‘The public wouldn’t panic,’ Lord Arthur said, staunchly. ‘You of all people ought to understand popular reactions. Don’t you agree that the country would take the truth quite calmly?’
‘I’m sure of it. But I’m equally sure that it would require the Bill to be postponed until this organisation has been broken up.’
‘In the Cabinet’s view, to postpone the Bill means to abandon it.’
‘You mean, surely, in the Prime Minister’s view?’ corrected Mr Mansel, gently. ‘My own opinion is that the Prime Minister is wrong, just as he’s wrong to insist on pushing on with the Bill at all costs, and against all opposition. And that,’ added Mr Mansel with a smile, ‘is why my newspaper has broken out of the ring of silence and, incidentally, is giving the Terrorists the publicity they want.’
‘Yes, I see your point,’ Lord Arthur said slowly. ‘Ministers may collapse in the House of Commons, but the cause of death can be hushed up; whereas it’s impossible to hush up a bomb explosion in Whitehall. That seems quite reasonable.’ He looked sharply at the other. ‘But you’re quite sure you’re not playing into their hands by publishing the full story?’
‘I have my own hand to play,’ Mr Mansel returned, with a deprecating little smile. ‘To say nothing of the hands of all the investors who have come into my Indian ventures on my recommendation. I feel my responsibility towards them very keenly, I can assure you. There are literally millions of pounds involved. No! No one can be more interested in restoring law and order to India than I am.’
‘Ye-es.’ Lord Arthur thought for a moment, then decided to try a venture. ‘But according to reports in my Office you might be in an even better position if the Separatists carry the issue. I understand in that event you would be a kind of commercial dictator of Barghiala?’
Mr Mansel laughed. ‘It’s impossible to keep the whole of a secret, isn’t it? But unfortunately the bit that gets out only distorts the rest. It’s quite true that I’m trying hard to strike a bargain with the Maharajah of Barghiala – and a man who wanted more quid for his quo I’ve frankly never met; and if it comes off I shall still manage to save a little from the wreck. But my dear fellow, you know Barghiala. It’s one of the poorest States; it’s certainly the most backward. Even if I did succeed in becoming its commercial dictator (which, let me assure you, is not likely to be the case so long as the present Maharajah is alive), what possible comparison is there between that and being the most formidable commercial proposition – I won’t say “dictator” – of the whole of that exceedingly rich conglomeration of peoples and territories which we lump together under the name of India? For that, in confidence, is the end to which I’ve been working for the last few years.’
‘Commercial dictator of the whole of India?’ Lord Arthur was staggered by the immensity of such an ambition.
Mr Mansel waved a deprecating hand. ‘No, no. Not “dictator,” I said. Just a colossal system of inter-linked commercial ventures, from an Indian “Woolworth’s” to an Indian Morris Motors and Rolls-Royce combined. It’s possible. And I,’ added Mr Mansel with simplicity, ‘am the man to do it. So you can see that I’m more interested than anyone in keeping India within the Empire for just so long as she’ll stick – with British protection for British capital ventures. The very first thing the Indians would do if they ever get control,’ Mr Mansel added with feeling, ‘would be to expropriate all British interests – just like Mexico.’
‘Yes,’ Lord Arthur agreed. ‘I quite see that.’
‘And yet,’ Mr Mansel pointed out, ‘with all that at stake, I think this Bill, which is designed to protect property like mine, ought to be postponed.’
‘Why?’ Lord Arthur’s question was blunt.
Mr Mansel thought for a moment.
‘Well, for a multiplicity of reasons. The deaths of Wellacombe and Middleton upset me very much, but frankly I wouldn’t let that deter me if I thought the Bill ought to be pushed on. Nor your death, if you take the job on next. The Prime Minister is rather different; he’s the best man we have in politics today, on either side, and if he insists on getting himself killed the results may be very bad. But apart from all that, I feel the Bill is unnecessary. Not even martial law is going to stop these Terrorists if their organisation is really formidable, and the Bill doesn’t go so far as that. But in my opinion it actually defeats its own object. By appearing to persecute the Separatists in the interests of the Empire, it’s much more likely to bring more and more recruits into their ranks. Whereas if it’s left to itself, the thing is likely to blow itself out in a few more months, just as non-co-operation and all the other campaigns have done. Leave well alone is the best policy, in my opinion.’
‘Then you think the Bill ought to be not merely postponed but abandoned?’
‘I do.’
‘You feel that strongly?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Mr Mansel, carelessly. ‘I don’t think it would do much active harm. It’s just my opinion that, on balance, it would be better not to take the risk of stirring up another mutiny. That’s all.’
‘I see.’
‘But I do feel strongly,’ Mr Mansel added, ‘that the Bill should be postponed, to be taken up again later if advisable. I feel that very strongly indeed, and in my opinion the very small amount of prestige that might be lost would be far outweighed by the Prime Minister’s life – which he will certainly lose if he speaks on the Bill next Monday.’
‘You really still think that?’ Lord Arthur asked, almost incredulously.
‘Make no mistake, Linton.’ Mr Mansel’s tone was deadly earnest. ‘Make no mistake, if the Prime Minister speaks on Monday, he’ll die. I know. The police think they cut off the head of the conspiracy when they arrested Ghaijana this afternoon.’ Mr Mansel paused for a full minute. ‘My information is that Ghaijana isn’t even a member of the Terrorist gang.’
‘Good heavens! Are you sure of that?’
‘No, I’m not sure. How can I be? I merely pass on the information to you,’ said Mr Mansel, sombrely, ‘for what it’s worth. But my information,’ he added, ‘is usually accurate.’
The two men looked at each other.
‘The Government – and that means the Prime Minister – should be very, very sure that they’re not repeating the Irish mistake in India,’ said Mr Mansel slowly. ‘I’m no statesman, but I know that separation is coming to India very soon now. I knew in 1919 that it was coming to Ireland. The policy of repression didn’t pay this country then. Is there any reason to suppose that it’s going to pay now?’
It was somewhat thoughtfully that Lord Arthur, without ringing for Dean, showed his visitor out into Downing Street. The last few sentences had impressed him. Mansel, referring to the Prime Minister’s danger, had spoken as a man who knew. And it had been clear, too, that he believed Dr Ghaijana innocent. If that were the case, they were no nearer to coping with the Terrorist threat than they had been yesterday, when Middleton was murdered – unless, of course, the Commissioner succeeded in getting anything out of the captured bomb-thrower, which seemed a thin hope.
As for the Irish parallel, Lord Arthur was not inclined to attach too much importance to that. The cases were not the same. In Ireland practically the whole population had joined in the struggle to throw off British domination. But this Bill, as the Prime Minister had always insisted, was designed primarily to protect peaceable Indians themselves against the Nazi-like attacks of their own countrymen. No, there was no parallel.
The Prime Minister, who had put in a belated appearance at dinner, was still closeted with Mr Beamish in the library; Lord Arthur had understood that the Home Office plans for dealing with any possible extension of the bombing incident, and allaying any possible panic on the part of the public in consequence, were receiving the close scrutiny of the Prime Minister himself. A number of different officials were coming and going for purposes of consultation and arrangement. Lord Arthur turned his steps towards the drawing-room. At last he could reckon on having Isabel to himself.
It surprised him to realise how much he wanted to hear her cool brain analysing and dissecting the situation and the results of his own enquiries. There was much that she did not know, and for nearly half an hour Lord Arthur was occupied in detailing his own experiences to her and answering her questions upon matters of fact. She was, naturally, interested most of all in the bombing outrage of which Lord Arthur himself had so nearly been the victim.
When the recital was finished Isabel leaned back in her chair and stared into the fire. She was wearing an informal little evening coat and frock of pale-green figured taffeta, and the lamp just behind her left shoulder lit up her dark hair and softened the somewhat austere lines of her face. She did not look like a girl who had taken a first in Greats at Oxford. Lord Arthur, who had aspired to no more than a pass degree, had a respect for Isabel’s brains; but at the moment he was more occupied with her appearance. The thought occurred to him that she might have sat thus, on the opposite side of a fireplace, for the rest of her life with Comstock. Thank goodness at any rate that she had had the courage to put right that mistake.
‘Isabel,’ he said, suddenly, ‘how did Comstock take his… dismissal?’
Isabel glanced at him. ‘Rather badly. Why, Arthur?’
‘I just wondered.’
‘He’s ambitious,’ Isabel went on slowly. ‘I’d never realised how ambitious he is. He seemed to think that the fact of my being the daughter of one Prime Minister ought to be a good reason for my wanting to be the wife of another.’
‘Meaning himself?’ Lord Arthur asked in surprise.
Isabel smiled. ‘Just that. It may be news to you, but Eric expects to be forming a Government of his own quite shortly.
I think he genuinely believes it.’
‘But it’s absurd.’ Lord Arthur felt quite annoyed.
‘Is it? He has a big following in the country, you know. If anything happened to father, whom do you suppose the party would choose as leader?’
‘Frith, without a doubt,’ Lord Arthur replied, promptly.
‘According to Eric, there’s every doubt. Mr Frith is a safe man, but one can’t deny that he’s unenterprising. Eric’s theory is that someone rather more spectacular will be needed to pull the party together after this affair is over. He’s his own choice.’
‘I know he’s been doing a good deal of lobbying lately, but…’
‘Eric’s a cunning man,’ Isabel said, equably. ‘And a born wire-puller.’
‘Well, thank goodness you were one wire he couldn’t pull,’ Lord Arthur grinned.
‘Oh, yes,’ Isabel agreed. ‘He looked on me as a wire.’
There was a pause.
‘He was one of the prime movers against the Bill in the Cabinet,’ Lord Arthur said, slowly. ‘Right from the beginning. I wonder what his game was.’
‘I don’t know. But knowing Eric as I do now, I’m sure he had one. Still, Eric’s intrigues are rather small beer compared with the other matter. Arthur… there’s one thing that strikes me.’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you think Mr Mansel told you all he knows?’
Lord Arthur considered. ‘No, I should think it very probable that he didn’t. Why, Isabel?’
‘Well,’ Isabel said, slowly, ‘it’s that point about the stop-press in the newspaper. Mr Mansel told you that he had advance information about the bomb attack, but his informant assured him that there were to be no casualties; it was only intended as a demonstration to gain publicity. But surely in an organisation like that there would be no leakages. Doesn’t that mean that Mr Mansel’s informant must be a member of the organisation, a Terrorist himself?’
‘Of course it does. Stupid of me not to have seen it.’ Lord Arthur jumped to his feet.
‘What are you going to do, Arthur?’
‘Ring him up. He’ll be home by now, easily. Mansel must talk. I had the feeling all the time that he was concealing something. It may be my imagination, but I believe he was in two minds whether to tell me or not. He may know a great deal. At the very least he can put us on to one member of the Terrorist executive. I’m going to put it to him straight that he mustn’t hold up vital information any longer, just to serve his own interests.’
‘I should think not,’ Isabel concurred, warmly. ‘It’s abominable.’
It was some few minutes before Lord Arthur was able to establish telephone contact with Mansel. When he did so, he put his demand with cogency, carefully veiled against possible eavesdroppers though his words were.
At the other end of the telephone Mansel sighed.
‘I was half expecting you to ring me,’ he said. ‘I can’t give you an answer now, I must think it over. You don’t know what it is you’re asking of me. But… well, I’ll think it over. Do you think you could come and see me here at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning?’
‘With pleasure. And I’m sure you’ll do the right thing. Good night, then, Mansel.’
Lord Arthur hung up the receiver not without elation. From Mansel’s tone there was much to be hoped from the appointment that he had conceded.
The hope was not to be realised, for the appointment was never kept. Before eleven o’clock the next morning the spectacular Mr S P Mansel was dead.
chapter eighteen
Chat in the Chamber
Mr S P Mansel’s death was as spectacular as his life. He was killed in his study, the same small room in which he had received Lord Arthur, at twenty-seven minutes before midnight on the Saturday evening, two days after the death of Lord Wellacombe; and it appeared that he had been killed in the same way. He was found lying sprawled over his desk, and sticking in the side of his rather thick neck were two thorns which subsequent analysis proved to be smeared with curare. Pinned on his coat was a white card, on which was written, in a neat, copperplate hand:
Positively the last thorns. But there are other means.
Let all enemies of India beware.
The Brown Hand.
It was possible to fix the exact time of death by a coincidence. The police, with the thoroughness characteristic of Scotland Yard, were neglecting no possible line of inquiry which seemed to point in any way to India. Mr Mansel was known to have Indian connections; and Mr Mansel had therefore been under observation. A discreet watch had been kept on all comings and goings to his house, and his telephone had been tapped. It was in the middle of a telephone conversation, as it happened, that the attack on him was made.
The call, an incoming one, had been promptly traced to Mr Reginald Lacy, and the shorthand record in the possession of the police ran as follows:
Mansel (after the butler, having first obtained permission from his master, had put the call through): S P Mansel speaking. Yes, Lacy?
Lacy: Hullo! Good of you to let a comparative stranger bother you at this hour, but there are one or two things I should rather like to ask you.
Mansel: What the devil do you mean?
Lacy: Oh, just trifles light as air, you know. But a shade odd. Yes, decidedly a shade odd.
Mansel: If you’ve anything to say, say it. I’m busy.
Lacy: You mean, you’re engaged?
Mansel: Of course I’m engaged.
Lacy: No matter, no matter. I don’t want to disturb you now. I just want to ask whether we could arrange an appointment, perhaps, for tomorrow?
Mansel: You know quite well – (loudly) here, what the devil are you doing? (The receiver was then apparently dropped and there were confused noises, as if a struggle was taking place.)
Lacy: Hullo! Hullo! What’s the matter? What’s happening? (No answer was received to this, and about half a minute later Mansel’s receiver was replaced, breaking the connection.)
Lacy, it was ascertained, had then rung up his exchange, and about ten minutes later, Scotland Yard. Within a further ten minutes the body of Mr Mansel was found. The police surgeon put the time of death at approximately a quarter of an hour to twenty minutes earlier, which tallied nicely.
Lord Arthur did not learn of M
ansel’s death until Sunday morning. The news, of course, was not in the papers, and it was a personal visit of the Assistant Commissioner for the Criminal Investigation Department, Mr Willis-Carter, which apprised Lord Arthur of this unexpected development.
The former nodded understandingly as Lord Arthur, still in his dressing-gown and slippers, mentioned the appointment which he had arranged with Mansel for that same morning.
‘The man knew too much,’ said the Assistant Commissioner. ‘That’s obvious. We’ve had our suspicions all along that he might know something.’
‘But why didn’t he tell what he knew before?’ Lord Arthur asked, with the helpless irritation with which one contemplates lost chances.
‘Scared, I expect,’ the Assistant Commissioner answered laconically. ‘The way he impressed on you the Prime Minister’s danger seems to show that. Danger means danger, from this crowd.’
A thought struck Lord Arthur. ‘If the mere possibility that he might be going to reveal secrets brought Mansel his death,’ he said slowly, ‘what about Lloyd-Evans, who has actually told all he knows?’
‘The man’s scared stiff, naturally. Not so much of a rough and tumble – I believe he’d half welcome that; he used to be quite a tidy amateur boxer in his youth, you know – but of a thorn in the back of his neck. Well, it’s a nasty prospect. We’re doing our best for him, of course; strong guard on the house; couple of men with him whenever he puts his nose out of doors – which, by the way, he hasn’t done yet.’
‘That reminds me. You can take my two sleuths off. Mansel told me that he didn’t think they were after me at all yesterday; my presence was just a bit of extra luck.’ Lord Arthur gave an account of Mansel’s theory.
The Assistant Commissioner smiled. ‘Yes, that may be so. Still, I’ll keep the men on if you don’t mind.’
‘Is Mansel’s death going to help you at all?’ Lord Arthur demanded. ‘You haven’t got the man?’
‘No, we haven’t. And no idea who it was. The butler never saw him. He must have come in through a side-door which opens into the passage close to Mansel’s study. He used to let confidential callers in himself that way, I gather.’
Death in the House Page 17
