Death in the House

by Anthony Berkeley

  ‘Oh, we’ve got him all right,’ returned Sir Hubert, confidently.

  ‘Has he anything to say?’

  Sir Hubert smiled. ‘A great deal. Denies the whole thing, of course. Says someone must have planted the thorns on him, just like they did on our friend downstairs. In fact, I believe in another minute or two he’d have been saying that Lacy planted them himself, just so as to be able to find them for us. There’s not much love lost there, I gather.’

  ‘No,’ Lord Arthur laughed. ‘I can imagine that.’

  He did not stay for Sir Hubert’s interview with Mr Lloyd-Evans, but having obtained the former’s undertaking that the discreditable part played by the latter should remain concealed took himself off to No. 10 Downing Street.

  In answer to his tentative inquiry, Dean told him that the Prime Minister was engaged; Miss Isabel, however, was in the drawing-room, and tea was about to be served. Lord Arthur agreed that a cup of tea was just what he needed.

  To his disappointment, however, Isabel was not alone. Of all unexpected people Lord Arthur was surprised to find Lacy with her. To add to his chagrin it was evident that his entrance had interrupted what must have been a serious conversation, for Isabel greeted him in an absent manner and Lacy made it plain that his arrival was unfortunate.

  Not that anything could disconcert that young man for long; for no sooner was Lord Arthur seated and had uttered, with a stiffness he could not help, a few congratulatory remarks about his part in the capture of Dr Ghaijana, than Lacy divulged the subject of his discussion with Isabel.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, waving Lord Arthur’s congratulations aside with one of those too-expansive gestures of his. ‘Yes that’s all very well, and I’m glad to have been of use. But what is the next move? As I’ve just been telling Miss Franklin, that’s what is worrying me.’

  ‘In what way?’ Lord Arthur asked, adjusting with some care the crease of his striped trousers.

  ‘Why, you don’t imagine these people will allow Ghaijana’s arrest to stop them, do you? I tell you, Linton, I know them. It’s a dangerous type, and a cunning one. They’ll have allowed for any ordinary emergency like that.’

  ‘But if Ghaijana was directing them…?’

  ‘How do we know he was?’ Lacy countered swiftly. ‘He may have been only a subordinate himself.’

  ‘I thought it was your own theory that Ghaijana was the executive head in this country?’

  ‘Oh, theories…!’ The swarthy young man settled himself more comfortably in the corner of the couch on which he was sprawling, in an attitude which Lord Arthur would have found scarcely admissible in a club smoking-room and certainly not in a lady’s drawing-room. Theories are all very well, so long as they don’t take possession of one. The thing to do is not to lose sight of alternatives. I think it quite possible that Ghaijana was the executive head of the movement in this country, but I’m still more sure that there has been someone else waiting to take over the job the instant anything happened to Ghaijana.’

  ‘Then you don’t think the danger’s over?’

  ‘Of course it isn’t,’ Lacy said, with a contempt that was positively rude. That’s my whole point. That’s what I’m here for.’

  ‘Mr Lacy thinks father ought to give up the Bill,’ Isabel put in. ‘He seems to think that I could persuade him. I’ve told him there isn’t a chance.’

  Mr Lacy waved a deprecatory hand. ‘Now, now, Miss Franklin, I didn’t say “give up the Bill”. I said that it ought to be postponed, until this organisation has been really and truly smashed. And I maintain that’s only common sense. Your father, if you’ll allow me to say so, is in danger of mistaking obstinacy for firmness. It isn’t firmness to set up one Minister after another as a target for assassins. It’s merely obstinacy. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘No,’ Isabel replied flatly, flushed with annoyance.

  Lord Arthur, who had been keeping his own temper with difficulty, came to the rescue.

  ‘If you were Secretary for India yourself, Lacy,’ he said, mildly, ‘would you advise your own Prime Minister to shelve the Bill?’

  ‘After I’d been killed myself, or before?’ queried Mr Lacy with asperity.

  ‘If you saw a danger of being killed,’ Lord Arthur suggested.

  Mr Lacy showed his white teeth in a slightly mocking smile. ‘But of course I should. What good could I do by getting killed? What good could I do dead? Still, the question hasn’t very much point, because no Government of the Left would introduce a repressive, vindictive Bill like this one.’

  ‘Well, we won’t discuss the merits or demerits of the Bill here. You and I are at one, I know, in agreeing that a threat of this kind against organised Government has to be countered with all possible energy. So what in your view ought the next move to be?’

  ‘I’ve told you my opinion. The Bill ought to be held up while proper inquiries are made, based on what the police can get out of Ghaijana.’

  ‘But if Ghaijana won’t talk?’

  ‘There are ways of making any man talk. I should have thought,’ sneered young Mr Lacy, ‘that with the safety of the Empire at stake even you would have thought such methods permissible.’

  ‘I’m not sure I don’t agree,’ Lord Arthur returned, equably. ‘But I’m afraid others won’t. In the meantime it would be interesting to hear your views on the state of India in general. Did you know,’ Lord Arthur added to Isabel, as Dean appeared with the tea-tray, ‘that Lacy spent several months out there last year?’

  ‘Really?’ Isabel’s attention was obviously more on the tray than on the question. ‘No, I didn’t know. How interesting.’

  ‘And what were your conclusions?’ Lord Arthur asked Lacy.

  For some reason Lacy suddenly flushed: a dull, dusky red.

  ‘Oh, that India’s a good enough subject for tea-table prattle, but not much more,’ he said, with an intensity of bitterness which astonished Lord Arthur as much as it disconcerted him.

  He was about to make some noncommittal reply when Isabel, looking at the younger man with more interest than she had yet shown, said:

  ‘You feel strongly about India.’

  ‘I was born there,’ Lacy returned, in a sullen voice.

  ‘Were you? I didn’t know. Oh, yes, of course I did. Your father had some official post, of course. Yes, naturally you have almost an inherited interest. Do tell us what you saw out there, and what you thought about it. I’m quite sure you didn’t do the usual political round.’

  Lacy’s mood suddenly changed. He grinned at Isabel almost boyishly.

  ‘You bet I didn’t. No, I did the thing properly. I took the trouble to learn Hindustani before I went out there, and I talked to everyone – made all the contacts I could. It was illuminating, I promise you. There are so many sides, you know. India’s like a gigantic jewel, with a million facets; and each facet represents some different point of view, or some different personal little axe to grind.’

  Isabel showed her interest. ‘Did you meet any of the extremists?’ she asked, her hand resting on the handle of the teapot.

  ‘I certainly did. As a matter of fact, I brought round a copy of their newspaper. I thought you’d like to see it; it represents a point of view you’ve probably never even heard.’ Lacy felt in his pockets. ‘I must have left it in my overcoat. I’ll get it.’ He rose with an agility surprising in one of his bulk and hurried out of the room.

  Lord Arthur made a comical grimace at his hostess, who replied in kind.

  ‘Get rid of him,’ he whispered. ‘I want to be alone with you.’

  Isabel nodded, but could not reply before Lacy was back in the room, offering her the newspaper in question.

  ‘Read that leading article,’ he said. ‘It may give you something to think about.’

  ‘I’ll just pour out the tea first.’

  Isabel applied herself to the tea-tray and the usual queries about milk and sugar.

  Lord Arthur looked at Lacy with a little more sympathy. After
all, it seemed that the man had one genuine feature; his anger over the perfunctoriness of the questions about India had been beyond his power to control. Lord Arthur, who hated treading on other people’s corns almost worse than he hated having his own trodden upon, felt that some implied apology was needed.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘that people in this country don’t take the Indian question as seriously as they should.’ ‘Well, you’re in a position to know,’ Lacy smiled. ‘And, of course, you’re right. But does the British public take any of its own responsibilities seriously? It gets all worked up when a big nation bullies a small one, but can you see a wave of sentimental anger sweeping over the British nation about anything that really concerns themselves? The deadly, dull, complacent indifference of the British public! That’s what we politicians are up against all the time. It’s like battering one’s head against a feather bed. The Irish problem… Irishmen murdering Englishmen, Irishmen murdering each other, Irishmen trying to cut themselves out of the Empire, Irishmen terribly excited and truly believing that they’re kicking up the deuce of a shemozzle… and the British public spends its evenings filling in football coupons. The British public just isn’t interested in Ireland. The Indian problem… Indians assassinating English officials, Indians assassinating each other, Indians truly believing that they’re the centre of the world’s attention. And the British public only thinks of India as a place that sells us tea and buys our cotton goods – or used to, before Japan unfairly stepped in and sold ‘em cotton goods at half the price. The British public just isn’t interested in India, you see. And what’s more, you can’t make ‘em. In fact, as a matter of flat truth, the British public just isn’t interested in the British Empire. It sings “Land of Hope and Glory” and makes itself feel all good inside, but does it really care? It does not. Would it put itself out by half a step to keep the Empire intact? It would not. Good old British public.’ As if to atone for his tirade, Mr Lacy burst into hearty laughter.

  ‘Oh, come,’ said Lord Arthur, smiling. ‘I don’t think it’s really as bad as that.’

  ‘No,’ Isabel said, not smiling. ‘Mr Lacy’s perfectly right. British indifference to almost everything that really matters is simply monumental. You mustn’t delude yourself, Arthur. And we need people like you, Mr Lacy, not only who will prick the British hide but who realise that there is a hide to prick. By the way, if you feel like that I wonder what your reactions were to the British Civil Servant in India. I’ve always wanted an unbiased opinion as to whether Forster exaggerated the type in “A Passage to India” or not. It’s a book that makes me go hot with shame every time I read it.’

  ‘Of course he exaggerated,’ Lord Arthur put in. ‘He was so prejudiced that he just couldn’t help it. Why, the whole plot’s impossible, with that absurd court-case brought without any evidence at all. It could never have happened.’

  ‘What do you think, Mr Lacy?’

  ‘Forster did exaggerate, I think, in the incidents he used to prove his case against the Service,’ Lacy replied seriously, ‘and possibly in some of his characters, but not in the general effect. I attended a few mixed functions of the kind he describes, that’s to say out in the districts and lacking the savoir faire you get in the big cities, and honestly, Miss Franklin, if the book made you feel hot the actual thing would make you want to sink through the ground. The rudeness of the official British to the high-class Indian is something quite incredible. No wonder any Indian of spirit feels he can’t put up with that kind of treatment much longer. And in his own country at that. If there ever is another mutiny, it’ll be the Civil Service who are responsible. The Civil Service and their wives. Above all their wives. Stupid female morons, blown out with self-importance.’

  ‘Is it really so bad?’ Lord Arthur murmured. Lacy was obviously working himself up again, and Lord Arthur did not very much want to hear another lecture.

  ‘It’s worse,’ Lacy retorted. ‘And the funny thing is that if it’s plain blank rudeness on the part of the ruling race that causes the next mutiny, it’s the last mutiny that is the cause of the rudeness. At least, that’s my view of it. Of course, the English are a stupid unimaginative race at best, with a knack of trampling quite unconsciously on other people’s toes, and when you put the class from which most Civil Servants are drawn in authority you’re bound to get the most appalling bumptiousness and snobbery – in this case race – snobbery. But I think it’s more than instinctive bad manners. It’s a deliberate policy, based on fear – the ever-present fear of another mutiny. Keep the blighters down – tread on their faces – rub their noses in the dirt – we’ll show the swine who’s master here…’

  To the relief of Lord Arthur the entrance of Dean cut this harangue short. Lacy’s face had become suffused again, and his manner had become almost that of the platform. In a way Lord Arthur admired the man. He understood now Lacy’s success. He had the twin gifts of feeling and ability to work himself up in half a minute to express that feeling. It might be a superficial feeling or it might not, but at any rate it was genuine. Today it was India, tomorrow (thought Lord Arthur) it might be Empire Preference, or any other darned subject you liked; but while it was there it was good.

  Dean had approached Lord Arthur and was murmuring respectfully in his ear.

  ‘If you would follow me, my lord…’

  Lord Arthur jumped up. ‘The Prime Minister? Yes, of course, Dean.’

  He hurried out of the room. Dean, following, closed the door behind them.

  ‘It isn’t the Prime Minister, my lord.’ The butler seemed oddly nervous.

  ‘No? Well, what is it, Dean?’

  ‘I thought it best to speak to you alone, my lord,’ Dean said, in a lowered voice. ‘I really don’t know what to do for the best. I thought I’d put it to you first, my lord.’

  ‘Put what?’ Lord Arthur was beginning to catch something of the butler’s nervousness. ‘Don’t beat about the bush, man. You’re looking deuced queer. What’s the matter?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ The butler gulped. ‘I’m afraid it’s another of those anonymous letters, my lord. The Brown Hand, my lord. I don’t like to take it in to the master, not without a word of warning; but he said I wasn’t to let one of his secretaries have it, like in the ordinary way. I thought perhaps you’d tell me what I’d better do with it, my lord.’

  chapter fourteen

  Danger in Downing Street

  Lord Arthur thought quickly.

  ‘Where is the letter?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s down in the hall, my lord. I slipped it under the salver as soon as I realised what it was.’

  ‘It was in the letter-box?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. I just happened to be passing through the hall and glanced into the letter-box, as I usually do. The front-door bell hadn’t rung or anything. I don’t know how long it had been there.’

  ‘When was the box cleared last?’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t say exactly, my lord. I looked into it myself about half an hour ago and took out a few things; the letter wasn’t there then. But someone may have looked since.’

  ‘I see. Well, Dean, you mount guard in the hall. I’m going to ring up Scotland Yard at once. I think perhaps it might be better not to upset the Prime Minister with the thing until Sir Hubert has seen it.’

  The butler’s face expressed relief and agreement.

  Lord Arthur was able to get Sir Hubert himself on the telephone, and arranged for him to come over immediately. Within four minutes the Commissioner and three other officials were in Downing Street. Lord Arthur met them at the door, and took them into the morning-room.

  No time was wasted. Having learned the brief fact of the letter’s arrival, one superintendent slipped out of the house to question the men on guard outside, while the other carefully dusted the envelope for fingerprints before it was opened. Except for Dean’s, which the superintendent evidently knew by heart, none were found.

  Sir Hubert slit the letter open, and drew the sheet of
cheap notepaper out with infinite care. Holding it by its edges, he read the contents out in a low voice.

  To the Prime Minister and Members of the Cabinet.

  Gentlemen, – Ghaijana’s arrest means nothing. There are a hundred ready to take his place. The loss of our thorns means nothing. We have a hundred alternative means ready. If the Prime Minister persists in his decision to speak on Monday, he will die just as surely as Wellacombe and Middleton did. But this time his death will be still more mysterious. There will be no curare. The doctors will call it heart failure, but it will not be heart failure. Why let him lose his life so uselessly? Abandon the Bill before it is too late. You will have to do so in the end.

  The Brown Hand.

  ‘Persistent devils,’ commented the Commissioner laconically.

  The Assistant Commissioner for the CID raised his eyebrows. ‘Is this right, Linton? Did the Prime Minister intend to speak himself on Monday?

  ‘Yes, damn it,’ said Lord Arthur, almost in despair. ‘But no one knew. Only the Prime Minister and myself. No one else at all.’

  ‘I knew,’ the Commissioner remarked shortly.

  ‘Oh, yes, you, Sir Hubert. But one hardly counts the police.’

  ‘Seems as if we’ve got to count everyone on this job,’ remarked the Superintendent in gloomy tones. ‘I want a word with that butler.’ He oozed unobtrusively out of the room.

  Sir Hubert, the Assistant Commissioner and Lord Arthur looked at each other.

  ‘Well?’ said the first. ‘Has no one got an idea? How did these blighters get hold of that news about the Prime Minister?’ He caught Lord Arthur’s anxious eye and shook his head slightly. ‘No, I asked our friend, in a roundabout way, but he didn’t even know himself, so that’s out.’