dozen names on his chart so far as he had been able to carry it. Pore over these as he might, however, no glimmer of light had reached him. The persons represented seemed all either of an eminence or a respectability too great to be suspect, or else of an insignificance so obvious as to be a passport to innocence.

  Only one telephone call had come through to him at the Office. It was from the same financial expert whom he had consulted the previous evening, to say that he had been looking up the dossier of Lord-Arthur-knew-whom and was sending a special messenger over from the Treasury that moment with a report which might prove of interest.

  The report arrived within five minutes. The new information was to the effect that it had been learned from reliable sources that Mr S P Mansel had been in negotiation with the Maharajah of Barghiala. The nature of the negotiations, which were very secret, was not known, but it was believed that they were concerned with concessions of so far-reaching a nature as would put Mr Mansel, if they were successful, in practical commercial control of the whole of Barghiala, from its mineral resources to a new chain of electric power stations up the whole length of the River Khoum. These concessions were far in excess of anything the British Government could possibly allow, and amounted to not much less than the floating of the whole State of Barghiala as a limited company, with the Maharajah as Chairman of the Board and Mr Mansel as its Managing Director.