Below the Clock

Colour flooded Watson’s face. Even in the blue of the street lamps it was discernible as a widening stain. He looked uncomfortable.

‘I … I only wanted to make it plain …’

Curtis slapped his back and checked the sentence impatiently.

‘Man alive, you make it too plain! What you say to me doesn’t matter a hoot. What you say to the police might mean everything. They would fasten on your words as eagerly as leeches bite into a piece of bruised flesh. If you’re not very, very careful you’ll have the coroner asking questions that will write finis to your political career and make Mrs Reardon exceedingly uncomfortable.’

‘But there’s nothing for us to be uncomfortable about.’

‘Quite. You’ve explained that. So there can’t be anything to get excited about. But for the love of crying out loud don’t get so pink round the gills each time her name is mentioned. If you act in front of other people as you have tonight everyone will swear that there’s something in it. I’m going back to the Temple to work.’

Watson was unwilling to leave things as they stood. He walked with his friend through the quiet streets at the back of Whitehall and along the Embankment. For some time both were silent. Then Watson spoke with startling abruptness:

‘Did you know that Edgar cut me out years ago with Lola?’

‘No, I didn’t. But after tonight, of course, I guessed it.’

‘I thought I had given you a false impression.’

Curtis took a cigarette from his case, handed one to Watson and lighted the two, glancing at the miserable face of his friend in the flickering light of the match. He spoke with a tone of smooth toleration:

‘Look here, old man, you’d better tell me nothing. You can’t prevent me putting two and two together. What does it matter if I think they make five? But you insist on talking, tell me what I am to believe.’

Watson winced and the cigarette glowed and glowed again.

‘I don’t want there to be an appearance of mystery where there is none. We were boy and girl together. When I came down from the university she floored me. I’d never thought of a woman before. Then Edgar came down for some shooting. After that I never had a chance. It was just as though he’d put a veil on her so that she could only look at him. I was nowhere. The trouble was that even now I fancy Edgar didn’t know he was cutting me out. He was infernally friendly.’

‘But afterwards? Was he never jealous?’

‘He had no cause. I saw her alone very little. Lola encircled her life with her wedding ring. Besides, I came to look on Edgar as a close friend.’

‘It was an impression he had a way of creating,’ said Curtis, dryly. ‘Take my advice, Watson, and tumble into bed. Your nerves are shaken. I’ll see you tomorrow. The troubles may have lifted by then.’

A few minutes before Watson and Curtis parted company a conference was in progress in the office of the Commissioner of Police. There were three men in the room. Sir Norris Wheeler, the Commissioner, was fifty, corpulent, bald-headed and irritable. Chief Detective Inspector Ripple was tall, cadaverous and melancholic. Amos Petrie, a solicitor from the Public Prosecutor’s Department, was an odd specimen. About five feet four in height, nearer fifty than forty, he had weak eyes that blinked behind rimless spectacles, large ungainly hands, had a nasty habit of staring over a person’s shoulder while talking to them and a worse habit of rubbing his hands on a huge coloured handkerchief every two or three minutes.

‘I asked you to come round, Petrie,’ said Sir Norris, ‘because we want some assistance. Ripple suggested to me that I should borrow you, and I think your services might be very helpful.’

Petrie glanced at Ripple with malevolence and coughed nervously.

‘I’ve got plenty of work to do without butting into Yard work,’ said the little man. ‘Why can’t you handle the case here?’

‘Because the inquiry is the most difficult we’ve ever had,’ said Ripple, ‘and we haven’t forgotten what you’ve done for us in other cases. I don’t think this is a job for an official Yard man.’

‘Why not? Thought you were paid to investigate sudden deaths.’

‘But you must know when such a death takes place in the House of Commons police work is hampered in a hundred and one ways. It looks as though every member of the Cabinet has got to be questioned and some M.P.’s have got to explain things. Add to that the fact that you can’t meet them in the House and you’ll see the start of the difficulty.’ The Commissioner was indignant.

Petrie played with his handkerchief.

‘I think you’re raising a mare’s nest,’ he remarked. ‘At the moment you don’t know what caused Reardon’s death. Why not wait?’

‘We know enough about the surrounding circumstances to realise that a few preliminary inquiries are justified,’ said Wheeler.

‘And what part am I supposed to play?’ asked the little man. ‘Do I sit on the doorstep of 10 Downing Street until I can chat to the members of the Cabinet? Or do I stand back and applaud while Ripple does his stuff?’

Sir Norris opened his mouth to snarl a retort. He hesitated, and changed his mind. Petrie was an odd man. For twenty years he had been known as a person who didn’t take kindly to discipline. His usual reply to a rebuke was simple and effective. He pointed out that since his private means were sufficient to sustain him, and since he preferred fishing to hanging around Whitehall it seemed that the time for a quiet removal had arrived. And Petrie was not the type of servant the Department wished to lose.

‘I can’t give you any details now,’ said the Commissioner. ‘Ripple can tell you all that there is to be known. You two have worked together many times. I only hope that you will be successful this time. May I take it that you commence to assist us tomorrow?’

Amos pursed his pale lips and played with a thin wisp of hair. The Inspector was gazing at him hopefully.

‘I’ll make a few inquiries in the morning,’ he said eventually, ‘and if I then consider that I can help Ripple I’ll lend a hand.’

‘That’s very good of you,’ said Sir Norris.

‘Actually, it isn’t. I don’t want to discover how or why Edgar Reardon passed from this world. But I’m glad of the chance to aggravate Ripple somewhat. I’m sure he’ll be glad to know that.’

The Inspector sighed heavily. His faith in the powers of Petrie were tremendous; after working with the small man many times he had developed a measure of respect for him. But their association meant the consumption of more beer than Ripple appreciated and the narration of many stories and much advice concerning the art of angling. Amos rose from the chair, looked at his uncreased trousers, picked up a bowler hat that hadn’t been dusted for years, pushed a tie that looked like a length of rope a little farther away from his collar, nodded his head to Wheeler, winked at Ripple, and ambled out of the room with the soft tread of an angler and the rolling gait of a sailor. The Inspector hurried after him. Petrie turned to view him disconsolately.

‘Sunshine,’ he said, wagging a head that was a couple of sizes too large for his thin neck, ‘I’m not congratulating you on dragging me into this lot. In other words, damn you! What about some beer?’

‘Not yet, not yet. Come into my office and I’ll tell you how things stand at the moment. After that we may have a drink.’

‘May have?’ Petrie sounded aghast. ‘I must have misheard you. If I can’t have an ale when I want one I’m resigning from this job now.’

‘I won’t keep you more than ten minutes. Then I’ll drink with you.’

‘The very soul of consideration, laddie. Lead the way, Sunshine.’

‘And don’t keep calling me Sunshine!’

‘Rather too masculine, you think? I’ll try Rainbow if it suits you better. Or shall we call you Epidemic? The words seem to fit.’

Ripple said nothing until they were seated in his office.

‘Did I tell you,’ commenced Amos, ‘about that chub I collected just before the start of the—’

‘Forget it,’ said Ripple wearily. ‘Let’s talk about the late Edgar Reardon. Tell me what you know about the affair and that I needn’t pass on old information.’

‘I don’t know much. He was thirty-nine. Graduated into politics after the usual education and a stay of a couple of years in Paris. Tried his hand as a barrister, but had no enthusiasm for it. Turned from the Bar to the City, and built up a name and collected a fair amount of money, as financial adviser to a few trust companies. Married Lola Andrews, only child of Sir Clement Andrews. Elbowed his way into the Cabinet because the other men in the party weren’t much good. Slick talker, affected dresser, unusually conceited, fond of company, posed as a friend to everyone, fancied himself as a coming Premier, did a bit of hunting and shooting, played cards a lot and settled down to a life of eminent respectability after he became Chancellor. Rose this afternoon to explain in his Budget how he intended to overcome a serious deficit, collapsed and died during his speech before he indicated the new financial programme. Cause of death at present unknown, but previously regarded as a man in good health. That’s all.’

‘Seems to be plenty. I’ve questioned two or three folks, but I can’t add much to what you’ve said. I can’t see the point in asking many questions until I know how he died. The whole affair is daft.’

‘Then why on earth do you drag me into it, Angel? When do you think you’ll have the genuine information about what happened?’

‘By lunch-time tomorrow. I’ve had a word with the Coroner for the House and his officer will pass the information to me as soon as he gets it from the doctor. Perhaps you’d better collect me at the Yard in the morning. Maybe you’ll be excused from duty. I hope you are. That’d let me out of it. This death looks everything that’s odd.’

‘Don’t tell me that, Sunshine. Every time they throw you into an inquiry the whole affair bristles with difficulties and trouble.’

‘You know perfectly well that I get every rotten job they can find.’

‘And you make the best of them, lad! If they delivered the culprit to you with a signed confession in his hand you’d find a catch in it somewhere. Be more like the intelligent carp. They never worry. So long as the Cyprinus Carpio can collect an occasional meal it lets the troubles of the world drift by. You, Ripple, never wait for awkward moments. You stay awake at night inventing them. What about this beer you were going to buy for me?’

‘The shout is on you. I don’t get half your money.’

‘Maybe,’ said Amos as they walked out of the building towards Whitehall, ‘but think of the value I give them for what they pay!’

Ripple grunted, bowed his meagre shoulders in an outsize overcoat. Petrie trotted along by his side, chattering about fish. The Yard man was not listening. He was thinking about Edgar Reardon, wondering what would happen if he had to arrest a Cabinet Minister. After the second glass of beer he thawed a little. They were alone in a far corner of the bar.

‘If Reardon was murdered,’ he said, ‘he must have been poisoned, and if he was poisoned the stuff must have been given to him in a glass of claret and seltzer. That’s all he drank while he made his speech. The drink was given to him by Eric Watson, his Parliamentary Private Secretary. He seemed flustered when I saw him tonight.’

‘Might give you a lead. What made you talk to Paling?’

‘I was told that he had been seen around a lot with Reardon and was in the House at the time of his death. He’s a curious bloke.’

‘Aren’t they all? Seen the widow yet, Sunshine?’

‘I thought I’d leave her until she got over the shock.’

‘Did you discover first whether it had been much of a shock?’

Ripple replaced his glass on the table. Frowns ran across his face.

‘You’re a funny little devil. What do you mean?’

‘Nothing. When I see a school of roach swimming like blazes I fancy I can smell a pike behind them. Sometimes when I think of sudden deaths I wonder about women. Perhaps that’s why I’m a bachelor.’

‘Don’t you think we ought to wait a while before we start making guesses? After all, Reardon might have passed away very harmlessly.’

‘There is that possibility. If the idea is strong in your mind I can’t see why you had to pester me. Have another beer.’

‘Not me. I have to keep a clear head. Tomorrow means work.’

‘All right. Take some brightness home to your wife. Good-night.’

Petrie strolled out of the public house, whistling cheerfully.

CHAPTER IV

THE MEDICAL REPORT

WORD passed round the House of Commons on the following day that Edgar Reardon had died of heart failure. It was difficult to trace the origin of the information, but members linked it obscurely with the post mortem which had taken place early that morning. The news was received eagerly and immediately accepted. It was satisfactory to all to know that there was no foundation for the vague fears of Tranter.

Curtis first heard the news while waiting in the outer lobby to speak to Fred Otwood. At the time he couldn’t find an opportunity. Otwood was talking to a small man with a frightened air and an ill-fitting suit—Amos Petrie.

‘I didn’t know that Reardon had a heart,’ said Curtis. ‘In that case Tranter was wrong, almost foolishly wrong.’

‘That’s old news,’ asserted his informant. ‘I wouldn’t take his word for anything that really mattered.’

Curtis smiled vaguely and was walking away when from the corner of his eye he sighted Fred Otwood. At that instant the former Chancellor of the Exchequer leaped to one side as if he had been stung by a tarantula.

‘How dare you, sir?’ he cried.

The little man seemed more surprised than any man of his inches had a right to be.

‘I’ll report you to the House,’ shouted another Member. Otwood’s trouble seemed to be catching! Petrie blinked his eyes and tugged nervously at his coloured handkerchief. He stared round as though searching for an ally.

With unbelievable suddenness the octagonal space in which members woo constituents and placate troublesome petitioners, was converted into pandemonium. It seemed that before the mind recovered from one surprise the eye was shocked by another. Member after member left those to whom they had been speaking and retreated hastily to the Inner Lobby where the outside world may be defied.

Amos Petrie, his mild face creased in bewilderment, walked over to Curtis.

‘Did you see that?’ he inquired. ‘What’s the matter with the man?’

‘I was as much surprised as you were.’

A wan smile passed over Petrie’s face. He remarked artlessly:

‘I only asked him if he could tell me something about the death of the late Edgar Reardon.’

‘Well? And what then?’

‘He didn’t seem to hear me. So I touched his arm to attract his attention. How do you explain it all?’

Curtis laughed and also beat a retreat to the Inner Lobby. Petrie stood with a smile twisting his mouth. Now he realised some of Ripple’s difficulties. It may be generally conceded that those seeking news with regard to an occurrence at a particular time and place first ask those who were present. But whenever detectives attempt such a move in the precincts of the House of Commons they raise nice questions about freedom of ingress and egress and the immemorial Privileges of Parliament. It was so now.

The Inner Lobby was seething with discontent and ruffled vanity. The walls were echoing to discordant voices.

‘They’ve no right in here except as servants of the House …’

‘But if Reardon’s death was not heart failure after all …’

‘Nonsense. Of course it was heart failure.’

‘Why this shoulder clapping business anyway …’

‘A sheer impertinence …’

‘A gross breach of privilege, too.’

‘I’ve never been so insulted before during my years …’

‘We must tell the Speaker. We certainly must …’

‘And discover if he authorised it …’

Fred Otwood promised to raise the question and walked into the House. Curtis followed him and immediately walked over to Joe Manning. He told him of the trouble.

Manning was puzzled as well as annoyed.

‘You’re a lawyer and I’m not, Curtis. What’s the constitutional line?’

‘That depends,’ whispered Curtis. ‘I’d advise you to go slow.’

Manning nodded and took no part in the Parliamentary crisis produced by the arrival of Amos Petrie. He did not need to fan the trouble and he couldn’t assuage it. The Home Secretary made an attempt to temporise and the House became more and more impatient. Matters were not improved when the Speaker admitted that he knew nothing whatever about the affair. He had been kept in entire ignorance about the inquiries.

That fact disturbed even the Speaker. And if the pale ghost of Charles I had appeared at the Bar of the House the private members could not have been more shocked. The Home Secretary was harried, baited and badgered until anyone but an M.P. would have felt sorry for him. He began to wilt, looked hopefully at the Prime Minister. There was no help coming from that quarter.

Ingram sat on the Treasury Bench, his elbow on his knee, his head supported on his hand, listening to the disheartening exhibition made by his Home Secretary. The Premier decided to close the storm of questions and silenced everyone by stepping to the table.

‘I think,’ announced Ingram, ‘that this House will have to reconcile itself to accepting the aid of the Civil Power. I say that although I should have disapproved of its intrusion without the sanction of the House. To explain why I am of this opinion I must say that I hold in my hand the reports of two eminent medical men who this morning performed a postmortem in connection with the tragic death of the late Edgar Reardon.’

The members moved restlessly. Ingram seemed tiresomely verbose. The forensic mantle dropped from Ingram with cruel abruptness.

‘The late Chancellor of the Exchequer died of poison!’

The last word shot through his lips as though it had blistered his tongue. Five hundred breaths were intaken.

‘He was poisoned with strophanthin.’

A whisper rose round the startled House. What was strophanthin? To Eric Watson that seemed unimportant. He felt like a fly taken in the web of a spider. He flashed dimmed eyes round the vague sea of faces, half-unconsciously seeking for a friendly glance. Instead he heard five hundred repetitions of the word strophanthin.

Tranter knew what it was. He smacked his thigh to proclaim his knowledge. Those on each side began to question him. The whispers faded away as Ingram opened his mouth to speak again:

‘I understand that strophanthin is one of the most dangerous drugs in the pharmacopœia,’ he announced.

‘How did the deceased Member get it?’ The questioner was Manning.

‘That is one of the matters demanding inquiry. I am told, though, that in minute pathological doses it is used medicinally.’

‘Oh!’ Manning sat back and relaxed. ‘That explains it, of course.’

‘Not quite,’ said the Prime Minister unhappily. ‘The late Member was not taking such a medicine and more strophanthin was found in the course of the postmortem than could ever have been administered medicinally.’

To Watson that added a further complication to his entanglement. To all others it gave a final element of the fantastic to a situation already incredible. Members rose to insist upon further information being supplied.

‘The effect of strophanthin upon the heart is well known,’ he said, ‘and I am told that it is very peculiar.’ He stopped to raise a slip of paper before his eyes. Then he proceeded: ‘Even the beat upon which the heart stops tells its tale in corroboration. It stops in systole, and not in diastole, and movement is arrested in a tetanic spasm which the postmortem inevitably reveals. It is somewhat the same condition as that we know as lockjaw.’

Ingram moved back to the Treasury Bench. The Members gaped at him. The facts had now been realised and accepted. The bewilderment grew and grew. Questions were flung with the rapidity of machine-gun fire. Ingram had to return to the table. He shook his head wearily as he listened to the bombardment.

What was the explanation? Why should a man give himself a cramp in the heart that kills? Above all, why should Edgar Reardon have done it? Was it certain that the tragedy was not an entire accident? From whence did the strophanthin come? Was there any connection between the tragedy and the pending Budget?

Those who sought information were disappointed. Ingram replied to all the questions without adding to that which they already knew.

‘I share the bewilderment and perplexity of Members,’ he said. ‘I have been asking myself all these questions since the information was first placed in my hand. I cannot answer them. So far as I know the physicians have no replies to them. It is certain that the late Chancellor of the Exchequer could not have taken the poison outside the House. All who were here yesterday will attest with me that he could not have been poisoned in the House. To all who knew him it is inconceivable that he should have poisoned himself. It seems also impossible that an accident could have happened. Yet our friend is dead. There is nothing further I can say.’

For a space there was a complete silence. Then a voice rose:

‘What about the claret and seltzer he drank?’

Watson licked his dry lips, wanted to shriek out that there was no poison in the glass. He restrained himself with an effort and searched the benches to discover who had asked the question. He could not even find a look of malevolence towards himself. He seemed unnoticed, almost as though he were out of existence. The Members were inhumanly impersonal. The Prime Minister alone deviated from this attitude by a hair’s-breadth. He glanced at Watson as he proceeded to answer the question that had been fired:

‘I do not know about the claret and soda. But we all know that the greatest part of it was drunk during the course of the speech. That means that if the poison were in that drink the late Chancellor of the Exchequer was slowly absorbing it into his system during a period of approximately an hour. I am told upon the highest possible authority that it would not have been possible for him to do that without experiencing most serious effects. And we all know that he appeared in good health until a minute before he collapsed.’

The Members looked at the Premier and refrained from pressing further questions. They were completely out of their depth. Watson thought that Ingram might generously have used more definite words. A greater emphasis would have been fairer. Still, the underlying truth was one that must be recognised. Watson felt that he was entitled to relax. So he sat back in his chair and sighed with an approach to satisfaction. And in that very instant Ingram robbed his own indefinite words of every semblance of significance.

‘Of course, it is not intended to withdraw anything from the police,’ he stated. ‘All these matters I have mentioned will have to be weighed and considered. I have told you what the medical men have said. I cannot profess, and do not profess, to have any real knowledge upon those points. I have to rely upon the reports of the specialists, and I advise the House, also to be guided by them. I need scarcely tell you that the action taken by the police will depend to a great extent upon the doctor’s statements, and that the police have special experience in dealing with such matters. I have myself discussed the matter with Sir Norris Wheeler, the Commissioner of Police, and he assures me that he has taken special steps to ensure that the inquiry which concerns this House so nearly will be under the personal supervision of an investigator well able to discover the truth, and set the mind of this House at peace.’

Watson felt the ground sliding from beneath his feet. The reference to the claret and soda had only emphasised the ambiguity of his position, and the thought of the coming investigation flung his thoughts back in a panic to the position of Lola Reardon. Watson felt sick, wanted to dash from the House and dare not.