by Clara Benson
She gazed into his face, and he saw tears starting in her eyes.
‘Of course I will,’ he said firmly. ‘He shan’t touch you again if I can help it.’
She gave something that sounded like a sob.
‘Thank you,’ she said. She put down her unfinished drink then stood up and waited as he went to throw on his coat and hat. Then they left the flat together and went down the stairs into the street. The entrance to Freddy’s place was in a little side-road off Fleet Street. Here all was dark and in shadow.
‘We’d better look for a taxi,’ said Freddy. Or, rather, that is what he intended to say, but before he could utter the words he received the shock of his life as he was grabbed around the neck from behind and an odd-smelling handkerchief was clamped across his nose. He struggled and tried to shout, but his attacker was stronger than he, and had the element of surprise. Within a minute or two Freddy felt himself becoming weaker as his arms and legs grew heavy. Then he heard the voice of Theresa Schuster.
‘It was too easy,’ she said, and that was the last thing he knew before everything went dark.
He drifted gradually back into consciousness a little while later—although it took several minutes longer than that for his brain to resume its usual functions with any degree of efficiency—and for some time he lay there, puzzling over the question of why his normally comfortable bed had suddenly become cold, hard and uneven. By degrees his memory returned, although he was still by no means sure that he was not in the middle of a particularly unpleasant dream. At last his ringing headache, the humming noise that filled his ears, and the jolting he felt at intervals forced him to conclude that he had indeed been lured into a trap by Theresa Schuster, and that he was now lying in the foot-well of a car which was conducting him to some unknown destination. Someone had thrown a rough blanket over him—probably to hide him from view—and the hairs prickled at him disagreeably. From the sound of muttered voices nearby he sensed that this was not the moment to jump up and attempt an escape—and in any case, he still felt horribly weak and queasy, and was fairly certain he lacked the strength to run more than a few yards before they caught him again. Instead he concentrated as far as he could on lying still so they did not know he was awake, and listening to what was being said. Who were his attackers? Mrs. Schuster was one, of course, and he winced at the thought of how she had taken him for a fool so easily. He ought to have been on his guard when she had turned up at his door, but he had been blinded by her apparent injuries—no doubt the result of artfully-applied rouge—and the appeal in those mesmerizing eyes of hers. He had also been spurred on by his dislike of Leonard Peacock, whose voice he could hear talking now. It must have been Peacock who had grabbed him and knocked him out with the chloroform. Now he finally understood whom Peacock had been talking about in the box-room that night at the Schusters’. Freddy had assumed that St. John was the man who was easily fooled and would say yes to anything, but in fact it was Freddy himself Peacock had been referring to. What an idiot he had been! But who else was concerned in the plot? As far as Freddy could tell, Peacock was driving and Theresa Schuster was sitting in the front with him, but there was another person in the car, too. Freddy could feel a foot by his head, and knew somebody was sitting in the back seat. Where were they taking him, and why? There was one cause for relief, at least—they had not killed him immediately, so presumably they had attacked and kidnapped him for some other reason, and not merely to put him out of the way. He had thought himself discreet, but evidently he had aroused their suspicions in some way—perhaps when St. John had drawn attention to the coded advertisements that day in the Radical’s office. Theresa Schuster had been there at the time, and Freddy had been almost sure she had noticed nothing, but it looked as though he had been mistaken. He strained his ears to try and hear what his captors were saying, but they were mostly silent. The car drove on, and Freddy closed his eyes, willing the pain in his head to go away. He was just starting to drift off again when he felt the car slow and come to a stop. The door opened and he felt himself being hauled roughly out onto the pavement. He made a half-hearted attempt to pretend to be still unconscious, but Peacock gave him a shove that made him stagger and almost fall, and said:
‘I know you’re awake. Don’t try any funny stuff or it’ll be the worse for you.’
They were in a dingy street that Freddy did not recognize, but he did not have time for more than a quick glance around before he was bundled through a door and down some stairs. He was too groggy to put up more than a feeble show of resistance as Peacock threw him onto a hard chair and bound him to it by his hands, then blindfolded him and left the room without a word. Now Freddy was well and truly caught, and it would be untruthful to say that he was not afraid, for he feared greatly that the plotters wanted him for some purpose that would not turn out well for him. He sat quietly for some minutes, listening. In the next room he could hear the sound of muffled voices—one of them that of Theresa Schuster. He strained his ears but could not hear what they were saying. He had no idea of the identity of the third person who had been in the car with them, for whoever it was had stayed inside while the others had brought Freddy into the house, and the voices were too quiet to identify them with any certainty. Freddy waited, since there was nothing else to do. After a while Peacock came back in, untied him from the chair, then retied his hands behind his back.
‘There’s a bed here,’ he said. ‘You can thank Theresa for that. I’d have left you on the chair.’
Then, before Freddy could say a word, he went out again. There was the sound of a key turning in a lock, then silence. Freddy was still wearing his blindfold. He stood up and took a few uncertain and stumbling steps forward until he felt the edge of the bed. He lowered himself onto it carefully and lay down. His head was throbbing and his thoughts were in a whirl, and he thought he should never sleep, but eventually he fell into an uncomfortable doze filled with strange, unsettling dreams. Some hours later he awoke, and lay thinking until a grey light began to filter through his blindfold and he judged it to be about eight o’clock. He had been listening for movement, and at last he heard the sound of footsteps descending the creaky wooden stairs, followed by a key turning in the lock.
‘Pleasant night, I hope?’ came Peacock’s sardonic voice.
‘Could have been better,’ said Freddy. ‘You’ll pardon me if I don’t get up just yet. Tell them I’ll have breakfast in bed. I’ve a fancy for sausages and bacon. Are the muffins fresh?’
‘Funny, aren’t you?’
‘No, I’m stiff and tired, and I’ve one or two things that need seeing to, but it’s a little difficult with my hands tied,’ said Freddy.
He felt himself being hauled into a sitting position, then the bonds on his hands were removed. Freddy pulled off the blindfold and winced at the daylight which filtered through the window. Peacock was standing before him. There was not a trace of his usual complacent expression; instead he looked deadly serious.
‘Under the bed,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Don’t try anything smart.’
He went out and Freddy was left to flex his fingers and try to restore some feeling into his hands, which were numb and painful after having been tied for so long. A plate of something unappetizing had been left on a table by the bed. Freddy attended to his needs and then, still slightly unsteady on his feet, went over to the window to look out into the tiny area in front of the house. The glass was clouded with the grime of years, and the window was barred, leaving no possibility of escape that way. Above him, all he could see was a small patch of sky, dull and grey.
After a while he heard footsteps again—more than one set this time—then the door opened and Freddy turned to see Peacock’s large frame filling the doorway, blocking someone else from view. Peacock was holding a gun and entered cautiously.
‘I was almost sure you’d be waiting behind the door to try and brain me with a chair,’ he sai
d.
‘Sorry, I didn’t realize that was the done thing in this establishment,’ said Freddy politely. ‘I can do it now, if you like.’
‘No need,’ said Peacock. He moved into the room and Freddy caught sight of his companion. He raised his eyebrows.
‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ he said as Sidney Bishop came to stand before him. ‘I must admit, you had me fooled.’
‘I don’t look like much, do I?’ agreed Sidney Bishop. ‘It’s useful sometimes. You’d better tie his hands again.’
Peacock started forward but Freddy said quickly:
‘Look here, is that necessary? It hurts, and you’ve got a gun, and there are bars on the windows and a lock on the door. I’m not entirely stupid; I should think I know when I’m beaten.’
‘You’ve some sense, then,’ said Bishop. He stood and regarded Freddy appraisingly. ‘Keep the gun on him,’ he said to Peacock. ‘Shoot him if he stirs.’
The change in him was remarkable. Gone was the cheerful little man with the apologetic air who lived for the praise of his betters. In its place was something altogether more ominous—frightening, even, for Freddy had no doubt that he had meant exactly what he said about using the gun.
‘Are you in charge of all this—whatever it is?’ he said.
‘Not to say “in charge,”’ said Bishop, considering. ‘Who can claim to have authority over his fellow man? But someone has to do the thinking, and I’m good at that.’
‘You mean to say the others aren’t?’ said Freddy, and put his hands up hurriedly as he saw Peacock’s gun hand twitch. ‘I’m just asking,’ he said. ‘I mean to say, I can hardly boast of being a prize intellect myself, can I? Not after I fell into your trap so easily. Where is Mrs. Schuster, by the way? Upstairs, gloating over the rest of her collection of trussed-up pigeons? Is Dyer one of them?’
Peacock gave a mirthless laugh.
‘Dyer’s floating somewhere off Sheerness, I imagine,’ he said. ‘He had an attack of remorse. They’ll find his clothes eventually, where he left them on the beach. Couldn’t live with himself any longer, they’ll say at the inquest. Such a dreadful pity.’
‘You don’t think anybody believes that, do you?’ said Freddy.
Peacock shrugged.
‘They’ll have to, in the absence of any other evidence,’ he said.
‘You killed him because you were frightened he’d give you away. And I expect you’re going to do the same to me,’ said Freddy, looking at the gun warily. It seemed fairly obvious that he would not get out of his predicament alive, but there was no harm in trying to find out as much as he could in the meantime, just in case. ‘Is that the gun you bought last night?’ he said.
‘Oh, so you know about that,’ said Bishop. ‘Perhaps you are cleverer than you look, after all. Suppose you tell us what else you know, and who else you’ve told about it.’
‘Why should I do that if you’re going to kill me anyway?’ said Freddy.
‘No reason at all,’ said Peacock. He stepped forward and placed the gun against Freddy’s temple. Freddy decided he was not ready to die quite yet.
‘I don’t know anything,’ he said quickly, ‘but if you’d like me to guess, I should say you’re planning to assassinate old Rowbotham tomorrow at the rally, so that John Pettit can take over as leader of the Labourers’ Union. I don’t know exactly what you have planned after that, but I imagine it’s a series of small, unofficial strikes that are intended to grow into larger ones, until half the country has walked out. I dare say there’ll be mass demonstrations, too, and much blaming of the whole situation on the mine-owners and the factory-owners. You did a dummy run last year in a few places, just to make sure it was possible to stir up a strike at short notice. I expect you’re hoping for something like a general strike, but of a more spontaneous nature than the last one.’
‘Not a bad guess,’ said Bishop. ‘We’ve a good many men all set to mobilize around the country. I reckon we ought to get a good showing.’
‘But look here, I don’t see how it can work,’ said Freddy. ‘I know Rowbotham’s a dull old stick, but he’s hardly offensive enough to require doing away with, and he has many supporters on the moderate side of things. If the idea is to allow Pettit to take over the union and wreak his nonsense on the country, then there are all sorts of flaws in your plan. I mean to say, you can’t just shoot someone in a public place without the police looking sideways at you. Do you really mean to kill Rowbotham in Hyde Park, in front of several thousand witnesses? Why, everybody will know who did it. You’ll be caught, and then Pettit will never become union leader. He’ll be arrested for being part of the plot—or at the very least public opinion will turn against him. After all, they’re hardly going to let him run the union if they know he persuaded his friends to nobble the opposition, are they? How do you propose to get around that?’
‘Oh, we have our little ideas,’ said Bishop. The pleased smiles on his and Peacock’s faces did not lessen in the slightest, and Freddy felt that he was missing something.
‘Good morning,’ said a voice from the doorway. It was Theresa Schuster. She entered, her face showing no trace of the injuries Freddy had seen the night before, and regarded Freddy with an expression he might almost have described as mischievous.
‘Found some soap, did you?’ he said, and she let out a laugh that contained genuine humour.
‘I am sorry,’ she said, ‘but it was necessary. You do not mind so very much, do you?’
There was no sensible answer to this, so Freddy said nothing. Theresa approached the three of them.
‘Put the gun down, Leonard,’ she said. ‘There is no need for it.’
‘Don’t believe it,’ said Peacock sharply. ‘This one’s a slippery character. He followed me to Finsbury Park last night—at least, I assume he did. That’s right, isn’t it?’
He glanced at Freddy, who nodded reluctantly.
‘The question is: why? Oh, it’s easy enough to guess that you overheard us on Saturday—Theresa said she caught you snooping about upstairs—but why were you doing it?’
‘I was looking for a story,’ said Freddy. ‘It was all because of Miss Stapleton, you see.’
‘Who?’ said Theresa. ‘Ah, the woman who was killed. What of her?’
‘She suspected you were all up to something, and told Mrs. Belcher,’ said Freddy. ‘Mrs. Belcher then told her brother, Sir Aldridge Featherstone, who owns my paper, the Clarion. They sent me along to see if there was anything in it, and it seems there was, because that very night Miss Stapleton was murdered.’
‘That was nothing to do with us,’ said Peacock. ‘Unless Dyer did it after all.’
‘No, I don’t think he did,’ said Freddy. ‘Anyway, I started to nose about a bit—just out of curiosity, you know—and discovered more than I expected to. We reporters like to get to a story before everybody else, and I’d say I’ve certainly done that. Something like this could keep the paper going for weeks. But look here: I’m not interested in giving you away for something you haven’t done yet. Instead of all this assassination stuff, shouldn’t you prefer to have a little positive publicity for your organization? I can arrange for the publication of a series of articles about John Pettit, and the East London Communist Alliance, and anything else you care to name. Surely that’s a better way of getting converts to your cause than shooting dead a harmless old wind-bag? That sort of thing will only frighten everyone into thinking that society’s about to collapse, and cause them to turn to the Government to protect them.’
‘Turn to this sorry excuse for a Government?’ exclaimed Sidney Bishop with sudden vehemence. ‘No they won’t—not when they find out the whole thing was a conspiracy by the Government itself to discredit the unions and thereby the working man. Once they know the Government has been plotting against them, they’ll soon understand where their loyalty lies, and then we’ve got ’em!’
‘What do you mean, the Government has been plotting against them?’ said Freddy.
Peacock gave an unpleasant smile.
‘Can’t you guess?’ he said. ‘You don’t think you fooled us with that lie of yours about looking for a scoop, do you? We know perfectly well whom you’re working for. You gave yourself away when Theresa saw you were far too interested in our little messages, and after that we had you followed—all the way to Whitehall. You’re in the Government’s pay, aren’t you?’
‘No,’ replied Freddy truthfully, as he realized with a stab of indignation that Henry had never offered him any money for the job.
‘Oh, don’t bother pretending. I tell you, you were seen. But we don’t mind, do we, Bishop?’
‘Not at all,’ said Bishop, with something like his old cheery manner. ‘As a matter of fact we’re rather pleased. We’ve a use for you now. And to think they say the upper classes are worthless good-for-nothings! Why, you’re going to be a great help to us.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Freddy fearfully.
‘You don’t think we want people getting the idea that we killed old Rowbotham, do you?’ said Peacock. ‘As you so rightly say, the police aren’t keen on that sort of thing, and nor is it the best way to get votes. None of us would ever dream of doing anything like that.’
‘Certainly not,’ agreed Bishop. ‘But British Intelligence, now—there’s a different matter. Everybody knows they’ve been spying on us, looking for a way to destroy the Communist movement, and with it the hopes of the working-class man. When we show them evidence that Rowbotham was done in by one of them, then you’ll soon see what happens. The man in the street doesn’t like being lied to, Mr. Pilkington-Soames. If he suspects the Government has been trying to pull the wool over his eyes, then he’ll turn to people who can be trusted to tell the truth. And we’ll be ready for them. We’ll get them to rise up, all right. It’ll be glorious!’