by Clara Benson
‘What? Why should I have kept it?’
‘Oh, I often have old envelopes lying around,’ said Freddy. ‘To scribble notes on, that sort of thing.’
St. John stared, then hunted around on his desk for a few moments.
‘No, I don’t think I do. Why do you want it?’
‘Mere curiosity,’ said Freddy. ‘You see, I’ve been reading the most splendid book lately. It tells you all about how to deduce things about a person from their handwriting. And not just the usual stuff, either—you know, whether they’re male or female, or whether they’re left- or right-handed—but really interesting things. It’s quite a science, I understand. Why, there’s one chap in Germany who can tell at a glance from your handwriting whether you’re married or single, whether you were beaten as a child, and whether you can play the piano—even down to whether you play jazz or classical. It’s simply marvellous what science can do these days.’
‘It sounds like a lot of tripe to me,’ said St. John.
‘Oh, but it’s not. Anyway, I’ve always rather fancied myself as a detective, in the manner of Sherlock Holmes or someone of that sort, and I just thought that if you had one of the envelopes I might be able to tell you who was sending the notices.’
‘I doubt it,’ said St. John. ‘If they’re the ones I’m thinking of, they’re done on a typewriter.’
‘Where’s Ruth, by the way?’ said Freddy, thinking that some change of subject was necessary before he drew any more attention to the coded advertisements.
‘She’s gone to speak to Trevett,’ said St. John. ‘We have the big do in Hyde Park coming up, and there are lots of things to see to.’
‘What do you mean? Which do?’
‘It’s to be a sort of rally. The Labourers’ Union are organizing it, together with the Communist party. The Alliance is helping, of course, but it would be far too big a thing for us to manage on our own, as we don’t have nearly enough people.’
‘Oh, the protest, you mean? Yes, I’d heard about that,’ said Freddy. ‘I dare say the Clarion will send me along, and I shall spend the whole day freezing in the mud and catch my death of cold, then you’ll print a story about me in your paper and call me a martyr to the cause and my mother will die of shame.’
‘But it’ll be tremendously good fun,’ said St. John. ‘They’re sending men down from all over the country. It’s to be a peaceful thing. And if you’re worried about catching cold I shouldn’t. There’ll be tents and hot food and drink, and people will be speaking, and we have some circus performers coming from Italy and lots of other entertainment. I expect there will be quite a festive atmosphere, in fact. We’ll show the police and the powers that be that we workers know how to enjoy ourselves.’
‘Who is speaking?’
‘Rowbotham of the Labourers’ Union, of course. Trevett, naturally. Schuster, perhaps. But there’ll be some others, too. And there’ll be all sorts of other things going on. It’ll be jolly good fun, you’ll see.’
‘It sounds more like a village fête than a protest against the Government,’ said Freddy.
‘But that’s the idea, don’t you see? If we can make them understand the workers are just ordinary people who want to put food on the table for their families, then it ought to go a long way towards making the Government more well-disposed to the thought of meeting our demands. It’s Rowbotham’s idea. Not everybody likes it, but he’s in charge.’
‘I see. He wants to give the impression that his workers would rather be skipping about gaily in a meadow full of buttercups than wallowing gleefully in the blood of the bourgeoisie at the barricades, is that it? But what about all that stuff about violent insurrection that you put in your rag?’
‘Words,’ said St. John dismissively. ‘Nobody would really do that sort of thing, would they?’
‘I think the Russians might disagree with you,’ said Freddy. ‘I say, you’ve changed, haven’t you? You used to be all for direct action and blowing up trains.’
St. John sat up straighter.
‘Yes, but I’m older now,’ he said. ‘A man in my position has responsibilities. I can’t ask Ruth to marry me if I’m in prison, can I? And by the way, you haven’t spoken to her yet.’
‘Soon, soon,’ said Freddy hurriedly.
‘Anyway, this ought to be a splendid rally, and the Radical will be there, covering it all. It will be the most thrilling day for news—ought to keep us going for at least a month, in fact—and will be a tremendously good opportunity to get more subscribers. I have plans for the paper, but I can’t do anything without money.’
Just then Ruth Chudderley turned up, in company with the Schusters. Despite the wet weather Anton Schuster was dressed as though he were going for a walk along the Promenade des Anglais. His wife seemed to feel the cold more than he did, and was wrapped in a coat with a high fur collar. Together they added a touch of the exotic to the dull grey surroundings.
Ruth looked Freddy up and down in the particular way she had which always made him wonder whether he had dropped half his breakfast down his shirt.
‘I haven’t seen your article in the paper yet,’ she remarked. ‘I thought you were going to tell your readers about all the good work the Communist Alliance is doing.’
‘I’ve written the piece,’ lied Freddy, ‘but I’m afraid it has to get past my editor first. The press are a conservative lot, you know, and there were one or two phrases he wasn’t too keen on. He’s passed it all the way up to the Clarion’s owner, Sir Aldridge Featherstone, for approval.’
‘Do you think it will be approved?’ said Ruth, still with the maddeningly superior expression on her face.
‘It’s difficult to say. Sir Aldridge is the brother of Mrs. Belcher, the President of the Young Women’s Abstinence Association, whom I dare say you know. He consults her in everything that might affect the morals of the man in the street, but as long as your lot haven’t offended her recently we might be safe.’
‘Hmph,’ said Ruth. ‘The Y. W. A. A. like nothing better than to take offence at everything we do. I expect we shall never see your piece, in that case.’
‘Oh, we might be lucky yet,’ said Freddy. ‘Sometimes the two of them fall out, and then we ordinary reporters have a few weeks in which to publish as many stories about tragic chorus girls and throat-slashing cocaine gangs as we can possibly pump out before they make it up again and we have to go back to the flower shows and speeches by the Archbishop.’
‘I see,’ said Ruth, and turned abruptly to St. John. ‘Anton has brought his piece for the Radical,’ she said.
‘Oh, jolly good, what?’ said St. John.
‘Yes,’ said Schuster. ‘It is a little idea I was working on before I left Vienna. Here I have attempted to give a summary of it in a way that the ordinary man will understand.’
He brought out several folded sheets of paper and handed them to St. John.
‘It’s rather long,’ said St. John doubtfully. ‘Eleven sheets of paper. That’s twenty-two—no, twenty-one and a half sides. How many words should you say that was?’
‘I have not the first idea,’ said Schuster blithely.
‘About five thousand,’ said Freddy, looking at the paper with a practised eye.
‘Hmm. We might have to cut it down a bit,’ said St. John.
‘But no, this I shall not permit,’ said Schuster. ‘My ideas are not to be chopped about like so many cuts of beef. The force of my argument will be diminished greatly if words are taken away here and there. There are nuances in my thesis that will be lost. No, it must not be. I will not be misrepresented.’
‘Well, then, how can we do it?’ said St. John. ‘It’ll have to go onto two pages. Can we afford the extra paper? Can we make it up with advertising?’
‘Oh, I forgot to say, the Socialist Book Club have decided not to advertise with us any more,’ said Ruth, with supr
eme unconcern. ‘They said they were sick of getting new members from us who never pay.’
‘What?’ exclaimed St. John in dismay. ‘But I thought they were going to start doing the quarter-page displays. I’d already decided where the money was going to go.’
‘Well, it seems they changed their mind,’ said Ruth.
‘Oh,’ said St. John. He glanced down at the papers in his hand. ‘Well, then, what are we to do with this? It won’t all go on page four, as I was planning.’
‘Continue it on another page,’ said Freddy, flicking through a copy of the Radical. ‘Look, it’ll easily go in place of this—what is it? “Weekly Ruminations From a Communist of the Countryside.” It looks fearfully turgid, so I don’t suppose anybody reads it. Nobody will miss it for a week if you put the rest of Mr. Schuster’s piece there.’
‘As a matter of fact, that is my commentary,’ said St. John with dignity. ‘I have my own little philosophy that I’ve been developing recently, which I write about in this column. I get a lot of letters in praise of it, and I’ll have you know that not one of them has ever used the word “turgid.”’
‘I expect they were being polite,’ said Freddy.
‘Am I interrupting?’ came a voice, and they all looked up to see Miss Flowers, the elderly lady who had transferred her allegiance from Temperance to Communism, hovering apologetically in the doorway. She saw Ruth and came in.
‘Ah, there you are, Ruth, dear,’ she said. ‘I want to place another announcement in the Radical.’
‘Where are Warrington and Jessop?’ said St. John. ‘Didn’t they offer to take it down for you?’
Ruth looked into the other room.
‘They’re not there,’ she said impatiently. ‘Very well, Miss Flowers, I’ll do it for you. We’ll use one of the printed forms.’
‘Come to put something in the wanteds, Miss F?’ said Freddy. ‘There’s an ermine set going for twenty-five pounds, if that’s what you’re after.’
‘Oh, dear, no,’ said Miss Flowers in some amusement. ‘Nothing like that. No, I have merely come to advertise some crochet and knitting patterns of my own devising. I find I have a little talent that way, and have recently discovered that I can supplement my meagre income by selling them to others through the pages of Mr. Bagshawe’s publication. I offer two patterns for a shilling or five for two, and I am pleased to say that they have been received very favourably.’
She and Ruth went out, followed by Anton Schuster and St. John, who were deep in conversation about Schuster’s article. A minute later St. John came back in holding a bundle of letters.
‘Here’s the post,’ he said. ‘And here’s one of your famous ads. Look.’ He tore open an envelope, read the contents and handed it to Freddy. ‘What do you make of that? Not much, I expect.’
Freddy looked at the slip of paper inside the envelope just long enough to ascertain that it was indeed one of the ‘Daddie Dearest’ announcements, then handed it back.
‘No,’ he said, with a glance towards the window, where Theresa Schuster was standing with her back to them. He hoped she had not heard the exchange, for he had no wish to draw attention to his interest in the matter. St. John put down the advertisement, threw the envelope in the waste-paper basket then went out again, leaving Freddy and Mrs. Schuster alone in the room. She was staring out of the window, seemingly absorbed in something, and Freddy was just musing on how best to approach her with a view to reminding her about his invitation to one of her evening parties, when she turned and beckoned to him with a sly smile. Freddy joined her.
‘You see that man?’ she said, indicating with a carefully manicured hand.
Freddy looked and saw a man wearing a flat cap standing at the corner of the street, smoking and apparently watching the antics of a brewery horse that had taken fright at something and was doing its best to rear. There was nothing to distinguish him from any other working man in the street.
‘What of him?’ he said.
‘He is from British Intelligence,’ she replied.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. They follow us about everywhere. Or at least, they follow Anton. I do not suppose they find me so very interesting.’
‘Why do they follow you about?’
She shrugged.
‘Anton is a little revolutionary in his ideas,’ she said. ‘They did the same to us in Vienna. Always there, wherever we went. I find it tiresome, but Anton likes it very much. He says that if they find him threatening enough to shadow him then it must be because his ideas are worth something, and so his life’s work has not been in vain.’
‘Does he want a revolution, then?’
Again came the shrug.
‘Anton is a very clever man,’ she said, ‘but he is not the practical type, and the idea of violence horrifies him, despite what he preaches. I do not think he would like it.’
‘And what about you?’
‘I should not mind it,’ she said, considering. ‘I have lived through one myself and it was not so very bad. You cannot deny that there is much unfairness in your society here. Rich men eat truffles and quails’ eggs, while poor ones have no work and their families have no food. Is it so wrong to take just a little from the first and give it to the second?’
‘I’m not especially keen on the idea of taking anything from anyone who doesn’t want to give it up,’ said Freddy. ‘Although of course I’d like everybody to have work.’
‘I knew you would say that,’ she said. ‘The English are not the revolutionary sort.’ She glanced sideways at him. ‘I told you before of our gatherings, I think,’ she said. ‘I have many friends who like to debate these things, but it is not at all serious or dull. There will be another on Saturday at our house. Will you come? Bring someone if you like.’
‘I should be delighted,’ said Freddy.
Her face lit up.
‘Ah! Excellent,’ she said. ‘We shall be most pleased to see you, and I know you will enjoy it.’
They were standing together at the window, and she turned and gazed directly into his eyes, and the daylight on her face allowed him to see her properly for the first time. Her eyes were an unusual shade of light brown—almost an amber colour—and he found that she was prettier than he had at first supposed, at least when she smiled. To his surprise, he noticed that she had a small scar running across her cheek, just below her left eye. She was wearing powder, which concealed it to some extent, but it was unmistakably there, and he wondered how he had missed it before, and how she had got it. She was wearing a scent that was unfamiliar to him: not the delicate floral sort that most women of his acquaintance wore, but something that spoke of spices and roses, and made him think of the East. As he breathed it in he began to experience the oddest sensation of light-headedness—even giddiness—almost as though he were drunk, and just for a moment he was glad he had the window-sill for support. She laid a gentle hand on his arm, and he suddenly realized that he must have been staring.
‘Come on Saturday,’ she said softly.
Then Ruth came in and began talking to Mrs. Schuster as though Freddy were not there. Mrs. Schuster moved away from the window and the two women left the room. Instantly Freddy darted across to St. John’s desk and copied down the ‘Daddie Dearest’ advertisement as quickly as he could, then fished the discarded envelope out of the waste-paper basket and shoved it in his pocket. After that he strolled into the outer office. Warrington and Jessop had returned, and were laughing at something which they had just handed to St. John, who was now reading it and shaking his head. Freddy bade them all goodbye and St. John raised a vague hand.
‘Whew!’ thought Freddy as he emerged into the street. ‘I had no idea Schuster’s wife was such a piece of work. She turned her head-lamps on me all right just then. Now, I wonder why. If she’s carrying on with Peacock then I don’t suppose she was captivated by my handsome face—unless she�
�s the sort who can juggle with a whole menagerie at once. Still, Saturday ought to be interesting.’
It seemed a long time to wait until the Schusters’ party on Saturday—too long for Freddy, who was anxious to be doing something. He was not the sort of young man to take life seriously as a rule, but he felt uncomfortably as though he were under the watchful eye of Henry Jameson, and sensed that it would be a mistake to let him down. Besides, he was spurred on by his own natural curiosity, and wanted more than anything, first, to solve the mystery of Miss Stapleton’s death, and second, to find out whether it had anything to do with the suspected conspiracy among the members of the East London Communist Alliance. He had closely examined the envelope he had retrieved from St. John’s waste-paper basket, but had not learnt much from it, for it was a perfectly ordinary envelope of the sort that might be bought at any stationers’ shop, and had been addressed using a typewriter, with no handwriting to identify the person who had sent it. The postmark was London, which hardly narrowed it down. Freddy examined the type and saw that the upper-case ‘R’ was cut off at the top, while the lower-case ‘e’ was slightly raised. Henry had sent him all the ‘Daddie Dearest’ messages they had, together with a note that said Freddy might as well try and decipher them too, since their own cryptographers had had no success so far; but without the book which was the key to the cipher, Freddy did not see how he could help.
‘All I need to do now is to start hammering out ‘r’s and ‘e’s on every typewriter I see,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I don’t suppose there are more than about five thousand of them in London. Still, if I can find out who typed these ads, then I might be able to find the book they’ve been using to write the code.’
In the absence of anything else to do, he decided to attend the Communist Alliance meeting on Tuesday. He arrived early again, as he wanted to scout around the central hall and see whether the police had missed any clues as to the identity of Miss Stapleton’s murderer.
‘Hallo, Freddy,’ said Mildred Starkweather, who was bustling about in the kitchen with Miss Hodges. ‘What are you doing here? I should have thought you’d had enough of all this. I do hope you haven’t come to be ghoulish and look for horrid things to say about Miss Stapleton in your rag.’
