The Division Bell Mystery

by Ellen Wilkinson

  “Dead,” he said. “Practically instantaneous, I should think. An awful mess. The bullet has struck a bone. Difficult to say more without a post-mortem. What has happened? Has he committed suicide?”

  “The revolver is here. It looks as though he has,” said West, “but I must get the Home Secretary at once. Mr Oissel was dining with him.”

  Again there was a banging on the door, and Shaw, who had constituted himself doorkeeper, which seemed the useful job at the moment, let in a powerfully built middle-aged man—a police-sergeant, one of the stalwarts of the House of Commons corps.

  “Ah, Bourne, glad you’ve come,” said Dr Reading. “This is more your job than mine now.”

  The sergeant knelt down beside the body. “Shot, sir? How has this happened? Who was here with him?” Bourne looked up at Bob West.

  “There was no one with him, at least not when he was shot,” said West. “The Home Secretary was dining with him, but he must have gone up to the division. We came in, Shaw and I, the moment we heard the shot. We were just passing the door at the time. We found this revolver on the floor. I picked it up,” and West moved to pick it up again.

  “Better not touch it again, sir. We’ll have to examine it for fingerprints when the Inspector comes,” said the sergeant. “He was dining with the Home Secretary, you said?”

  West pulled himself together. “Yes, and I must get him at once, Sergeant. It is terribly important. I’d better tell him myself. It will be a terrible shock to him.”

  Any police officer in the House of Commons is always impressed with the danger of putting his feet where they are not likely to be welcomed by High Authority. Sergeant Bourne knew the House and its ways.

  “That will be best, sir, if you’ll see the Home Secretary while I phone up Scotland Yard. Would you like a constable to go with you? You look pretty shaky.”

  “I’ll take Mr Shaw with me. There’ll be enough sensation in the lobbies without my being escorted by a policeman.”

  Shaw took charge of his white-faced friend, and a policeman pushed a way for them through the throng of guests and M.P.s in the corridor. A dozen Members pounced on Bob, but his white face and staring eyes enabled the expert constable to get him through the crowd, which was left with the firm conviction that West was somehow the cause of whatever had happened.

  The stairs and long narrow corridors of the House seemed endless. Shaw had all he could do to prevent Bob dashing along at full speed. As it was, they cannoned into several scandalized Members.

  “It’s like a nightmare,” thought Don Shaw. The news had evidently begun to filter through as news does in the House of Commons, more quickly than anywhere except in an African forest. Hands tried to stop them as they rushed by. Heads were turned as they dashed along.

  “He’s sure to come out behind the Speaker’s chair. He will have had to be on the Front Bench when the figures were announced,” gasped Bob.

  The division was over, and Members were pouring out of the Chamber like bees out of a hive. In the centre of a group, yet coldly aloof, was the Home Secretary. Shaw caught a glimpse of the heavy white face, set high on a pedestal of starched collar, which was the joy of every caricaturist.

  West seized his arm. The Minister looked at his Parliamentary private secretary in cold surprise.

  “I must see you for a moment, sir,” said West hurriedly. “Something dreadful has happened. Mr Oissel has committed suicide.”

  “Suicide! Mr Oissel committed suicide! What on earth are you talking about? He was perfectly all right when I left him.”

  “He’s dead now, sir.”

  The Minister looked as though his secretary had taken leave of his senses. He drew him back into the division lobby. Shaw made to follow. A watchful policeman put out a restraining hand.

  “Members only that way, sir.”

  Shaw gritted his teeth. It was maddening. The Home Secretary’s face had interested him. He wanted to see how he would take the news. But the barrier between sheep and goats, between elects and non-elects, is Himalaya high in the House of Commons.

  Shaw stood a few moments alone. The news was spreading. No one knew him, of course, and he heard scraps of conversation as excited Members went by him.

  “Suicide in front of the Home Secretary, I hear.”

  “Does this mean a row with America?”

  “I don’t believe the story at all. It simply couldn’t happen in the House…”

  The dark-coated figures passed up and down the corridor, and somehow in the foreground there appeared to Shaw a twisted little figure with a red-stained shirt-front.

  West came out of the division lobby with the Home Secretary. “This is Donald Shaw, sir. He was with me when we went into the room.”

  “I wish we met under happier circumstances, Mr Shaw,” and the Home Secretary marched along the corridor with the two young men. “Simply inexplicable. I cannot understand why he should commit suicide at such a moment. And why choose to do it here? He knew my heart is bad. I really ought not to have shocks like these. Most inconsiderate.”

  “There hadn’t been any difficulty… about the loan, I mean?” asked Bob hesitatingly.

  The Home Secretary placed a dignified arm on Bob’s shoulder without slackening his pace.

  “If only the loan were in question,” he said with just the ghost of a smile, “there would be more reason why I should commit suicide than he.”

  When they arrived on the lower corridor they found an excited mob of Pressmen, M.P.s’ guests, and waiters in the entrance that divides the dining-rooms from the other part of the House. The police had cleared the Harcourt corridor, and they made a lane for the Home Secretary’s party. As the Minister was recognized the crowd pressed respectfully back. His self-control was magnificent. With West, Shaw, and a policeman at his heels he walked up the empty corridor as one destined by Providence to take full command of any situation. The policeman on duty outside the fateful room saluted and threw open the door.

  The body of Mr Oissel had been reverently covered by a white tablecloth brought in by the manager of the refreshment department, who stood suave and polite as ever, but with a slight protest in his manner at such happenings being allowed to disturb his cherished dining arrangements. The waiter, by this time under repeated questionings a mere mass of black and white misery, stood near the manager as one seeking protection from such assured authority. Sergeant Bourne and Dr Reading stood by the corpse. An awkward silence fell on the room as the doctor drew back the cloth from the dead man’s face.

  For a moment it seemed as though the awe-inspiring yet comforting self-control of the Home Secretary would break. He said nothing, but turned his back on the others and blew his nose violently twice. Dr Reading replaced the cloth.

  “You think it was suicide, doctor?” asked the Minister.

  “Of course, I can’t say that definitely, without closer examination. But the wound certainly could have been self-inflicted,” replied the doctor in low tones.

  “Do you remember what the time was exactly when you left the room, sir?” asked Bourne, stepping forward.

  “Perfectly. It was ten minutes to nine. I had promised the Prime Minister that I would be in for the last few minutes of his speech, and in any case my heart will not permit me to hurry, so I asked Mr Oissel to excuse me until the division was over. I had previously explained that the division was timed for nine o’clock. He quite understood that. He was perfectly happy and composed when I left him.”

  “And I know it was just nine as we heard the shot,” added West, “because Big Ben was striking as we came along the corridor.”

  “Then the question is, was he alone during those ten minutes?” said Shaw.

  Sergeant Bourne glanced at his notebook. “I’ve taken notes of the waiter’s evidence. He says that he came into the room after the Home Secretary had left, to change the plates an
d bring in dessert, and that Mr Oissel told him not to bring the coffee till the Home Secretary came back.”

  Don Shaw turned to the frightened waiter. “Did Mr Oissel seem agitated as he told you that?” he asked.

  The Minister’s jaw set. “You will forgive my saying, Mr—er—er”

  “Shaw,” murmured Bob.

  “Mr Shaw—that this does not seem the time or place for unofficial cross-examinations. The police have the matter fully in hand, I take it, Sergeant Bourne?”

  “Certainly, sir. Of course we shall need Mr West and Mr Shaw as witnesses, and yourself, sir, I suppose. I telephoned the Yard. Inspector Blackitt is being put in charge—should be here any minute, sir. I can’t have anything touched till he comes.”

  “The windows were closed, I remember,” said the Minister, walking to them to try them.

  “Yes, sir. Closed and latched from the inside as you see, sir. You hadn’t had them opened during the meal?”

  “God forbid! I hate draughts as much as Georges Oissel. Poor Oissel! Why ever did he do it?”

  “If I may venture to ask, sir,” said the sergeant with an enigmatic glance at Shaw, “I take it that your conversation, the—er—business, hadn’t been of an unpleasant character?”

  “Certainly not. We hadn’t got to business. That was waiting until the Prime Minister came. We had just been talking about old times. I knew Georges Oissel in Canada twenty years ago, and we had talked most pleasantly. Of course, I don’t know anything about his private worries. It’s a sad business. But I must see the Prime Minister. He has been told, of course?”

  “Oh, yes, sir—Mr Walters went to see him when Mr West went to you, and he has sent a message asking you if you would go to his room when you had seen the police, sir.”

  “Yes, of course, I am going now. I suppose there is nothing more that can be done at the moment. Oh, but what about the Press? They will make a scare thing out of this. Robert, you had better give out an official statement. There is no reason why the Press should make things worse by undue sensationalism.” With this weighty utterance High Authority turned to the door, which was respectfully opened by one policeman while the others stood to attention.

  Even in the midst of all the horrors Bob West managed a wry smile as the door closed behind his Chief.

  “As though special editions aren’t already on sale in the streets,” he murmured to Don.“Well, you’ll be glad to be rid of us, Sergeant, while I see the Press. Tell Inspector Blackitt I’m at his disposal any time. Thanks very much, Reading. Good night.”

  “Good night, West. By the way, has Mr Oissel any relatives? Oughtn’t you to get into touch with them?”

  “Heavens, I don’t know. Don’t know anything about him. But anyway I’ll find out. Thanks for reminding me. I ought to see the Chief about letters of condolence, but they’ll do to-morrow, won’t they? I must see the Press now.”

  “That’s a great responsibility, West. I should be very careful if I were you.”

  “Don’t I realize I’m treading on egg-shells, doctor! But if we don’t give out an official statement there’ll be merry hell to pay to-morrow morning. Come along, Shaw. You’ll see me through it?”

  “Sure!” And the two men left the room together.

  “Well, you are a blighter, West! Might give a pal the tip before you murder your friends in the House of Commons, or at least hand out the dope before our main edition goes to press.”

  West started. “Sancroft, you are the limit! You would get round the police somehow. How the hell did you get here when the police had combed every room along the corridor?”

  Sancroft, the reporter of the Daily Deliverer, was evidently a friend of West’s, for he slipped his arm through the other’s and held him from going along to see the other Pressmen.

  “Sheer luck, my dear fellow. There are places where the police are too modest to look. And knowing something was in the wind, there I stayed.”

  “You would! Shaw, this is the worst Pressman in London. He’s always there. It’s dreadful. You can never find him when you want him and never lose him when you don’t.”

  Sancroft was a round, portly little person with twinkling eyes behind thick glasses. He looked cheerfully up at the tall, grave Shaw.

  “And this is your accomplice in the crime, I suppose. Now, gentlemen, I want to warn you that what you say will not be used in evidence against you, so get along with the yarn.”

  “No, seriously, Sannie, you’ve got to help me,” said West earnestly. “I’m in a devil of a hole. I don’t know how much to tell the Press, and whatever I say there’ll be hell’s own row.”

  Sancroft saw the door of Room E opening along the corridor. With a swift gesture he drew the two men inside the convenient lavatory. He wanted West to himself for three minutes.

  “Tell me the full yarn, Bob. It’s no use trying to be diplomatic. Our chaps will ferret out the whole story and it will look bad if anything has been kept back. Besides, why shouldn’t you? The Home Secretary can’t be expected to know that his guests will commit suicide if he leaves them alone for a moment. Personally, if I were his guest I should commit suicide, or murder, if he didn’t.”

  “But why must he do it here?” wailed Bob. “Hell! I had enough trouble getting the blighter here, without his serving this trick on me. And I know I’m going to be blamed for it somehow.”

  “Of course you are. That’s why P.P.S.s are yanked out of their gooseberry bushes,” said Sancroft. “But you’ll be torn limb from limb if you don’t get out to our lads and hand out the dope. My old mother’s advice was ‘If ye tell a lie stick to it and heaven itsel’ can’t get o’er ye,’ but my advice is to tell the plain truth. They probably won’t believe you, so it will do just as well as any lie you can think of at this moment.”

  As the two men turned to leave their retreat, after Bob had rapidly told his tale, Sancroft caught his arm.

  “You are sure it’s suicide.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then the only story is the why. Can I come round to your flat when I’ve seen this through, and talk a bit?”

  “Yes, do. Shaw will be along for a drink. My God! I’ve forgotten I’ve had a dinner with all this happening!”

  CHAPTER III

  Shaw learnt why Robert West was a rising young politician as he watched his handling of the impatient Pressmen. There were one or two significant omissions in the tale he told, but all the journalists wanted was to get to their offices with the main facts. Clues and motives were the game of to-morrow.

  “I’ll have to go through the Members’ Lobby,” said Bob when the last question had been answered. “I’d rather dodge them down the back-stairs, but God knows what rumour will be out by now.”

  Shaw followed West along the locker-lined corridor to that octagonal space where the heart of Parliament beats. The House of Commons had risen soon after the nine o’clock division, and it was now ten-thirty, but groups of Members still stood excitedly discussing the sensation of the day—for the threatened crisis had disappeared with the announcement of the Government’s majority. Again Shaw had to admire his friend’s technique.

  Every one made a dart at West, who somehow managed to deny rumours, to quieten agitated and elderly M.P.s and even to deal with a cynical young woman who wanted to know why he had only shot one poor little millionaire instead of turning a machine-gun on to the whole Front Bench.

  “Cheeky young sprite,” commented Don as at last he found himself being taken downstairs by Bob. “Is she a secretary or an M.P.’s daughter?”

  “Daughter!” exclaimed Bob. “That’s Grace Richards, M.P., our latest acquisition. Surely you’ve heard of Gracie?”

  “Good lord, and is that what the British electors send to govern the remnants of a once decent Empire? No wonder things are going phut.”

  “And what’s wrong with girls like Gracie
?” Bob West turned quite hotly to face his friend. “They’re a damned sight more intelligent than that lot we’ve been trying to smooth down. Old Commander Beltwhistle with his stock and his eyeglass. You’d imagine to hear him that America would declare war to-morrow because one decrepit millionaire went and shot himself where he shouldn’t.”

  “No doubt Miss Gracie Richards would survey the floor of the House of Commons covered with dead millionaires without flinching. But sorry if I touched a sore place. Is it sore, I mean? I can’t see you as a disinterested feminist, Bob.”

  West went red, but said nothing as he retrieved his coat and hat. The two men stood for a moment at the Members’ entrance while the stalwart policeman’s cry of “Tax-oi, tax-oi” rang across the yard. Big Ben towered solidly against the dark November sky. Palace Yard was silent. In it were parked a few cars of the Members who were still upstairs.

  Policemen stood at every entrance. “It all seems so solid and so safe,” said Don Shaw as the respectful constable opened the door of the taxi he had hailed for them and tucked them carefully into it.

  “Safe? I should think it is. There’s police and plainclothes detectives at every corner. The Home Office looks after M.P.s in this place as though they were the Crown Jewels. But, damn it all, the police can’t be expected to search our dinner guests for firearms. And it’s so much worse it being the Home Secretary. Did you hear old Beltwhistle, pompous ass—‘If the political chief of Scotland Yard cannot look after his own guests——’ The whole damned country will be doing a grin to-morrow.”

  Robert West lived in a very self-contained flat—a couple of rooms with a primitive bathroom-cum-kitchenette over some business premises in Soho. “It’s like a conspiracy going up here,” laughed Don, as West opened the street door and led him up the narrow dark stairs. West replied with a rather dry grunt, opened the flat door at the top of the stairs, picked up the letters lying on the mat, and tossed them on to a small table as he hung up his hat and coat. He lit the gas-fire, pulled a whisky bottle and a syphon out of the cupboard, found a couple of glasses, and then threw himself into a chair without speaking.