“They will be hot on the loan negotiations, I expect,” said the Minister.
“Loans are safer Parliamentary fodder than murders,” smiled Sir George. “Then you’ve no further news from Charlton Court, Blackitt?”
“Nothing much yet, sir. When Daubisq came round after the doping he’d had he couldn’t add much. Jenks had gone out to get the late sporting editions. There had been a ring at the door. Daubisq assumed that Jenks had forgotten his keys and went to open it. He isn’t quite sure whether there were two or three men there. Anyway they threw something over his head, and when he came round Jenks was dead, as we know, and our men were in charge of the flat.”
“Were any papers found on Jenks?”
“Just private papers, letters, some photographs, a wallet, a diary, just oddments like that, and some money. I suppose it would be best to keep the papers for the time being, but we might send the money to his wife, sir?” Blackitt glanced at Sir George.
“Jenks wasn’t married. Send it to his mother. I am sending her some money also,” said the Minister. “The papers are all listed, Blackitt?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A great pity about Jenks. I thought a great deal of him, Gleeson.”
“I know you did. It’s a shame he should have been shot like that. Thanks, Blackitt, we needn’t keep you and Bourne any longer just now.”
When the two officers had left the room the Minister said gloomily: “He was a first-rate man, and not easily replaceable. I wish I’d insisted on Oissel having the ordinary Yard detectives, but he made such a fuss about them that I thought I was doing the best thing in easing the negotiations by pleasing him. And he certainly took to Jenks. They became great friends.”
Sir George felt the Minister’s emotion and bit his lip to prevent him saying: “This is the sort of thing that happens when you will go outside official regulations.” The Minister had consulted him about Jenks going to Oissel in the first place, so it was difficult to say “I told you so” now. But he wanted to find out more about the negotiations that had preceded Oissel’s death.
The Minister had been like an oyster about them all through. Of course, it was Treasury business, but when trouble comes to the Home Secretary the Home Office has to clean it up.
The Minister rose.
“That seems all we can do for the moment, then. Send me the answers to the private notice questions as soon as they are ready. I’ll have lunch in my room.”
“Very well. And I’ll send your boxes over too, shall I?”
These red dispatch-boxes full of papers to be read and minutes to be initialled follow a Minister every hour of his day, almost into his bathroom. “Please.” Then he turned to West, who had stood silent all this time. “Come up to my room, Robert, will you? I’d like to have a talk with you.”
West followed his Minister from the room.
Gleeson was annoyed. “Damn these Parliamentary private secretaries,” he said to himself. “The Minister will tell all he knows under pledge of confidence to that lad, instead of trusting me, and God knows when we shall be blown out of the water by some unexpected move. Heaven send me a Minister who has sense to trust his officials.” Gleeson then suddenly realized that he was glowering fiercely at an innocent constable who was uncomfortably standing against the wall. The haughty civil servant managed a reassuring smile and said: “You will be sure that no person enters here under any pretext whatever, except Inspector Blackitt and myself.”
Sergeant Bourne hurried forward as Sir George walked into the corridor and Gleeson repeated his orders to him.
“Certainly, sir,” said the sergeant.
No, that really wouldn’t do. Gleeson realized he couldn’t checkmate West as obviously as that.
“Except of course the Minister and—er, Mr West.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But if Mr West comes alone, see that I am apprised of that fact by telephone.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Whatever orders you are given by anyone—you understand, anyone except Inspector Blackitt and myself—this room is not to be left without a police guard.”
“Very good, sir.” The sergeant saluted very respectfully as a man who knows who is the real power in the land.
CHAPTER VII
The lobbies of the House of Commons were buzzing with excitement when Robert West came down from the Home Secretary’s room at half-past two. The quarter of an hour between two-thirty and two-forty-five when the House meets is always interesting even on the quietest days. Visitors are allowed into the square hall called the Members’ Lobby, and there they form two sides of a square to watch the Speaker’s procession. The cry “Speaker. Hats off, strangers!” echoes along the corridors, and down the main lobby comes a little procession inspiring awe in the stranger by its simple dignity. A small affair—the Sergeant-at-Arms with the enormous gilt (but hollow) mace over his shoulder; the Speaker, tall, dignified in a grey wig and a long black gown with its train held up by a little man in black Court uniform; a secretary, the chaplain, two stalwart messengers, and that is all.
But it is sufficient to bring home to the watching public and even to blasé M.P.s themselves that the Speaker is the symbol of the power of the Commons, and that a glance from the Speaker’s eye secures the rights of Members to hear and be heard.
To-day the crowd was much larger than usual. The newspaper headlines had caused a great sensation. Even a Member dropping dead in the House of Commons, as has happened several times, is a considerable news item, but a suicide—and of such a man—in the centre of critical negotiations was nearly enough to please even a news editor.
Already some papers were beginning to question the suicide theory. Annette Oissel had been interviewed for the lunch-hour editions. Characteristically she had said nothing to the reporters except “My grandfather did not commit suicide,” but that was sufficient for a Press sensation.
The reputed size of the fortune to which she was the presumed heiress and her refusal to make any other remark only added salt to her words.
In the division lobbies at either side of the debating chamber M.P.s in groups were discussing the situation. As they surrounded him, West almost regretted his decision to come down. But one of the most important duties of a P.P.S. is to ‘sense the atmosphere’ of the House for his Chief, and it was specially important for the Government at this moment to know what was being said. West felt that the decision to hold back, however temporarily, the evidence against the death being by suicide was a profound mistake. Why did Governments and the Civil Service invariably lay up unnecessary trouble for themselves by this determined secrecy about everything?
The evidence was bound to come out. Why not anticipate gossip and avoid misunderstanding by saying all they knew quite frankly? But he had been warned he must say nothing about it, and so as he entered the division lobby he felt like an unarmed Christian being thrown to some gorgeously hungry lions.
Questions poured upon him:
“What’s your Chief been up to?”
“Why was he in the loan negotiations?”
“What did he say to Oissel to make him commit suicide?”
“What will America say?”
“Is it suicide?”
“Annette Oissel says it isn’t.”
Robert tried to parry all these questions by the method of starting to answer one, then turning on to another before he had committed himself. The man he dreaded was Michael Houldsworth, a young Socialist from Lancashire with eyes as keen as a hawk’s. He was standing by West’s side waiting for the hubbub to fall a little. When it did, he said in clear tones:
“It wasn’t suicide, West, and you know it.” There was silence. West hated Houldsworth at that moment. The crowd of M.P.s waited. He couldn’t ride away now in the general excitement, and Houldsworth knew that.
West’s temper rose. “If it wasn
’t suicide,” he said hotly, “it was an act of God, for there seem to be no other means by which he could have died.”
Houldsworth smiled grimly.
“Is your Chief going to invoke the Deity when he answers my private notice question?”
West was saved from a further retort by the cry of “Speaker at prayers” which rang through the corridors in the deep musical voices of the House messengers.
Just for three minutes’ peace Bob slipped into prayers, at which he was a very infrequent attendant.
A hush was on the House. All the galleries except the Ladies’ Gallery far away in the roof are kept empty for the simple daily ritual. M.P.s stand at their benches, and the quiet voice of the chaplain intones the service. At the prayers the Members turn their faces to the wall.“Prevent us, O Lord, by Thy mighty power… that we, putting aside all private interests, prejudices, and partial affections…”
West usually smiled to think how much that petition was needed in such an assembly, but this afternoon he was thinking of Annette.
Prayers were over. Members who had remained outside the doors of the chamber until they were informed of that fact crowded into their seats. Questions began.
As always, they ranged over a bewildering variety of subjects. Why had some natives been shot in the Andaman Islands? Why had a pension been refused Mrs Smith? Why were the lockers in H.M.S. Rochester no longer heated?
Gracie Richards had a private little battle with the Home Secretary about a woman whom she considered had been wrongfully imprisoned as a prostitute. At any other time, West would have been keenly on her side. Her heavy dark straight hair, framing a warm, almost Southern olive complexion, and her bright black eyes made a picture well worth looking at in such a depressingly male assembly.
Robert usually got considerable amusement out of the fact that he was secretly on friendly terms with this young rebel, though to the world outside the House he appeared as her relentless critic in a neighbouring constituency. But to-day Gracie failed to excite him. He had an appointment with Annette when questions were over.
He had telephoned to ask her to tea on the Terrace to talk things over. It was daring under the circumstances, but the conventions of mourning did not seem to trouble Annette. She had agreed at once.
The private notice questions were coming on. He wanted to get them over. Impatiently, and for the first time, he wished Gracie were less aggressive. Why couldn’t she let the matter rest? Why worry at it like a terrier with a rat? Why worry anyway about this imprisoned trollop when women like Annette——? Here Bob pulled himself up, told himself he was a fool, and tried to take some interest in what was being said.
Miss Richards was silenced but not appeased when the clock showed a quarter to four. At this time the questions on the order paper end, however few or many are left to be answered. The private notice questions, if there are any, begin. They always provide a thrill, because this method of asking questions can only be used for really grave and urgent matters. Members settle themselves for the choice bit of the day.
Michael Houldsworth stood up in his place high on the fourth bench, and his Lancashire accent emphasized the prescribed formula. “May I ask the Home Secretary a question of which I have given him private notice? Can he make any statement to the House about the death of Mr Georges Oissel in this House last evening?”
The House went deadly quiet. The Home Secretary rose. In firm but colourless tones he read the answer Sir George Gleeson had supplied. “I regret to have to inform the House that Mr Georges Oissel, with whom, as is well known, the Government were conducting important negotiations, and who was with me last night at a friendly and informal dinner, was found dead by a Member of this House some minutes after I had left him to vote in the division on the finance bill. The police are investigating the matter. His Majesty’s Government wish to place on record their profound sorrow at the occurrence and their deep sympathy with the relatives, which I have already had the honour to communicate to them.”
The official voice ceased. A murmur went round the House. The Home Secretary took off his glasses. “I may perhaps be permitted a personal word. Mr Georges Oissel was an old friend of mine. His death, so unexpected, in the middle of a friendly discussion has come to me as a profound shock. I would like to add an expression of my personal sorrow to the words I have just read.”
This time the murmuring was definitely sympathetic. The House loves a personal touch. It will forgive almost anything if such an explanation is tactfully made. Michael Houldsworth was not impressed. Both Front Benches dreaded to see him on the warpath, just because he remained completely unmoved by the considerations which usually influence that rather sentimental assembly. Gracie moved to the seat next to Houldsworth and was apparently encouraging him.
“Has the Home Secretary seen the statement by Miss Oissel that she is convinced her grandfather did not commit suicide, and has he any reason to doubt the official police theory that it was suicide?”
It was a cleverly phrased question, not so direct in attack as to rouse sympathy for the Minister, but enough to put doubt in the public mind.
“I have seen Miss Oissel’s statement. I may say I have seen Miss Oissel herself. I can only assure the House that every theory will be carefully examined, and that the most skilled attention of Scotland Yard is being concentrated both on the death of Mr Oissel and the burglary at his flat which seems to have taken place at approximately the same time.” A chorus of “Hear, hears” from the Government benches greeted this remark. To West’s relief Houldsworth did not rise to put any further questions. He was obviously going to make trouble, but they were over the first hurdle. Now for Annette.
So intent was he in pushing his way out through the crowd of Members also moving tea-ward, leaving a very thinly attended House behind them, that he did not notice Grace Richards put out her hand to attract his attention.
But Houldsworth noticed. “Have some tea with me, Gracie, and let’s chew the mystery,” he said.
“Yes, let’s. I’d love to,” said Grace Richards with an annoyed glance at Robert’s back. She was accustomed to find Robert eagerly seeking her at the tea-hour.
West was not in the mood to be deterred by any more M.P.s wanting news. The worst was over for the moment. He went down the corridor where only last night he had looked for Don Shaw. This time his quest was for Annette. As befitted her importance she was not out in the crowd in the Strangers’ Lobby, but sitting on one of the benches in the corridor, a privilege only allowed by the attendants to those known to be ‘somebody.’
Seated there under the glances of the curious (for any person of special interest is always pointed out to visitors by the all-knowing policeman) Annette certainly looked ‘somebody.’ The smart black woollen dress of the morning had been changed for one of rich dull satin that moulded the angular lines of her lanky limbs. Robert, quite aware of the sensation they were causing, led her to a table on the Terrace he had booked for the two of them.
The Terrace of the House of Commons on a warm June afternoon is one of the liveliest sights in London. Groups of earnest and self-conscious constituents are given tea by their equally earnest Members. Less conscientious M.P.s decorate their tables with a pretty girl or two. The very dutiful sit surrounded by relatives and try to look impressive. Up and down walk the political bigwigs at exercise. No one could deduce from their noble aloofness that they are aware of every nudge, every whispered “That’s Mr So-and-so.” A politician has to reach very great eminence and the fullness of many years before he really avoids the Terrace in the height of the season. Robert was quite aware of the whispers that followed his dignified progress with Annette Oissel, but he was annoyed to find Grace Richards, his usual tea companion, in earnest conversation with Michael Houldsworth. She smiled up at him as he passed. He hesitated for a second and then did not introduce Annette.
After all, he could tell Gracie after
wards that Miss Oissel had come to talk business, and her mourning obviously excused the ordinary politenesses. But he knew that he did not want the two girls to meet. His bringing Annette to the Terrace at all was a gesture of political bravado, and now she was here he hardly knew what to say. He was tempted to tell her about the police evidence—tempted because he wanted somehow to raise interest in himself, but Annette, alone, was fortunately much more approachable than when she had met him earlier in the morning accompanied by Kinnaird.
“I have seen the lawyers, and we have been through my grandfather’s papers,” she said after they had talked generalities for a time. She accepted the tea he poured out, having neglected to do anything about it for herself. “Anything much missing?” asked Robert, struggling with the hot handle.
“Well, it’s difficult to say. I don’t know all that he had, of course. One thing worries me—the loss of a notebook he always carried when he was conducting business negotiations.”
“You’ve told the police about that, of course.”
Annette made an impatient gesture. “I tell the police as little as possible. I trust them as little as my grandfather did.”
“This is not America, you know.” Robert smiled as he passed the bread-and-butter.
“I care not. Police are police the world over. I came to you. You are a politician. You are discreet.”
Robert bowed. “I’m glad I’ve earned that favourable opinion so soon.” He loved watching Annette—so quiet and still, yet so exquisite were her hands. He wanted her to put lots of sugar into his tea so that he might watch the curl of her small white fingers over the sugar-tongs, but instead he had himself to ladle it in.
Annette was silent again. Then she said quietly: “I want you to help me to find that notebook without telling the police either of its loss or of its importance.”
The Division Bell Mystery Page 7