by Ngaio Marsh
More people came in at intervals; a few looked like manual labourers, but the majority seemed to belong to that class abhorred of Communists, the bourgeoisie. Nigel and Angela saw Alleyn point them both out to his gloomy friend, who stared morosely at them for a moment and then burst into an offensive guffaw. Presently Alleyn rejoined them.
“My friend has just come in,” he said quietly. “She’s that tall woman in a red hat.”
They looked towards the door and saw the tall woman. Her face, as well as her hat, was red, and was garnished with pince-nez and an expression of general truculence. Banks was as formidable out of uniform as she was in it, Alleyn reflected. She glanced round the room and then marched firmly towards the second row of chairs.
“Off you go,” murmured Alleyn. “Remember, you come from O’Callaghan’s county, but are not of it.”
They walked down the centre aisle and seated themselves alongside Nurse Banks.
She produced an uncompromising mass of wool, grey in colour, and began to knit.
“Don’t you feel ever so excited, Claude?” asked Angela loudly in a very second-rate voice.
Nigel suppressed a slight start and checked an indignant glance.
“It’s a wonderful experience, Pippin,” he replied.
He felt Angela quiver.
“I wish I knew who everyone was,” she said. “We’re so out of touch. These are the people who are really getting things done and we don’t know their names. If only Mr. Barker had been here.”
“Ye gods, it makes me wild!” apostrophised Nigel. “And they call this a free country. Free!”
Angela, who was next to Banks, dared not look at her. Banks’s needles clicked resolutely.
“Do you think,” ventured Angela after a pause, “do you think we could ever make any headway down in the dear old village?”
“The dear old village, so quaint and old-world,” gibed Nigel. “So typically English, don’t you know. No, I don’t. The only headway you could make there would be with a charge of dynamite. God, I’d like to see it done!”
“They’ll all be in heavy mourning now, of course.”
“Yes—for Sir Derek Bloody O’Callaghan.”
They both laughed uproariously and then Angela said: “Ssh—be careful,” and glanced apprehensively at Banks. She was smiling.
“I wonder if he’s here yet?” whispered Angela.
“Who?”
“Kakaroff.”
“There’s someone going on to the platform now.”
“Claude! Can it be he?”
This exclamation sounded so incredible that she instantly regretted it and was infinitely relieved to hear Miss Banks remark in a firm baritone:
“Comrade Kakaroff isn’t here yet. That’s Comrade Robinson.”
“Thanks ever so,” said Angela brightly. “We’re strangers ourselves and don’t know anybody, but we’re terribly keen.”
Banks smiled.
“You see,” continued Angela, “we come from the backwoods of Dorset, where everything died about the time Anne did.”
“The counties,” said Banks, “are moribund, but in the North there are signs of rebirth.”
“That’s right!” ejaculated Nigel fervently. “I believe it will come from the North.”
“I hope you were not very shocked at what my gentleman-friend said just now about O’Callaghan?” Angela ventured.
“Shocked!” said Banks. “Scarcely!” She laughed shortly.
“Because, you see we come from the same place as his family and we’re about fed to the back teeth with the mere name. It’s absolutely feudal—you can’t imagine.”
“And every election time,” said Nigel, “they all trot along like good little kids and vote for dear Sir Derek once again.”
“They won’t do that any more.”
The other seats in their row filled up with a party of people engaged in an earnest and rather blood-thirsty conversation. They paid no attention to anyone but themselves. Nigel continued the approach of Banks.
“What did you think about the inquest?” he asked blandly.
She turned her head slowly and looked at him.
“I don’t know,” she said. “What did you?”
“I thought it was rather peculiar myself. Looks as if the police know something. Whoever had the guts to fix O’Callaghan I reckon was a national hero. I don’t care who knows it, either,” said Nigel defiantly.
“You’re right,” cried Banks, “you’re right. You can’t heal a dog-bite without a cautery.” She produced this professional analogy so slickly that Nigel guessed it was a standardised argument. “All the same,” added Banks with a slight change of voice, “I don’t believe anyone could, if they would, claim the honour of striking this blow for freedom. It was an accident—a glorious accident.”
Her hands trembled and the knitting-needles chattered together. Her eyes were wide open and the pupils dilated.
“Why, she’s demented,” thought Angela in alarm.
“Hyoscine,” murmured Nigel. “Wasn’t that the drug Crippen used?”
“I believe it was,” said Angela. “Isn’t that the same as Twilight Sleep?”
She paused hopefully. Banks made no answer. A young man came and sat in front of them. He looked intelligent and would have been rather a handsome fellow if his blond curls had been shorter and his teeth less aggressively false.
“I don’t know,” said Nigel; “I’m no chemist. Oh! Talking of chemists, we must see if we can find that chap Harold Sage here. I’d like to meet him.”
“Well, it’s so difficult. They never said what he was like. Perhaps—er—” Angela turned towards Miss Banks. “Perhaps you could help us. There’s a gentleman here who knows a friend of ours.” She wondered if this was risky. “His name’s Harold Sage. He’s a chemist, and we thought if we could see him—”
The young man with the blond curls turned round and flashed a golden smile at her.
“Pardon,” he fluted throatily. “That won’t be very difficult. May neem’s Hawrold Seege.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Surprising Antics of a Chemist
Tuesday to Wednesday. The small hours.
TO SAY THAT NIGEL and Angela were flabbergasted by this announcement is to give not the slightest indication of their derangement. Their mouths fell open and their eyes protruded. Their stomachs, as the saying is, turned over. Mr. Sage continued the while to smile falsely upon them. It seemed as if they took at least three minutes to recover. Actually about five seconds elapsed before Angela, in a small voice that she did not recognise, said:
“Oh—fancy! What fun!”
“Oh,” echoed Nigel, “fancy! What luck! Yes.”
“Yes,” said Angela.
“I thought I heard someone taking my name in vain,” continued Mr. Sage playfully. It would be tedious to attempt a phonetic reproduction of Mr. Sage’s utterances. Enough to say that they were genteel to a fantastic degree. “Aye thot Aye heeard somewon teeking may neem in veen,” may give some idea of his rendering of the above sentence. Let it go at that.
“I was just going to make you known to each other,” said Nurse Banks. So great was their dilemma they had actually forgotten Nurse Banks.
Mr. Sage cast a peculiar reluctant glance upon her and then turned to his quarry. “And who,” he asked gaily, “is the mutual friend?”
Frantic alternatives chased each other through Angela’s and Nigel’s brain. Suppose they risked naming Marcus Barker again—he of the vermilion pamphlet. He had a shop. He was in prison. That was all they knew of Comrade Barker. Suppose—
Nigel drew a deep breath and leant forward.
“It is—” he began.
“Comrades!” shouted a terrific voice. “We will commence by singing the Internationale.”
They turned, startled, to the platform. A gigantic bearded man, wearing a Russian blouse, confronted the audience. Comrade Kakaroff had arrived.
The comrades, led by the platform, instantly
burst into a deafening rumpus. Nigel and Angela, pink with relief, made grimaces indicative of thwarted communication at Mr. Sage, who made a suitable face in return and then stood to attention and, with a piercing head-note, cut into the Internationale.
When they talked the affair over afterwards with Inspector Alleyn they could not remember one utterance of Comrade Kakaroff during the first half of his speech. He was a large Slav with a beautiful voice and upright hair. That was all they took in. When the beautiful voice rose to an emotional bellow they managed to exchange a panicky whisper.
“Shall we slip away?”
“We can’t. Not now.”
“Afterwards?”
“Yes—perhaps too fishy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ssh! I’m going to—”
“Ssh!”
They glared at each other. To his horror, Nigel saw that Angela was about to get the giggles. He frowned at her majestically and then folded his arms and stared, with an air of interest, at Comrade Kakaroff. This unfortunately struck Angela, who was no doubt hysterical, as being intolerably funny. Her blood ran cold, her heart sank, she was panic-stricken, but she felt she must laugh.
“Shut up,” breathed Nigel out of the corner of his mouth. He was foolish enough to kick her. Her chair quivered. She looked round wildly to the four corners of the room. In the fourth corner, between a diagonal vista of rapt faces, she saw someone who watched her. It was the man to whom Alleyn had spoken when they first arrived. Her throat quivered no longer. It went dry. Suddenly nothing seemed funny. Perhaps no one had noticed her. Banks, uttering an occasional “Hear! hear!” in a tone of magisterial approval, gazed only at Nicholas Kakaroff. Mr. Sage’s back was towards them. Angela was herself again and greatly ashamed. She began to think coherently and presently she formed a plan. Alleyn had talked at some length about Ruth O’Callaghan. He had a vivid trick of description and Angela felt she knew exactly what Miss O’Callaghan was like. Suppose—? She stared like an attentive angel at Comrade Kakaroff and as she stared she made up her mind. As if in echo of her thoughts, she suddenly became aware of his utterances.
“The death of the late Home Secretary—Derek O’Callaghan,” boomed Comrade Kakaroff. Jerked out of their unhappy meditation, they began to listen with a will.
“—not for us the sickly sentiment of an effete and decadent civilisation. Not for us the disgusting tears of the wage-slave hypocrite. It was in a good hour that man died. Had he lived he would have worked us great evil. He was struck down with the words of tyranny on his lips. I say it was in a good hour he died. We know it. Let us boldly declare it. He was the enemy of the people, a festering sore that drained the vitality of the proletariat. Listen to me, all of you. If he was deliberately exterminated and I knew the man who had done it, I would greet that man with the outstretched hand of brotherhood. I would hail that man as—Comrade.”
He sat down amidst loud noises of encouragement. Mr. Sage had sprung excitedly to his feet.
“Comrade!” he shouted excitedly. It was as if he had touched a spring. The age-old yeast of mob-hysteria was at work. Half of them were on their feet yelling. Miss Banks cast down her knitting and made curious staccato gestures with her hands. “Up, the anarchists!” someone screamed behind them. The uproar lasted for some minutes while Kakaroff gazed intently at his work. Then Comrade Robinson walked to the edge of the platform and held up his hands. It was not until the Russian, half contemptuously, had joined him that the din died away.
“Friends,” said Kakaroff, “have patience. It will not be for long. In the meantime—be patient. It is with difficulty we manage to hold these meetings. Let us not arouse too much suspicion in the brilliant brains of those uniformed automatons who guard the interests of the capitalist—our wonderful police.”
The comrades made merry. Angela distinctly heard the rare laugh of Inspector Alleyn. The meeting broke up after a brief word from Comrade Robinson about standing subscriptions. Mr. Sage, a winning smile upon his face, turned eagerly towards them.
“Magnificent, wasn’t it?” he cried.
“Marvellous!”
“Wonderful!”
“And now,” continued Mr. Sage, looking admiringly upon Angela, “please tell me—who is our mutual friend?”
“Well, she’s not exactly a close friend,” said Angela, “although we both like her ever so much.” She glanced round her and leant forward. Mr. Sage gallantly inclined his curls towards her.
“Miss Ruth O’Callaghan,” said Angela, just loud enough for Nigel to hear. He instantly supposed she had gone crazy.
Mr. Sage must have tilted his chair too far backwards, for he suddenly clutched at the air in a very singular manner. His feet shot upwards and the next instant he was decanted over their feet.
“Murder!” ejaculated Nigel, and hurriedly bent over him. Mr. Sage fought him off with great violence, and after a galvanic struggle, regained his feet.
“I say,” said Angela, remembering her new voice, “I do hope you haven’t hurt yourself. I’m ever so sorry.”
Mr. Sage gazed at Nigel in silence for some moments. At last he drew in his breath and said: “No, thanks. Aye’m quate O.K.”
“But you’ve gone pale. It was an awful bump you came. Sit down for a moment.”
“Thanks,” he said, and sank into a chair. “Dear me, that was a very silly thing to do.”
“Very painful, I should say,” remarked Nigel solemnly.
Suddenly Angela began to laugh.
“Oh,” she said, “I’m awfully sorry. It’s just horrid of me, but I can’t help it.”
“Really, An—Pippin!” scolded Nigel.
“The instinct to laugh at bodily injury,” said Mr. Sage, who had recovered his colour, “is a very old one. Possibly it goes back to the snarl of the animal about to engage an adversary. You can’t help yourself.”
“It’s nice of you to take it like that,” said Angela through her tears. “It was rather a funny introduction.”
“Yes.”
“I’d better explain,” continued Angela. Nigel, who had regarded the upsetting of Mr. Sage as a dispensation of Providence, listened in horror. “We come from Clearminster-Storton in Dorset, near the holy ancestral home of the O’Callaghan. We’ve no time for the others and let it be known frankly. But she’s different, isn’t she, Claude?”
“Quite different.”
“Yes. We’ve seen her in London and tried to make her look at things in the enlightened way, and although she’s hidebound by the tradition of her class, she doesn’t refuse to listen. She told us about you, Mr. Sage. She thinks you’re awfully clever, doesn’t she, Claude?”
“That’s right,” said poor Nigel.
“So that is the way of it?” said Mr. Sage. “I, too, have attempted to make Miss O’Callaghan think, to open her eyes. She is a customer of mine and is interested in my work. I accept patronage from nobody, mind. She has not offered patronage, but comradeship. I don’t really know her well, and—” He paused and then, looking straight at Nigel, he added: “To be frank with you, I have not seen much of her since O’Callaghan introduced his infamous Bill. I felt the situation would be too severe a strain on our friendship. We have never discussed her brother. She knows my views and would understand. Er—quite.”
“Oh, quite,” murmured Angela.
“Just so,” said Nigel.
“As a matter of fact,” continued Mr. Sage, “I must own I don’t go as far as Comrade Kakaroff in the matter of O’Callaghan’s death. Undoubtedly it is well he is gone. I realise that theoretically there is such a thing as justifiable extermination, but murder—as this may have been—no.”
“This was justifiable extermination,” said Nigel fiercely.
“Then it should have been done openly for the Cause.”
“No one fancies the rope.”
“Claude, you are awful. I agree with Mr. Sage.”
“Thank you Miss—er. Pardon, I’m afraid I don’t know—”
“Pippin!” exclaimed Nigel suddenly. “We’re keeping our pal waiting. He’s hanging round outside the door there. Murder! It’s half-past one and we swore we’d meet those other chaps before then.”
“Ow, gracious, how awful!” said Angela. They grasped Mr. Sage’s hand, said hurriedly they hoped they’d meet again, and scuttled away.
The comrades had broken up into groups. Many of them had gone. Nigel and Angela saw Alleyn at the door with his gloomy friend. A short, well-dressed man followed them out, passed them, walked quickly to the outer door, and ran noisily down the iron stairs. Alleyn stood and stared after him. He and the truculent man exchanged a glance.
“Come on,” said Alleyn.
As they all walked out Nigel and Angela kept up a rather feverish conversation in their assumed voices. Alleyn was completely silent and so was his friend. Angela felt rather frightened. Did this man suspect them?
“I thought it was a perfectly marvellous meeting,” she said loudly as they walked down the empty street.
“Stimulating—that’s what it was, stimulating,” gushed Nigel.
The man grunted. Alleyn was silent.
“I was so pleased to meet Comrade Sage,” continued Angela with an air of the greatest enthusiasm.
“He’s all right,” conceded Nigel, “but I wouldn’t say he was quite sound.”
“You mean about O’Callaghan? Oh, I don’t know. What did you think about O’Callaghan, comrade?” Angela turned desperately to Alleyn.
