by Howard Engel
“I should rather enjoy being a ghost sometime. Right now I could blow Gladstone’s papers off his podium in Midlothian where he is again ranting about my government. Not that he ever sticks to a text any more than he does to a principle or a policy.
“I won’t name him, but I have a general, a celebrated officer, most distinguished. I fear that he too would like to be a ghost. Or perhaps it is martyrdom he is seeking. I don’t think I could conscientiously ask men to follow such an officer. I refused to play Pontius Pilate to his Jesus Christ. So, I’ve got him a staff job close to home and intend to leave him there.
“But, I see that time is short, Dr Bell. Please tell me at once how I may help you without turning the constitution of these shires into a sorry stew.”
“I’ve explained what our limited powers are, sir.”
“Of course, Monty, of course. I assumed you had. Dr Bell,” he continued, “the Home Office is very jealous of its rights and powers and rather slack in its duties. It is, in other words, a typical government department. For over one hundred years Scotland has been maintained by the department that could mount the least good argument for escaping that nasty burden. I say ‘nasty’ simply because after centuries of neglect, Scotland requires far more attention than any ministry can well afford. I personally love Scotland in spite of her Whiggish universities. The dear Queen adores her. Would that we could settle upon her what her deserts are. But a cabinet is a brougham surrounded by squeaking wheels each noisier than the last. The pinions of possibility girdle us until we faint with fatigue. In law matters, the Home Secretary is advised by a man in charge of Scottish affairs, and by the Lord Advocate, Sir George Currie, the chief law officer in Edinburgh. Now, in this case, the Lord Advocate himself managed the prosecution. Quite rightly, he should have disqualified himself from giving advice on the matter and advising that commission you helped get started. But there’s nothing to be gained when your law lord tastes his ambition as keenly as this one does. He’d order the salmon and the plaice at your dinner. In a word, he’s not to be trusted. Oh, I dare say he’s honest enough, patriotic, doesn’t kick his dogs or educate his daughters, but he lacks vision. It’s a common enough deficiency. When I first got to my feet to speak in the House, I was shouted down so fast it made my ears ring. But I told them that the day would come when they would listen. And they have been listening.”
“Sir,” interrupted Monty Corry, “the Scotland train leaves in ten minutes.”
“About my brain,” said Mr Disraeli with a twinkle. “I haven’t given you your say, sir. The floor is yours.” Bell replaced the sandwich in his fingers on a sidetable before speaking:
“I wish to impress upon you, sir, the urgency of what happens upon our return. Only a few hours remain. And we have discovered that we are dealing with desperate men. Already a policeman, who had failed to deter us, has been murdered. They will stop at nothing.” Here Bell leaned forward and spoke to the prime minister in a voice so low that I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Disraeli nodded and listened. Once he caught Bell by the lapels and insisted on adding a word of his own. Now it was Bell’s turn to nod and listen. At last, they settled back in their chairs and resumed speaking normally. The prime minister began:
“You are dealing with people, Dr Bell, who think that the way to save the nation is to pretend that the nation never makes mistakes. Far better to crush an innocent idiot who gets stuck in the works than shout out ‘Stop the machine!’ They imagine, in their ignorance, that the world will think better of us if we have a home park full of buried atrocities than if we admit that we are still trying to get this peculiar cultivator called government to work without breaking down. As though governments aren’t always breaking down. Take mine, for instance. But you haven’t time to hear that. No! Put me back on the road, Monty! Where was I?”
“Tell Dr Bell what you are prepared to do, sir.”
“Good! I would like to say, sir, that I will pluck your young client out of jail and set his feet on the street again. I cannot. The Home Secretary acts independently in these matters. The cabinet doesn’t come into it. There is no open discussion. I cannot take him aside and whisper in his ear. Not this Home Secretary! But I am a past master of the arts of indirection. You may count upon it that I will, by means best known to myself, alert the Home Office to the fact that new evidence is about to appear and that the mechanism to stop the execution can instantly be put into motion as soon as the Home Office is notified. To that end I have placed the senior Queen’s messenger at your disposal. In fact, Monty tells me, he will be journeying north on the same train as William Marwood, the executioner. Curious, isn’t it? I wonder if they will meet and talk?”
While Mr Dizzy, as he was affectionately called in my home, had been talking, the tray of sandwiches was passed from one lap to the next. Wine was poured from a bottle marked “Lafitte.” There was no small talk. Corry glanced only twice at his watch. Suddenly, Lord Beaconsfield was on his feet and shaking both of us warmly by the hand, and, without the feeling of being hurried, we left the railway car and the siding. Glancing back, we could see Disraeli standing there in the doorway of the carriage, as though he were making us the present of a memory. It was an inspired piece of mise en scène, but completely without side. No egotism was on display; it was a simple gift. We turned and waved our hats. He returned the wave with the napkin he took from his chin, perhaps sending Downing Street crumbs onto the ways.
TWENTY-THREE
We had cleared the station and the dark silhouette of the city of York fell behind us before Bell spoke. Since we found a compartment and made ourselves reasonably comfortable, my friend had been buried in deep thought. He had brought his long fingers together, tip to tip, and settled his head well back on the cushion with his eyes shut tight.
For my part, I tried to run the minutes in the private train back again in my mind, the way I tried to imagine my boxing bouts, blow by blow, from some neutral position. It improved my form in the ring, certainly, but I became aware that my form was only part of the equation. I was rarely as strong as the other fellow, so my blows counted for less. Nor was I quick to see what my opponent was dishing out for me in time to do anything about it. In this way, I reweighed every phrase and expression that passed on that masklike visage, attempting, perhaps, to see at second hand what I had missed the first time.
“He’s not a well man.”
“What?” Bell’s sudden utterance guillotined my reverie.
“Lord Beaconsfield. He’s ailing.”
“But—!” I protested.
“I know, I know. He hides it well. And the spirit shines through. Nevertheless…”
“Is there any danger?”
“He appears to be in the grip of a homoeopath who has done him some good, but this arsenic-eating—even a mild course—gives him the appearance of health without the reality.”
“You could tell all that in a few minutes?”
“Oh, yes. It’s all there to be seen: the asthma and bronchitis, the insomnia and, I’m afraid, Richard Bright’s Disease.”
“But you can’t be certain?”
“Doyle, you know my methods. Do you wish to hear the details?”
“More to the point, how was Lord Beaconsfield able to help us?”
“Ah! That was a rare glimpse of a consummate politician.”
“Are you saying that he gave the appearance of help without the substance?”
“Doyle, my friend! So young and so cynical! I can hardly credit it!” Here he roared with laughter while my collar felt distinctly uncomfortable. I had not meant to be clever; the words fell from me without thought.
In under five hours, we were back in Edinburgh’s yellow fog and the reek of a hundred thousand chimneys. It was cold, made colder by a bitter wind blowing from the north-east. We shared a cab as far as Lothian Street, where Bell left me, and I continued with the cab home.
“There’s been police here lookin’ for you, Mr Arthur,” said Bridget when I came in
at the door.
“There was two of ’em last night and two again this morning, sir.” I concluded that Webb’s body had been uncovered. Bell knew when we put the body back in its cupboard that the time the postponed discovery gave us was but slight. A day or two at the most. Perhaps Webb’s efforts against Joe Bell and me were being taken up by other hands. Whichever case applied, I decided that a good hot bath separated me from all rational thought and sensible precautions. I gave Bridget instructions accordingly and she curtsied, as she often did when we were alone in the house together, and ran to draw my bath.
An hour later, I was walking down Lothian Street, newly bathed and wearing fresh clothing. The grit of the railway journey had been left behind, but the source of fresh perspiration was contained in the newspaper I carried. Here the discovery of Webb’s body was confirmed. Neighbours had been alerted to the open door and the odour coming from Webb’s flat. Our descriptions were given in some detail, but our names were not mentioned. It would have been foolish to imagine that the police were ignorant of our identities. As I was hurrying down Lothian Street, I knew the grave importance of telling Dr Bell of the policemen who were looking for me. Undoubtedly, they would be looking for him as well. As though to prove what I had said, I rounded a corner and saw two police inspectors—they couldn’t be anything else in those uniformlike “plain clothes”—coming from Bell’s house. Mrs Murchie was seeing them off the premises. In doing so, she spied me as I stood still in my tracks, as though struck by lightning. The policemen re-entered their four-wheeler and drove off, and Bell’s front door opened again, with the good Mrs Murchie waving me across the street. After examining the prospect on both sides to see whether there were other eyes on Bell’s front door, I crossed to the house. Mrs Murchie reached into her ample bosom and produced a note written in Bell’s hand:
We are hard-pressed and no time is to be lost. Meet me in front of the City Chambers as soon as you can. I will be in the small second-hand bookshop across the way. Be careful not to lead the authorities in this direction. All is lost if we are detained by the police.
Bell
I should have taken a cab, but not seeing one immediately to hand, I began hurrying on foot towards the City Chambers. My intention was to hail transport when I saw some for hire, but I did not spy anything of the kind until I was well across George IV Bridge near The Lawnmarket, by which time a cab would have been redundant. The few hundred yards down the High Street to my objective I took at a good clip. In the frosty air, I could see my breath in great round puffs of vapour, rather more like the exhalation of a racing horse than of a man.
Having arrived in the right neighbourhood, I now turned to the directions given in the note. While pretending to read the plaque in front of St Giles’s Church, I looked all about me. I saw no uniforms, no greatcoats disguising inspectors with conspicuous moustaches, nor any other suspicious characters, unless one wishes to include Daft Dickie, the half-wit, who sits dangling his short legs over the railing round the church, as though he were superintending the renovations himself.
When I was certain that I had not been followed from Lothian Street, I found the bookshop and opened the door. Inside, the gloom discouraged customers from reading what they had not yet purchased. Among them, with a copy of Nicholas Culpeper’s Health for the Rich and Poor by Diet without Physick open in his hands, I found Bell, his medical bag beside him, but otherwise not much changed from when we had parted.
“I believe the prime minister is seeing a certain Dr Joseph Kidd, an advocate of homoeopathy, the former owner of this weighty object.” He blew dust from the top of the book when he had snapped it closed. Under the watchful eye of the proprietor, we went out of the shop.
“What is the name of the clerk we are seeking?”
“John James M’Dougal in the Board of Works, Department of Finance.” Together we crossed the High Street, working our way slowly through the drays and carriages. Already the light was beginning to give up on another autumn day, the shadows had started creeping from their hiding-places and re-establishing their hold on the heart of the city.
We entered the City Chambers, made a few enquiries and soon were sitting in chairs designated for people who had a grievance with their assessment. John James M’Dougal responded to the greeting I brought from his friend Hew M’Chesney, but he remained a busy man, not to be trifled with. His straight back was eloquent of his hopes of advancement. I introduced Dr Bell and Joe took up the questioning from that point. At once he improved upon my errors: his professional status was touched upon in passing. He demonstrated that, in spite of our introduction which came from the bar in The Wounded Stag, we were people of serious intent.
“We want to know what you can tell us about Gordon Eward,” he said.
“Gordon Eward, is it? He’s about to be revenged, is he not? Blood for blood. The Lord shall destroy the ungodly.”
“That may well be, sir,” said Bell, “but it is my belief that the wrong man may pay the price for Eward’s foul murder. You can help us find the guilty party before it is too late.” I could sense Bell taking on a new character. He had adopted an earnestness that matched M’Dougal’s own.
“But, sir, I never met the woman, that… that… opera singer, Mlle Clery.”
“That doesn’t signify. We want to know about Eward as you knew him. What did he do in the Board of Works?”
“Why, he was a clerk like the rest of us. He audited the books of several departments because of his training as an accountant.”
“Which departments?”
“He was responsible for Works, City Assessments, Board of Trade and Poor Law.”
“Can you tell me who is in charge of these departments?”
“Of course I can. Graham Falconer is my chief here at Works, Archie Thornton is at Trade, O.L. Patterson is head of Poor Law Administration and, of course, Andrew Burnham has the heavy City Assessment responsibilities.”
“Andrew Burnham. What relationship does he have to the Procurator-Fiscal?”
“Andrew is the third son of Sir William.”
“Was he acquainted with Eward?”
“Professionally, they knew each other and worked together. Socially, their lives were vastly different, although Eward’s family was not in any way inferior to Andrew’s. Andrew was able, because of his father, to inhabit the world of polite society, whereas Gordon was always struggling.”
“But he travelled to Menton, in the south of France. He attended the opera. He, no doubt, lavished gifts upon his mistress, Hermione Clery.” Bell stated these facts as though they were in fact a question.
“Last year his father died, leaving him a small inheritance. Instead of investing it wisely, he had been using it to buy opera seats. It’s a sore pronouncement on a man who was in every other way a practical man.”
“Now, when Gordon Eward was so heinously murdered in his lover’s nest, Mr M’Dougal, who picked up the traces left unattended in his office?”
“Why, it was Andrew Burnham. He was head of a department, but not Eward’s chief.”
“Inasmuch as we are speaking about a murder, it seems odd asking about ‘usual procedures,’ but was it usual for the head of another department to pick up the pieces after Eward’s sudden and tragic death?”
“Tragic? It was nothing o’ the kind! It was a judgment!”
“Nevertheless?”
“Andrew Burnham wanted to help out in the emergency. It was his right. The records of his department were being reviewed just then, so it was natural for someone who was familiar with these accounts to help to put them in order.”
“I see, I see. Were these spending estimates? Future purchases? What sort of accounts were involved? You’ll forgive a poor layman’s ignorant questions, sir. I am simply trying to get a grasp upon these matters, so far from my poor consulting rooms and patients.”
“The accounts involved, let me see, the accounts—”
“—are none of your business! M’Dougal, are you in
the habit of admitting into the counting house every Tom, Dick and Harry who can navigate these halls? No offence is intended, gentlemen. But this enquiry is monstrously irregular! You have no business here! I must insist that you leave at once! M’Dougal, please return to your room.” M’Dougal glanced momentarily at Bell, made a small animal noise, then took to his heels down the corridor, scattering a stack of paper registration forms in his wake. A door was heard to slam shut a long distance away.
TWENTY-FOUR
“Am I right in the belief that I am addressing Andrew Burnham, head of the City Assessment department?”
“What concern is that of yours, sir?”
“I see that I am right.” This flustered the bureaucrat who now faced us with angry brows. While I stood mute, unable to find the words which would transform Burnham into an ally, Bell examined the man who stood before us. He was a well-dressed, not unhandsome young man with ginger-coloured hair, and an expression he could only have learned from his father. He was leanly built for his height, which must have been close to six feet, and carried himself in a self-assured manner, as he had just demonstrated. He was wearing a well-brushed fashionably dark coat, as though he had been on his way out when he learned of our seeking out John James M’Dougal. For some reason, he looked familiar: then I remembered the group of drunken young men who had accosted Graeme Lambert and me coming out of Rutherford’s bar.
Bell introduced himself to Burnham and then, indicating me, calmly made my name known to the young bureaucrat, who was controlling his anger with a firm grip. “We are desperately seeking all the help we can get for young Lambert. You see, it is only a matter of hours. You are someone who could render us incalculable assistance. We understand the breach in your management practices that this entails, but when a life is at stake…”
“You are the Dr Bell who has been questioning people? The one who is wanted for questioning in the murder of Inspector Webb?”
