I slept very late Tuesday morning. It was probably the combination of sleeping-pills and exhaustion. I did not come down to breakfast until 10.30. While I was having my coffee, Charles came in. “You’re very late,” he observed. “Just as well, too—you’ve missed all the reporters.”
“You’ve got rid of them?”
“With some difficulty. I think they’re picking up what they can in the village and they’ll turn up outside the church to-morrow. But we’re safe for the rest of to-day, I think. Oh—by the way—we’ve a new arrival at the house.”
“A new arrival? Who?”
“Giles.”
I stiffened. “What’s he doing here?”
“He came by request—and under escort. Burgess found out that the amber cigarette-holder is his, as I’ve no doubt you knew all the time. Since the maid found it early Sunday morning and an observant bar-tender at the village pub saw Giles use it Saturday night, an explanation seems indicated. Burgess is talking to him in the sitting-room now.”
At this moment, Mrs. Rapp came into the dining-room. From the look on her face, it was not hard to guess that she had had more trouble with my aunt. Before she could say anything, however, a young police-sergeant who was working with Burgess came in. “The Inspector would like to see you in the sitting-room, Mrs. Fane, when you’ve finished your breakfast,” he said, “if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll come now,” I said. “May I see you later, Mrs. Rapp?”
Giles looked shockingly bad, tired and pale, with circles under his eyes. He said hello curtly when I came in, and nothing more. Burgess looked almost ostentatiously patient.
“I’ve been trying to persuade Mr. Randall to make a statement,” he told me. “But he’s refused flatly to say anything. His cigarette-holder, which was last in his possession at about 10.30 Saturday night, was found here early Sunday morning. It was quite easy for anyone to get into this house unnoticed. Your cousin, Mr. Charles Mason, managed it, with no trouble. Mr. Randall’s relations with his uncle are quite well known. In spite of all this, he persists in saying that he was not in the house and that he does not wish to say anything else. I sent for you in the hope that you might influence him to use a little common sense.”
Burgess was clearly talking to Giles, though he was ostensibly speaking to me. The case he had against Giles was his most promising one to date. Burgess was, I thought, a very fair man, but I imagined that Giles’ mulish silence must be yet another point in the case against himself. I had little hope of influencing my cousin, but I tried.
“Giles,” I said, “Inspector Burgess has been here two days. He seems very reasonable. He’s no more prejudiced against you than against the rest of us. But he’s bound to come to the worst possible conclusion if you refuse to say anything.”
“This doesn’t concern you, Chris,” said Giles. “You manage your own affairs and I’ll take care of mine.”
“You don’t seem to be doing it very successfully at the moment. The only thing sillier than getting arrested for a murder you did commit would be to get arrested for one you didn’t.”
Burgess listened to this cynical remark without noticeable emotion. So did Giles, who said nothing. “Well,” I said to Burgess, “I’m not doing any good here. Why don’t you get Charles in? He’s the only one Giles might conceivably listen to. You needn’t bother with any of the others.”
“There is no need to bring in Charles,” said Giles, annoyed. “I’m not a difficult child who has to be coaxed and I rely on my own judgment to tell me what to say or what not to say.”
“He’s always had bad judgment, of course,” I said to Burgess. “Funny how far back it goes. He couldn’t judge our nurse’s temper in the nursery. Runs right through everything he does—even driving. I remember once, years ago, we drove into Redcot for something. There was a van parked on the side of the road. Giles cut around it and another car was coming the other way. Instead of speeding up, he executed some fancy manœuvre and we ended up in the ditch.”
“I executed no fancy manœuvre,” said Giles. “I did the only thing that could save us from being killed—and I did save us, you notice. You know, Inspector, Christy’s told that story for years and it’s never been correct. But she goes right on telling it.” He glared at me with such frustrated anger that one would have thought the accident had just taken place. The Inspector looked from one of us to the other and began to laugh; so did I, and so—finally—did Giles.
When we had stopped laughing, there was silence for a moment, and then Giles said, “Oh—the devil with it, Christy—I suppose there’s no way out.” He turned to the Inspector. “If I make a statement, will I be free to go?”
Burgess shook his head. “I can’t say that, Mr. Randall. If you make a statement, we’ll naturally check as much of it as we can. But since you were in the house that night, I’d prefer you to stay here with the others, if Mrs. Fane can arrange it. It saves having to keep a man watching you down in the village, you see.”
“It’ll be just like old times to have him staying here,” I said, politely. “I’ll try to give you the room next to Uncle William and Aunt Mildred.”
“Oh, hell,” said Giles. “All right. What do you want to know, Inspector?”
“The whole story—what time you came here and why. What you said to your uncle. When you left.”
“Well,” said my cousin, “I can’t tell you exactly when I came, but it must have been one o’clock or a bit later. I walked over from Redcot…”
Giles had found Uncle Hugh working at his desk. He was wearing a silk dressing-gown over his shirt and trousers, and he looked opulent and at ease with himself. He must have been surprised to see Giles, but he showed no signs of it. Nor did he appear either curious or annoyed. “Good evening, Giles. I can’t say I expected you, but I’d heard you’d been in these parts a bit lately.”
“From your sister-in-law and the servants, no doubt.”
“Well,” said my uncle, mildly, “they’ve all seen you grow up. It’s not surprising they should take an interest in your activities.”
“I’ve not come to talk about that, in any case,” said my cousin, shortly. “I’ve come to talk to you—and about you.”
My uncle raised his eyebrows slightly. “Then sit down, my boy—unless you’re planning to give a lecture.”
Giles remained standing. “It won’t take long. I’ve come to tell you I know all about your activities in that Fascist organization, the Freemen of Britain.”
“That’s not surprising, considering the interest you’ve always taken in my affairs. What about it?”
Giles had been slightly taken aback. He had expected a different reaction: annoyance, concern, alarm; not this unaffected calm. He said, “I’ve come to tell you that unless you withdraw all your support from them completely, I’ll make your activities known to everyone in Britain.”
“You must please yourself, of course, Giles. But there’s no need for you to go to all that trouble. I shall be making a public announcement of it myself in any case—in a speech on Wednesday night.”
Giles was no fool. He had known my uncle for many years, and he knew that he had been told the truth. He realized that he had miscalculated. He had been certain that my uncle planned to remain entirely anonymous and in the background of the Freemen. But Uncle Hugh’s calm statement made it clear that the organization was going to make an open bid for political power. Giles could not interpret it in any other way. He said, “You know it’s a bloody Fascist organization.”
“We needn’t quarrel about terms. I know quite well what the organization is, yes. I’ve been influential in its development, so I ought to know.”
“And to keep your miserable money, you’d establish a tyranny over the people of this country—oh, a decent, well-bred tyranny, I don’t doubt, but dictatorship just the same. Well, it won’t work, you know. You won’t get away with it. The workers of this country are on to people like you.”
“Well, if you’re right,” said my uncle, equably, “you’ve nothing to worry about, have you? But you’re a bit confused, my dear boy. I’ve made my money honestly and I’d like to keep it. You’re right there. But I’m reasonably attached to the old ways—parliament, democracy, and all that—for whatever they’re worth. The point is that the system’s not working any more—not efficiently, that is. When that happens, another system takes its place. My own belief is that the new system will be some form of dictatorship. Everything’s moving that way. Well, it’ll be a dictatorship of the Left, if you have your way. You’d have one to-day, if you thought you could get away with it. If I have my way, it’ll be a dictatorship of the Right—which will be much more suitable for England in any case.”
“And you think you’ll get away with it? You think the working people of this country will stand for it?”
“I think so,” said my uncle. He was entirely calm and dispassionate. “I understand ordinary people better than you do. I’m afraid being an intellectual and an old Etonian is a fatal handicap when it comes to understanding ordinary people. The trouble with you—and with some of your friends—is that they think working people are either like them or that they ought to be. You want to improve them. One of your complaints against my lot is that we don’t want to improve the workers. But if they don’t want to be improved, that’s our strength, not our weakness.”
Giles’ violent anger did not keep him from speaking. “You’re very plausible,” he said, bitterly. “You’re very plausible. You’ll offer them bread and circuses and all you’ll ask will be their freedom. You’ll trick them into giving up what they’ve struggled for and make them grateful to you for thinking for them. Is that it?”
“You ought to know,” said my uncle, amiably. “The prescription’s that of your friends, isn’t it? Give them what’s good for them, whether they like it or not. You’ll tell me you’re doing it to ensure the welfare of the people and that we’ll only do it for power. But who’s to say you’re right? Who’s to say people won’t be better-governed and happier under what you’re pleased to call a tyranny of the Right than under what I call a tyranny of the Left? And who’s to say what the motives of either of us really are? I say I want efficiency and you say you want the welfare of the people. But my enemies will no doubt say I want power—and your enemies will say the same about you. And who’s to judge where the truth lies?”
“I’ve always hated you,” said Giles. “All my life. But I don’t think I ever realized how wicked you were. It’s an old-fashioned word—wicked. But then, you’re an old-fashioned man, aren’t you? Well, I hoped to make you see some reason to-night, but I know the impossible when I come across it. Let me tell you just one thing, though—to make it clear. I’ll fight your organization with every weapon I have. But if I ever come to think you’re so important to it that your death would harm it, I’ll kill you myself! And I mean that. Don’t forget it!”
He left the room, then. He caught just the end of my uncle’s amused remark. It was something to the effect that surely Eton should have concentrated more on developing poise and self-control…
When Giles had finished, I was sick with apprehension. I was angry, too. It was just like Giles, I thought. He had never had any judgment and when he was talking about my uncle, he had no self-control. That he had sneaked into the house was bad enough. That he had not come forward with this information when he learned my uncle had been murdered could be considered misguided, if no worse. His account of the earlier part of the interview showed clearly that his temper had been very high. But for him to recount that last part and his final words was sheer lunacy. It was like asking for a conviction of murder.
And yet, looking at the Inspector, I wondered if I were right. It could be argued the other way: a guilty man would not have admitted making such a threat. Perhaps the very ugliness of Giles’ story made it more likely to be true. Well, the men in my family in this generation were at least alike, I thought—Giles, Andrew, and Charles, each presenting to the Inspector all the damning facts about themselves, and daring him to see what he could make of them.
Burgess heard Giles’ rather incriminating story with polite impassivity. He then asked the sergeant, who had been taking shorthand notes, whether he had got the story straight. The sergeant, less impassive than his superior, nodded. He looked appalled.
Giles seemed to come to himself suddenly. He looked at the sergeant, at the note-book in which his words had been recorded, and at Burgess. For a moment, I thought he seemed alarmed and was going to protest. But he didn’t. He had many faults, but he did not lack courage. I wondered if the Inspector knew Giles had been a Commando during the war.
“Is that all?” asked my cousin.
“A few more points, if you don’t mind, Mr. Randall. You say you arrived here shortly after one in the morning. How long were you here altogether?”
“I should think—oh, twenty minutes, perhaps. Twenty-five at the outside.”
“What kind of spirits was your uncle in? I mean, did he seem depressed? Did you have any reason to think he might be contemplating suicide?”
Giles laughed. “Uncle Hugh kill himself? The last man in the world! He was much too pleased with himself!”
“Then you would say he seemed much as usual?”
“He certainly talked just as usual. I thought he seemed a little quieter and more subdued than normal, and he said once or twice that it was cold in his room. Actually, it was rather warm.”
“Did he say he felt ill?”
“He wasn’t ill,” said Giles, impatiently. “And he didn’t say so. I imagine he was tired. It was late at night, you know.”
All right, said Burgess. “Tell me, Mr. Randall, when did you learn that your uncle had been killed?”
“Sunday morning. One of the village girls told Miss Moore, and she told me.”
“Did you learn how he had been killed?”
“No. I don’t actually know yet, though I heard it was some form of poison.”
“Not precisely,” said Burgess. “Your uncle was given a large dose of hexamethonium bromide in his water carafe. It’s rather a new drug. Have you ever heard of it?”
Giles answered almost immediately—but not quite; there was a barely perceptible pause. “I think I have.”
“Do you know what its effects are?”
“It’s something to do with lowering the blood pressure, isn’t it? I think I’ve read about it.”
“Yes,” said Burgess. “Well, that’s all for now, Mr. Randall. I may want to talk to you again later. You can ring Mrss Moore’s cottage now, if you like, and tell her any things you may want up here. One of my men will go down for them later on.”
“I’m under protective custody?” asked Giles, sarcastically.
“No more than anyone else,” said Burgess, evenly.
Giles gave it up and went out, presumably to telephone. Burgess said to me. “You don’t have to answer this question, Mrs. Fane, but I’d like to know: is your cousin a Communist?”
I said, “Are you interested in politics?”
“Yes.”
“And—this will sound rude, but I don’t mean it that way—do you know anything about it?”
“Yes.”
“Then,” I said, “no. Giles is not a Communist.”
Burgess smiled. “For the simpler minded, he is?”
I smiled, too. “He isn’t really, of course. He’s certainly never received any Moscow gold, and I’m sure he’s never been a member of the party. But since he always defends or excuses the Russians and as his general line is often similar to though not identical with theirs, ordinary people who don’t take much interest in politics can’t be blamed for getting confused.”
“What are his political views, then? He doesn’t entirely dislike the idea of dictatorship?”
I hesitated. “I don’t suppose he actually favours it. But neither is he averse to it, should it be necessary—and he and his friends would be the sole judges of whether it was necessary or not. He’s out to improve people and the way they live, and if they don’t see the light, he’s willing to do it by compulsion. He wouldn’t put it exactly that way, of course. He’d say they’d been misled and corrupted by the rich—by which he means anyone who doesn’t share his own political views, it has nothing to do with the income level, necessarily.”
“That dislike for the class he came from—it can’t all be because he hated Sir Hugh?”
“Oh, no—though that’s an important part of it. But I grant you there are a lot of people who share Giles’ general views without having a specific relative to hate. I’ve never really worked it out. But he and his friends are convinced that they are the only people who really mean well.”
“Your family must be very upset at having a close relative with Mr. Randall’s views.”
“Most of them. Not all of them. I told you Uncle Hugh wasn’t. Charles isn’t. I’m not. Uncle William would dislike Giles’ views just as badly if he were nothing more revolutionary than a peaceful follower of Mr. Attlee.”
A policeman came in and handed an envelope to the Inspector. As Burgess read it, his face changed. He seemed to look older—and harder—and more worried. He said “Thanks”, and the man left. Burgess continued to look at the message as if he could somehow extract from it more than was on the paper. I made a move to go, but he waved me back. “We were talking about Mr. Randall’s political beliefs, weren’t we?” He sounded a world away.
“Yes.”
“You’re sure? I mean, you’d bank on your analysis of how he’d behave?”
He sounded less incisive than usual. It was evident that the message—whatever it was—had upset him.
“I wouldn’t put it just that way,” I said. I could hardly have told him I’d bank on my analysis of nothing. “It’s just—the impression I have of Giles.”
Burgess seemed to take himself in hand. “You said ‘he’s certainly never received any Moscow gold.’ You’re at least sure of that? He wouldn’t—well, for instance, he wouldn’t give away secrets to the Russians?”
No one chooses an example like that at random. I knew Burgess, a careful man, had not. Perhaps he would not have used it at all if he had not been shocked by the note he’d just been given. I said, “No. I don’t think so.” And something stirred far back in my mind—something—I said, almost unconscious that I spoke aloud, “Secrets—has there been a leak from the lab at Uncle Hugh’s plant?”
He jumped to it so sharply that I was startled. “What d’you know about it?”
“I don’t.” I was still speaking very slowly. This thing must have been at the back of my mind for some time, though I had not been aware of it. “You just said—would Giles sell secrets. And you’d had a note that disturbed you. I suppose I put two and two together—or maybe more. You see, on Saturday morning when I went into the library to ask if there was anything I could do, my uncle was just finishing a conversation on the telephone. I heard him say ‘No. I’ve got it. I’ll see to it immediately. Don’t worry.’ He looked angry—and a little queer. Then he saw me and spoke quite normally. So I forgot about it. After he was killed, I remembered it—but I thought it might have had something to do with the Freemen.”
“You say he looked queer. What do you mean by queer—ill?”
“No.” I searched for the right word. “Not ill at all. I don’t know—outraged, perhaps. That’s the closest I can come to it.”
“Outraged,” said Burgess. “Yes. I suppose that might be it. No, I don’t think it has anything to do with the Freemen, Mrs. Fane. Your guess was quite right. I must ask you to give me your word you’ll not repeat this conversation.”
“You have it,” I said.
“Very well. There has been some leakage at your uncle’s plant. They only told him of it a short time ago—well, they only learned of it a short time ago, to be accurate. He said he’d look into it—they preferred it that way, too. He was talking to one of the Intelligence people Saturday morning—about eleven. Is that about when you went into the library?”
“About that,” I said. I felt sick. Burgess and I looked at each other.
“I can imagine how you feel,” he said. “It’s not very pretty. It shakes you to think of something like—treason—coming so close, doesn’t it?”
“It makes the world seem—even shakier than usual.”
“Of course,” said Burgess. “This sort of thing isn’t exactly my line, but naturally I’ve come across it before. It still shakes me, in spite of some experience with it. And it’s going to complicate this case badly. It seemed like an ordinary case of murder—with extraordinary people involved, perhaps. But now it’s more complicated—and more urgent.”
I said, “But surely you don’t know it was someone here? And even if it was—my uncle might have been killed for a quite different reason?”
“I agree, Mrs. Fane. But it’s a coincidence all the same. And I don’t like coincidences like this. Still—there may be one case, there may be two. They’ll have to be sorted out.”
His voice was quite level. When I looked beyond it to what was meant by that neutral phrase “sorted out”, I again felt sick and I could feel my hands begin to shake. Burgess said, “Shall I get you a drink?”
I shook my head. “I’m all right—or I will be in a minute.”
He gave me a cigarette and took one himself. After a moment he said, “Did you know what kind of secret work they were doing at your uncle’s plant?”
I shook my head. “I think everyone takes it for granted that plants like that do some secret research. And I knew there was a lab only certain people could enter. But that was all. Was the leakage about something—important?”
“All leakages are important. This isn’t on the atom bomb level or anything near it, of course. But it’s serious enough. Mrs. Fane, you say only certain people could go into one lab. Do you know who—or how many?”
“I’ve no idea. I should suppose the scientists and a few workmen, possibly, and some of the top administrative people. But it’s only a guess.”
“I’m guessing rather a lot myself at this point, Mrs. Fane, but good detective work—any detective work—depends a good deal on intuition. Has to. Something seems to fit or it doesn’t. You don’t know why and you’re not always right. But you’re right more often than you’re wrong. It saves time and energy to investigate your hunches first—if they’re as consistent with what happened as any other possibility. So—you said your uncle looked outraged. Do you think he was looking outraged at the general idea of a leakage at his plant?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t think so, Mrs. Fane. He certainly would have been outraged when he first heard about it. But he’d known for some days by the time you overheard him speaking to Intelligence. So it’s much more likely that he was outraged at what he’d learned.”
It sounded logical. I said so.
“And he’d be more outraged if the leak had something to do with his family than if anyone else had been involved, wouldn’t he?”
I started to protest. Burgess forestalled me. “It’s not proof,” he said, wearily. “I know that. I’m just dealing with suppositions. Let me put it this way: he’d have been somewhat outraged if the leak had been through an ordinary workman, more so if it’d been through a scientist or one of the top administrative staff—and most outraged if it had been through a member of his own family.”
There was no arguing with that. I again agreed.
“Then—let’s put it at its bluntest, Mrs. Fane. Suppose your uncle had learned that one of the members of his family had been the cause of the leakage of information. He’d have taken some strong action just the same, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t protect the person just because he was in the family?”
I shook my head. “I honestly don’t know what he’d have done. He’d have tried to hush it up, of course—to see that nothing was made public. But he’d have taken—very drastic action just the same.” I realized suddenly what we were saying and what was involved, and the shock of disbelief came over me again. I burst out, “It seems impossible.”
Burgess’ voice was not unsympathetic. “You mean it seems impossible that a member of your family could be a convinced Communist—or willing to give them information, for whatever reason? (I’m including Tay, of course.) Unlikely, perhaps; but not impossible. Look at that case in America. Anything’s possible in the world to-day, Mrs. Fane. As I told you, it’s not something I know a great deal about, but I do know a little. You’d be surprised.”
Involuntarily, I jumped slightly. He said, “What’s wrong?”
But it had gone. I shook my head. “I don’t know. Something you said reminded me of something—something someone else said to me recently. But I can’t remember what it was.”
He did not drop it. “It was related to what we’ve been talking about?”
I tried again, but it evaded me. “I suppose it must have been. But it’s no good. I can’t remember.”
Burgess tried several more questions, but without success. I just could not recall what had flashed through my mind. So he reverted to the subject of Giles. “You say he wouldn’t give information to the Russians?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “I don’t think he would. Besides, he’s never near the plant and he never comes to see any of us. So ho——”
I did not finish the question. Burgess understood easily. He said, “I know. And he wasn’t at your uncle’s dinner-party the night before the accident. He could, of course, be working with someone at the plant, but I don’t see why, in that case——” He broke off. “Mrs. Fane, I’d like you to tell me something about the political ideas of your family.”
“Political ideas? You mean which way they vote?”
“Yes. That. And the general nature of their beliefs—how seriously they take them. Begin—well, begin with yourself.”
“Well, I’m—it’s hard to explain. If I did, I’d have to go into very great detail. I was Labour at Cambridge and I voted for them in 1945. Since then, I’ve voted Liberal. I don’t know what I’ll do next time.” Involuntarily, I smiled slightly and Burgess asked what was funny.
“Giles. He forgave me a lot because I voted Labour in 1945, but he was furious with me for voting Liberal. He said I should at least vote Conservative—and be loyal to the side that was feeding me. I told him Uncle Hugh didn’t mind—that he was buying my brains and my time, not my soul. I also said that politics wasn’t a religion with my uncle the way it was with him—that when Uncle Hugh felt religious, he went to church on Sundays. Giles was furious.”
Burgess said he could imagine it. “But was it true?” he asked. “After all, the Freemen of Britain was in the nature of a crusade.”
“I know. But I don’t think my uncle was emotionally involved with them—not like that man, Gresham. I’d guess that Uncle Hugh simply decided that that was the best way to get the kind of government he thought necessary in Britain—and joined them. I should think there was very little emotion involved.”
“It’s possible, of course,” said Burgess. “Well, go on. What about the rest?”
“My Uncle William is what is known as a crusted Tory—I don’t think he ever thought about it much. He just takes it for granted that the right-wing of the Tory party is the place for anyone sensible—by which he means himself. My Aunt Mildred”—I laughed—“she’s the kind of Tory who makes even good Tories think of voting Labour. Andrew—I suppose Andrew’s a middle-of-the-road Tory. He’s not very much interested in politics, but he’s intelligent and not fanatical about the subject. Daphne votes Conservative because she knows all nice people do—she’s never thought about it in her life. But to do her justice she isn’t anything like Aunt Mildred.”
“I see. And the others?”
“Robert’s a Conservative M.P., as you know. I should say he was in the middle of the party, too—perhaps a shade to the left of Andrew. I don’t know about Anne—I imagine she thinks much as Andrew does, but I don’t remember talking politics with her recently. I think Charles is a Liberal, but you can’t tell with him.”
“He’s a clever man, your cousin Charles. It’s a moot point whether he’s too clever.”
I was silent. The news about the leakage at Uncle Hugh’s plant had shocked me so much that I had emerged temporarily from my determination to keep as clear of the investigation as possible, and to tell Burgess the very minimum. Besides, my uncertainty touched only my personal life and my personal relations, not my political convictions. I had been genuinely appalled at Burgess’ information and entirely clear that the source of the leakage must be discovered. But Burgess’ remark about Charles had again brought the focus on murder and my new clarity of thought vanished. I got up to go.
“You know, Mrs. Fane,” said Burgess, “you can be quite helpful when you try. It’s a pity you don’t try more often.”