The Body Politic

by Catherine Aird

  Sloan looked round the little group, conducting a mental roll-call. “Do we know who …”

  Bertram Rauly, looking years older, said, “I’m afraid there’s no doubt about that, Inspector.”

  “Didn’t you know?” chimed in Dungey harshly. “It’s poor Derrick Puiver.”

  Superintendent Leeyes sounded almost incandescent with rage at the news.

  Even though Detective Inspector Sloan was only talking to him over the telephone, he was as aware of the Superintendent’s anger as if he had been standing in front of him at the Police Station at Berebury instead of sitting on a hard chair beside an ancient instrument in the entrance hall of Mellamby Place.

  “Major Puiver!” Leeyes exploded. “Wasn’t he the fellow in charge of that tomfool charade they had out there the day of the death?”

  “He was the Battle Commander,” said Sloan unhappily. He had elected to come up to the house rather than to use the police radio. Making responses through the medium of radio could be difficult. Exchanges of information in that way involved a distinct pause while the other speaker made use of the airwaves. Superintendent Leeyes was temperamentally unsuited to this. “As it happens,” Sloan coughed, “Major Puiver chaired the political meeting the day before as well.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?” demanded Leeyes. He sounded to Sloan as if he was actually bouncing about in his office. “Tell me that, Sloan.”

  “Nothing or everything,” said Sloan tersely, adding with perfect truth, “I don’t know which.”

  The Superintendent switched tack and enquired with more than a touch of sarcasm, “Anything masquerading as natural causes this time?”

  “No, sir.” Sloan was thankful that he could at least answer that firmly. The only possible way in which natural causes—at least Galileo Galilei would have called them that—could have been said at this stage to have come into Major Puiver’s death would have been through the force of gravity.

  “Or accident?” barked Leeyes, still sounding as if he would have to be scraped off the ceiling.

  “We’ve been up inside the tower, sir, and made a preliminary examination of the masonry there.”

  “Don’t hedge, Sloan.”

  “No, sir.” He took a deep breath and carried on. “It isn’t going to be possible to say, sir, without a detailed forensic survey whether or not the stone that came down was prised off and then pushed or just fell.”

  “Tell me the old, old story,” rasped Leeyes.

  Sloan hesitated before continuing. “I understand, sir, that the part of the parapet that has come down is called the chemise.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “No, sir.” Sloan wasn’t sure that he did either, but Bertram Rauly had been adamant on the point. “There’s a lot of loose mortar and stones still about up there on the top of the tower.”

  Leeyes still sounded peppery. “And did the victim just happen to be standing there below it?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. Major Puiver had told his housekeeper—he’s a widower, by the way—that he had an appointment at Mellamby Place today.”

  Leeyes grunted. “But not that he was meeting someone dangerous under a fragile chemise.”

  “She says not.”

  “An accident going somewhere to happen?” suggested Leeyes ambiguously.

  “Possibly, sir.” Perhaps the Superintendent was working his way through the NASH classification of the four causes of death—horses for causes, Sloan’s Police College tutor had called them, although Sloan hadn’t ever known why. A braver spirit had ventured to ask the lecturer what he had meant and had been told that it was something to do with the Four Horses of the Apocalypse, but the class hadn’t been any the wiser. There were certainly four causes of death—Natural causes, Accident, Suicide, and Homicide—and it seemed in this case that suicide was as remote as the first two.

  That only left murder …

  Leeyes growled down the telephone: it was at times like this that Sloan could understand how the instrument had come to be known in Cockney rhyming slang as the “dog and bone.” “Wasn’t that the same spot, Sloan, where the Member of Parliament had a narrow escape on their fun day?”

  “It was.” That very fact was not the least of Detective Sloan’s concerns at this moment. It wasn’t only the hard wooden hall chairs of Mellamby Place that were causing Sloan discomfort—flea chairs, Rauly had called them, on which the infested hoi-polloi of an earlier age could await their interview with the Lord of the Manor without leaving vermin in the upholstery.

  “I don’t like to be too obvious, Sloan,” harrumphed Leeyes.

  “No, sir.”

  “But I take it you have already asked yourself if the stone that came down could have been meant for the deceased on that occasion.”

  “I have,” said Sloan simply.

  “And?”

  “And I don’t know yet,” responded Sloan steadily.

  “You have also asked yourself, Sloan, I hope, if the first fall of stone could have been intended for the late Alan Ottershaw and not the Member of Parliament?”

  “I have, sir, and it wasn’t. At the time of that—er—incident Alan Ottershaw, in the part of William de Wilton, was having a memorable sword-fight with Adrian Dungey as King Henry III.” That was an instance of using the word “memorable” in the narrow sense of being remembered.

  Leeyes grunted.

  “I will, of course,” hurried on Sloan, “try to establish whether Major Puiver was anywhere within range of the tower at the time.”

  “Do that,” commanded Leeyes.

  “But,” said Sloan carefully, “it might just have given someone else the idea.”

  “Talking of other ideas, Sloan, there’s been a message for you from Ted Sheard. It’s about the Select Committee on queremitte. He thought you might be interested.”

  “I am,” said Sloan tightly.

  “Its report is to be published tomorrow.” Leeyes grunted. “I wonder what Hamer Morenci will have to say about it.”

  “We may have difficulty in finding out,” said Sloan. “I got on to the Anglo-Lassertan Mineral Company straightaway—it was the first thing I did—and they say he isn’t there.”

  “What? Then where is he, might I ask?”

  “According to their people,” said Sloan, “he left London last night for a business trip to Lasserta.”

  EIGHTEEN

  But the Glory of the Lord Is All in All

  The girl at the Anglo-Lassertan Mineral Company’s head office was speaking nothing but the truth.

  Hamer Morenci was indeed in Lasserta. He was ensconced in a suite in the best hotel in Gatt-el-Abbas. A young man from the firm’s Public Relations Department who had accompanied him was already suffering. And not only from the heat.

  The Chairman of the Anglo-Lassertan Mineral Company had first had a brief conference with a Malcolm Forfar hastily summoned from the minehead at Wadeem. Then he had been driven round to the Ambassador’s residence.

  Without preamble he said to Anthony Heber Hibbs, “So the Sheikh, having succeeded in getting us by the short and curlies, wants to make the most of it?”

  “So I should imagine,” said the Ambassador pleasantly, making a mental note to talk to the Chairman’s aide about the importance of normal—if not excessive—courtesies in the Middle East. “And,” he continued, “I should say that was—er—customary in the circumstances, wouldn’t you?” Heber Hibbs waited with interest to see if Morenci was going to protest that international business wasn’t like that; but the Chairman didn’t say anything about things not being quite cricket and so the Ambassador carried on: “The good old public school tradition of waiting until a fellow’s down before you kick him has always prevailed here in Lasserta.”

  Hamer Morenci looked suspiciously at Mr. Heber Hibbs. Employees of the great Anglo-Lassertan Mineral Company didn’t speak with him as lightly as this.

  “Saves a lot of trouble, doesn’t it?” ventured the PR man nervously,
“if you wait until the opposition’s wrong-footed.”

  Morenci, whose alma mater was never mentioned in the reference books, transferred his baleful gaze to his employee, who quailed and retreated into silence.

  “I understand from my Commercial Attache,” said the Ambassador fluently, “that Sheikh Ben Mirza Ibrahim Hajal Kisra is seeking further concessions from the company.”

  “He’s imposing sanctions,” snapped Morenci, “that’s what he’s doing.”

  The Ambassador opened the palms of his hands in the Thespian gesture of concession. It often came as a surprise to travellers that the law of supply and demand transcended national boundaries.

  “We’ve got a cast-iron agreement,” said Morenci.

  “Let me see now,” Heber Hibbs studied the ceiling thoughtfully, “wasn’t there some little trouble about a breach of that agreement on the part of the Anglo-Lassertan Mineral Company a couple of years ago?”

  “A mere technicality,” blustered Morenci.

  The Ambassador transferred his gaze to the carpet: service in the East being what it was, it was a very good Bahktiar carpet. “The Sheikh doesn’t appear to be thinking on quite those lines.”

  “Ottershaw’s dead,” said Morenci. “Isn’t that good enough for Ben Kisra?”

  Heber Hibbs shook his head.

  “He’s had blood,” snarled Morenci. “What more does he want? Human sacrifice?”

  “It’s not that,” said Heber Hibbs. “It’s the Select Committee.”

  Hamer Morenci said something which struck at the very roots of Parliamentary democracy.

  “Very possibly,” said the Ambassador mildly, “but I understand that the Lassertans have already had a whisper about the findings of the Select Committee in London.”

  “Have they, indeed?” said the Chairman of Anglo-Lassertan vigorously. “Friends at Court, eh? I haven’t seen any report yet.”

  “It would appear,” remarked the Ambassador, steepling his fingers—putting statements into the passive case rather than the active one was a tool of democracy too—“that the Lassertans share the views of Her Majesty’s Opposition about the high price of queremitte.”

  Sheikh Ben Kisra had, in fact, been considerably entertained when he had had the role of the Opposition in the House of Commons explained to him. The opposition to the throne of Lasserta—the survivors, that is—languished in the remote desert.

  “High cost,” responded Morenci automatically. “Not high price.”

  The PR man stirred. “The company’s public image here, Mr. Ambassador …”

  Heber Hibbs pulled down the corners of his mouth in a wry grimace.

  “Not good?” said the PR man.

  The Ambassador shook his head.

  “Because of the accident?” queried the PR man busily. If he had a stock-in-trade it would be whitewash.

  “The accident didn’t help, of course,” said the Ambassador fairly, “but even before that happened the company couldn’t have been described as exactly popular in the Sheikhdom.” He added, “Large foreign companies seldom are.”

  “Ah …” began the PR man eagerly. Such problems were meat and drink to men of his calling.

  “What I want,” declared Morenci, with emphasis on the personal pronoun, “is action. Not a lot of talk.”

  “I think,” said Mr. Heber Hibbs suavely, “that in the first instance, anyway, you will find the latter more productive.”

  “You mean this banquet we’ve been bidden to?” said Morenci grumpily.

  “At the Palace at Bakhalla tonight,” trilled the PR man. “It’s a dream of an address.”

  Morenci hitched a shoulder. “I suppose it’s important.”

  “Very,” said the diplomat, mentally beginning to draft a note verbale for despatching back to Whitehall. He thought he would begin by paraphrasing a famous dictum from the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. It had once felt obliged to comment that it was not the function of British diplomacy simply to be polite to foreigners.

  “Hospitality has a ritual significance in the East,” said the PR man. This much he did know.

  “Indeed,” said the Ambassador warmly. It had in the West, too, but Anthony Heber Hibbs did not say so. He toyed briefly with the idea of making a reference to Banquo but decided it would be lost on Morenci. “You may,” he went on cautiously, “be invited to consume the unfamiliar and unappetising.”

  “I’ve had sheeps’ eyes,” said Morenci.

  The PR man’s face paled.

  “And lived,” said Morenci.

  Years of training kept the Ambassador from making a direct rejoinder to this. Instead he said, “There is one dish, gentlemen, reserved by the Lassertans for special ceremonial occasions. It is only served as a mark of great rapprochement but, if it appears, there is some important advice which it is my duty to stress to the utmost.”

  “What’s that then?” Morenci wasn’t accustomed to either receiving or acting on friendly advice.

  “If this particular dish is served it is absolutely vital that you chew every last morsel of it several times.”

  “Like Mr. Gladstone?” put in the PR man helpfully.

  “If it’s dangerous then I’m not eating it,” said Morenci.

  “It isn’t dangerous but it would be impolitic as well as impolite to refuse their pièce de résistance however unattractive in appearance,” said Heber Hibbs seriously. A State banquet obviously wasn’t going to be the best place for West meeting East.

  Hamer Morenci, the quintessential company man, braced his shoulders. “I can take it then.”

  “It is not so much a matter of taking it as of chewing it very, very thoroughly,” repeated Heber Hibbs patiently. “I’ll give you a sign if it comes up.”

  “All right, all right. Now, about what Ben Kisra is up to …”

  “The Sheikh has heard—don’t ask me how—that the Parliamentary Select Committee has been talking about the—er—undesirability of what might be called—er—circular relationships between civilian contractors and employees of the Ministry of Defence Procurement.”

  “We’re clean,” said Morenci flatly. “Company policy.”

  “In that case,” said the Ambassador, “Sheikh Ben Kisra may argue that, if you’re not paying out any bribes, then you’re making too big a profit out of the Lassertans.”

  Morenci’s face started to turn a nasty red colour.

  “But what,” intervened the PR man fussily, before his employer could speak, “does Ben Kisra really like talking about?”

  “Birds of prey,” said Her Majesty’s Ambassador to the Sheikhdom of Lasserta.

  “Ah, Sloan, there you are.” Dr. Dabbe had reached the scene of Major Puiver’s death by the time the Detective Inspector had got back from Mellamby Place to the foot of the tower. He shook his head. “A bad business.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  Dr. Dabbe waved his hand. “You might say that it’s a case of one for his nob and two for his heels, mightn’t you?”

  “Pardon, Doctor?”

  “I can tell you’re not a cribbage player, Sloan.”

  “No, Doctor.”

  “Well, as you can see perfectly clearly for yourself, a large quantity of old stone has fallen from a considerable height on to the deceased.” The pathologist grimaced. “And, until it is removed, neither I nor anyone else can tell you a great deal more about either the cause of death or its timing.”

  “We’re waiting for the photographic people, Doctor,” said Sloan in oblique explanation, “and more help.”

  “They’re on their way,” Dr. Dabbe assured him, adding innocently, “I overtook Dyson and Williams early on. And a heavy rescue unit and an ambulance a couple of miles back. No point in hanging about, is there?”

  “No, Doctor.” Sloan supposed he should be grateful that the pathologist hadn’t overtaken Crosby as well: that wouldn’t have done anything for road safety.

  The doctor took a few steps back and said, “I’m afraid I can’t even tell
you if he was dead before all that secondhand masonry came down. Not until I’ve had a good look at him.”

  “Mr. Rauly said that he couldn’t have known what hit him,” proffered Sloan.

  “That’s what old soldiers always say,” said Dabbe. “Good for morale.”

  “Yes, Doctor.” As far as Sloan was concerned he supposed he might as well be bandying words with the pathologist at the scene of the crime as doing anything else. It was too soon for him to be able to read any of the alibis he’d sent for from everyone he could think of: even Hazel Ottershaw and Miss Finch. With something like a tyre lever even a woman could have prised off enough stone from the tower’s parapet to start a real fall. At least, down at the Police Station nobody had ever taken the view that murder was men’s work.

  “He’s as dead as a doornail, Sloan, anyway.” The pathologist, too, had examined the protruding foot. “And quite coldish. Who found him?”

  “The younger vet, Adrian Dungey. He was on his way to Mellamby Place to visit one of Bertram Rauly’s dogs and noticed that there was something different about the outline of the parapet of the tower.”

  “What goes up must come down,” murmured the pathologist absently, still regarding the foot. “It’s where and when that matters, I suppose.”

  “No, Doctor,” said Sloan firmly. He was wholly serious now. “It’s the ‘why.’”

  “Let’s hope you do find a motive, Sloan,” responded the pathologist with equal gravity. “Murder without motive is the most dangerous power game of the lot.” He waved a hand in the direction of the Motte. “One of the ruins that Cromwell knocked about a bit?”

  “Slighted by the Parliamentarians was how Mr. Rauly put it, Doctor.”

  “Right but repulsive,” said Dabbe.

  “Beg pardon, Doctor?”

  “The Roundheads, Sloan. They were right but repulsive.”

  “Were they, Doctor?”

  “And the other side were wrong but romantic—the Royalists.”

  Sloan stiffened. “Say that again, Doctor.”

  Dabbe stared at him. “Say what again?”

  “That bit about the other side being Royalists,” said Sloan softly.

  “Dammit man, you heard me the first time. The Civil War was between the Parliamentarians and the King’s Party. The Royalists.”