Robert was glad when the day wore on towards evening. He had brought his dress clothes with him, and changed in the room downstairs which is sacred to such rites. A large square room has little curtained cubicles for the changing operations, and as the barber’s shop on a ship is a good place to hear the latest news about the number of knots that day and the latest scandals among the passengers, so the man who presides over the barber’s department of the House of Commons knows as much as anyone of the gossip of the moment.
West had left his bag with the head attendant and went down to find everything put in readiness for him. The taps in Number I bathroom had been turned on.
“I thought this bathroom had been given over to the women M.P.s,” said Robert.
“They don’t use it much, sir. Shy of coming down here, I suppose, sir. But it’s the best bathroom. Miss Richards came in the other day, sir, and I told her that Mr Gladstone had taken baths in this very bath. There weren’t so many bathrooms here in those days.”
“I hope Miss Richards was properly impressed?”
“Well, sir, of course it’s very nice to have ladies here, I’m sure, sir. It must be nice for the gentlemen. But somehow ladies don’t seem to be as much impressed about things as they used to be, do they, sir—I mean the young ones don’t?”
Bob laughed. “Perhaps Miss Richards was a little embarrassed at the idea of taking a bath after Mr Gladstone?”
“No, I don’t think so. It would take a lot to embarrass a young woman these days, meaning no disrespect to Miss Richards, sir. Have you got all you want, sir?”
“Yes, thanks. I’ll come along to you for a shave afterwards.”
“Oh, yes, sir—Lady Bell-Clinton’s dinner in Room J? It’s a queer place to enjoy oneself in, sir, isn’t it, if you’ll pardon my saying so?”
So the bath attendant knew all about the dinner he had tried so hard to keep a secret. But how could anything be kept a secret from the staff of the House of Commons? Of course every one from the women cleaners to the Sergeant-at-Arms knew all about this dinner, as they had known about the Home Secretary’s dinner to Mr Oissel. A highly intelligent trained staff with long years’ experience of the ebb and flow of the tide of Members who drift through their hands could not be expected to be blind and deaf when it suited the authorities that they should be.
“We are not dining there to enjoy ourselves,” said Robert. “We are going to consider what might have happened that night. We rather don’t want it talked about. Perhaps you would mention that to your staff.”
“Oh, yes, sir. My staff never talk.” (“Don’t they!” thought Robert.) “But, sir, I’ve often wondered why more people don’t get murdered in this place when you think of the opportunities.”
“Indeed,” said Robert, his attention very much on the alert. “What opportunities?”
“Of course, sir, I don’t mean that anyone wants to murder M.P.s, but it would be easy enough to slip past the police if anyone did. I mean, sir, all these workmen that are continually in the building. Some one could dress up like one, and no one would ever know if they wore the uniform.”
“I suppose it might be done,” said Bob thoughtfully.
“Well, if you’ve got all you want, sir, I’ll leave you, sir.”
As the door clicked behind the attendant Bob sat on the edge of the bath. Was this a possibility? Had the assassin been in the building disguised as a workman. He knew Blackitt had had the notion that some one might have been there disguised as a waiter, but no trace of such a man could be found. The manager of the kitchen department and all the waiters had sworn that they knew each other too well for that to be possible, and as no big dinners were held that night no extra staff had been engaged. But a workman was different. He would not be known to the waiters, and would not be noticed by them. But it was nine o’clock at night. A workman who was not on the ventilation staff, all of whom were old employees, would have been noticed wandering about the Harcourt corridor at that unusual hour. Blackitt had questioned every member of the ventilation staff, who go round at intervals to look at the thermometers and open shafts. But every one of these had satisfactorily accounted for his movements.
And yet that boot in the dark. Some one had been in the corridor then, and but for the accident of Robert’s returning for his case his presence would never have been known, even though a policeman was on duty. Had some one access to the kitchens, who was being assisted by some member of the kitchen staff? Every clue seemed to lead back to that. Lord Dalbeattie might have hit on the best idea when he had suggested Grace’s inquiries. And the accomplice might be some one they had never thought of… the owner of that boot in the dark.
Bob splashed in the bath, thinking that he knew something of what Tantalus must have felt when the things he wanted just eluded him. The solution was hovering near. He felt that very strongly. There were only some forty-two hours now before the inquest. But the answer remained maddeningly out of reach.
A policeman was still at the door of Room J when Robert walked along there. The room had not been unguarded for an instant since the crime. The constable opened the door for Robert. Sir George Gleeson, Lord Dalbeattie, and Philip Kinnaird were already there.
“Sherry or cocktail, Robert? We are the punctual sex, it seems. Ah, there’s Big Ben just striking the fatal hour as it did that night.”
“Yes, it only wants a nine o’clock division to complete the ‘noises off,’” said Bob. The door opened and Lady Bell-Clinton came in, still wearing the plain black day frock she always wore in the House of Commons.
“I haven’t changed,” she said in her high, gay tone. “Some one has to look after the old country while you men make yourselves look pretty. And what a beauty chorus! I shall be in the audience to-night. I caught a glimpse of Annette as I hurried down. She looks marvellous.”
The door was flung open, quite impressively, by the constable on duty. “There now, what did I tell you?” laughed the hostess. Annette as she stood for a moment framed in the oak doorway certainly did look marvellous. She wore a long, perfectly cut gown of rich white satin in an oyster shade that caught the lights as she moved. A cleverly cut Chanel scarf of blue satin draped one shoulder. Her only ornament was a sapphire clip on the front of her dress, an ensemble which heightened the effect of her white skin and those unusual dark blue eyes.
“Surely I am not the last?” she said smiling.
“But of course you are. Such an entry must be the climax,” said Ivy Bell-Clinton irrepressibly. She was fond of Annette, but felt that she badly needed some one to laugh at her, a task which no male on her horizon was likely to perform. “Now then, Dick, this is your death’s-head feast. How do we arrange ourselves?”
Dalbeattie had evidently planned that. He took the seat at the oval table which faced the door, the place at which Georges Oissel must have sat. “The waiter tells me that there was, of course, a smaller table in then, but that obviously would not do for us. Will you sit at my right, Ivy, Annette on my left, then Sir George next to you, Ivy? West, you are next to Miss Oissel. Kinnaird, you will be left without a lady.”
“I shall have to be content with looking at them.”
“Philip was intended to be at the Court of King Edward, one of Lady Warwick’s young bucks, you know, but he got born too late.”
“You told me that Dick Turpin was my rôle last time we met!”
“I don’t know what is your true rôle, Philip, but anyway you are much too good-looking to be let loose among us poor impressionable women. Dick, I hope this is going to be a thoroughly extravagant dinner.”
Annette Oissel turned to Robert. “Why do you never come to see me? You haven’t been since that awful day after my grandfather died.”
“I can’t tell you how much I should have liked to have come, but I didn’t want to intrude.”
“I want to see more of you, but I suppose you are so bu
sy on this affair.”
“Well, we are trying hard to find something to tell the court on Thursday, and I have been on it all the time since I saw you.”
“Such a waste of time,” said Annette pensively.
“But you wanted us to find the murderers, you said.”
Annette shrugged her shoulders. “Yes, of course, I was upset that morning, and very indignant that the papers should say Grandpère had killed himself. Nothing would have annoyed him more. But he is dead. People know he didn’t kill himself. Nothing will bring him back to life. Why should the living waste their time trying to find how he died? What good will it do anyone now?”
Robert looked at her astonished. Why this change from her attitude that first morning? Or was she really only concerned about it not being thought that the old man was a suicide. But if she knew the truth, would not the suicide theory have been so much more convenient? Had she been trying to put them off the scent? But even now she had not spoken as though she were worried about the affair. She had simply suggested it was an annoying waste of time to have to bother, rather as one would say: “Oh, don’t trouble to bring in the garden chairs.”
“Then I shall expect you to-morrow,” said Annette lazily. “Would you like to come for a cocktail about five?”
“Unless I’m absolutely tied up on this business I’d love to come. If I can’t I’ll phone.”
“Oh, don’t trouble to do that,” drawled Annette, “just come when you can. I shall be at home all the evening.”
Robert felt the blood racing through his veins as he turned back to the general talk, which thanks to Lady Bell-Clinton’s merry chatter had warmed up considerably. As Lord Dalbeattie had said, it would have been a dull party without her. Small and fair and plump, she was the complete contrast to Annette, as her radiated energy was equally different from the impression of reserve power which any sensitive person could feel was hidden under the younger woman’s stillness. Robert was sure that Sancroft had misread Annette completely. Whatever the life she was leading, however luxurious and softening her environment, this woman was the blood and bone of old Oissel. She was probably as capable as he had been of planning big to get her own way.
Completely absorbed by his thoughts about her, utterly happy in her nearness to him, Robert did not attempt to take much part in the conversation that flowed round the table. He did, however, notice with some amusement how they all, except Annette, watched every movement the waiter made.
“Of course the waiter knows we are watching him, and the poor devil is bound to drop something soon,” thought Robert, “and then every one will assume that it is his guilty conscience.—That waiter must be some lad to stand up to all he’s had to face this last week.” This last remark was made in an undertone to Annette.
Her large blue eyes met his own for a moment. “But I think that applies much more to you. I think it is wonderful that you do so much and keep so calm when every one seems to be making such a fuss.”
Said as Annette said it, that remark completed Robert’s subjugation. He glanced at Philip Kinnaird to see whether he had noticed and was resenting Annette’s interest in himself, but Kinnaird was discussing the financial crisis with Gleeson and Dalbeattie.
“You got out of your difficulties rather well, I hear,” said Lord Dalbeattie.
Robert thought this was a somewhat untactful remark, but it did not embarrass Kinnaird. “Yes, I nearly got caught—the last crash was rather unexpected. But fortunately Annette was able to come to the rescue.”
Apparently there was no secret among these people about Kinnaird’s financial difficulties, at least his recent ones. Dalbeattie had expressed no surprise when Robert had passed on the information as to his previous shakiness which he had obtained from Sancroft.
“Every one is shaky,” Dalbeattie said casually. “None of us knows from hour to hour what is going to happen. The biggest men may be caught out by one error of judgment just now.”
“I think this Stock Exchange gambling ought to be stopped,” said Sir George Gleeson in his most magnificent manner.
“What, a Bolshevik in the Home Office! Shame, Sir George, no wonder there are all these goings-on in Parliament when the Home Office itself begins to talk like that,” said Lady Bell-Clinton in tones of mock-horror.
“Of course, the whole system is absurd,” said Lord Dalbeattie. “Much of it is just roulette played on a world scale. But you can’t take all the interest out of life.”
“Especially when you’re talking about putting down blood sports. What is a fellow to do?” asked Kinnaird.
“Go gunning for grandfathers,” answered Ivy Bell-Clinton unexpectedly.
The whole party roared with laughter, but Robert, watching Kinnaird, saw that though he laughed the retort had taken him aback. Sir George continued:
“I should have no objection to the Stock Exchange system if it were being run frankly to give punters a flutter under proper control. But taken with the seriousness that it is now, when Governments rock because of some preposterous rumour that is started the Lord knows how, and whole towns sink into poverty and unemployment as a result, then it’s a wonder to me how sensible men tolerate and even defend such a process. I know Miss Oissel will forgive me when I say that it’s no wonder some men at the top get shot. I can’t understand why there isn’t a widespread demand from the people that a stop should be put to the whole thing.”
“Don’t know what’s happening to ’em,” commented Lady Bell-Clinton. “That’s why we are allowed to have such a very good dinner at Dick’s expense.”
The waiter served coffee, and the door closed upon his final ministrations. The group went suddenly silent. Every one felt embarrassed except Ivy. “Well,” she said, “and what is expected to happen now?”
Lord Dalbeattie lit his cigar with some care. “The party isn’t quite complete yet, my dear. There are two or perhaps three guests to arrive.”
“Not for dinner surely?”
“I had hoped they would have been able to come for dinner, but as they were working on the new clues they said they would try to be here by ten o’clock.”
“New clues—but how exciting!” exclaimed Ivy. “Have we to wait for a grand tableau, ‘The Murderers Produced,’ or are you going to tell us about it beforehand?”
“Not long to wait now, Ivy. And there may be nothing to tell. But it seems to be our only chance of finding anything.”
A silence fell on the party, the sort of thick, stifling silence that comes in a séance. Each in turn tried to break it, each felt the words die on their lips unspoken. Annette sat like an ivory statue. Ivy felt that she must shriek lest the ghost of the murdered man appeared. They sat only for a few minutes, but each one felt it to have been hours when there was a knock at the door. It was opened by Inspector Blackitt, who held it open while Grace Richards walked in, followed by Sancroft. The Inspector followed them in and closed the door behind them.
Dalbeattie rose, but the others remained seated, still under the spell of that awful silence.
A chair was pulled to the table for Grace. The two men found seats for themselves—the Inspector by the wall, Sancroft by perching on the edge of the service table.
Lady Bell-Clinton’s hostess instinct helped her back to normality. “Well, I hope you have some news, for another disappointment would be more than we could bear.”
Grace looked at Lord Dalbeattie. “We have some news,” she said. “We think we are on the track of the man who caused Mr Oissel to be murdered, but there is still the missing link of the revolver.”
“We shan’t be long in finding that, I think,” boomed the deep voice of Inspector Blackitt. “It’s only a matter of…”
At this point the whole company, tense with nervous excitement, nearly jumped out of their skins. The division bell suddenly began to ring. “Oh,” screamed Lady Bell-Clinton, her overwrought nerves findi
ng the outlet her self-control had denied them this last half-hour.
West and Kinnaird made for the door to go upstairs to vote. Grace suddenly stood up blazing with excitement. “That’s it, Inspector! Oh, what fools we’ve been! That’s it!”
“By God, you’re right!” said Blackitt, while Sancroft dashed to the door. “Let’s get a ladder.”
CHAPTER XX
“We must vote,” said Kinnaird quietly to West. “The solution will keep till we come back.” West hardly heard him, and no one noticed his going. Every one made an excited group round Grace except Annette, who quietly lit another cigarette. “What’s the matter, what’s the matter? Do tell us,” said Ivy Bell-Clinton, her self-control almost completely gone. Sancroft and Blackitt returned with the ladder.
“Where’s Mr Kinnaird?” said Blackitt sharply, looking at the group.
“He’s just gone upstairs to vote,” said West. “He said he would be back immediately. I ought to have gone, but I couldn’t leave this now.”
“Damn!” said Blackitt. The others stood in amazement while he picked up the phone. “Get me through to the Inspector’s office… That you, Bourne. Don’t let Mr Kinnaird leave the building. Warrant? No, of course not. Just keep him, or ask him to come to Room J, will you?”
Sancroft by this time had got his step-ladder against the wall, and with a screwdriver was working at the small grating that contained the division bell. These little square gratings, inconspicuously near the ceiling, are familiar objects in every corridor and most rooms of the House. They hide the bells that fill the building with their clangour when a division is called.
The Division Bell Mystery Page 20