by Clara Benson
On the stage Rowbotham coughed and moved on to his concluding remarks, as his two assistants took notes. St. John stood by the steps and awaited his moment, while Freddy went around to the back of the tent. Here there was another flap, outside which a motor-van bearing the name of a bakery firm was parked, its engine running. A man was sitting in the van, smoking, sheltering from the drizzling rain. This must be the van into which the conspirators planned to bundle the unconscious Rowbotham, after which he would be shot dead. Then the van, with Rowbotham’s body in it, was to be abandoned, and the killers would drive away in the hired car. After that, they had planned to stage Freddy’s death and put it about that he was the assassin, acting on the orders of Intelligence. It looked as though the man in the motor-van was supposed to be keeping watch on the back of the tent, to ensure that nobody got in, although he was not exactly doing his job properly. Freddy decided to take the direct approach. He sauntered up to the van and knocked on the window. The man opened the door and regarded him suspiciously.
‘I say,’ said Freddy. ‘If I were you I’d make myself scarce nowish.’
‘What d’you mean?’ said the man.
‘Why, the game’s up,’ said Freddy. ‘The police will be here at any moment, and if they find you then you’re quite likely to find yourself on the receiving end of twenty years’ hard labour. That’s if they don’t hang you, of course. I haven’t read up on sentencing rules lately, but I seem to remember it doesn’t matter whether you fired the gun or not; if they think you had anything to do with it then they’ll send you to the gallows just as cheerfully as they will the murderer himself.’
The man regarded him blankly, confirming Freddy in his initial impression that the conspirators’ driver was not the most quick-thinking of men. He sighed and brought out the pistol he had taken from Mrs. Schuster.
‘I see you’re having a little trouble. Does this make things any clearer?’ he said, pointing the gun at the man’s chest. ‘To be perfectly honest with you, I have the most awful aim, but it ought to be easy enough from this distance, I should think.’
‘Gawd!’ exclaimed the man. ‘All right, there’s no need for that. I can take a hint.’
‘Hardly,’ said Freddy, watching as the man drove off. He turned back to the tent. ‘Now what?’ he said to himself. His original vague idea had been to intercept the men as they came out with Rowbotham, using Mrs. Schuster’s unloaded gun as a threat. It was hardly the best plan, but it was the only one he had. But since Rowbotham ought to be quite safe thanks to St. John, there seemed no sense in Freddy’s putting himself in danger. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to stand outside the tent, wait for Miss Flowers to arrive with help, and only bring out the pistol if necessary. He peered in through the flap cautiously. It was dark inside, but he could just make out Peacock standing by the front entrance with the stony-faced man. There was no sign of Bishop. Freddy withdrew his head and pondered what to do. He looked about him, and to his dismay saw the two constables from whom he had just run away heading in his direction. At any moment they would see him. There was nothing for it: he slipped silently inside the tent and stood in the shadows. Much to his relief, Peacock and the stony-faced man were looking the other way, out through the front flap, and did not hear him come in. He stole forward a foot or two and stared out through the front opening, which was a large one. He could just make out Rowbotham’s feet on the raised stage. St. John was there, watching intently and awaiting his moment. Freddy waited a minute, then sidled away quietly, intending to see whether the policemen had gone. He turned, and bumped straight into Sidney Bishop, who was just then coming in through the back entrance.
‘Here, what’s all this?’ said Bishop in astonishment. His eyebrows drew together in cold displeasure, as Freddy inwardly cursed his bad luck. ‘How did you get here? Peacock!’
Peacock turned, saw Freddy and brought out a revolver—presumably the one with which they were intending to kill Rowbotham. Freddy backed away, but stumbled against a pile of ropes which had been left on the floor. There was no chance of making his escape now.
‘Judson,’ snapped Bishop to the stony-faced man. ‘Stand by with the chloroform. Watch out for Rowbotham. You,’ he said to Freddy. ‘How did you get away? Where’s Theresa?’
‘Somewhere outside,’ lied Freddy. ‘She thought it wasn’t safe in the car so brought me out. I shook her off.’
‘And came here?’ said Peacock.
‘I thought I might be able to persuade you not to go ahead with it,’ said Freddy. He knew it was the thinnest of thin stories, but he did not want the men to get the idea that they had nothing to lose, for then they might start shooting.
‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ said Bishop. ‘What have you done with Theresa? Peacock, search him.’
Peacock grabbed hold of Freddy and patted his pockets. He brought out the derringer and handed it to Bishop. They both looked grim. Peacock placed his own gun against Freddy’s heart and pulled back the safety-catch.
‘Where is she?’ he said.
‘I left her in the car,’ said Freddy hurriedly. ‘Truly I did. Look, you can’t shoot that thing in here. It’ll make the most frightful noise and ruin your plan to pin the blame on me.’
‘Don’t shoot him yet,’ said Bishop. ‘He’s right. We need to get Rowbotham first. Don’t worry—Theresa can look after herself. She won’t say a word if she’s caught.’
Peacock threw a disgusted look at Freddy and lowered the revolver.
‘I’ll keep an eye on him,’ said Bishop, raising the derringer. ‘You go and help Judson.’
Peacock reluctantly put the revolver back into his pocket and returned to the tent entrance to watch. Now was Freddy’s moment to escape from Bishop, who was evidently unaware that the derringer was unloaded, but he did not do so, for just then there was a burst of applause outside as Rowbotham’s speech came to an end. Freddy watched, holding his breath, as Rowbotham turned and began to walk towards the steps which led down to the tent, in company with his two secretaries. At that moment, through the tent flap Freddy saw three pairs of legs clad in yellow jump onto the stage, brightly-coloured streamers waving and fluttering behind them. The three acrobats began to skip around the two secretaries, winding the streamers around them playfully. There was a ripple of laughter from the crowd. Rowbotham had not noticed, and continued towards the steps. Just then Freddy remembered something: the coded advertisements had referred to ‘tumblers.’ Could this be what they meant? Yes, of course! The acrobats had been employed to create the distraction and keep Rowbotham’s assistants on the stage, giving the conspirators a valuable few extra seconds in which to execute their plan. But where was St. John? Freddy watched anxiously, and breathed a silent sigh of relief as he saw his friend rush up to Rowbotham and accost him before he could begin to descend the steps. Peacock, standing by the front flap, shifted and clicked his tongue.
‘Damn!’ he said.
Freddy was just contemplating whether to seize the moment to make his escape when to his consternation he heard a booming voice ring out, and saw the familiar figure of Ivor Trevett ascend the steps to the stage two at a time.
‘Rowbotham, old chap,’ said Trevett familiarly, and clapped the union man on the shoulder. ‘Marvellous speech. Now, I want to speak to you. I’m on in a minute, but let’s get out of this filthy rain.’
Before St. John could say a word, Trevett turned and conducted Mr. Rowbotham down the steps, talking all the while. Rowbotham had completely forgotten St. John, who could do nothing but hurry after them. The three of them entered the tent at the same time. Freddy lifted his eyes to heaven in exasperation.
‘No time for that now,’ said Peacock smoothly, stepping forward. ‘Trevett, you’d better get back on the stage. They’re running late and you don’t want to keep them waiting. Bagshawe, what are you doing here? Get off with you. You know you’re not allowed in here.’
/> But St. John was unable to contain his indignation at Trevett’s unwitting destruction of the rescue plan.
‘You fathead!’ he said crossly to Trevett. ‘Don’t you know what’s going on?’ He turned to Rowbotham. ‘You’d better come outside, sir. It’s not safe here.’
‘What?’ said Rowbotham.
Trevett cast the briefest of contemptuous glances at St. John, and turned his back on his rival.
‘I don’t know who this fellow is,’ he said to Rowbotham. ‘Now—’
This was the moment in which the conspirators had intended to strike, but this unexpected intervention by Trevett and St. John had thrown the whole thing up into the air. Judson was taken aback, and was looking to Peacock for direction. Surely they would abandon the plan now? But Freddy had reckoned without Peacock’s audacity. He saw Peacock put his hand into his pocket, and instantly understood what he meant to do. He ran forward and threw himself at Peacock.
‘Oh, no you don’t,’ he said. ‘St. John, help me!’
St. John ran to assist. Trevett, still not understanding what was going on, and seeing his friend Peacock apparently being attacked two against one, strode forward and pulled St. John away, leaving Freddy to grapple with Peacock alone.
‘What the devil are you up to now?’ said Trevett to St. John.
‘You ass!’ exclaimed St. John, attempting to free himself from Trevett’s grasp, but Trevett held him firmly, and so St. John could do nothing but watch as Freddy and Peacock struggled together and Freddy did his best to prevent his opponent from shooting anybody. But Peacock was taller and stronger than Freddy, and at last succeeded in bringing the revolver out of his pocket. He levelled it at Rowbotham and pulled the trigger, just as Freddy seized his arm again. There was a ringing report which caused several people to cry out, and the shot went wide. The jolt caused Peacock and Freddy to overbalance, and they fell to the ground, Freddy still trying to get hold of the gun. Trevett in his shock had let go of St. John, who now ran forward to assist. Between them they managed to wrench the gun from Peacock’s hand. St. John gave a grunt of triumph, but they had reckoned without Bishop, who just then moved forward and fired the little derringer at Freddy. The trigger clicked harmlessly, and Bishop gave an exclamation of anger and instead cuffed Freddy across the head with it, knocking him sideways and causing him to drop Peacock’s revolver. Peacock had just made a dive for it when suddenly the tent was full of police and men with guns, who laid hands on Peacock, Bishop and Judson with great efficiency, disarmed them and placed them in handcuffs.
Freddy lay, dazed, on the ground, as the men swarmed around him, barking orders and asking questions.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ said a voice above him.
‘Bit of a headache,’ he managed. ‘You won’t mind if I don’t help clear up, will you? I’m rather comfortable down here.’
‘Concussion, by the looks of it,’ said someone else. ‘Better get him to a doctor.’
Freddy let them talk. He had no intention of moving. If they wanted a doctor to see him, then that was entirely their affair. Just then someone came and stood over him, and he squinted up and saw a pair of round spectacles. It was Henry Jameson.
‘Good work,’ said Henry. ‘But if you’re going to do this sort of thing in future, perhaps you’d better let me know first.’
Then he went away and began giving quiet orders, as Freddy lay on the cold ground and waited for the doctor to come.
Ten days later Freddy arrived at Clerkenwell Central Hall to find Mildred Starkweather and St. John Bagshawe in the kitchen, stacking cups and saucers on trays and talking comfortably in the manner of old friends. Miss Hodges was there too, crossing things off a list.
‘Hallo, Freddy, old chap,’ said St. John. ‘Should have thought you’d have had enough of this place by now, what?’
‘Not at all,’ said Freddy. ‘I came along to make sure the Temperance ladies were behaving themselves. But what are you doing here? I thought they’d forcibly disbanded the Communist Alliance, or proscribed you, or something.’
‘Oh, I’m here to help Mildred,’ said St. John. ‘Yes, the police have shut us down. Rather unfortunate, really. They’ve been crawling all over the Radical’s offices too, looking for evidence that we knew about the plot. Of course I told them I didn’t suspect a thing, and how could I help it if people wanted to pass secret messages through the small ads? I think I’ve convinced them now, but it hasn’t helped business. Ruth’s left, you know. A good thing when all’s said and done, I suppose, but she left me short-handed. It’s just lucky I thought to ask Mildred.’
‘Are you going to work for the Radical?’ said Freddy to Mildred in surprise. ‘How did you get permission?’
‘As a matter of fact, Mummy doesn’t mind at all,’ said Mildred. ‘At least, she didn’t once I told her that I’d made it a condition that St. John must give the Association two pages every week. I hope you’re quite recovered now, by the way. That was a nasty knock on the head you got.’
‘Oh, it takes more than a clip over the ear to keep me down, as my mother will tell you,’ said Freddy airily.
‘The two of you were terribly brave,’ said Mildred, with a glance at St. John. ‘You might have been killed!’
‘We’d have been perfectly safe had it not been for that ass Trevett,’ said St. John. ‘I always knew he had more beard than brains.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Freddy. ‘I understand he’s feeling let down by Schuster.’
‘He is,’ said St. John. ‘They’d been in secret talks about forming a new political party, with Trevett as the leader. But this plot to assassinate Rowbotham has put paid to that once and for all. I expect you’ve heard that the police have found enough evidence to charge Pettit. After his house burned down he moved to his sister’s, and they discovered a lot of incriminating documents there. Old Rowbotham is breathing fire and brimstone, and says he’s determined to root out any militancy he finds. Any supporters of Pettit are going to be chucked out of the union, apparently.’
‘But then presumably they’ll mobilize elsewhere,’ said Freddy.
‘Oh, no doubt,’ said St. John. ‘Still, that’s not Rowbotham’s problem, is it? And I can quite understand his point of view. I mean to say, it doesn’t do to have one’s own associates plotting to put a bullet in one’s head, does it?’
‘I haven’t seen much about it in the papers,’ said Mildred. ‘I expect they’ve asked you to keep quiet about it, have they?’
‘Yes,’ said Freddy. ‘They didn’t want to stir things up any more than necessary. And I think they’re a little worried about possible attempts to whip up public sympathy for Theresa Schuster. Beauty in distress, and all that. Unfortunately, it seems she’s decided to claim that Peacock forced her into taking part in the plot, and there’s no saying that a jury might not believe her. She’s rather good at convincing people to take her view of things.’
Mildred snorted.
‘I say she deserves everything she gets. She’s nothing but a trouble-maker. But what about Mr. Schuster? I can’t believe he didn’t know what his wife was getting up to.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he knew perfectly well what was going on,’ said Freddy. ‘The police can’t prove it, but they’ve arrested him anyway. I dare say they’ll find something to charge him with. He always said they would.’
‘Poor Miss Stapleton,’ said Mildred. ‘She was right after all. She was convinced they were plotting something and we didn’t really believe her. But all that snooping did her no good in the end, did it? They must have caught her listening that night and killed her for it. Have they admitted to it yet?’
‘No,’ said Freddy.
‘I don’t know why they’re bothering to deny it,’ she said. ‘They’re murderers, all right. You know they found Dyer, don’t you? Poor thing. I only hope he didn’t suffer.’
‘Was he really passi
ng information to Intelligence?’ said St. John.
‘So they tell me,’ said Freddy.
‘I’m not certain I like that sort of thing,’ said St. John. ‘Seems a sneak’s business.’
‘Perhaps so, but if he hadn’t, then the plot might have succeeded and Rowbotham would have been shot,’ said Freddy. ‘I think on balance I shall cheer rather than jeer him.’
‘Where’s Mrs. Belcher?’ said Mildred suddenly. ‘She’s late. She was supposed to be bringing some printed pamphlets, and I wanted to put them out on the chairs before the meeting begins. And I must just take a look at the subscription book, to see whether it’s up-to-date. I do think Mr. Bottle might have given us a little more notice before he left.’
‘Left?’ said Freddy, pricking up his ears.
‘Oh, he’s gone abroad for his health, apparently. We only found out about it on Sunday. But it means we have no treasurer now. I expect Mrs. Belcher will bully Mummy into doing it. Come and help me in the hall, St. John. At least one good thing has come of all this: now that you Communists have gone we can have the big hall to ourselves instead of being squashed into the little one.’
She and St. John departed, and Freddy was left in the kitchen with Miss Hodges.
‘Can I assist?’ he said. He waved away her stammered protests and started collecting spoons and sugar bowls together.
‘Good thing they caught the desperate men who killed Miss Stapleton, don’t you think?’ he said.
‘Oh—yes,’ she replied.
‘Queer, isn’t it?’ he went on. ‘If you’d asked me I should have said they’d had nothing to do with it.’
‘Oh, but they must have,’ said Miss Hodges. ‘They killed Mr. Dyer, after all.’
‘True,’ he conceded. ‘But I still think someone else did it.’
He paused, watching her as she wiped the same small area of table top over and over again. At last she looked up.
‘Who do you think did it?’ she said, almost unwillingly.
