‘Speshul edishon,’ amplified the man.
Lord Arthur’s wonderment increased. ‘But they can’t have got a special edition out in this time. Why, it’s barely a quarter of an hour since it happened.’ He glanced at the paper. A short notice in the stop-press stated baldly that an attempt had been made to blow up the India Office shortly after six o’clock; the damage had been slight, and since the building was empty at the time there had been no casualties. So apparently the police had seen fit to censor the news of young Farly’s death.
One of the plain-clothes men, who had looked at the paper over Lord Arthur’s shoulder, suggested an explanation. ‘I should say this would probably be the provincial edition, my lord. That would have gone to press at about three o’clock this afternoon. They diverted it when the news came through, and got it on the streets at once. I should say they’ve got a scoop too,’ he added, listening. ‘I can’t hear any other man shouting it.’
‘That’s right,’ grinned the newsman. ‘Fust with the noos, that’s The Sunday Record. An’ I orter know. I’ve bin ‘awking it nah fer twelve years. Thank you, guv’nor,’ he added, as Lord Arthur supplemented his inadequate penny with a sixpence.
On his way up in the lift Lord Arthur unfolded the paper and looked at the headlines on the front page. What he saw startled him. Splashed right across the page, in huge type, was the banner:
MURDERED MINISTERS
Below, supplementary headings made public the information which had hitherto been so rigorously suppressed: that the Secretary of State for India and his Successor, the Colonial Secretary, had been murdered by means of poisoned thorns by Indian Terrorists in the House of Commons as a result of disregarding threats against the Indian Restriction Bill. The Sunday Record had broken faith-and landed the biggest scoop of modern times.
Before he went into his bedroom to dress Lord Arthur hurriedly ran through the rest of the paper. The whole story was there, even down to the wording of the anonymous letters: while under the heading, ‘Sacrifice No More Lives,’ the leading article contained an impassioned appeal to the Government to postpone the Bill until the Terrorist organisation had been broken up and its leaders were in prison. Dr Ghaijana, it was suggested, was a very minor cog in the wheel; and doubts were even thrown upon the fact of his being a cog at all.
Well, the milk was spilled with a vengeance. As he submitted to the silently sympathetic ministrations of his valet, Lord Arthur was not sure that he was sorry. A genuine democrat in his views, he was never in favour of concealing from the people the true facts of a bad situation. The British, after all, were not given to panic. It was only right that they should know what had been happening. The censorship of Farly’s death seemed not only unnecessary but stupid, and he determined to suggest as much to the Prime Minister that evening.
The thought occurred to him: who owned The Sunday Record? It had changed hands frequently during the last few years, descending with rapidity from old-fashioned dignity and sobriety to the worst kind of yellow vulgarity. Lord Arthur could not remember if he had heard who was its last purchaser, but it was obviously a lone wolf in the domain of newspaper ownership. There would be some fat frying in that camp tonight, reflected Lord Arthur, not without amusement.
Downstairs his two attendants were waiting.
‘We’ll have a taxi, I think,’ Lord Arthur told them solemnly.
He was not quite sure what was the correct etiquette, but the plain-clothes men took the matter into their own hands. One got in beside the driver, the other followed Lord Arthur inside. He had noticed that as the three of them crossed the pavement, the men had unobtrusively ranged themselves on either side of him, although the pavement was quite empty. It all seemed rather absurd and quite unreal. Hadn’t someone written a novel once called It Can’t Happen Here? But it could happen. Young Farly’s death showed as much. Perhaps the Jews had said that in Germany a few years ago. And after all, what was there more improbable in the Indian malcontents bringing their methods of bomb and murder to London than that a whole nation, which the world had once thought civilised, should revert to the savagery and tortures of the Middle Ages? No, it could happen here.
‘There was an interesting point in that paper I bought,’ Lord Arthur made conversation to his escort. ‘You saw that they’ve made the whole affair public, no doubt? The leading article was very emphatic that if we continue to disregard the Terrorists, we may expect bombs and arson in London as well as Calcutta. It’s interesting that the man who wrote that should have been proved right before the paper was even on sale.’
‘Ah, there’s not much that gets past the newspapermen,’ opined the detective, with resignation.
The Prime Minister did not appear before dinner, and Lord Arthur was given his glass of sherry by Isabel. He was unreasonably annoyed to find that there was again to be no tête-à-tête. The Home Secretary, Mr Beamish, was already installed; and a much perturbed Mr Beamish at that.
‘It’s not safe,’ he was saying fussily as Lord Arthur was shown in, and immediately turned to the latter for confirmation. ‘Eh, Linton? Isn’t that right? The Prime Minister ought to have gone to Chequers as usual. We could have guarded him there easily enough. I could have come down to him. But here in London…’
Lord Arthur tasted his sherry and exchanged a small smile with Isabel.
‘Surely you can guard him more easily still in Downing Street?’ he suggested.
Mr Beamish snorted. ‘Against what? That’s the trouble. We don’t know what we’re up against. They’re using bombs now, you know? Oh, of course, you know; you were there. Yes, well, imagine the effect of a bomb in Downing Street now. You saw the crowds? The slaughter would be horrible. There’d be a panic. It’s only a step from bombs to aeroplanes, you see. We don’t know what resources these people have. Imagine a bomb dropped on Downing Street from an aeroplane now! Why, it’s war in a way – war!’ Evidently Mr Beamish was very badly rattled.
‘They could drop bombs on us at Chequers, just as easily,’ Isabel said, brightly.
‘Yes, yes. But they might not hit it. And there wouldn’t be anything like the same moral effect,’ Mr Beamish retorted, testily. ‘You don’t grasp my point at all.’
To Lord Arthur the conversation seemed to be verging on the fantastic. He changed it abruptly.
‘You think it a good thing to hide up Farly’s death from public knowledge?’
Mr Beamish blinked. ‘Hide it up?’ he was beginning, when Isabel interrupted him with a little cry.
‘Oh, Arthur, it’s terrible. Poor young man! If they’re going to do that sort of thing…’
Lord Arthur glanced at her in surprise. Isabel looked quite white and shaken. It was unlike her, he thought. Somehow he had never thought of Isabel as… well, for want of a better word, womanly.
‘Come, Isabel,’ he rallied her. ‘It’s not like you to lose your nerve.’
‘No, I mustn’t, of course,’ she muttered, turning away.
‘But… it might have been you.’
Mr Beamish was impatient of these exchanges. ‘Hide up Farly’s death?’ he repeated. ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘Didn’t your department give orders to the Press that Farly’s death was not to be mentioned?’
‘Certainly not. And that’s another thing!’ Mr Beamish’s shirt-front gaped with agitated indignation, showing a glimpse of grey wool inside. ‘Have you seen The Sunday Record? It’s outrageous. The plainest flouting of instructions. Positively, I wish sometimes that we had a Press censorship here. There are some things that the Dictator countries manage better. Now, of course, they’ll all follow suit. One of the evening papers is out with it already. They must have had it set up in type in advance. It’s – it’s scandalous.’
‘Personally, I think it’s a very good thing,’ Lord Arthur said, a little shortly. ‘The public ought to know.’
‘Nonsense! The public ought to know what’s good for ‘em to know, and no more.’
�
��But this is sheer Fascism, Mr Beamish,’ Isabel smiled. She had recovered herself already, Lord Arthur was glad to see.
‘Fascism? Certainly not. It’s government.’ Mr Beamish took a gulp of sherry. It seemed to do him good. ‘But that no doubt will be Mansel’s excuse,’ he added in a milder tone.
‘Mansel?’ Lord Arthur pricked up his ears. ‘Does Mansel own The Sunday Record?’
‘He does. And I hope to have a word personally with him concerning his action with it this evening.’
Lord Arthur was thinking. It was like Mansel to do the spectacular thing. It was like him, too, to seize the chance of a magnificent scoop, and let the ethical question slide. But there were queer points about the story.
‘I wonder why it was specifically stated that there were no casualties?’ he said aloud.
Mr Beamish snorted. ‘Typical inaccuracy. One of their men happened to be on the spot no doubt, heard the explosion, just stopped to ask whether anyone was hurt and got the stereotyped answer from someone that the building was empty, and rushed off to print false information.’
‘I wonder.’ Lord Arthur did not like to say that according to the official police view, which perhaps Mr Beamish had not heard, it was he himself who had been the intended object of the attack. It sounded rather important; and, besides, it might upset Isabel; Lord Arthur secretly hoped it would – and then wondered why he should hope such a thing. But surely any reporter worth his salt would have nosed that out, to say nothing of Farly’s death, before rushing off as Mr Beamish supposed. And there were other things, too.
‘And that false information was on sale in the streets within ten minutes or so,’ he went on slowly. ‘Well, I suppose that’s possible. I don’t know much about newspaper offices. But the contents bill was properly printed. No smudgy, stop-press effect: clear lettering. Isn’t that a bit odd?’
‘Oh!’ Isabel stared at him. ‘But, Arthur, you can’t possibly think…?’
‘I’m just saying it’s odd,’ Lord Arthur repeated.
Mr Beamish had taken the point more slowly, but it had penetrated at last. He looked at Lord Arthur with a new respect.
‘That’s a most interesting observation, Linton. Most interesting.’
‘I think an interview with Mr S P Mansel is indicated?’
‘Undoubtedly. And without delay. I’ll ring up Lesley at once,’
‘Would you mind letting me see him?’ Lord Arthur hesitated. It sounded presumptuous to say so, but he felt sure that he could get more out of Mansel than the police could.
‘I don’t know why you should,’ Mr Beamish fussed. ‘This may be very serious. We must…’
‘The idea was mine, and I want to follow it up,’ Lord Arthur interrupted, with an authority which obviously surprised the Home Secretary.
The entrance of the butler saved the latter from a reply.
‘Mr Lacy is asking for you on the telephone, my lord,’ Dean said to Lord Arthur. ‘Do you wish to speak to him?’
‘I’ll go,’ Lord Arthur nodded.
Behind him he could hear Dean add to Isabel:
‘The Prime Minister wishes dinner not to be kept waiting for him. He may be detained some time.’
Over the telephone came Lacy’s indolent, rather high-pitched voice:
‘That you, Linton? I say, have you seen The Sunday Record? You have? Good. Oh, congratulations on your escape, by the way – Yes, well, no doubt certain queernesses made themselves evident to you? Eh? I mean, you can put two and two together as well as I can. Explanations are rather called for from a certain quarter, don’t you think? I just thought I’d ring up in case you hadn’t seen it.’
‘Many thanks. Yes, I had done the sum. And I’m just about to call for the explanation,’ Lord Arthur replied, grimly.
‘Then I’ve wasted my penny,’ sighed Mr Lacy. ‘Goodbye.’
Dean was waiting about as he hung up, and Lord Arthur asked him to summon Mr Verreker.
‘Mr Verreker has not returned from Scotland Yard yet, my lord,’ the butler said, unhappily.
‘Oh, no, of course not. Well, anyone who is on duty.’
‘Mr Jeans is upstairs, my lord. Shall I ask him to come down?’
‘Yes, No, don’t bother. I’ll run up myself.’
Lord Arthur felt he needed the physical action. As he took the stairs two at a time he was thinking that young Mr Lacy might enamel his fingernails, but his head was screwed on shrewdly enough. He wondered if the police had done that sum in addition, too.
Upstairs he took authority into his own hands without excuse or even justification.
‘Find out if Mr S P Mansel is in London,’ he told the Secretary, ‘and ask him if it would be convenient for him to call at 10, Downing Street at half-past nine this evening.’
chapter seventeen
Financial Fade-out
‘But, of course, I had advance information, my dear fellow,’ said Mr Mansel, equably. He applied a match to the cigar which he had already asked permission to light, and looked benevolently over the smoke at Lord Arthur.
The two were closeted in the little morning-room. Lord Arthur, who was conducting the interview entirely on his own responsibility, had opened it by bluntly asking Mr Mansel to account for the fact that the contents-bill of his newspaper, announcing a bomb explosion in Whitehall, must have been printed before ever the bomb burst. Mr Mansel, plainly concealing his disappointment that the summons should not have brought him into the presence of the Prime Minister but only into that of a lowly Under-Secretary of State, was nevertheless prepared to divulge information.
‘I told you I had my sources,’ he added.
‘Yes, but…’ Lord Arthur found himself somewhat nonplussed, not only by Mr Mansel’s frankness but by his equanimity. Somehow Lord Arthur could not get rid of the impression that Mr Mansel had been conniving at a criminal outrage. Mr Mansel himself, however, evidently did not think so. ‘You knew these people intended to blow up the India Office?’ he said, reprovingly.
‘Not as one knows that twice two are four,’ replied Mr Mansel, in his gentle, rather melancholy voice. ‘All I knew was that it had been reported to me that there was going to be an attempt to blow up the India Office. That’s very different.’
‘But didn’t you take any steps to stop it?’ Lord Arthur was still out of his depth.
Mr Mansel stopped adjusting the faultless crease of his black trousers in order to spread out his hands, palms upwards.
‘What could I do to stop it? I didn’t even know who was instigating the attempt.’
‘You could have at least passed the information on to the police.’
Mr Mansel gave his deprecating smile. ‘I did.’
‘You did. Oh! It was you who rang up from Ludgate Circus?’
‘Ludgate Circus is so near Fleet Street,’ explained Mr Mansel.
‘But why didn’t you give your name? Why didn’t you interview them personally and let them question you?’ Lord Arthur could not help feeling there was still something wrong somewhere.
‘Because I didn’t want them to know my name, and I didn’t want to answer their questions,’ Mr Mansel replied, mildly. ‘I couldn’t have helped them any further, and they’d simply have spoilt my scoop.’
Lord Arthur was taken aback by this point of view. In his simplicity he had assumed that there was only one possible attitude towards the outrages: that of helping to get them cleared up, and their perpetrators under lock and key, at the earliest possible moment. Mr Mansel’s attitude was equally simple: that whatever happened in the world, however deplorable, must be made if possible to turn to the advantage of S P Mansel.
‘Oh, well,’ Lord Arthur murmured, with the usual contempt for the other person’s point of view. ‘You had the whole story ready set up in type?’ he added, curiously.
‘More or less,’ Mr Mansel admitted.
‘And that’s why your stop-press announced that there had been no casualties?’
‘Exactly. An unfortunate error. B
ut I was specifically assured that there were to be no casualties.’
Lord Arthur pounced upon what looked to him like a slip. ‘Then you were in touch with the instigators?’
‘Oh, no.’ If it had been a slip Mr Mansel remained outwardly unperturbed. ‘My informant may be in touch with some members of the organisation; in fact, he must be. But not I personally.’
‘Who is your informant?’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t tell you that.’
‘I shall have to report this conversation to the police, you know,’ Lord Arthur frowned.
Mr Mansel shrugged his shoulders. ‘By all means. But I shall equally withhold the name of my informant from them. It would mean the man’s death if I divulged it, and I shall certainly not cause that. He’s far too useful to me,’ added Mr Mansel, simply.
There was a pause.
‘I’ll give you my own view of this bombing, if it’s of any interest to you,’ Mr Mansel said, mildly.
‘Certainly it’s of interest.’
‘Well, I don’t think they were after you at all. No doubt it suited them to make it look as if they had been, and perhaps they wanted to give you a good scare; but the death of that poor young man was certainly fortuitous. I should say the emissary lost his head. What they really wanted was to provoke publicity.’
‘Publicity?’
‘Certainly. Rightly or wrongly the Home Office have asked the newspapers to hush the whole business up as much as possible. I think wrongly: in fact, I think so very strongly. I feel the public should know what is happening.’
‘I’m inclined to agree with you.’
‘Exactly. It’s for the public to decide, after all. And rightly or wrongly again the Terrorists think that the public would… well, I don’t say panic, but at any rate insist on the postponement of the Bill. As it is, the public officially knows nothing. Therefore it’s not terrified. Well, it’s not much use being a Terrorist if you don’t succeed in terrifying, is it?’
Death in the House Page 16