Women M.P.s might try to abolish this absurdity, but the House, which in the past years has swallowed whole strings of new camels, would die in the last ditch in defence of some antiquated gnat of a custom.
The great advantage to the favoured visitor is that his M.P. host can sit on the bench below him, and point out the sights of the place. Donald Shaw, who was frankly thrilled at being so much ‘in’ the House as to be almost ‘of’ it, was intrigued by the complete informality of an assembly that to the outsider represents the central power of a great Empire.
Members turned their backs on the unfortunate man who was speaking, talked in loud tones, read order papers, got up from under his nose and walked out, yet the debate went on. Only when the conversation threatened to drown the voice of the speaker did some of his supporters call “Order, order,” which usually produced a lull for about three minutes.
“I should die of fright if I had to try to make a speech to people who made it so clear that they didn’t want to hear me,” said Don.
“It’s not quite as bad as it looks,” said his friend. “If a man is any good he gets a hearing. And anyway Hansard reports it verbatim, so he can tell his constituents that he said all that. Queer-looking lot, aren’t we?”
Don looked round with interest. “I’ve never been in the House before, but I motored through England when I was home last. There was a General Election on at the time, and I remember looking at all the candidates’ portraits on the walls, and thinking that they were quite a good-looking lot.”
“Oh, if we looked like the portraits on our election addresses, the House of Commons would be a beauty chorus,” grinned Robert.
“It looks rather like a stage set to me,” said Don. “The Speaker, and the three men in wigs in front of him, and the big table, and brass boxes, and the rows of you on each side—it could be put on the Drury Lane stage as it is.”
“And that’s what is the matter with the whole show, Don. It simply isn’t real. We’ve all been brought up to believe that this place is the supreme power in the State. Well, it isn’t, and then every one kicks the M.P.s because they can’t do the impossible with an instrument that really has very little power compared with the forces outside.”
“But if you pass a law here, we have got to obey it.”
“The point is who decides what laws we shall pass. Not our parties. The party sham dissolved at the last election. There are big forces fighting for mastery outside, Don. At the best we are only the scoring machinery. At the worst we are the cover on the safety-valve. The one hope is that we may not be shut tight at the wrong moment.”
“You mean there may be a revolution?”
“Oh, there’s a revolution on now, on since the War. We don’t have barricades in Britain, not being a theatrical people. But don’t you feel, since you came back, the tug-of-war that’s going on?”
“Tug-of-war rather expresses it. One side gaining a bit and then being pulled back. Is the House of Commons the rope?”
“It’s hardly all that—one strand in the rope certainly. But the tug is going on everywhere, in the factories and the mines, on the ships, police and unemployed demonstrators, the two sides in any big strike.”
“And who’s going to win—the Socialists?”
“There you are, you see. Being English, you immediately put the struggle into political terms. The same struggle is going on within each party. It’s bigger than politics, it’s the Stuart-Orfords against the Huxleys and the Rutherfords, the displaced man in the labour queue against the latest machine, the man of the old ruling class against the force of the masses demanding bread. He can’t give it them. He doesn’t know how. And he can’t get away by explaining that the bread isn’t there, because they are told by the Press that it is being burned by producers who don’t know what to do with it. It’s the New Order coming to birth, Don, and it’s taking a damned long time about it.”
“Why not help it? Hasn’t some one got a plan? Surely the figures are known?”
“Plan!” said Robert bitterly. “There are scores. Then the old struggle starts again over each plan. No, there’s nothing to be done that I can see. Let ’em fight it out, and then the victor will have to produce a plan, I suppose. It’s a grim prospect, all the same.”
A House messenger came along the bench, and handed West a note.
“It’s from the Premier’s secretary,” said Robert, reading it. “This debate is fizzling out, and the adjournment is coming on in a few minutes, so you won’t have to wait as long as you thought. I’ll have to slip back on to the P.P.S. bench. See you afterwards.”
Shaw watched the good-looking young man as he crossed the floor, bowed to the Speaker, and took his place on the second Government bench. He felt rather hopeless about a world where the young men like Robert West, with brains and a high sense of duty, the men who ought to have been burning with new ideas, eager to displace the old, simply shrugged their shoulders in bitter helplessness and said: “Let ’em fight it out and see what happens.” But surely, he thought, even as a registering machine the House of Commons was worth while. Suppose there were no registering machine until the tension got too strong and the whole social structure collapsed. “No,” said Don to himself firmly, “I may be old-fashioned, but I shall still continue to believe in the House of Commons.”
The House began to fill rapidly. The news of the adjournment debate was on the electric indicators. The Premier came in. Michael Houldsworth rose to speak. There was a quiver of expectancy.
Houldsworth was a precise speaker with a rather metallic voice. He and the Premier were old antagonists. They had measured swords often.
“I shall be told, in fact the intimation has been conveyed to the Opposition leaders through the usual channels, that it is impossible for the Government to make a statement, that the adjourned inquest is on Thursday, and that meanwhile the matter is sub judice. I am not interested, Mr Speaker, in how a certain unfortunate gentleman died in this House.”
“Then you ought to be,” shouted Members from the Government benches.
“I have no doubt the gentleman’s friends will supply all the sympathy necessary,” said Houldsworth quietly.
There was an uproar. The front Opposition bench was shocked. The Premier looked pained. Points of order were raised all over the House. Could a guest of this House and a dead man at that be insulted in this way?
The Speaker rose. The tumult was stilled. Looking at neither side the man with the quiet voice from under the heavy canopy said that he hoped due respect would be paid to the dead. Don was impressed. It was like the voice of an oracle.
Houldsworth continued, having stood quite unmoved by the uproar. He secured a hearing by saying that he meant no disrespect to the dead, he did not want to bring Mr Oissel as a man into the discussion at all. The questions he wanted to ask were incidental to the murder, and had no connexion with police matters that would be discussed at the inquest.
Then in a brief but deadly speech which lasted but ten minutes Houldsworth stuck his needles into the Premier. Why had the Government observed such secrecy about this loan? Had any other financiers than the Oissel group been invited to co-operate? There was talk of secret provisos. Had Oissel made such provisos? Had the Government accepted them? Were they consistent with the dignity of this House? What was the present state of the negotiations? Had the terms stiffened as much since Oissel’s murder as the Stock Exchange rumoured? Why did the Government maintain such obstinate silence while British securities crashed? Was there any truth in the rumour that the U.S.A. had threatened financial reprisals? Did not the Government realize the seething volcano beneath them? Never had a House of Commons witnessed such utter ineptitude, such slothful ignoring of the dangers of the situation. Was English credit to crash while a young and insignificant Parliamentary private secretary was allowed to run around and amuse himself by playing the amateur detective?
Houldsworth sat down amid general murmurs. That last sentence had somewhat spoiled the effect of his speech. Lady Bell-Clinton looked across at Grace Richards and observed in her high mocking tone, “That’s because of you.” The House can be unbelievably cruel, and men stung by Houldsworth’s manner and his deadly questioning took revenge by laughing at Grace’s furious red cheeks. “The female of the species is more deadly than the male,” Shaw’s neighbour in the box quoted to him as they both looked at poor Grace with sympathy.
The Premier rose smiling. The laughter had dissipated the atmosphere caused by the middle part of Houldsworth’s speech. He was sure of himself in the House now. He began by expressing his sympathy with Miss Oissel, the lady to whom the heart of every gentleman (a slight emphasis on the word) in this House would go out in chivalrous feeling. He sympathized with the Home Secretary bearing the treble strain of the loss of an old friend and an honoured guest, of departmental responsibility, and responsibility for the detection and punishment of the murderers. Every one with any connexion with the event was mentioned and separately sympathized with. When he spoke of the kitchen staff, of its devotion, of its indignation at the tragedy, the golden voice roused even the Opposition to approving murmurs. He had remembered the workers who were so often forgotten. Only Houldsworth’s face remained set in its grim lines.
By the time all these sweets had been handed round, the House was in a proper mood for the Premier’s statement that the American Embassy were giving the fullest co-operation to His Majesty’s Government, that the fall in securities was the result of disreputable attempts to take advantage of an old man’s tragedy, and that strong measures would be taken by the Government to deal with the situation.
The Member who had raised this debate had attacked the police, continued the Premier. He paused a moment, and then said in his silkiest tones: “Perhaps the honourable Member does not like the British police.” The House roared with laughter. The slight emphasis on ‘honourable’ and ‘British’ had been exquisite in its insult, for Houldsworth was a strong supporter of Soviet Russia. But the police were not in the habit of announcing their discoveries or their theories in order to please certain impatient gentlemen of the Opposition, especially when they had reason to believe that their efforts were soon to meet with success.
The House went absolutely still. Every Member on the benches, every Pressman, the public in the galleries, hung on his next words. When the House does that it is the most flattering, the most dangerous moment in a politician’s life. What orator, when he has brought this critical, restless, bored audience to such a pitch dare deflate it by an anticlimax? The Prime Minister when he rose had intended to be at his foggiest, his most non-committal. It would have taken a less sensitive, a less impressionable man to have resisted the lure of that crowded, listening House.
He looked round them, happy in his mastery. It was not his part, nor was this the place, he said, to reveal what the police knew. That must be done at the coroner’s court. The inquest stood adjourned until Thursday. Was that too long for certain honourable gentlemen to wait? In their anxiety lest the truth should be known before their names appeared in the papers must they try to force a premature statement which could only hamper the men who were bearing so grave a responsibility?
The House rustled its opinion of Houldsworth, who was not often caught at a disadvantage. But he remained quite calm amid the general disapproval. Commendation by his political foes was the last thing Houldsworth desired. The golden voice went on to hope that the House would continue its trust in the men at the helm, and as Premier he thought he could promise, if they would restrain their impatience, that if not by Thursday, at least by some early date, the British police, the most admirable in the world, would have brought the miscreants to the bar of British justice, the fairest in the world, and all would be well if England to herself remained but true.
He sat down amid roars of applause. The golden voice had triumphed again. The Speaker put the resolution of adjournment perfunctorily, and the Members poured out of the House laughing about Lady Bell-Clinton’s score over Houldsworth and Grace, happy as schoolboys who are unexpectedly allowed to leave school early.
Robert West’s furious expression prevented anyone chaffing him. A man who started it retreated hastily, for Robert looked as though he would knock him down. Grace had left the Chamber as soon as the motion was put, escaping unnoticed in the hubbub. West could not very well ask any of her own party where she had gone. Houldsworth had disappeared also. Had he gone to comfort her? Damn the fellow! And damn Lady Bell-Clinton—why could she never avoid saying the first thing that came into her head? Robert was genuinely fond of her, and respected her real kindness of heart. Why must she do these things which laid her open to such fierce hatred?
Remembering that he had to rescue Shaw, who had been decanted with the other occupants of the “Under the Gallery” pew into the lobby, Robert pushed his way out of the Chamber, but was held by Lord Dalbeattie, who had just come down the staircase from the Peers’ Gallery.
“Have you a minute?” he asked Bob. Then, seeing the young man’s unhappy face, he said: “Whatever possessed Ivy to say that?”
Robert shrugged his shoulders. He could not trust himself to answer.
“Has she asked you about this dinner-party?” said Dalbeattie.
“Yes,” replied Robert. “It is, of course impossible. Equally, of course, if you want it, it can be managed, but in that case you had better have a word with Gleeson yourself. If he gives permission I don’t suppose that the House authorities will raise any objections, but they won’t like it, and I’m not coming anyway.”
“Oh, yes, you are,” said Lord Dalbeattie firmly. “To be just to Ivy, the dinner was only a passing fancy of hers, but I have taken it up and I want it carried through. I want to see the room under the conditions it was that night, and with the same waiter.”
“Then why don’t you and I dine there alone together? It would be nearer the conditions of the Oissel dinner than a party.”
“But Annette and Philip Kinnaird want to be there, and Annette has some claim. I would like her to come.”
“Then there is no necessity for Lady Bell-Clinton.”
Dalbeattie laughed. “Poor Ivy. She deserves to be left out, but it will be a terribly dull dinner without her. You really must forgive her… Will you make the arrangements with the manager? We’ll dine as late as possible, say nine-thirty. Keep it as dark as you can, of course. We shan’t be able to prevent the Press getting to know something is on, but we can avoid any preliminary announcements. Has Miss Richards found out anything, by the way?”
“She hasn’t had much time yet. And we can hardly expect her to be helpful after this evening, can we?”
“Oh, she’ll get over that. After all, there is nothing unflattering to a woman in having the number of her admirers announced to the world. Have a word with some of the Pressmen. They are very decent about incidents like that. It will be kept as a House joke.”
CHAPTER XIX
Tuesday was a terrible day for every one remotely concerned with the Oissel case. The Prime Minister had been gracious on Monday evening, delighted with the success of his speech, surrounded by people offering congratulations for having smashed Houldsworth, never an easy feat. The papers on Tuesday morning reminded him of the price he had now to pay. His hints that something vital would be known and would be produced at the adjourned inquest on the Thursday had put the House of Commons completely in his hand and avoided any further debate. No M.P. would risk making a fool of himself, as every one insisted that Houldsworth had done, by forcing the debate before the inquest. But if that promise were not fulfilled, if the police had nothing at all to say, if a further adjournment had to be asked for, then the position would look ugly indeed.
Already rumours had begun to fly round that the Government knew more than they would say. A widely read morning paper had begun to hint
that perhaps powerful people were being covered. Its leader on Monday morning had been headed “OUT WITH THE TRUTH!” Another paper threw the headline across its front pages “IS SOME ONE BEING SHIELDED?” and had denounced political interference with the police. These rumours had been scotched by the Premier’s speech. Tuesday’s papers praised the Premier and poured wrath on “notoriety seekers” whose impatience might hinder the police at the very moment of triumph. Michael Houldsworth had a thoroughly bad Press, and the Premier as much adulation as even he could swallow over one breakfast. But the hero of the occasion left his egg and toast untasted as he suddenly realized that there remained just fifty-two hours before those promises had to be made good, and that he had not had the slightest foundation for one of the hints that he had given.
It was then that Downing Street woke up. Secretaries hung on the telephones and called up every one they could think of. The police head of Scotland Yard had to listen to the Premier over the telephone until his head buzzed. “Damn it all,” he said. “Why can’t he let me see him instead of talking a solid half-hour through the phone?”
Sir George Gleeson was sent for. The great civil servant entered the Premier’s room magnificently, intending to make even him understand that the police could not have amateurs like Lord Dalbeattie and Robert West brought in to interfere with their work. He was not now dealing with “Flossie,” however, but with head of the State, made desperate by a crisis likely to overwhelm them all. When Gleeson went out from Downing Street an hour later his own panic was as great as the Prime Minister’s. He nearly embraced Lord Dalbeattie, to that gentleman’s astonishment, when he arrived to secure Gleeson’s permission for the dinner in Room J. He not only gave permission with the utmost warmth, but he accepted the invitation to it, which Lord Dalbeattie, not expecting this kind of reception, had thought it tactful to offer. But if Lady Bell-Clinton had suggested even a spiritualistic séance that morning, she would have found a stout supporter in the awe-inspiring Sir George.
The Division Bell Mystery Page 19