Beyond this place

by Cronin, A. J. (Archibald Joseph), 1896-1981

The doctor was having great difficulty in finding a vacant bed: many of the free hospitals were full, and, since he was not yet properly established in the district, he received scant consideration from most of the receptionists. But, at last, he was successful, and after making the arrangements, he turned from the phone with a sigh of relief.

  "They'll take him at St. Elizabeth's Home. It's three miles out on the Oakdene Road ... a small place but quite good. They're sending for him now."

  The ambulance came in a quarter of an hour. Ten minutes later it had gone.

  Still labouring under an undiminished sense of strain, confused and exhausted, beaten down by her own emotions, Lena came back upstairs. The little flat felt hot and stuffy. She turned out the gas fire. Going to the window she threw it up, drew in deep breaths of the damp night air, then moving away, began, from habit, to tidy up the room.

  His threadbare suit, which he had worn through all that troubled time when he slept beneath the Arches, lay folded upon a chair beside the bed. She took it up, meaning to place it on a hanger in the cupboard. As she did so, Paul's battered old wallet

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  dropped from the inside pocket, hit upon its edge, and spilled its contents, mainly a number of loose papers, upon the floor.

  Lena bent to pick up the papers, notes that Paul had made relating to the case, and which she restored piecemeal to his pocket. Suddenly, amongst the sheets, her fingers came upon a small, cut-out photograph and, instinctively, she looked at it. It was a studio portrait of Ella Fleming, done in sepia and extremely flattering — Ella had seen to that — and beneath was written a tender message of scriptural endearment. This was in fact a souvenir that Ella had presented to Paul upon his nineteenth birthday and which, indeed, with a glance of meaningful sweetness, she had personally inserted in his wallet, with the hope that he would wear it next his heart.

  Paul had long since forgotten that he possessed the photograph. But to Lena, the pretty features, the appealing eyes, the softly waved hair, shattered above all, by the fondly possessive superscription, it became, immediately, his most cherished treasure.

  Not even a sigh broke from her, but in her motionless figure and fixed expression, frozen, but for the faintest trembling at the corners of her mouth, there was hidden an unfathomable anguish. At last she straightened from her kneeling position, returned the photograph to the wallet, and the wallet to the inside pocket. She hung the suit upon the hanger, placed it in the cupboard, went into the kitchen. Here, leaning against the mantel, she half-closed her eyes and turned away her head, a prey to a terrible revulsion of feeling which she could not stifle.

  All along she had struggled against the fear that she was creating for herself an impossible situation. But never had she imagined this contingency — so ordinary yet so unexpected — which had exposed the enormity of her presumption. She shivered at the thought of her needless struggle with herself, and of her pitiable, her abject surrender. In her stupidity, mistaking gratitude for affection, she had almost brought herself to the point of exposing the tragedy of her life, of blindly making herself the instrument of his disenchantment. She could never tell him now. Never. Utterly abased, she shut her eyes, possessed again by those familiar devils of self-hatred and shame. Contrasting herself, who had been dragged in filth, with this angelic

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  creature who was pledged to him, she wished she might die, now, at this moment; she longed tor the pain that was crushing her breast to be the final pang of dissolution.

  How long she stood there in anguish she did not know. At last, with sudden energy she freed herself, pushed back her hair from her forehead, sat down upon a low stool. Dry-eyed, her lips compressed in a firm line which foreswore all leniency towards herself, she forced herself to think. Minutes passed, then, through the confusion of her mind there came to her the remedy she sought — it seemed indeed her sole recourse. No matter how difficult, she must do it. All she wanted was to escape, lose herself, stamp out the memory of this supreme act of folly. Crouched on the stool, she began to make her plans.

  CHAPTER XII

  ON the morning of Monday, February twenty-first the Wortley Chronicle carried on its front page the first of Dunn's series on the Mathry case.

  Contrary to his habit, for he was a late and sluggish riser, Dunn walked down early to the Chronicle building. On the pavements the newsboys were shouting the headlines, carrying the special posters which McEvoy had printed. As he heard the boys calling and saw in huge letters the name MATHRY fluttering in the breeze, a slow thrill of exultation went through Dunn. He was not a vain man and had few illusions regarding his profession. But he believed passionately in the freedom of the press and in the power for good of a well-conducted paper. "It's out in the open now," he reflected tensely. "This will shake them up."

  When he reached the office McEvoy had arrived — they had agreed to sit out the series in the office, together — and he could not resist communicating his thought to the editor.

  "I'd like to have seen Sprott's face, and Dale's — when they found what was being served for breakfast."

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  McEvoy was less inclined to enthuse. He shrugged his shoulders a trifle grimly.

  "We're into this now, up to the eyebrows. Let's pray to God nothing goes wrong."

  During that day no event of any great importance occurred. Several of the distributors phoned in for extra hundreds of the paper. There were no returns. When he went out for lunch Dunn saw people on the street, in the trams, in the restaurant he frequented, reading the article. Everything was calm — the lull, he told himself, before the storm.

  On the next day, about eleven o'clock in the forenoon the telephone rang. The second article, much stronger than the first — which merelv outlined the main features of the case — had laid a definite charge of error against the police. When McEvoy put the receiver to his ear his eyes rested on Dunn, then he nodded meaningly and his lips silently shaped the name: "Dale."

  "Yes," he said. "This is the editor of the Chronicle. Oh, good morning, Chief. I hope you're well."

  There was a pause. Since the office lacked an extension, Dunn had no telephone. He heard one side of the conversation and watched McEvoy s face for the other.

  "I'm sorry about that, Chief. Now to which article do you refer? Oh, the Mathry case. Dear, dear, I hope that isn't causing you any great anxiety."

  The editor's expression remained bland.

  "Well, really, I don't see what you can object to. It's our job to print the facts. And that's all we're doing. What's that? No, we haven't any doubts. But we've got some interesting evidence."

  A longer interval followed. McEvoy's answer was less amiable.

  "We're not afraid of libel, or of any other action that may be brought against us. We believe that the public should know about this case. And by the Almighty we're going to see that they do know."

  A final pause. The editor's eyes glinted behind his pince-nez.

  "I wouldn't do that if I were you, Dale. You see, the minute you close us up, we'll syndicate the rest of the series in the Howard Thomson chain. That's five provincial newspapers and a daily in London. We have a standing offer on Dunn's material.

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  No, I wouldn't if I were you. And try to keep your temper. You'll need all your self-control before you're finished. By the bye, if you'd like to read Detective Inspector Swann's deposition, that's the next article. You'll find it in the Chronicle tomorrow."

  McEvoy was slightly flushed as he replaced the receiver. He lit a cigarette to calm himself.

  "He's angry. And badly worried. Threatened to suppress the paper. I thought it best to take a strong line with him."

  "Dale isn't a bad sort," Dunn said. "Fundamentally honest. It's the man above who's pushing him. But he can't do anything."

  "He could," McEvoy answered. "But he won't. If they cracked down on us it would be practically an admission of guilt. They're up against it.
I'll bet you a drink that tomorrow or the next day we have a visit from the head man." He picked up a slip which had just been brought in to his desk. In a matter-of-fact tone he added: "It's all good for business. We printed an extra twenty thousand today. Every one of them has gone out."

  On the following morning it was evident that people were beginning to talk about the case. The mail brought a sack of letters from readers of the Chronicle and several other newspapers devoted space to comment upon the Heretic's series. Most of the paragraphs were cautious, and the Blankshire Guardian took occasion to rebuke Dunn: "We are afraid that in his mission to reform the universe on this occasion our esteemed colleague is going a little too far." However, the London Tribune, a liberal paper of the highest standing, actually had a leader on the subject which began: "Allegations of a most serious nature are being made in the Wortley Chronicle which, if they are true, will shock the entire country," and which ended: "As in all previous contributions from the Heretic's gifted pen, every word has the ring of genuine conviction. We await, with the greatest interest, the remaining articles of this remarkable series."

  "It's begun." McEvoy handed the clippings over to Dunn. "Wait till they see what you say about Swann. Incidentally . . . if I were you I shouldn't stay out too late at night."

  "Good God! They wouldn't try anything like that."

  "No," the editor said in a queer voice. "But you might catch cold."

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  There was a knock upon the door. A young man, McEvoy's secretary, came in.

  "Excuse me, sir. Sir Matthew Sprott's clerk is on the telephone. Sir Matthew would be much obliged if sometime this afternoon you would come over to see him."

  Dunn and McEvoy exchanged a glance. McEvoy stretched his legs out under the desk.

  "Tell Sir Matthew's clerk we're sorry not to be able to step over. Tell him we're extremely busy. On the other hand, if Sir Matthew should care to come here, say that we'd be perfectly happy to see him."

  "Very good, sir." The secretary went out.

  "He'll never come," said Dunn.

  "Perhaps not." McEvoy shrugged. "But for the past fifteen years he's been frightening people. It's about time somebody started to frighten him."

  The next two articles dealt, in no uncertain manner, with the suppression of the date of pregnancy, and with the peculiar manner in which the witnesses had been handled by the police. And now, indeed, the avalanche was under way. Sacks of mail kept arriving at the Chronicle building, and so many telegrams poured in that McEvoy arranged for a special group of sorters to work in the adjoining room while Dunn and he, in their shirtsleeves, stood by in their office. Some of the telegrams were from cranks, from societies for the abolition of this, that, and the other, some were abusive, protesting that the articles were undermining the forces of law and order, but in the main the messages, from every corner of the country, were warmly congratulatory. Amongst the chaff, were a number of mealy grains.

  From the Reverend Foster Bowles, the sensational publicist and preacher of the London City Temple, this:

  WARMEST FELICITATIONS ON YOUR MAGNIFICENT CAMPAIGN. I AM PREACHING ON THE MATHRY CASE NEXT SUNDAY EVENING. GOD BLESS YOU, BROTHERS. BOWLES.

  "Why does he want to butt in?" asked Dunn a trifle jealously. "He's nothing; but a slick windbagr"

  McEvoy shook his head in mock reproval. "Where's your

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  brotherly love, brother? Bowles is the man we need. He overflows the Temple, and beyond. He'll knock 'em by the thousand in the old Kent Road."

  He took up the next wire. "Listen to this:

  INTENSELY APPROVE YOUR CONTINUANCE OF MATTER RAISED BY ME IN HOUSE NOVEMBER 19TH. IN VffiW IMPENDING ELECTION SHOULD APPRECIATE YOUR ACKNOWLEDGMENT MY EFFORTS. AFTER ALL I WAS FIRST. WILL CONTINUE TO SEEK JUSTICE. SINCERELY GEORGE BIRLEY. M.P.

  "Good old George," Dunn said, unsmilingly. "He wants to climb on to the wagon."

  "And to slap back at the Ancasters. They spanked him so hard he almost went off his golf game. 'Will continue to seek justice' is nice." The editor took up another slip, studied it, then passed it across the desk to Dunn. "What do you think?"

  Dunn read the telegram with a frown. It was personal, from the editor of the London Tribune.

  DEAR MC EVOY. IN VIEW GREAT INTEREST HERE MATHRY CASE OFFER RUN HERETIC ARTICLES IMMEDIATELY YOUR PRICE. CORDIALLY LLOYD BENNETT.

  For a moment there was silence in the office. As newspaper men, both were thinking the same thing . . . McEvoy doodled on his blotter, then suddenly looked up.

  "I know how you feel. You're fishing, and you've found a wonderful pool, all to yourself, then somebody else pops up, on the opposite bank, and says, 'let me have a go!' Of course, it's a great compliment . . . the Tribune . . . Lloyd Bennett's a pretty good angler ... if you follow me. . . ."

  Dunn got up, and went over to the window and stood with his back to the editor.

  "This thing is bigger than personal vanity," he said at last. "We'd better accept."

  "Good," McEvoy said briskly. "I thought you'd agree. We'll ask a whale of a price."

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  "Oh, shut up, Jimmy." Dunn still stood at the window. "This thing doesn't belong to either of us. Here we are, like a couple of bloody bookies, punting on the big race, getting all the thrills . . . and the lad that really did the work, the poor plucky youngster who fought like hell to string it all together is stuck in a hospital bed, with two ribs missing and a hole in his lung. It's all wrong."

  "He's still pretty sick?"

  "Damn bad." Dunn nodded. "But they give him a slim chance. If only he could read my articles. They'd do him more good than medicine."

  "Hm! What a scoop ... it would be." The editor could not refrain from meditating aloud. "I mean ... at the psychological moment ... if he did pass out. . . ."

  As Dunn swung round, with much profanity, McEvoy hastily recollected himself and apologetically pressed the bell.

  "You just can't help thinking these things . . . it's in the blood. I'll wire Lloyd Bennett straight away."

  On the following morning the London Tribune carried a one-page supplement containing the first three articles of the series. The next day it brought itself in line with the Chronicle by printing another three. The seventh article appeared simultaneously in both newspapers. Late that evening, when Dunn and McEvoy were preparing to go home, a boy brought in a teletype flash.

  IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS MR. DOUGLAS GIBSON (l) MEMBER FOR NEWTOWN, ROSE TO ASK D7, IN VIEW OF RECENT DEVELOPMENTS IN THE PRESS AND ELSEWHERE, THE SECRETARY FOR STATE WAS NOT PREPARED TO RECONSIDER HIS PREVIOUS DECISION IN RESPECT OF THE MATHRY CASE.

  REPLYING, THE SECRETARY FOR STATE, SIR WALTER HAMILTON, SAID HE WOULD REQUIRE NOTICE OF THE QUESTION IN WRITING.

  In the office, the two men looked at each other, in electric silence. It had been a wearing day, without much to show for it, and the strain was beginning to tell on both of them.

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  "Notice of the question in writing," McEvoy said at last, with a queer cracked lift to his voice. "No point-blank refusal now. They want time to think. The wires to Wortley will be red hot tonight. Tomorrow we may have a visitor."

  They shook hands, silently, yet spontaneously, then took their hats and went out.

  The following day was Tuesday, and towards four o'clock, that hour when the Chronicle management usually refreshed itself with strong tea, brewed by the office boy and served in thick, chipped china cups, a knock sounded on the door.

  "Come in."

  It was not the tea tray, but McEvoy's secretary, Jed Smith, looking nervous, and directly behind him, entering the room, was Sir Matthew Sprott. The prosecutor, who was extremely well groomed, gave, in his manner, no sign of anything unusual. His features, exhibiting his usual expression of dignified aloofness, were perfectly composed.

  There was a slight pause.

  "Won't you sit down," said the editor.

  "Thank you." Sir
Matthew took a chair. "You are difficult to get hold of these days, Mr. McEvoy. I happened to be passing and thought I would take my chance by looking in. Of course, quite unofficially."

  "Quite," said McEvoy, his eyes empty of expression, but fixed on the other's face. "Can I offer you a cigarette?"

  "No thank you." Sprott waved aside the silver box. "I am fortunate in finding you here also, Mr. Dunn. My remarks to some extent concern you."

  There was a longer pause. The prosecutor was completely self-assured, decided in his mind, betraying no disquiet. He even smiled slightly to show that he was completely at his ease.

  "Gentlemen," he said, "I have not come here to engage in dialectic. The matter is too trivial. Besides, I acknowledge that you are entitled to conduct your own newspaper in your own way. Nevertheless, I must tell you that your current series of articles is somewhat embarrassing His Majesty's Government."

  A silence. Both McEvoy and Dunn were looking at Sprott. Behind his pompous arrogance there was a faint anxiety which he

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  could not quite conceal. When he spoke again it was with unnatural heartiness.

  "We are men of the world, gentlemen. I am sure we all three appreciate the difficulties of running the country in these uncertain times. The elections will be upon us in a matter of three months. I make no deduction from these points, I merely ask you to bear them in mind. Now there is no question whatsoever but that His Majesty's Government is entirely sympathetic towards this matter you have raised."

  "Indeed?" said the editor.

  "I can assure you of the fact." Sir Matthew nodded impressively. "I talked by telephone for an hour last night with His Majesty's Secretary for State." Unseen by the prosecutor, McEvoy darted a swift glance at Dunn. "And I reiterate, dogmatically, that Sir Walter, who is a most enlightened man, wishes to behave with complete humanity in this strange and perplexing affair."

  "Ah!"

  Sir Matthew surveyed them with an intensification of his genial smile.