The Division Bell Mystery

by Ellen Wilkinson

  “But would that be possible, as he was in evening dress and wearing a tail-coat?” asked the coroner.

  “No, but I have seen him keep his revolver hidden between his legs and the man he was talking to quite unconscious of the fact.”

  “If that were so in this case, the revolver might have fallen to the floor when he was shot?”

  “That is possible,” said Annette.

  “But surely, Miss Oissel,” said the coroner, “a simpler explanation is that Mr Oissel shot himself, and the revolver fell from his hand as he fell from his chair.”

  “I do not believe that my grandfather committed suicide. His hold on life was quite extraordinary.”

  The polite gesture of the coroner conveyed the impression that that was of course what a dutiful granddaughter would be expected to say, however overwhelming the evidence against her view. The crowd was obviously disappointed when Annette’s evidence was finished and her elegance was replaced in the box by the stolid, unexciting figure of Inspector Blackitt.

  The Inspector’s evidence followed the familiar lines as the coroner took him through the story again. Then the Oissel solicitor took charge.

  “You examined the revolver when you took over from Sergeant Bourne?”

  “Yes, sir. He, of course, left everything as it was until I came.”

  “How many shots had been fired from the revolver?”

  “One, sir.”

  “And do you consider that the bullet that killed Mr Oissel had been fired from that revolver?”

  “It could have been, sir. It was of the same make and size.”

  “Could have been? Does that mean that you are not quite sure that it had been?”

  There was dead silence in the court. Blackitt in his slow way said quietly: “I am not convinced of that, sir.”

  West groaned inwardly as the sensation of this swept through the crowded court. It was the first intimation that the police in any way doubted the theory of suicide.

  “Have you any reason to doubt that Mr Oissel committed suicide.”

  Quite calmly and undramatically the Inspector detailed the reasons that had already convinced Sir George Gleeson—the absence of scorch, the impossibility of a man shooting himself in such a place without holding the gun so close to himself that a scorch mark would be inevitable.

  Press and public hung on his words. The suicide theory was definitely smashed in the public mind.

  “Did you know that?” whispered Don.

  “Yes, but I was pledged not to tell a soul till this inquest. Damned silly to let it come out like this. Looks as though the Government had been trying to keep it dark for a time because they had something to hide.”

  “It would be a very strange Government if it hadn’t,” said Don with a smile.

  “I know, but this is worse than sending the bellman round to call attention to the fact.”

  The Oissel solicitor, having got what he wanted, seemed as anxious as anyone to dissipate the sensational atmosphere caused by the police inspector’s evidence. The remainder of his questions to Blackitt were concerned with technical details.

  The coroner then adjourned the case for a week, and the proceedings ended.

  As he rose to leave the court with Don, Robert caught the eyes of Michael Houldsworth, who was looking down from the gallery. Houldsworth smiled.

  “Now we’ve got to reckon with that lad,” thought Robert, “and official excuses will make precious little impression on him. Let’s go and have a beer and some Stilton at Barney’s,” he said, turning to Don.

  “Good enough for me,” replied the other. “Hello, here’s a messenger for you.”

  A young constable handed Bob a message. It had been telephoned from the House of Commons. Would Mr West see the Home Secretary in his room at the House as soon as the inquest was over?

  On his way back to the House of Commons Robert determined to lose no more time before telling the Minister what had been found in Jenks’ pocket and consulting him as to what could be the possible explanation. The inquest stood adjourned for only a week, and Robert was convinced that there ought to be no more sensations at the next one. The inquest on Jenks was being held to-morrow, and something might come out then, though Annette would see to it that her solicitor asked no questions about the notebook, if, indeed, she had told him anything about it. She seemed as anxious as Robert himself was to avoid publicity about that.

  West was therefore annoyed to find Sir George Gleeson with the Minister, and to judge from the mass of papers before them he was not paying any fleeting call. The Minister’s glance when Bob greeted him showed that he had not expected Sir George when he sent the message to his P.P.S. It was, of course, impossible to discuss anything about Jenks with the chief permanent secretary present.

  The Minister asked questions about the inquest, and Robert told him about Blackitt’s evidence. He made no comment, and neither did the Minister, but a glance passed between him and Sir George which Robert could not interpret.

  “And are you enjoying your new rôle as amateur detective?” asked the Home Secretary with a smile, as Robert finished his report.

  “You haven’t found out anything very startling yet, have you?” added Sir George with a slight sneer.

  Robert met his eyes quite calmly. It is easy to stand sarcasm with the card that may prove the ace of trumps in one’s hand. Robert smiled inwardly at the effect he could produce at that moment, if he wished to, but he was not ready yet. He must see the Home Secretary alone first.

  “Could I see you later, sir?” he asked. “On another matter,” he added as Sir George looked up.

  “Let me see. I have a Cabinet meeting at four o’clock. It should be over by six. Will that do?”

  “Perfectly. Then I think I’ll go and get some lunch, if you don’t want me any more now.”

  “Just a moment. Can you do anything about this? Houldsworth has given notice to raise the matter on the adjournment. The Government definitely do not want a debate until the police have formed some conclusions. It makes things awkward with the American Embassy. Couldn’t you see him this afternoon and soothe him? Of course we can’t refuse some statement if he persists, but it would be unfortunate if we had to face the House on the matter just now.”

  One of the privileges most prized by private Members and most dreaded by Ministers in an awkward corner is the right of any M.P. to raise any subject of public interest, after proper notice to the Speaker, on the final motion of the day, “That this House do now adjourn.” The debate must come to an end at eleven-thirty, but if the other business of the day has finished early a quite insignificant Member may find himself with time to initiate a first-class debate on some matter well in the public eye. Michael Houldsworth could be trusted to stage his motion on the best possible day.

  A P.P.S. who can turn the wrath of back-benchers into safer channels when they are out for a scoop is a treasure. Robert was anxious to live up to the traditions of his post. He suddenly realized that Gracie might be of use in this.

  “Leave Houldsworth to me, sir,” he said with a confident air that was intended to impress Sir George.

  “Really, Robert, you are a great help to me,” and the Minister turned to his Civil Service head as though asking that his commendations should be added.

  “I wish you joy of tackling Houldsworth,” said Sir George.

  Robert felt that it was just about time to indicate to the magnificent Gleeson that though he might at the moment be only a Parliamentary private secretary (unpaid) he was also a Member of Parliament.

  “There are ways of dealing with him if you know the right way to go about it,” he said grandly. “Well, if you don’t need me any more at the moment,” he added to his own Chief, “I’ll get a spot of lunch and then see what I can do with Houldsworth. Afternoon, Gleeson.”

  Robert felt that was quit
e a good exit. But he had got to live up to it. Houldsworth had to be squared somehow, and he saw no hope of doing that without the help of Grace Richards.

  The attitude of Robert West to the modern young woman was typical of that of a very young man. He preferred the intelligent woman. He liked to be seen about with one who was making a name for herself. But while he was interested in her he expected her to put her own affairs into the background, and devote herself to his. When she was no longer needed she might be permitted to pick up her own threads again, but she must not trouble him. This he called allowing a woman to live her own life.

  While they had been in the House together—for Grace, a Cockney of the Cockneys, had won a constituency at a by-election about a year after West had won his seat—he had managed to see a lot of her in a circumspect way. They had fought hard over politics. ‘Yes-women’ bored Robert, and he was coming round to Grace’s point of view more quickly than he was prepared to admit. He saw no other way out of the muddle. But what Grace thought of their unusual friendship Robert had no idea, a fact which added to his interest in her. Grace had not been bred in drawing-rooms, but in the factory and in the London streets. She was not the sort of girl to give herself away. Though as outwardly frank as Annette Oissel was reserved, she had her own defence mechanism, as West had already discovered. Still, she always seemed ready to put her own affairs on one side when he wanted to talk to her.

  West walked round the corridors looking for Gracie, who would have finished her morning committee by now. She was not in the dining-room, but he caught sight of her signing for some papers at the vote office, that convenient little window in the corner of the central lobby whence M.P.s can secure their Government publications free of charge.

  He knew better than to apologize for his recent neglect. The brisk one-busy-politician-to-another was the line to take with Gracie, who though in the bloom of her twenties, and very young and lovable, was determined to live up to her chosen rôle as a grim and sexless legislator.

  It seemed a little comic at times to the older men who watched her, but it was a gallant effort.

  Robert went behind her and said hurriedly: “I’ve just come from the inquest. I’d like to talk to you. It’s rather important. Have you lunched?”

  “No. I had rather promised I would join Michael, but if you like…”

  “Good. Then let’s lunch together. Let’s find a quiet table where we can talk.” Robert felt some satisfaction that he had taken the girl away from the determined Houldsworth.

  He told Gracie the story of the inquest as they lunched.

  “Why are you all being so secretive about the affair?” she asked impatiently. “The public will get the impression soon that you know who did it, and are trying to keep it dark.”

  This gave Robert the opening he was looking for.

  “If we knew who did it, or had the remotest idea why Oissel was killed, if he didn’t kill himself—which, after all, isn’t absolutely certain—or even if we knew why his flat was burgled, then we could be perfectly frank about all these details. But we have to go carefully, because we don’t know, and we may spring a mine any minute.”

  Gracie tossed back the thick mass of her straight black hair. “I can’t see why. Two men have been killed. Your crowd seem only concerned about Mr Oissel, but I consider him of no more importance than Mr Jenks.” (She emphasized the “Mister Jenks.”) “The police must find out who did it, and they must be punished whoever they are.”

  “I wish it were as simple as that. I hope whoever did it will be punished, and the full penalty at that. I liked Jenks, and am not in the least disturbed about Oissel as a man. But there has been a further slump in British securities. The Americans are furious—all sorts of rumours are flying about. We are working like hell in tracking the murderer. I was on the job all last night.”

  Robert received such a sympathetic and even horrified glance as he said this that he felt it hardly necessary to explain that ‘being on the job last night’ had consisted in walking up and down his bedroom trying to think what Jenks could have been up to. But it sounded well, and was as true as most politicians’ statements, he felt.

  “I didn’t know you were in it like that,” said Grace.

  “I’m not only in it, but I think I’m on the track,” said Robert with pride. “I wish I could tell you, but I’m sworn to secrecy.”

  “I say, how thrilling!” Grace was as excited as a schoolgirl.

  “I want you to help me.” Robert’s confidential tone would have received applause on the Lyceum stage. He was enjoying himself.

  “Of course. I’d love to, but how?”

  “Can you persuade Houldsworth not to raise the question on the adjournment to-night?”

  “Will it upset things as much as that? Or”—and Gracie suddenly became the suspicious political opponent again—“are you just trying to get your Minister out of a fix? Because I’m not going to help that old stupid.”

  “My dear girl, your bump of reverence needs development. My Chief is not as stupid as he likes to be thought. But anyway you are not helping him if you do this. You will help me.”

  “And why should I help you?”

  Robert was positively shocked. Why should she help him! What did she think women were in politics for if not to be helpful? He came of an old political family. Had one of the women of his family ever asked why she should help? He had always approved of women getting the vote just because he felt it was good to have women about. They were always willing to be helpful—at least, those one liked. And here was Grace, on whom he had bestowed certain attentions, actually wanting to know the why and wherefore before she would help in a most important political matter.

  “Of course, if you feel like that, there is nothing more to be said,” he replied huffily.

  Grace chuckled—that odd little Cockney chuckle that always reduced the high-and-mighty Robert West.

  “Oh, come off it,” she said. “There’s lots to be said, but it’s no use your thinking that I can call off our people if I haven’t the least idea why. Besides, I am not going to try. You either trust me, or do the job yourself.”

  Robert was in a quandary. He could not do a thing with the suspicious Houldsworth without Grace’s help. And he could see Gleeson’s smile if he failed. Besides, his prestige with the Home Secretary was all-important just now. “Oh, damn these modern women,” he thought desperately. If only they would be either modern or just women, but the combination of the two was really unfair on a fellow who had to deal with them!

  Robert looked at his companion with a smile that usually worked wonders. “Now if I were a woman, and you were a man M.P. in a fix, this is where I should begin to use S.A. What is the equivalent for me? There isn’t one. It’s not fair.”

  Grace’s glance was enigmatic. “You could tell the truth, of course. Unusual, perhaps… but often helpful.”

  “Gracie, I can’t. Honestly, I’m not asking you to do anything against your party. If I can only have this week-end clear on the job I believe I really can get on the track of these people. If there’s a debate now, and the Minister has to admit certain things, it gives them warning, and all my clues are covered up. Won’t you trust me? Houldsworth, or you, if you like, can have your debate next week. Won’t you help?”

  “I shouldn’t worry about the missing S.A., Robert. You’re doing quite well.”

  “Damn it, Gracie, are you going to help me?”

  “Yes, of course I am. Now I’ll go and find Michael.”

  Robert made a movement as she rose and signed her own bill. What was one to do with a woman like that? As he went back to the central lobby he found himself meditating on what sort of a woman he would like to marry. He had managed a combination of Grace and Annette before he was roused from his reverie by a couple of journalists wanting to know the latest news of the murder.

  CHAPTER XI


  Inspector Blackitt returned to Scotland Yard after the inquest in a state as near to bad temper as his usually calm disposition allowed. He felt that he was not being quite fairly treated. The evidence which he had given at the inquest had been determined by his official superiors. Still more annoying were the invisible but unscalable barriers that seemed to arise whenever he was pursuing a hopeful line of investigation. He had a feeling that he was being checkmated from above, and that even Sir George Gleeson seemed more anxious to keep his investigations within prescribed limits than concerned in finding the murderers.

  Blackitt sat down at his desk and pulled some sheets of foolscap towards him. It was his habit when thinking out a problem to make little drawings of the things that puzzled him. He had a gift for delicate and accurate sketching that had come in very useful in his previous cases. This time he drew a sketch of the revolver that had been found by Mr Oissel’s side.

  Three things had to be decided about that. Had the bullet found in Mr Oissel’s body been fired from that revolver? If so, what hand had fired it? If not, from whence had the shot come?

  The expert’s evidence on the bullet was not absolutely conclusive. He glanced at the report that had been sent in. The bullet could have been fired from that revolver. It was of the same pattern and make, but for a standard make of revolver that did not tell him much. As no other weapon had been found in the room, whose doors and windows were closed, he might assume for the moment that the shot had been fired from the revolver found beside the body.

  Then whose was the hand that held it? Could the waiter have had his hand round the door? But that theory would not hold water. West had seen the waiter outside the closed door as he heard the shot. Suicide was the only theory that fitted all the facts, except the state of the body itself.

  By his expert knowledge Blackitt had convinced his superiors that the old man could not have committed suicide, so now he felt that if, after demolishing a theory so obviously convenient to the Government, he failed to produce the murderer he might have been better advised to let well alone.