A Case of Conspiracy in Clerkenwell

by Clara Benson

  Copyright

  © 2017 Clara Benson

  All rights reserved

  The right of Clara Benson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  A Case of Conspiracy in Clerkenwell

  The ladies of Clerkenwell Central Hall are none too pleased at having their Temperance meetings disrupted by the rowdy Communists next door, but for Miss Olive Stapleton in particular, the uneasy coexistence proves fatal when she is found stabbed through the heart with a paper-knife. Enter Freddy Pilkington-Soames, who’s been recruited by British Intelligence to investigate a suspected Communist plot to stir up a general strike. Freddy thinks there’s more to Miss Stapleton’s death than meets the eye, but as he delves more deeply into the mystery it only becomes more puzzling. What is the connection between the murder and the coded newspaper advertisements? Is a Welsh firebrand politician really as harmless as he seems? And what does the beautiful wife of an Austrian revolutionary philosopher want from him? It all points to one thing: danger ahead. But time is running out, and Freddy must act fast to stop the conspirators, or risk becoming the unwitting pawn in a deadly game that threatens to bring the country to its knees.

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  Despite the thin covering of frost on the ground outside, the meeting-chamber inside the Tradesmen’s Hall was hot and stuffy, warmed by the presence of three hundred men (and a sprinkling of women) packed together like so many hundredweight of cabbages into a space that was too small for them. Outside could be heard the clatter of hooves and the rumble of motor-cars and omnibuses on the busy London thoroughfare which led in various directions towards Threadneedle Street or Poultry or Lombard Street, and thence to a thousand other places in the city. The sun, in cheerful mood, sent a dazzling ray of light through the tall window, which had evidently not been cleaned in some time. The errant sunbeam passed unheeding over the dust particles that danced in the air, and directed itself determinedly onto the shining bald head of a man in the third row, who seemed to be uncomfortable at the attention, for every so often he twitched irritably and put his hand up to shield his eyes—although he could not do much more than that, for fear of causing a disturbance. At the front of the room, on a dais, the Minister for Labour had already been speaking for thirty-five minutes, and looked set to continue for quite as many more, for he had much to say and a willing audience of uneasy business-men who were seeking reassurance.

  ‘It is not a question of denying the working man his rights,’ he was saying, ‘but of ensuring that the country retains the stability which has served it well for so long. We have all heard of the terrible events which have occurred in Russia. Are the workers any happier for it? I say they are not! No, it is not through Communism that a better society is created—rather, it falls to the leaders, the business-men, to set the example to the people of this great nation of ours. I come here to assure you that this Government has no such radical intent—’

  His voice droned on. At the back of the room, a small gaggle of press-men sat, listening attentively and bending dutifully over their notebooks—all except one, a young man who appeared to have drifted off to sleep, for he was leaning to one side, his head resting against a pillar, his eyes closed, a gentle smile playing across his face. Occasionally he shifted and his eyes opened a little, then he would murmur something and settle back down. The seasoned old reporter next to him cast him an amused glance and gave him a nudge, but the young man slept on, the very picture of peaceful contentment. The reporter shook his head and went back to what he was doing.

  At last the Minister’s speech came to an end and the audience applauded politely. A few questions were taken, which the Minister somehow contrived to answer without actually communicating any information, then he gave a dry little smile, excused himself, and left. There was a great shuffling and scraping of chairs as everybody rose to do likewise.

  At the sound of the applause, Freddy Pilkington-Soames had woken with a start and was now frantically scribbling down what little he could, seemingly unaware that his hair was sticking up all on one side.

  ‘Late night?’ inquired the old journalist.

  ‘I don’t know how it is,’ said Freddy with a faint air of puzzlement, ‘but I certainly meant to be in bed by midnight. What did the old boy say? Anything interesting?’

  ‘They’re going to sell Buckingham Palace and use the money to send all the miners to the seaside this summer,’ said the other.

  ‘What?’ said Freddy, looking up.

  The man snickered.

  ‘Just my little joke. You didn’t miss much. He made no promises but said what he thought they wanted to hear. What do you expect? These business-owners are all looking for an excuse to cut wages, but the Government isn’t keen on that, as they know they’ll be out on their collective ear sooner than you can say knife if they allow it, since it was the workers who voted them in. At the very least, there’ll be another general strike. So he took the safest course and said a lot of pretty words that all add up to nothing. It seems to have kept them happy enough—for now, at any rate. We’ll see whether they’re so polite when their own employees start making threats against them. Hallo, what’s going on here?’

  They both looked round. Most people were still in the meeting-chamber, collecting their things and preparing to leave, but through the open door could be heard sounds of a disturbance.

  ‘Trouble?’ said the seasoned old reporter, and left the room hurriedly. Freddy followed. In the entrance-hall, a few people were hovering hesitantly, as though wondering what to do. The Minister for Labour was standing by the large double doors with his secretary, looking annoyed, as an official of the Tradesmen’s Hall bobbed about them in agitation and two men in ceremonial uniform barred the way out as politely as possible.

  ‘This is most inconvenient,’ said the Minister. ‘I had no idea such a thing was planned. Why was I not informed of it?’

  ‘We had no idea of it ourselves, sir,’ said the anxious official. ‘It seems to be quite a spur of the moment prote
st. There are at least a hundred people outside, however, if not more, and they appear a little heated, if you’ll pardon my saying so. Might I suggest leaving quietly through another door? We have a small side entrance that would perhaps be more suitable for the occasion, although there is not enough room to allow everybody out that way.’

  ‘But how are they all to leave, then?’ said the Minister’s secretary, a young man with an air of great efficiency. ‘Surely you don’t intend to send three hundred people out through the front door of the building to face an angry rabble?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ replied the official. ‘After you have left, we shall wait a few minutes then announce to the people outside that there is no use in their staying any longer, since you have already gone. Once they have dispersed, we shall allow everybody else to go.’

  ‘Hmm, hmm, perhaps you are right,’ said the Minister, with a glance at his secretary. ‘Very well. If you would be so good as to show us the way. Come, Chivers.’

  The official, looking slightly relieved, led the two men off. The crowd of business-men were now spilling out into the entrance-hall, and another official immediately stepped forward to request that they wait a few minutes, since there were protesters outside. There was some huffing and muttering, but most appeared inclined to wait as instructed. Not all, however; one tall man in particular seemed reluctant to have his progress impeded by such a minor obstacle. He strode up to the men in ceremonial uniform.

  ‘Never mind that,’ he said. ‘Open this door at once. I don’t have time for this sort of thing.’

  The ceremonial uniforms politely suggested that he wait, but the tall man would brook no opposition; and since they were not, after all, police, the ceremonial uniforms had no choice but to unbar the door. Immediately a shout went up outside. Then there came the sound of chanting voices, although it was difficult to distinguish what was being said, since they were not calling in time. Freddy craned his neck to look through the door, and saw a throng of determined-looking men and women, many holding placards, standing in the square in front of the Tradesmen’s Hall, held back by a number of policemen. The tall man curled his lip disdainfully and descended the steps, pointedly ignoring the crowd of protesters. Others followed suit, emboldened by the presence of the police. Alas for their confidence! For as they emerged from the building, the crowd became excited and surged forward, pushing the policemen aside. The chanting became louder and more urgent as the protesters formed themselves quickly into a line, giving those leaving the building no choice but to pass closely by them in order to escape. The tall man ignored the jeers directed at him and hurried off, followed by a few other brave souls.

  ‘Get back, now!’ bellowed a police sergeant. He waved his truncheon in a manner which left no doubt that he was perfectly prepared to use it, and with a few barked instructions soon saw the protesters pushed back away from the building. More people now began to come out of the Tradesmen’s Hall. One by one at first, then in larger groups, they emerged and hurried off as fast as they could, the shouts of the hecklers ringing in their ears. Freddy, meanwhile, was standing just outside the entrance, watching the scene with interest and reading the placards, most of which ran along a familiar theme. At length he descended the steps and approached a middle-aged woman wearing several rosettes and carrying a sign which said, ‘WHY NOT WOMEN?’ He was just about to ask her a question when another shout went up, and he turned to see that reinforcements had arrived in the form of another ten or twenty policemen. Unfortunately, the new arrivals seemed to be under the impression that they had been called in to prevent a revolution, rather than keep a small group of political protesters in order. They began barking orders and shoving the little crowd back even further with their truncheons, to keep them away from the people emerging from the Tradesmen’s Hall. The woman with the rosettes was knocked almost off her feet, and gave a yell of indignation. She was saved just in time by Freddy, who caught her by the arm, but her placard fell to the ground and was immediately trampled underfoot.

  ‘Here!’ she cried indignantly. ‘Isn’t that just like the police?’

  Within a very few minutes the crowd seemed to swell, the shouting grew louder and angrier, and it became difficult to distinguish between protesters, police and escaping business-men. An egg was thrown and hit a policeman. Other comestible missiles followed. Freddy ducked just in time to avoid a half-eaten apple. He was being jostled about most uncomfortably, and was starting to become alarmed. This would undoubtedly make a much more interesting story for his newspaper, the Clarion, than the Minister’s speech, but only if he could survive long enough to write it. Abandoning the woman with the rosettes—since she appeared perfectly capable of looking after herself, and was in fact at present attempting to knock off a constable’s helmet with a rolled-up umbrella—he pushed his way out of the crowd with some difficulty, and emerged, clothes pulled about and notebook crumpled, by the railings outside the Tradesmen’s Hall. There he found a stocky young man who was watching the proceedings with detachment and conversing with an earnest-faced girl in a shapeless hat. The young man started when he saw Freddy, then grabbed his hand and pumped it up and down.

  ‘Hallo, old chap!’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Haven’t seen you for ages. Have you come to support the cause, or is it still the old business?’

  ‘Hallo, St. John,’ said Freddy, somewhat less enthusiastically. ‘I thought you’d given all this stuff up.’

  ‘Well, I have, strictly speaking,’ said St. John Bagshawe. ‘I decided I was getting too old for all the explosions so I retired from active campaigning. I’m press these days, just like you.’

  ‘Not really?’ said Freddy in surprise.

  ‘Yes. Oh, on a much smaller scale than you, of course.’ He rummaged in an inside pocket and brought out a rolled-up pamphlet printed on cheap paper. Freddy took it.

  ‘“The Radical,”’ he read. ‘“The Weekly Newspaper of Revolutionary Socialism.”’

  ‘Rather good, isn’t it?’ said St. John. ‘When the pater died he left me a little money so I decided to put it to good use.’

  ‘You mean you started this paper?’

  ‘Yes. Father was always very fond of penning worthy articles for the Church Times, you know, and I think he would have been proud to know his youngest son had followed in his footsteps. It has rather a good circulation, as a matter of fact. Two thousand copies a week, all around the country.’

  ‘“We must not baulk at the prospect of violence,”’ read Freddy, ‘“for it is a necessary evil if we are to create a society in which aggression and fear are truly things of the past. When our brothers and sisters have been educated to understand the beauties and the virtues of a truly Communist society, only then can we truly claim—” I say, did you write this? You’ve used “truly” three times in two sentences.’

  ‘Have I?’ said St. John, disconcerted. ‘Bother, so I have. We can’t afford a copy-editor yet.’

  ‘I didn’t know your father was a Communist, by the way,’ said Freddy.

  ‘He wasn’t. He hated all that stuff.’

  ‘But you said he’d approve of what you were doing.’

  ‘Well, he would certainly have approved of the fact that I write for a newspaper. But no,’ conceded St. John, ‘I dare say he’d have been pretty apoplectic at the content. I say, do let me introduce you to Ruth.’ He gestured to the earnest-faced young woman, who had been writing busily in a notebook. ‘Ruth, this is Freddy Pilkington-Soames, my old pal from school. Freddy, Ruth Chudderley. Ruth is my assistant at the paper. She’s awfully clever—knows more than anyone about Socialism and that sort of thing, I should say. She writes the women’s page of the Radical.’

  The young woman nodded briskly.

  ‘How do you do?’ she said. ‘And are you allied to the cause?’

  ‘Not as such,’ said Freddy. ‘I find causes exhausting. Much better to leave them to people who have the
time to dedicate to them.’

  She looked him up and down.

  ‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully, as though she had reached some conclusion from her examination. Freddy glanced down, half-expecting to see that he had buttoned his coat up the wrong way.

  Scuffles had broken out between the police and the protesters. St. John and Ruth Chudderley watched with mild interest.

  ‘Perhaps we ought to get out of the way,’ suggested Freddy, as a shoe went flying overhead.

  ‘Good idea. Rather a decent show today, don’t you think?’ said St. John, as the three of them removed themselves further away from the mêlée. ‘Quite a successful little do.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Freddy. ‘Do you count the success of an outing according to the number of arrests?’

  ‘Not at all,’ St. John assured him. ‘But you can see we’ve got them rattled. Look how many police they’ve sent.’

  A small crowd of people had now broken away from the main group, and had gathered around a bronze statue of some long-dead worthy in breeches and a periwig.

  ‘Hallo, what’s happening now?’ said Freddy.

  ‘It’s Trevett,’ said St. John. ‘He’s never happy unless he’s making a speech on a public monument. Oh, bravo!’

  A man of gallant and striking appearance had shinned up the plinth, and was now standing next to the frozen worthy, one arm about its neck and the other gesturing towards the Tradesmen’s Hall. A loud cheer could be heard from onlookers.

  ‘Who’s Trevett?’ said Freddy.

  ‘Ivor Trevett,’ replied St. John. ‘He’s the President and Chairman of the East London Communist Alliance. He’s going to shake things up a bit, you’ll see.’

  The man had begun proclaiming eloquently, to the great appreciation of his audience. Ruth Chudderley was watching him, her eyes gleaming.

  ‘Now there is the man who ought to be running our nation, Mr. Pilkington-Soames,’ she said. ‘I suggest you write his name down now, as you will be hearing it a lot more in future.’