The Division Bell Mystery

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The Division Bell Mystery Page 18

by Ellen Wilkinson


  But he could not face Grace just yet. He went on to the Terrace, the haven of so many worried men. If all the troubles that are dropped over that parapet into the Thames were tangible things the river would overflow regularly.

  He walked slowly to the Peers’ end, where his privacy was less liable to continual interruption than in the stretch reserved for members of the Commons. So many hearty fellows think that an M.P. walking by himself must be feeling lonely, poor chap, and chummily hail him to join their more festive group! The House of Commons can be almost as lonely as a desert, but it is difficult to be quiet in it.

  Leaning over the low wall and looking down at the river, West felt every nerve in his body quivering. Even to himself he had never admitted the intense emotional effect which the sight of Annette caused in him. He had told himself that he was excited and over-strung because of the excitement of the murder and his worry about Jenks and the Home Secretary. He knew now what nonsense all that had been. He was in love with Annette Oissel, hopelessly, desperately in love with her. And Annette was in danger. Of course it was absurd that she could be guilty, but if Dalbeattie thought that of her, others less friendly to her might think it too. People could be arrested on suspicion. Annette’s beauty and elegance in a police cell—it was an intolerable thought. His mind raced on to other possibilities. He found himself staging wild attempts at rescue in which somehow Annette was to be taken off in an aeroplane to some marvellous South Sea Island, where he and she…

  “Are things really as bad as you look?” said a cool, fresh voice.

  Robert was startled out of his reverie and came back slowly as a man awakening from sleep.

  “I’m sorry, Gracie. Was I looking fierce?”

  “Fierce? You looked as though you were just about to bite some one’s head off. And you were gripping the top of the parapet as though you would pull it down like Samson. Dare I ask what is the matter?”

  “Of course. As a matter of fact I was just coming to look for you. I want you to help me again.”

  “Not poor Michael? It’s no use, he won’t be done out of his adjournment speech to-night. I could only do that once.”

  “Oh, that does not matter. The Premier is taking that on himself. Houldsworth won’t get much change out of him. Besides, we’ve put the leader of the Opposition on to steamroller him. That’s all fixed up,” said Robert firmly, trying to give an impression of confidence he was far from feeling.

  “Then what is the trouble? I thought you dreaded a debate above all things?”

  “We did then. But now we are getting things ready for the inquest on Thursday, so it’s easy to get out of saying anything to-night. But this is the point. What we are afraid of now is that some one, I can’t tell you who, but some perfectly innocent person is going to have a bad time to prove that they did not do the murder unless we can find out certain things before Thursday.”

  “Oh, what a rotten shame! Of course I’d like to help to stop that.”

  Robert was thankful that he had got her thus far, otherwise he had been afraid that at the mention of her making inquiries among the staff she would toss her head and declare that she did not propose to do the policeman’s job of spying on workers. He felt he could hardly blame her if she did take that line.

  “Well, it’s come to this. We’ve followed up every clue, and Lord Dalbeattie—that is the man you saw me lunching with to-day—is convinced that there must have been some one in and about the Harcourt room or the kitchens that night who hasn’t been traced. The police have made inquiries, but they can find no trace of anyone. Dalbeattie isn’t sure about the waiter, and he has the odd idea that the stillroom maid who makes the coffee might know something if only some one she wasn’t afraid of could approach her. There may be nothing in it. It is only the slenderest chance, but unless we can find out something by Thursday there may be a very grave miscarriage of justice.”

  Robert had taken the right line. He saw that. She would have been completely unimpressed by the difficulties of the Government, and had she had the slightest idea of what the Home Secretary had done she would have been the first to force publicity. But the idea of some innocent person facing a charge like this appealed to her.

  “Leave that to me,” she said quietly. “I know the women cleaners and the women in and around the kitchens. I often go and talk to them. I’m sure that if there is anything they know they’ll tell me.”

  “Gracie, I’m more than grateful, and when you know the whole story, and you shall, every word of it, then you’ll see that it was worth while helping with this.”

  They stood for a moment, their eyes held. Perhaps it was the turmoil in West’s own heart that caused Grace’s sudden flush. She dropped her eyes.

  “Sorry to interrupt and all that, but can one of you provide a match?” said a familiar voice. Grace looked up startled into Sancroft’s cheerful face. “Oh… er… sorry,” she said, “I’m just going,” and she turned and walked quickly away.

  “Did I really interrupt a tender interlude?” asked Sancroft as Robert produced a lighter. “If so, I’m sorry.”

  “Of course not. Don’t be a fool. I was just asking Gracie if she would do something for me on this Oissel case.”

  “Mmmmm!” Sancroft mocked.

  “For God’s sake, Sannie, don’t be an ass. The one place I know where a man can be good friends with a woman without either the banns or the divorce court being assumed is the House of Commons. It’s too much to hope that it will stay like that long, but you needn’t start the rot.”

  “Far be it from me,” said Sancroft. “Anyway, Grace is as capable of looking after herself as most. It’s about the Oissel case I want to see you. That is, if you feel you can discuss it with a humble journalist after consorting with Premiers and financial magnates.”

  West felt a little conscience-stricken. He had not been able to keep in touch with Sancroft, but his acute brain and level judgment might be as useful to Annette as all Lord Dalbeattie’s driving-power. Robert now could think of the problem only in terms of Annette and her safety.

  “I’m sorry, Sannie,” he said. “But you know what it can be like. The Minister has been as stubborn as a mule, and I’ve had to help him when the others got furious with him.” As a sudden effort at a completely misleading explanation that was rather neat, and Robert had the grace to feel slightly ashamed of himself.

  “That’s all right. If you are in deep water I don’t ask for confidences. You know where to find me if you want me. But I’ll just bring my little scraps of news and lay them at your feet like a good dog.”

  “You make me feel a beast, San, but I’m pledged to the hilt to keep mum. But if you have any news for God’s sake let us have it, for we’ve precious little.”

  “Well, I’ve just got this from our City man. I don’t know if Dalbeattie knows. But Kinnaird was in much worse difficulties than was thought. He has been selling short and the settlement was due to-day. The few people in the know did not expect him to meet his liabilities.”

  “And has he?”

  “Yes, and it’s Oissel stock that has helped him to do it. Miss Oissel must have pulled him through.”

  Robert stuck his hands very deep into his pockets, and clenched them tight. He managed to say in fairly even tones: “Have you any idea how long Kinnaird has been rocky?”

  “That’s difficult to say, of course. His resources have always been assumed to be pretty considerable. But he’s been speculating pretty heavily of late, and got on the wrong side of the market. It’s rather a wonder that Oissel didn’t advise him, seeing that Kinnaird was sweet on his daughter. Oissel has been making enormous sums out of the recent currency changes.”

  “But how have you got to know this, Sannie? Dalbeattie didn’t say a word about it. Surely he would know?”

  “The settlement, of course, only took place to-day, but it’s quite common property by no
w. Nothing unusual about that, of course. But the fact of how shaky he really was is a secret that has been very well kept. I got to know because our City Editor’s brother is, or was, Kinnaird’s confidential clerk. He’s sacked him recently. I’d asked our man to get to know anything he could about anyone connected with Oissel in any way, and he passed me on this tip to-day.”

  West stood very still, trying to fit this news into Dalbeattie’s theory. It fitted only too well.

  If Annette wanted to marry Philip Kinnaird, and if that marriage was being prevented by the stubborn old grandfather, and if Kinnaird had told Annette about his financial difficulties, was it outside the bounds of credibility that Annette had determined to get rid of the wretched old man, and use the millions she would inherit to save her lover from financial ruin and social disgrace?

  Thinking of Annette’s proud head, the reserve of power suggested by her slow graceful movements, the strength of will expressed in the set of her jaw, added to the wild Basque temperament which Dalbeattie attributed to her, was it an impossible thing for her to have done?

  Off his guard in Sancroft’s familiar presence he turned to him fiercely and blurted out his thoughts. “Why shouldn’t she? Why should the old and the rich thwart the lives of young people? There’s too much of it—love and happiness sacrificed to greedy old people.”

  “Is this a general statement of some new philosophy, Bob? Back to the cooking-pot for the old men of the tribe, eh? Or did that bright young granddaughter pop Grandpa in the soup, so to speak?”

  “Good Lord, Sannie, what have I said? I mean…”

  “You know, your nerves are going to bits, Bob, my lad. All this secrecy, and keeping things from your best friends, isn’t in your line. You know it’s all right with me. Why have I to keep saying that? Is Miss Oissel suspected of having a hand in the death of her grandfather?”

  Put as bluntly as that, instead of in the romantic veils of thwarted love and Southern temperament, it made Bob realize afresh the implications of the theory. “No,” he said, “it’s too absurd.”

  “But some one has thought of it! You have been thinking of it from what you said just now.”

  “Well, er, Lord Dalbeattie put it forward as a possibility—Basque temperament, you know.”

  “Basque my eye and Betty Martin,” said Sancroft roughly. “Bob, you’re going all romantic about this girl. She has only come into your ken these last few days, but as a journalist I’ve known of her for at least five seasons in London and Paris. She’s as luxurious as a Persian cat and as extravagant as a peacock. The sort of life she has been leading saps nerve and decision. I don’t believe she could plan a coup like this in what must have been very elaborate detail. And why the burglary, when she had the keys to her grandfather’s flat, and was his regular hostess?”

  “But if she wanted to marry Kinnaird and old Oissel wouldn’t let them marry?”

  “And what difference do you think a marriage ceremony would make to those two?”

  At the implications of this sneer Robert went red and then white. He turned, without speaking, to the parapet and rested his head on his hands.

  “I’m sorry, Bob, but I’ve been making inquiries. Annette Oissel is notorious. Kinnaird is only one of her queue.”

  “Then why should she put up so much money to save him from a smash?”

  “He is the reigning favourite, and as such I imagine he can have what money he wants. It would not make a great deal of difference to the Oissel fortune. But she’s no Lady Macbeth even if she does look a bit like one at times. I would wager my last shilling that she had nothing to do with her grandfather’s death… Besides,” Sancroft continued, “why should she come to you the very morning after to insist that it could not be suicide when the papers were giving out that it was?”

  “But if she knew that it wasn’t suicide, could there have been a better way of putting the police off the scent?”

  Sancroft laughed. “Well, of course, if you are determined to prove that the poor girl is a murderess…”

  “Oh, go to blazes, Sannie! We’ve got to find the facts. Then we can decide what to do with them afterwards.”

  “A highly moral sentiment from the Parliamentary private secretary to the Home Office. Ah, well, the lovely Annette is not my concern, thank heaven! But my opinion is that you’re drawing the circle too narrow in keeping it round the people that Oissel associated with in London. However much Annette might have wanted to get rid of her grandfather, and frankly I don’t believe she did, how could she have staged that mystery in Room J, and why should she go to so much trouble?”

  “Then whom have you in mind?”

  “I think you have to go deeper into Oissel’s past, Bob. Dalbeattie might be able to help there. We’ve all assumed that Oissel’s death had something to do with the loan. But it might not have had the remotest connexion with it. Don’t you remember quoting to me some remark of Kinnaird’s to the effect that Oissel hadn’t as many rivals as he might have had if so many of them had not died first? There are some grim possibilities in a life like Oissel’s. Have you talked to Kinnaird at all?”

  “Well, no, it’s been rather difficult…”

  “Rivals for the lady’s favour, you mean? I think Kinnaird is pretty well established there at present, Bob, unless of course Mademoiselle thinks that the time is ripe for a change.”

  West said nothing.

  “Sorry, Bob. I don’t see why you shouldn’t have a turn with Annette Oissel if you want to. It would at least be an exciting interlude. But as my wretched editor expects some copy by four o’clock a spot of work seems indicated. So long!”

  The Terrace was filling rapidly for the tea-time scramble. West remembered wearily that he had promised Donald Shaw to get him in for the debate. He had better go up and collect him. As he moved through the groups of Members, their relations, and their constituents, he felt his arm held.

  “One moment, Robert.”

  He looked down into the vivacious face of Lady Bell-Clinton.

  “Sorry. I have some one waiting for me. Do you want me?”

  “Yes, just a moment. Your guest can wait.” Lady Bell-Clinton pulled him into a seat beside her, and though the table at which she sat was full of her guests she managed by turning her shoulder to isolate herself and West.

  “Robert, I want you to do me a great favour—well, two favours.”

  “You know if I can…”

  “Of course. Now the first one is that I want you to come to dinner to-morrow night… That all right?”

  “I’m not much in the mood for dinners and I’m busy on this Oissel case. The Premier has asked me to keep in touch with Lord Dalbeattie. If he wants me…”

  “Dick is coming too,” interrupted Lady Bell-Clinton, “and Annette, and Philip Kinnaird.”

  “Then of course I shall be delighted.”

  Lady Bell-Clinton was touched by the grey misery in Robert’s face. “Is it hurting very much, Bob—Annette, I mean?”

  Robert looked at her startled. Had Dalbeattie told her?

  “Annette has that effect on men. I’ve seen several good men made utterly wretched by her, and she can do it without lifting a finger.”

  “But the other favour?” said Robert, rather relieved that Lady Bell-Clinton suspected no more than a hopeless love-affair.

  “I want you to get permission for me to hold my dinner-party in Room J.”

  Robert stared at her in amazement. “But that’s impossible, Lady Bell-Clinton, and, forgive me, but it seems hardly decent. I’m sure that the police would not allow it, at least not till after the adjourned inquest.”

  “You don’t think I’m just sensation-seeking, Robert, do you?”

  Robert remained silent. It was evident that he did, and disapproved strongly.

  Ivy Bell-Clinton leant forward and said in a rapid low tone, “I can’t exp
lain here. I don’t want to be overheard. But I’ve consulted Dick Dalbeattie and he approves. I have a feeling that I can wrench the mystery out of that room, Robert, and I want to reconstruct the circumstances, sit where Mr Oissel sat, and see if I don’t have an inspiration. I believe I will. Madame Paloma told me I was psychic.”

  West smiled. He knew Madame Paloma, the latest Society pet who was managing to extract large sums of money by clever spiritualistic stunts. Robert had been to one or two of her séances with Ivy Bell-Clinton, and had been interested in the ingenious flattery of the whole performance.

  “If you feel that there is hope in that line, why shouldn’t you and I, or you and Lord Dalbeattie, go and sit there quietly? But a dinner-party, and Oissel’s granddaughter among the guests—I mean, well, what would people think?”

  “No one need know. I’m not proposing to announce it in The Times.”

  “How could you do a thing like that without having every lobby journalist outside in the corridor? Things are on tiptoe about this Oissel case. The Government may be broken on it yet. How could such a party avoid becoming the first-class Press sensation of the week?”

  Lady Bell-Clinton was not used to having her pet notions opposed like this. “I shall have that party, Bob, if I have to have it at midnight when every one has gone home. I feel I can help, and it’s not right of you to stop me.”

  “I’m not stopping you. I am just telling you that I don’t think you could get permission. But if you like I will phone Lord Dalbeattie, and see what he thinks.”

  “Good. Then it will be all right. There will only just be the five of us, unless you want to bring the Home Secretary. Do you think he would come if I asked him?”

  “Heaven forbid!” said Robert fervently as he made his escape.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  West secured an “Under the Gallery” ticket for Donald Shaw. These are the most coveted seats in the House of Commons. Originally intended for experts interested in some particular bill, this little pew under the Distinguished Strangers’ Gallery holding barely a dozen is open to the guest of any M.P. provided that there is room in it, which is not frequently. Curiously enough, in spite of the easy equality that prevails now in the House, though women may sit as Distinguished Strangers and occupy the seats reserved for Colonial legislators, and though they may occupy the corresponding seats in the Civil Service box, this coveted little pew on the floor of the House of Commons, not particularly reserved for anyone now, is rigidly barred to any woman, though she may be the expert in charge of a bill.

 

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