The Division Bell Mystery

by Ellen Wilkinson

  “You’re right, West, and a damned intelligent fellow if I may say so. You haven’t found out whether the Home Secretary murdered Oissel as a conscientious contribution to the settlement of the international problem, I suppose?”

  West laughed. He couldn’t help it. He felt so utterly relieved now that he had shared his nightmare with so capable and astute a person as Dalbeattie. Then he remembered the coming interview with the Prime Minister. He found himself hoping that that awe-inspiring person would not be at Chequers, or in any other available spot, and at the same time thrilled with the idea of himself, a mere Parliamentary private secretary, arriving in state with the powerful Dalbeattie for a midnight interview. There is no wine so intoxicating as that feeling of being really in the inside when big events are moving.

  Even the irrepressible Lady Bell-Clinton was awed when Dalbeattie sent the butler for her, and told her that he had phoned the Prime Minister, who had remained at Downing Street for a Saturday function, and that he and Robert were going there at once. She was too skilled in the management of men to ask any questions when both of them were obviously tense. She would be the confidante of each of them separately when they had calmed down. Besides, they would have more to tell her then. Lady Bell-Clinton preferred to deal with only one man at a time.

  CHAPTER XV

  During the long drive back to London in Dalbeattie’s Rolls-Royce, Robert was put through a close cross-examination on every detail of the case. Then Dalbeattie was quiet for a time. “I think,” he suddenly said, “that the murder will have to be kept separate from the Jenks affair. The Home Secretary does get sudden cranks. I’ve known him a long time, and he is quite incalculable when he gets some idea in his head. But I still believe him to be as straight as he is stupid. We’ve got to frighten him into telling the Prime Minister exactly what he has been up to, but the mystery of Oissel’s death still remains, and that is what will make it so damned awkward for the Government.”

  “They don’t seem to be very worried about it,” said West. “I mean, if it is really going to be so serious they ought to do something about it, oughtn’t they?”

  Dalbeattie made an impatient exclamation. “I’ve often wondered, West, what it is that happens to most men—not all, of course—when they get into a Government. All parties seem to catch a low fever. I suppose it is that men get absolutely engrossed in their own departments, and the most difficult thing is to see a show as big as Britain, never mind the Empire, as a whole. I remember when a previous Government was within three days of dissolution and a smashing defeat talking to a Cabinet Minister who was calmly making plans for the following year. He just hadn’t heard that there was trouble afoot. It sounds incredible, but I assure you that actually happened. And the man was not a fool, but a really capable Minister.”

  When the car drew up before the door of No. 10 Downing Street, Robert’s thrill returned. He had attended official garden-parties there, and knew the hall and the main office. He had seen the room in which the Cabinet met. But he had never seen the private part of the house. As he walked up the white staircase with its simple green carpet, and the cheaply framed photographs of previous Prime Ministers on the walls, West warmed to this traditional simplicity of English public life. He followed Dalbeattie, who was evidently quite familiar with the house, through the oak-panelled but rather sombre dining-room into the small drawing-room which opened from the end of it. A simple snuggery it had been made by its present occupant. Comfortable chairs in bright chintz covers, a huge official desk, and a few books made all the furnishing of a room which must have heard more important conversations than almost any four walls in the world.

  Robert, who was growing nervous and trying hard not to think too much of what was in store for him, was rather cheered when the Premier rose from his armchair clad in a dressing-gown and soft slippers. “I had changed when you telephoned,” he said pleasantly, shaking hands first with Lord Dalbeattie and then with Robert, “and I knew you would forgive my receiving you like this.”

  “It is quite unpardonable to have bothered you at such a time, but you know that I should not have done so had I not felt that the matter was urgent,” Dalbeattie replied with formal courtesy, but Robert saw that the two men were on terms of complete equality.

  While his companion was explaining in general terms why he had brought West in such a hurry, Robert tried to get used to the Prime Minister in this informal garb, in place of the quite impressive figure who dominated the Treasury Bench in the House of Commons, when Dalbeattie turned to Robert and said: “Now I think you had better tell the Prime Minister the whole story as you told it to me.” Robert felt his face go white. But he had gone over every detail so often in his own mind that he was able to give a coherent account of the entire affair from the first letter he had written for the Home Secretary to Georges Oissel to the finding of the decoded notes in the Minister’s file.

  The Premier was a good listener. He sat back in his chair and listened without moving or uttering a word. As Robert finished he turned to the older man and in an even voice which betrayed nothing of his own feelings he asked: “Well, and what do you think of all this, Dalbeattie?”

  “It sounds incredible, but… well, there you are. West isn’t a fool. Why ever did you let the man touch those loan negotiations? You know I was against his being brought in—right from the beginning.”

  “Please. We can’t go into all that again. I had hoped the Home Secretary’s personal relations with Mr Oissel would be useful, as undoubtedly they were, especially in the early stages of our discussions.”

  “But what has he been up to?”

  The Prime Minister smiled a rather weary half-smile. “We must await his explanations. But I am sure that whatever he has done he did with the best intentions.”

  Dalbeattie laughed grimly. “Oh, these ultra-conscientious folk! They make ten times more mischief than the rogues. And when we are all in the soup he will be quite hurt if some one doesn’t move him a vote of thanks. Christening a ship in Scotland he is at this minute, and leaving this powder-magazine behind him. The fuse is timed to explode on Monday. I suppose he will be back for the debate on the adjournment?”

  “That’s not till eleven,” said West.

  “It could come on at seven-thirty, and will, if a breath of all this has got out. I hope you have been extremely discreet, West,” said the Premier.

  “I can assure you I have not told a soul, sir.” Again Robert’s conscience pricked him about Shaw, but, thank God, Don was all right—and what a blessing he had not said a word to Blackitt!

  The Prime Minister knocked out his pipe on the hearth. “Personalities, personalities, my God, what a problem they are!”

  Robert had a glimmering of pity at that moment for this lonely man, for any man whose position raised him so far above the common run and yet left him with no means but his own wits to deal with the warring personalities around him. Sensitive to atmosphere, Robert felt that these two men wanted to be alone. They had to face the gathering storm. Queer that though he had never met Dalbeattie before dinner on this very night, he felt glad that the Premier had him at hand when such a crisis had to be faced. He rose and said deferentially to the Premier: “If that is all I can do, sir, perhaps if I went now…?”

  “My man will drive you back to Clinton Bardsley,” said Dalbeattie. “Tell him I will stay in town to-night. He can come back for me to-morrow.”

  “It will be long after midnight by the time I get back. Perhaps it will be rather rough on Lady Bell-Clinton to go down now.”

  “She will never forgive you if you don’t.”

  The Prime Minister looked up in alarm. “Do you think he had better go there, Dalbeattie? Lady Bell-Clinton means well, but it might be very difficult for West to keep his own counsel about all this, if she were determined to know.”

  Dalbeattie smiled. “West looks as though he knew how to deal with a pretty wom
an. It will cause less comment if he goes. Think out a good yarn while you are driving back, West, for you’ll have to tell Ivy something. Do you think you could manage to have a talk with Kinnaird during Sunday without, of course, giving a hint of anything we suspect about the code? I’m curious to know what his real relations were with Oissel, and whether Miss Oissel is going to accept him.”

  “Is that wise?” asked the Premier nervously. “Secrecy is above all essential until we have seen the Home Secretary. West might be pumped by a clever man like Kinnaird without his knowing it.”

  Dalbeattie smiled encouragingly at Robert. “The lad seems to have done pretty well so far. I think he can be trusted.”

  Robert went out to the waiting car with these words ringing in his ears, and on the long drive back he pondered on the problem, which is really the central problem of all government, of why it was that the forceful personalities like Dalbeattie, men who are born to be leaders of men, are so seldom found in active politics. He would like to be under Dalbeattie in a hard fight. He thanked his stars that he had had the impulse to trust him with that confession in the garden after dinner.

  It was nearly two o’clock when Robert reached Clinton Bardsley. Every one had gone to bed except Lady Bell-Clinton and Philip Kinnaird, who had sat up with her. They came across the hall as soon as they heard the tyres ground upon the gravel of the drive.

  “I would like to think that it was devotion that made Philip sit up with me, but I fear it was only curiosity,” laughed his hostess as she took Robert into her own little sitting-room, the one spot of unconventional comfort in the vastness of the place. Robert was grateful for the hot coffee she prepared on an electric heater, and for the pile of sandwiches that had been left for him.

  “And now you are going to reward us by saying that it is all too confidential for you to say a word. But do tell me this. How did the Home Secretary murder poor Mr Oissel?”

  Robert laughed. He had made up his mind about his line as Dalbeattie had advised. Since Kinnaird was here, and Annette would presumably have told him about Jenks, it might be interesting to try out his reactions.

  “And could you really be trusted not to say a word to anyone?”

  “Goodness me, young Mr Robert West! I was in Parliament while you were still in a prep. school.”

  “Then you have been long enough there not to quote age as a proof of wisdom,” teased Robert. “The point is, as I expect Miss Oissel told you, Kinnaird, that we are not quite easy in our minds about Edward Jenks.”

  “No, Miss Oissel has told me nothing. She is the soul of discretion, as you know.”

  Robert was amazed. Wasn’t Kinnaird on such intimate terms with Annette as he had hinted, or did that reserved young lady keep her confidence even from those nearest to her? Had he made a mistake in telling Kinnaird so much?

  “Our evidence is not conclusive,” he said, trying to lead away from the scent. “The only reason why it is so confidential is that Jenks stood in such a special relation to the Home Secretary. We can do nothing until he returns on Monday.” Kinnaird’s face showed no special interest.

  “I wonder if he thinks I am just making this up for Ivy’s benefit,” thought Robert, “or whether he is really unconcerned.”

  Kinnaird begged another cup of coffee. “Haven’t the police any theory as to the burglars who shot Jenks?” he asked.

  Robert was anxious to keep the conversation on safe generalities. “Of course, Lord Dalbeattie will be able to help us a lot there. He is inclined to the theory that some pirate group in the City might have had something to do with it. Seems rather fantastic to me, England not being America; we ought to put a tariff on gangsters if the U.S.A. starts exporting them.”

  Dalbeattie had said nothing of the kind, but Robert thought it was a neat invention and a safe one. He was rather surprised at the effect it produced on Kinnaird.

  “I think Miss Oissel ought to be told if Lord Dalbeattie is taking a hand in her affairs,” he said angrily. “I can assure you that his intervention will not be welcome to her.”

  Lady Bell-Clinton blew several little smoke-rings from her cigarette. “It’s not exactly a private affair of Annette’s, is it, if British securities are falling, and there is going to be a Parliamentary crisis next week? I am glad you confided in Dick Dalbeattie, Robert. I feel safe when he has got anything in hand. Now we won’t worry you with any more questions. Up to bed, both of you.”

  Robert had the impression that Kinnaird would have liked to stay behind and talk to him alone, but Ivy Bell-Clinton firmly prevented that by laughingly driving the two men before her up the stairs, and playing the anxious hostess as she saw them to their rooms. Robert undressed very slowly, thinking of this new complication. Dalbeattie had not hinted that he had any special knowledge of Kinnaird or the Oissels. He had merely asked Robert to try and find out whether the engagement of Annette to Philip was likely to take place. Was Dalbeattie interested in Annette? There was a Lady Dalbeattie—Robert vaguely remembered seeing pictures of her in the sporting illustrated papers—so Dalbeattie could not himself be a candidate for Annette and her millions. Then why should Kinnaird be so furious that Dalbeattie was interesting himself in the matter? And on what a slight thread that interference had hung, a mere chance emotion in the garden in the early evening—Robert’s fear of being alone with his tremendous secret! But was it a chance? Robert wondered whether it was really Annette Oissel who had asked that he should be invited to Clinton Bardsley, or had it been on Lord Dalbeattie’s initiative?

  CHAPTER XVI

  Summoned by a telegram marked “Government Absolute Priority,” the Home Secretary arrived at No. 10 Downing Street punctually at ten o’clock on Monday morning. Though he had travelled all night and had driven straight from the station, he was as perfectly groomed as though he had just left his own bedroom.

  The Prime Minister did not receive him in the snug sitting-room where he had talked to Robert and Lord Dalbeattie, but in the formal office set aside for his official use. No one who had seen them sitting facing each other would have imagined that the Home Secretary could have been guilty of even an indiscretion. He was far more at his ease than the Prime Minister. The Home Secretary fitted into the life of official England as a hand into a glove. There was scarcely a period since the days of Queen Elizabeth when some member of his family had not borne high office in the State. Neither Whig nor Tory, Conservative nor Liberal, Governments had been complete without their name. None had so far joined the Labour Party, a fact which made it difficult for the Home Secretary to believe that that party could continue to exist.

  It was incorrect to say of such assured eminence that he had ‘won’ his position in the Cabinet. Rather had he marched by well-signposted stages to the place which was obviously his due. In the public mind he conferred stability on any Government he entered. But recently there had been a disturbing element in his world. Very regrettably, as he considered, certain newspapers had been encouraging the low craft of the caricaturists.

  These fellows had seized with joy on such magnificent copy as he provided. That heavy face, that high collar, that air of heading a procession if he merely walked down a street, had been used with deadly effect by one famous cartoonist as the very symbol of Governmental pomposity.

  Another was building a reputation by poking his fingers through the imposing façade. The public now knew him by an impish nickname. To millions who had never seen him he was familiar by the utterly incongruous name of “Flossie,” bestowed on him in bitter irony during a savage onslaught by Michael Houldsworth, and now invariably used in every cartoon in which he appeared.

  Yet, such is the habit of the British public, the average man and woman liked him none the less for being able to laugh at him. “Flossie” did mean something in the life of that period.

  But the Prime Minister was not so easily absorbed into the everyday mind of his time. The public was not qu
ite sure of him because he, elusive, incalculable, was never quite sure of himself. He held his present high position not by qualities of decisive leadership, but because of the very absence of those qualities. To some degree he reflected the lack of purpose of his period. It was counted to him for a virtue that he could answer any question and leave the questioner soothed, but completely in the dark as to what he meant. Yet not even his irritated enemies could deny the personal charm of the man. In public he was an expert at stroking ruffled feathers, whether of a Parliamentary opponent, a foreign nation, or a hostile public meeting.

  The colleagues who worked nearest to him and his own personal friends saw a different side of the man. He had a temper which could take full revenge in private for the self-control needed for his official rôle of public soother.

  As the two men greeted each other the Home Secretary said: “I hope it is really important. You know how I hate travelling at night. The doctor has warned me… my heart…”

  “I think you will find that the matter is of sufficient importance to warrant your immediate attention,” was the quiet reply.

  The Prime Minister sat down at his desk. The Home Secretary lowered himself with dignity into the armchair by the side of it. He tweaked the knees of his trousers, carefully crossed his legs at a correct angle, and leant back with his fingers pressed together in an arch, like a judge in chambers prepared to consider a statement about to be made to him.

  The Premier looked at his Home Secretary with some irritation. Yet he, the man who was never quite sure of himself, could not help being impressed with such complete self-assurance. That was why the Home Secretary had been more in his confidence than any other member of his Cabinet. It was incredible… could he really have done it?

  “What have you been doing in the Oissel case?” he asked.

  “The police have the matter in hand. Gleeson is keeping his hand on the case. Scotland Yard has put its best man, Blackitt, in charge of it. Robert West, my Parliamentary private secretary, you know, has done quite a lot of work in connexion with it, and very satisfactorily, I believe. I cannot see how much more could be done, but if you like I will see that a report is prepared for the Cabinet on Wednesday.”