A Case of Conspiracy in Clerkenwell

by Clara Benson

  At last the door was opened and they were admitted and left to hang their own coats up. They pushed their way through a throng of people and up the stairs, to find themselves in a narrow, dimly-lit hall which was dense with smoke and other, less identifiable scents. A young woman in masculine attire was leaning against a small table, smoking and talking to three men. Suddenly all four burst out laughing. Two foreigners emerged from a nearby room, chattering excitedly, and disappeared towards the back of the house. From one room the sound of a gramophone could be heard, while somewhere else someone was playing the piano and singing.

  Since nobody seemed inclined to tell them where to go, Freddy and Mildred entered the nearest room, which turned out to be the drawing-room. It was crowded with people, some standing, others reclining in comfortable chairs, and several more sitting in a group on the floor. Ivor Trevett was standing in the centre of the room, surrounded by a little crowd of admirers, proclaiming at length about something or other. He stood at least a head taller than anyone else, and was altogether an imposing presence. His acolyte Sidney Bishop was one of the group, naturally, as was Ruth Chudderley.

  ‘Hallo, old chap,’ said St. John, who had spotted them across the room and now came to join them. ‘Mildred, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t have thought this was your sort of crowd, what?’

  ‘Of course it’s my sort of crowd,’ said Mildred. ‘I do go out occasionally, you know.’

  ‘But does your mother know you’re here?’

  ‘I don’t tell her everything I do,’ she replied loftily. ‘Give me a cigarette, Freddy.’

  Freddy, who was just in the act of lighting his own, looked up in surprise, but she gave him a meaningful stare and he took the hint and offered her his cigarette-case.

  ‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ said St. John.

  ‘Didn’t you?’ said Mildred with affected carelessness.

  Freddy lit the gasper for her and watched, fascinated, as she drew on it with great determination. He had to admit she pulled it off rather well and hardly coughed at all, although her eyes watered slightly.

  ‘How does one get a drink here?’ she said, once she was able to speak.

  ‘I say, Mildred,’ said St. John, as though looking at her in a new light. ‘I had no idea you drank, too.’

  ‘I don’t drink,’ she said with dignity. ‘But this is a party, and I don’t see how one little one can hurt. Freddy, go and get me a—a—cocktail.’

  ‘I don’t know about cocktails,’ said Freddy, ‘but there might be some wine. Let’s go and see.’

  He took hold of Mildred’s arm and conducted her out of the room.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he hissed, once they were out of hearing. ‘Your mother will string me up by the eyelashes if she finds out you’ve been smoking and drinking.’

  ‘I’m just trying to fit in,’ she said. ‘And I’m not really going to drink. I’ll just hold a glass so I look as though I am.’

  In the next room they found the drinks laid out on the dining-table. A cheerful young man was helpfully making cocktails for anyone who asked.

  ‘Gin fizz?’ he said to Mildred.

  ‘Yes please,’ she said.

  ‘You’d better put lots of ice in it,’ said Freddy.

  They took their drinks. Mildred sipped hers gingerly and made a face.

  ‘It’s horrid,’ she whispered. ‘Do people really like this stuff?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Freddy.

  She looked around.

  ‘What do we do now?’ she said. ‘I expect we ought to go and talk to people we know. Suppose we split up. I’ll go and talk to the Chudderley female and see what she has to say. Perhaps you can speak to Mr. Trevett or Mr. Bishop.’

  Just then, St. John turned up again, in company with two young women, whom he introduced briefly as members of the East London Communist Alliance’s sister organization, the West London Communist Alliance. They immediately fell into conversation with Mildred, and St. John took Freddy aside.

  ‘Come and talk to Ruth,’ he said.

  ‘Now?’ said Freddy.

  ‘It’s as good a time as any,’ said St. John.

  ‘But what am I to say?’

  ‘I don’t know. Whatever you usually say to women when you’re trying to—you know.’

  ‘But I’m not trying to “you know” with Ruth. That’s your business. Besides, she looks at me as though I were something the dog chewed up and spat out, then trampled on and buried deep underground for good measure.’

  ‘Rot. She likes you—she told me so.’

  ‘Well, she could do a better job of showing it,’ said Freddy. ‘Look, I’m not sure this is a good idea.’

  But St. John would listen to no protests. He pushed Freddy back into the drawing-room. Ruth Chudderley was not there, and nor was Ivor Trevett.

  ‘Oh,’ said St. John, disconcerted. ‘She was here a moment ago. I’d better go and find her.’

  He disappeared, and Freddy was left on his own, somewhat to his relief. A glance showed him that none of the people in the drawing-room were familiar to him, and so he wandered out again. He had seen no sign of the Schusters so far, but soon found Leonard Peacock talking to Sidney Bishop.

  ‘Ah, it’s you again,’ said Peacock, in his usual mocking manner. ‘The friend of Bagshawe. Tell me, is he really such an ass as he appears? I mean to say, you don’t think he’s been putting on an act of sorts, and is really some sort of genius in heavy disguise?’

  Ordinarily Freddy would have been only too glad to expound upon St. John’s asinine tendencies—had done so many times to his face over the years, in fact—but for some reason he found Peacock irritating, and felt uncharacteristically inclined to defend his old school-mate.

  ‘Oh, he’s not all that bad,’ he said. ‘In fact, I should say he was rather decent at heart. A serious type, but sincere enough.’

  ‘You disappoint me,’ said Peacock. ‘I was hoping you’d have some juicy stories to tell us about his younger days. Someone told me he used to be quite the agitator, but I can hardly believe it myself. Very well, I suppose I shall have to go elsewhere for my fun.’

  ‘Where’s your friend Dyer?’ said Freddy.

  ‘Somewhere about,’ said Peacock with a shrug.

  ‘I rather thought the two of you were inseparable.’

  ‘Really? I don’t know where you got that idea. We were thrown together at university, so I tolerate him, but that’s all. He’s not exactly the thing, you see. Nothing but a jumped-up tradesman’s son.’

  ‘Is he?’ said Freddy, wondering why this ought to matter to an avowed Communist.

  ‘We can’t all be born into the aristocracy,’ said Sidney Bishop with a laugh. ‘Some of us must work our way up, and even then we’ll only get so far.’

  ‘I dare say,’ said Peacock idly.

  ‘But of course, in future none of this sort of thing will matter,’ went on Bishop.

  Peacock seemed to have lost interest in the subject, and shortly afterwards wandered off, leaving Freddy to study Sidney Bishop curiously. It was almost the first time he had seen him out of the company of Ivor Trevett, and he wanted to find out more about him. Bishop was a rubicund little man whose face wore an almost permanent expression of cheeriness. Freddy would have guessed him to be a butcher, but he was wrong as it turned out, for Bishop soon informed him that he had been engaged in the sartorial trade for many years, and had dressed many gentlemen in the business line—although he had never been fortunate enough to tailor for the highest ranks of society, he added.

  ‘Now this is beautiful work, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ he said, regarding Freddy’s suit with a practised eye. ‘I should say from the cut you’ve had it four or five years—but look at this! Begging your pardon, sir.’ He reached out and felt the lapel of Freddy’s jacket, then took a step back
and stared hard at the left sleeve. ‘There’s no mistaking the quality of that stitch. If you were to press me, I should say Dunnings on Conduit Street.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Freddy in surprise, and Bishop gave a sigh of satisfaction.

  ‘I knew it!’ he said.

  ‘You’re an expert, I see,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Not to say expert,’ said Bishop modestly. ‘But I like to think I have an eye for these things. It comes with experience. I can tell a lot about a man from his dress.’

  ‘Can you, now? What should you say about me, then?’

  ‘I should say you’re used to the best, but your valet is careless, if you’ll excuse my saying so, sir.’

  ‘Yes, he’s quite atrocious,’ said Freddy, who had no valet. ‘I caught him using one of my best shirts to clean the windows the other day. I beat him soundly, of course, but I don’t think he’s learned his lesson.’

  ‘Oh—ah,’ said Bishop, unsure as to whether he might be permitted to laugh.

  ‘I like this game,’ said Freddy. ‘Now, what should you say about Trevett from his clothes?’

  ‘Ah, now Mr. Trevett I do know about, because I used to dress him myself, back in his acting days,’ said Bishop, looking pleased and drawing himself up.

  ‘Really? You’ve known him for a long time, I gather.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Bishop, nodding. ‘I had a passion for the theatre for many years, and came to know Mr. Trevett that way, when he saw some of my work and was kind enough to say he liked it. I made many of his suits over the years, although I do less for him nowadays, as he prefers to dress in more Bohemian fashion. A splendid actor, he was—still is, in fact. I’d say it was a pity that he gave it up, except that he took up a far greater cause, so the theatre’s loss is the country’s gain.’

  ‘Do you think he is destined for greatness?’

  ‘Oh, without a doubt,’ said Bishop. ‘He’s the sort who could lead men into battle whether they wanted to go or not. If anyone can rouse the country, I reckon he can.’

  ‘Has he always been a Communist?’ said Freddy. ‘And what about you, for that matter? When did you join the Alliance?’

  ‘Over two years I’ve been coming now,’ said Bishop proudly. ‘I never miss a meeting.’

  ‘Did you join because of Trevett?’

  ‘I did. I’m flattered to say he asked me to come along one evening, because he thought I might find it interesting. It was shortly after he was elected President of the Alliance, and I went along—just to please him, since I didn’t know much about the cause at the time. But it’s such a privilege to hear him speak that I’ve kept on coming ever since.’

  ‘I’ve heard him speak myself,’ said Freddy. ‘I was at your last two meetings. Terribly unfortunate what happened to Miss Stapleton, don’t you think?’

  ‘Who?’ said Bishop.

  ‘Didn’t you hear about the murder? The Temperance lady.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Bishop. ‘I’d forgotten. Remiss of me. Yes, it was a dreadful thing to happen.’

  ‘Have the police spoken to you about it?’ said Freddy.

  ‘Yes, they did, but only briefly. I didn’t have much to tell them, I’m afraid. I was there that evening but I didn’t see who killed her.’

  ‘An odd sort, Miss Stapleton was,’ went on Freddy. ‘You know how these middle-aged women get when they have nothing else to do. You’ll think it funny, I dare say, but she seemed to think you lot were up to something.’

  ‘Up to something?’ said Bishop, with a laugh. ‘Such as what?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you. Of course, everybody knew it was just one of her fancies, but I suppose that sort of thing is only to be expected. They’re a conventional lot in general in the Temperance movement, and I expect they find the Communist ideal a little frightening. I hear she was something of a nuisance to you.’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t say that, exactly,’ said Bishop, his head on one side. ‘She used to complain about the noise, sometimes. And she didn’t like the fact that we had three drawers in the office and they had only two. But we could hardly do anything about that, could we? We’ve been there longer and it’s first come first served.’

  ‘I wonder who killed her,’ said Freddy.

  ‘I thought they said it was a thief,’ said Bishop.

  ‘I dare say it was. I’m sure the police will find him sooner or later. I know they’re looking into it very carefully.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Bishop. He spoke politely, but he seemed uninterested in the subject, and Freddy could only suppose that he was so caught up with his hero-worship of Ivor Trevett that he had no attention to spare for anything else. As if in confirmation of this, Trevett happened to walk past just at that moment. Bishop immediately excused himself and went to follow his idol, leaving Freddy standing by himself, wondering what to do next. Mildred was still talking to the two girls, so he decided to get himself another drink. He had still seen no sign of the Schusters, and was curious to see how they would behave while in their own element. In the hall he bumped into Ronald Dyer, who had been described by Leonard Peacock as a jumped-up tradesman’s son. Dyer seemed to be troubled by no inkling of his friend’s opinion of him.

  ‘Hallo,’ he said cheerily. ‘Rather a jolly do, what?’

  ‘Rather,’ agreed Freddy. ‘I must say I was expecting something a bit more pursed-lipped than this. Less carousing and more earnest conversation, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh, we know how to shake a leg just as well as anybody,’ said Dyer. ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, don’t you think? Why are you really here, by the way?’

  The change of manner was so sudden that Freddy was caught by surprise.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said after a moment. ‘I’m here because Mrs. Schuster invited me.’

  ‘You’re not one of us, though.’

  ‘No. Does that matter?’

  ‘It might,’ said Dyer.

  They regarded one another for a moment, then Dyer said:

  ‘I should be very careful if I were you.’

  ‘Careful? Of what?’ said Freddy.

  ‘They don’t like interlopers here. If they suspect you’ve come to snoop around—for a story, perhaps—they won’t be best pleased.’

  ‘But I’m a press-man,’ said Freddy lightly. ‘We can’t help looking as though we’re snooping around, even when we’re not. It’s terribly unfortunate.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Dyer. He glanced about and leaned forward. Freddy thought he was about to say something confidentially when Ivor Trevett, with Sidney Bishop once again in tow, swept up to them and clapped Dyer on the shoulder.

  ‘There you are, my boy,’ he said. ‘Erskine has arrived at last. You’d better come and speak to him. I fear he is still smarting over that unfortunate mix-up with the union money, and he won’t listen to me when I tell him nobody suspects him of being deliberately underhanded.’

  He and Bishop bore Dyer away with them, much to Freddy’s annoyance, for he was sure Dyer had been on the point of telling him something important. Did Dyer suspect his real purpose in coming here tonight? And what had he meant by his suggestion that Freddy be careful? Was it a friendly warning or a threat? Freddy could not tell, but whatever the case, he intended to be on his guard that evening.

  He went in search of the Schusters again, and eventually found Anton Schuster at the back of the house in his study, with a small crowd of people. Here the real intellectual discussion was taking place. There was no music in this room, and Schuster was ensconced in a tall winged armchair, a glass of whisky in one hand and a foreign-looking cigar in the other, holding forth at length to a rapt circle of people who were crowded around him on chairs and tables and the floor, hanging on his every word. The opposite wall was lined with bookshelves, but the room was too full for Freddy to pick his way across and g
et a good look at them, to see if there were any books in blue jackets. He came out and glanced into another room that was obviously used as a sort of second parlour. This was where the sound of the piano had been coming from. An earnest young man in horn-rimmed spectacles, his shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbows, was playing a mazurka on the instrument and making heavy weather of it, while a loud card game was going on at a table by the window. Theresa Schuster was standing with Leonard Peacock, watching the players. Suddenly there was a cheer, and one player scooped up all the money that had been thrown in with great satisfaction. Mrs. Schuster clapped and laughed, and made some congratulatory remark. Then the lucky winner vacated his seat and Peacock took his place. Mrs. Schuster stood by him, her hand on his shoulder, and prepared to watch him play.

  Nobody had seen Freddy, and he withdrew silently. He found himself standing next to a flight of stairs and went up it. The landing at the top was illuminated by a single light above the door to the lavatory, while the rest of the floor was in shadow. He went along the landing and looked into one or two rooms, but saw nothing of note. Mrs. Schuster’s room was easily identifiable from the jewellery and paints and hair-brushes scattered around the dressing-table. A diaphanous wisp of something was draped over the back of a chair. Freddy glanced into a few drawers, conscious that someone might come up the stairs at any minute, but found nothing of interest, and certainly no books. The room next door was evidently occupied by Anton Schuster. It smelt strongly of tobacco, and was strewn with papers, books and periodicals, although again none of them seemed to be what Freddy was looking for. He was frustrated at the fact that Miss Stapleton had not told Mildred the title of the book she had seen. He felt as though he were looking for a needle in a haystack, for not only did he not know the name of the book, neither did he have any evidence that it was the one he wanted—the book that was presumably the key to the coded advertisements placed in the Radical.

  He slipped out of the room and along to the end of the landing, where there was a cupboard. He opened the door and found it was not a cupboard at all but a box-room of sorts. With a glance behind him he entered and turned on the light. The floor was uncarpeted and the walls and window bare. Here a mish-mash of old furniture was stored, but one corner of the room was clear, and held a table and chair. By it was a small bookshelf, and the first thing Freddy spotted on it was a typewriter with its cover on. His heart leapt. He paused to listen at the door in case anybody was coming, then brought down the machine and uncovered it. There was no paper that he could see, so he tore out a page from his notebook and inserted it. He typed an ‘e,’ then, as that told him nothing on its own, added ‘ggs.’ The top of the ‘e’ was a little higher than the tops of the other letters. He tapped out one or two more words for confirmation, then typed an upper-case ‘R,’ and was not at all surprised to see that the top of it was sliced off.