“It wasn’t that sort of fire,” said Weekes.
“What do you mean by that, Weekes?”
“Unless a lot of different people dropped cigarettes in different places. This fire had five or six starting points. And another thing, Mr. Ambrose. Have you any petrol-driven engines in the place?”
“No.”
“Just stand here – clear of the smoke – and take a deep breath – through your nose – now.”
They all did as Weekes had suggested, and they could all smell it, pungent, volatile and unmistakable.
“The place has been soaked in petrol,” said Weekes. “No amount of burning will get rid of the smell. The stuff ’s been poured in by the bucketful. This place didn’t catch fire. It was set on fire. And by people who knew their job, too, I’d say.”
At four o’clock, in the first faint light of dawn, a party led by Ambrose forced a door at the back of the dispatch room and started to carry out what remained of that Friday’s edition of the Barhaven Gazette. The copies were in loose bales of twenty, forty and a hundred, set out on tables, ready for collection. Ambrose picked up the nearest bundle and dropped it with a cry. The wire round it was still hot. The smaller bundles had been burned through. In the larger ones there were a few papers, right in the middle, which had survived the holocaust, blackened at the edges, but still readable. They rescued and sorted out three or four hundred of them.
“I’ll deliver them myself,” said Ambrose, “and I’ll tell every person I hand one to just exactly—just exactly—” his voice trembled and broke.
“Have a bath, and breakfast, before you do anything,” said the Chief Constable, not unkindly. “It’ll be on the nine o’clock news, anyway. We’ve had reporters skirmishing round the scrum all night.”
Ann reappeared with her car and said to Anthony, “Mother’s running a bath for you. And you can have breakfast with us. Why don’t we go down to your house now, and collect some clean clothes.”
“Clean clothes?”
“You’ve no idea what you look like. A cross between Old Bill and that horrible chimney-sweep in The Water Babies.”
After a bath, a change and breakfast, cooked and served by Mrs. Weaver who turned out to be a small, easy, untroubled sort of person, they walked down to the office together. Anthony was feeling extraordinarily fit and wide awake. He knew from experience that this was the normal result of a lost night. The reaction would come in the late afternoon.
The storm had passed, and it was a fresh and sparkling morning. Barhaven was en fête. Loudspeaker vans were blaring, volunteers were distributing handbills, everyone seemed to be wearing a rosette. The electors of Barhaven were exercising their franchise with that curious mixture of gaiety and purpose with which English people carry out a public function. The announcement on the wireless – two bald sentences, with the ominous tag, “The police are working on the theory that the fire was started deliberately” – had left a wide swathe of speculation behind it.
“Poor Ambrose,” said Anthony. “He’d have sold every copy of the Gazette twice over.”
Arnold met them at the door of the office. He was grinning. “We’re all in the Mirror,” he said. “Did you see?”
Ann grabbed the paper from him. It was on the front page. A single word, in the Daily Mirror’s largest black type – “corruption”.
“Good God,” said Anthony. “Do you realise we’ve been entertaining a celebrity. I’ve just remembered who that man in the corner was. The fat, baldish one, with glasses. I was sure I knew his face—”
The telephone was ringing as he got into the office. It was Sellinge.
“Have you looked in the middle page,” said Sellinge. “There’s a picture of you and me and Hiscoe leaving the hearing. And one of Macintyre. It’s so like him it’s practically libellous.”
“I haven’t got to the middle page yet,” said Anthony.
It was half-past ten when the telephone rang for the tenth, or twelfth time; Anthony had lost count. He had long since given up hope of doing any work.
It was Mr. Pitt, and he sounded worried.
“You don’t happen to know where Mr. Southern is, do you?”
Anthony said, “No, why?”
“He had arranged to meet me here at ten o’clock. As acting Mayor, there are some formalities—”
“He’ll turn up,” said Anthony. “I expect he’s making a final tour of the polling stations.” As he put down the receiver a roar of cheering came up from outside. He walked across and saw two open cars with the Progressive candidates, Masters and Hopper, standing in the back wearing enormous rosettes, being manhandled by a crowd of supporters down the far side of Connaught Square past the Town Hall. A group of officials had come out on to the steps and were staring in astonishment at the sight.
“Barhaven is letting its hair down,” said Anthony.
“This is nothing,” said Ann. “Along in the Marine East Ward they’ve just finished burning Crawford in effigy.”
The telephone rang again. It was Inspector Knox. He said, “Mr. Brydon? Would you mind coming across to Mr. Southern’s office. Yes, now. As quickly as you can.”
Anthony found a lot of people he knew in Southern’s office. The Chief Constable was there, talking to Dr. Rogers, and Inspector Knox. Superintendent Brennan was sitting on the edge of the desk swinging one thick leg; and Mr. Temple, Southern’s head clerk, was sitting at the other side of the desk with his head down on his hands. He had either been sick, or was trying very hard not to be.
Knox said to Anthony, “Did Mr. Southern get hold of you last night?”
“No—why?”
All of the men except Mr. Temple were staring at him. Mr. Temple still had his face down on the desk, his body heaving.
“We found a note on his desk-pad. He evidently tried, more than once, to contact you. And he was going to do so again this morning.”
“He was my client,” said Anthony. “It was probably business. Look here, do you mind telling me what all this is about.”
“Last night someone killed Southern. Between ten o’clock and midnight. They throttled him into insensibility and broke his neck. Then they stuffed the body into that cupboard. Mr. Temple here found him about half an hour ago.”
Anthony looked at the cupboard, a tall, green metal one. The nearer door was ajar, hiding the interior.
Anthony said, “Is he still there?”
“He’s still there,” said Knox.
Anthony walked slowly round the table until he could see past the open door. Raymond Southern looked even smaller in death than he had in life. He was sitting, hunched up, on a stack of files, his knees to his chin. His head lolled sideways at a grotesque angle like the head of a china doll when the interior cord has snapped. His eyes were brown with exploded blood.
Anthony came back into the room. He waited for a few seconds until he was sure that he had control of his voice, then he said, “Do you know who did it?”
“We were hoping you might help us there,” said Knox. “If he had any business enemies you’d be likely to know about them.”
“He had plenty of enemies, but none of them could do a thing like that.”
“Do you mean they didn’t dislike him enough, or they weren’t strong enough?”
“Both.”
“It was pretty brutal,” agreed Knox.
“How did the murderer get in?”
“Up the back stairs. The door at the bottom’s a self-closing one. It wasn’t on the latch. Whoever came in must have had a key.”
Mr. Temple looked up, and said, through grey lips, “Two other people had keys. Mr. Macintyre and Inspector Ashford.”
Anthony said, “I don’t need to tell you what happened at the enquiry yesterday, do I?”
“No,” said Knox, and looked at the Chief Constable, who said, “When rogues fall out, eh?”
At that moment a police sergeant came in, and handed an envelope to Knox, who took out four photographs, said, “Quick work,” and
handed them to the Chief Constable, who said, “A nice clear set of prints. Those’ll be the ones off the cabinet, I take it.”
“Could I make a suggestion?” said Brennan. He had been sitting so quietly that they had forgotten about him. “Inspector Ashford started his career in the Metropolitan Police. His prints are on record at Central. If you put that set on to the teleprinter, you’ll get an answer in ten minutes.”
“It’s an idea,” said Knox and looked at the Chief Constable, who nodded.
“His prints would have been taken when he first joined as a constable,” said Brennan. “If you could give them his Divisional letter and number, it’d be even quicker.”
Knox said, “I don’t think we’ve got that.”
“Couldn’t you ask Ashford?” said Anthony.
“We could if we knew where he was,” said Knox shortly. “He hasn’t been home since last night. Thank you very much for coming across. Now, I think—”
“All right,” said Anthony. “I can take a hint.”
There was a lot to do in the office, but he felt in no mood for work. One of the managing clerks who came in with a problem went out again in quick time. He warned the other, “Better leave Mr. Anthony alone for a bit.”
He didn’t feel hungry enough for a proper lunch and sent Arnold out to get him sandwiches. Whilst he ate them, and afterwards, whilst he desperately tried to turn his attention to work, his mind was running on other things.
It would be Sturrock and his friends who had set fire to the Gazette offices. Of that he felt no doubt. Equally he doubted if it would ever be proved. They would have been back in London within two hours of the fire, organising careful alibis for themselves. He wondered if Sturrock’s employers would be pleased with the results of his efforts. He thought not. The Mirror had trumped, and more than trumped, that trick. Anyway, Sturrock wasn’t important any more.
If the fingerprints on the cabinet were Ashford’s, then it proved two things. It proved that Ashford had killed Southern; and it proved that he was now quite mad. Where was he now? Had he, too, gone back to the London he came from? Or was he hiding at home, and was his sister lying to keep the police away? Who was going to win the election? Whoever won, it was going to be a bumper poll. A bumper poll. Bumper. Bump.
Anthony hit his head on the back of the chair, swore, and sat up. If he stayed in the office, he would go to sleep, and it would be the comfortless, hag-ridden sleep of exhaustion. Movement was the only possible solution. He got up, grabbed his hat and went out.
He thought he would walk home, collect a few more things which he needed, and walk to Ann’s house and deposit them there. Ann’s mother had offered him the spare room and had sounded as if she meant it. He would gradually move all his things there and make it his permanent base. Their old house could be shut up. He would have to sell it anyway, and it would be easier to sell if it was empty. The only person who would mind would be Mrs. Stebbins.
Anthony half-filled a big suitcase with clothes. He left room in it for some books and papers which he planned to collect at the same time. This reminded him that there was one job which he would have to do sooner or later, the sorting out of his father’s private papers. It would not be a difficult job. His father had been as methodical in his private affairs as he was in his business.
Inside the unlocked desk stood a double row of neatly labelled folders. “School”, “House”, “Insurances”, “Charities”, “Car”, “Holidays”, “Tradesmen”, “Law Society”—In the “School” folder Anthony discovered every bill and every report from his first term at his Seaford preparatory school down to his last term at Tonbridge.
“Anthony leaves us with a good character, a proven ability to think straight and work hard, and an enviable athletic record,” the headmaster of Tonbridge had written in his neat hand, with its Greek ‘e’s.
The last folder in the line was labelled “Business—Miscellaneous”. It was a thin folder; Mr. Brydon had been a man who conducted most of his business in the office.
The first letter that Anthony extracted was from Raymond Southern. It was dated five years before, and it offered Mr. Brydon a third of the shares in Carlmont Properties Ltd., at cost.
Underneath it his father had written, in pencil, “A very attractive offer. But I said, ‘No.’”
At three minutes past eight that evening Mike Viney, prompted by Mr. Pitt, got up on the platform at the end of the Council Chamber, rang a bell and proclaimed, “I formally declare this poll to be closed” and, in a hurried aside, “Is that all I have to do?”
“That’s all for the moment,” said Mr. Pitt. “The controlling official at each station will have closed it sharp at eight, and the boxes should be coming in any moment now. That sounds like the first of them.”
“How long do you think the count will take?”
“We can usually finish it in an hour. It’s not like a General Election. There aren’t a great many votes to count. Although it looks as if most of the voters turned out today. Some of the stations have reported practically a full list.”
“What on earth are you doing up there, Mike?” said General Crispen.
“Some are born great,” said Viney. “Some achieve greatness. Some have greatness thrust upon them. I belong to the third category. I was senior alderman after Southern and am now acting Mayor of this Borough.”
“Congratulations,” said the General. “Have I time to slip out for a drink before they start announcing the results?”
“I should think so—hullo, Miss Barnes. Coming to see the fun?”
“Other people’s elections are always fun,” said Miss Barnes. “I’ve never known one quite like this before, though—it must have been that article in the Mirror.”
“They’ve been having a high old time down in Marine East,” said Lawrie. “Jack Crawford got shouted down at a rally on the pier and the meeting turned into a free-for-all. Two people got pushed into the sea. Luckily they could both swim.”
At a quarter to nine Mike Viney hopped up on to the platform. When it was seen that he was holding two pieces of paper in his hand the noise in the hall spurted and died away, like water cut off at the main.
“Election of Borough Councillors,” said Viney. “Marine West Ward. Christopher Sellinge 1553 votes, Leonard Ames Mossman 925. I declare Mr. Sellinge elected. Marine East Ward. Arthur James Ambrose, 1320 votes, John Evelyn Crawford 1262 votes. I declare—”
The rest of the sentence was lost in a roar from the hall, which was now crowded to capacity.
Viney turned round, climbed on a chair, and chalked up the figures on a blackboard which Mr. Pitt had provided.
Anthony, from the edge of the platform, caught sight of Ambrose, his face scarlet, being smacked on the back by his supporters. He himself was trying to do a sum. It was not so much the results as the size of the poll which had staggered him. Barhaven had a population of about 40,000 which meant around 5,000 in each Ward. About half of these would be under age or disqualified for some reason or other. Which meant that almost every person entitled to vote must have walked, staggered, or been carried to the polling station—
“Seven-six and two to play,” said General Crispen.
“Seven all, actually,” said Anthony. “Southern’s opponent would get a walk-over.”
“So he would.” said the General. “I’d forgotten that. This is getting rather exciting, isn’t it? The Progressives need both of the other votes to get a majority.”
Other people in the hall seemed to have done the same sum, and the noise grew. It was like a gigantic cocktail party, thought Anthony, a crowded concourse of people, animated not by gin, but by excitement, forced to talk louder and louder, until no voice could make itself heard below a scream. From where he stood, faces known and unknown bobbed up and down in front of him. George Gulland, and Charlie Roper; Colonel Barrow, from the school, keen to view the effect of his first practical lesson in Civics; Arthur Mentmore (how pleased his father would have been, thought Anthon
y, to see “Old Mental” looking so sour). Bunny Davies, the professional from the Splash Point Club, with his arms round two very pretty girls. Right in front of him was a wispy red-haired little man, whom Anthony took a few seconds to recognise as Mr. Shanklin, the householder of Haven Road, who had provoked the planning enquiry and was thus, in a sense, responsible for everything else that had happened. Mr. Pitt forced his way on to the platform, and Mike Viney rose again. One piece of paper this time.
“Victoria Park Ward,” he said. “As you will know, owing to the unhappy death of Mr. Southern, the first seat goes to Masters, by default. I have here the results of the second seat. Harold Joseph Hopper 1295 votes. Gerald Lincoln-Bright 1290 votes—” He held a hand up until the tumult died away. For all his mop of untidy grey hair and his humped back he was a curiously dignified little figure.
“In view of the closeness of the result,” he said, “I have ordered a recount, which is taking place now.”
“I can’t stand much more of this,” said Sellinge, who had fought his way to Anthony’s side.
“How did it go up in the Liberties?”
“The caravanners turned out in force. But so did the rest of the Ward. The tellers thought at first that it was going to be a walk-over for Stitchley, but by the evening they weren’t so sure. A lot of the diehards got there too.”
It must have been about ten minutes later when the door behind the stage which led into the big committee room where the counting was taking place opened again, and Mr. Pitt came out. He had two pieces of paper in his hand, and Anthony could see from the look on his face that something exciting had happened.
He handed them to Viney, who glanced quickly at them, then looked at them again, as if working something out, and then climbed up on the chair. By this time the silence was so absolute that everyone might have been holding their breath.
“First of all,” said Viney, in his high clear voice, “the recount of the seat in the Victoria Park Ward confirms the first count. It is, in fact, exactly the same. I therefore declare Mr. Hopper elected. I also have here the result of the Liberties Ward. It, too, was very close, but not so close as to warrant a recount. William Law 1174 votes, Robert Stitchley 1146 votes. I therefore declare—”
The Crack In the Teacup Page 22