Lacy’s story was brief, and, privately, Lord Arthur did not find it very convincing.
‘It was none of my business, I know,’ Lacy began, ‘but for some reason or other I took this murderous business very much to heart – I might almost say, personally.’
Lord Arthur could understand that. The murder of the Secretary of State for India would naturally perturb anyone who might be called upon to take over that office himself one day. Lacy could hardly explain that he had every reason to take a personal interest in the matter, but Mr Dickson’s remarks had already made that interest clear, Lord Arthur nodded.
‘Even on our side of the House,’ Lacy went on with a slight smile, ‘we’re agreed that things must not be done that way. And as I was convinced from the beginning who was responsible, and the police seemed so stupid about it, I took it on myself to see what I could do.’
‘You mean – Ghaijana?’ Lord Arthur put in.
‘Of course. Why look elsewhere when the obvious is staring you in the face? Ghaijana is a fervent Separatist. Not only that, but he’s the only Separatist in or anywhere near the House of Commons.’
‘I thought you were rather by way of being a Separatist yourself?’ Lord Arthur interrupted again.
Lacy waved this rather obvious feeler away with a smile.
‘Oh, we all know that India will revert to the Indians one day. Some of us think that the sooner the Hindus, the Buddhists and the Mahometans get it fought out between themselves, the better. As for me, if you were to say that I think India’s already become rather more of a liability than an asset to the Empire, you’d represent my own personal feeling fairly well. But all that’s beside the point. Let’s stick to Ghaijana.’
‘By all means,’ Lord Arthur murmured.
‘Well, to begin with, the man’s technically a traitor. He preaches high treason in and out of the House itself. In any other country but this he’d have been arrested long ago, and probably executed by now. Mind you, the fellow’s absolutely sincere. I know him pretty well, and he’s one of the most upright of men. And to anyone who says, “Oh, but Dr Ghaijana would never do a thing like that,” I’d answer, “My dear sir, you don’t know fanatics; where their own particular pet prejudice is concerned a fanatic would stick at nothing.”’ Young Mr Lacy flicked his enamelled fingernails in the air with a gesture so un-English as to make Lord Arthur blink. That’s what I’d say to ‘em, Lord Arthur. And I’d be right.’
‘Oh, undoubtedly. But all this is very theoretical…’
‘Wait!’ Mr Lacy stood the fingernails upright under Lord Arthur’s fascinated gaze. ‘I told you I know Ghaijana pretty well. I know him well enough at any rate to be sure that if Ghaijana didn’t want the police to find a certain article, they wouldn’t find it. And they didn’t. Did they?’
‘What article?’
Mr Lacy’s eyebrows expressed, with the utmost respect, his surprise at Lord Arthur’s obtuseness. ‘The box of thorns. Remember, his flat was searched before Middleton’s death. If I’m right, the box of thorns was there then. Mind you, it might have been in the possession of one of his subordinates, a man quite possibly unknown to the police. But I doubt it. Ghaijana’s a man of strong character; he has to trust others, of course; but he’d keep all the main threads in his own hands. I think that box of thorns was in his flat when the police searched it. Or wait!’ The enamelled fingernails waved excitedly in the air. ‘He’s clever, you know. Infernally clever. I wonder if he had it concealed somewhere in the House itself. Yes, that’s more likely. Well, no wonder the police didn’t find it.’
‘You think this man – if you’re right in assuming him responsible – has subordinates?’ Lord Arthur liked to get one point clear at a time.
‘Undoubtedly. This isn’t the work of a single man. There’s a big and powerful organisation at work.’ Mr Lacy looked reflective. ‘Yes, they couldn’t have picked a better man for the job. You know his history, of course?’ Lord Arthur nodded, but the other went on. ‘He was associated with Gandhi in the original non-violence campaign, but as Gandhi’s views became less extreme, Ghaijana’s grew more so. But he kept up the non-violence front. That was clever. He took most people in.’
‘Except you,’ said Lord Arthur, with a slight smile.
‘Except me,’ Lacy agreed complacently.
‘If what you say is right, Ghaijana must be one of the moving forces behind the Terrorist campaign.’
‘He is.’
‘Yes, yes. But have you any proof of all this?’
‘If we can bring these two murders home to him, surely that will be proof enough?’
‘That’s so. But you haven’t produced any evidence of that yet.’
‘I’ve only theory,’ Lacy said slowly. ‘It’s for the police to find the evidence. This is my theory. Assuming that Ghaijana is the London executive of the Terrorists, he must think he’s safe now. The intelligence service of the organisation is remarkable; you know that. They even seem to know what has been decided at Cabinet meetings. So they’re sure to have accurate information about Scotland Yard. I understand that Scotland Yard is satisfied that Ghaijana is innocent. In that case Ghaijana must feel quite safe – so safe that if there are any thorns left and that box-full didn’t represent the entire supply, they’re probably back in his flat. I suggest that the police pay a surprise visit there and search the place again. And I should like to go with them. I have some knowledge of the workings of the Indian mind, and it’s possible I could be helpful.’
‘Well, it should be easy enough to arrange that,’ Lord Arthur concurred. ‘I’ll ring up Sir Hubert at once, and perhaps you’d go over and see him. But there seem a terrible lot of “ifs” about your theory.’
A smile creased the round face of the portly young man. ‘Well, here’s a fact. Did you know that Ghaijana comes from Barghiala?’
‘The devil he does!’ The information interested Lord Arthur more than anything else Lacy had said.
‘Exactly.’ The other’s smile deepened. ‘You’ve heard no doubt that the ruler of Barghiala would welcome the disappearance of the restraints which a motherly British Raj imposes on him, and that doesn’t mean merely freedom to impale the more unruly of his subjects in the palace courtyard in the good old-fashioned way. With the help of our friend S P Mansel he hopes to become a very rich ruler indeed. And at present he’s a very poor one. That’s what Separation would do for the Maharajah of Barghiala. Yes, I rather fancy there may be something more than patriotism behind the activities of our worthy doctor. No wonder he keeps his origin secret.’
‘Ah, he does, does he?’
‘It’s not difficult,’ Lacy returned carelessly. ‘I believe his parents left Barghiala when he was quite an infant. They settled in Calcutta, you know, where the father built up a big business as a carpet merchant. He’s dead now, but you can be sure that the Maharajah kept the tapes on the family. Once a native of an Indian State, always a native, you know. They’re still distressingly feudal,’ said Mr Lacy cynically, ‘in spite of all we’ve tried to teach them.’
Lord Arthur rose to telephone.
‘But wait a minute,’ he said suddenly. ‘If you’re right about this man, how on earth do you imagine he managed the thorns? He’s on the other side of the House, right down below the gangway. He couldn’t possibly do anything from there. Besides, the thorns were at the back of Middleton’s head, and Middleton was facing him.’
Lacy smiled again, in a superior way which Lord Arthur found peculiarly irritating.
‘My dear Linton, why assume that the thorns were “managed” on the floor of the House? I know that’s the theory that the police have been working on, but one expects the police to be rather foolish. Of course, it’s manifestly impossible.’
‘Then when in your opinion was it done?’ Lord Arthur asked, nettled. ‘And how?’
‘Obviously, on his way to his seat. There were plenty of people about in the lobbies when both Wellacombe and Middleton passed through, with their escorts. Ah, those singularly ineffective escorts! Really, do you think that the greatest conjuring nation in the world couldn’t manage a simple job like passing a small thorn or two under the noses of a few stalwart but so obtuse English policemen? Of course that’s when it was done, and how.
‘And here’s a final fact,’ added Mr Lacy, with the air of one offering a titbit to a Pekinese, that is to say with courtesy and respect, but at the same time with a superiority which must be highly offensive to any Pekinese, a sensitive and intelligent race. ‘On both occasions Dr Ghaijana took his seat after the others were already in their places.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Perfectly,’ returned Mr Lacy, suavely. ‘For on the first occasion I followed on his heels, and on the second he followed on mine.’
Lord Arthur took up the telephone receiver.
After his guest had gone, with an immediate interview with Sir Hubert satisfactorily arranged, Lord Arthur helped himself to another glass of sherry. He felt he needed it. Without wishing to do young Mr Lacy any injustice, and sure that he was trying to be nothing but helpful, Lord Arthur could not bring himself to feel any affection for the fellow. In fact, and not to put any fine point upon it, Lord Arthur would have felt it a considerable pleasure to kick Mr Lacy sharply on the hinder parts. He was not alone in that desire. Mr Lacy often affected Simple Britishers in that way. The fact that he did so gave him in his turn a good deal of pleasure.
Lord Arthur ate a meditative as well as a solitary lunch. The more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed that Lacy’s intervention would lead to any useful results. Even if his theory about Dr Ghaijana were anywhere near the mark there was really no evidence to support it. Lord Arthur determined to treat Lacy’s visit as if it had never been made, and pursue his own lines of action as before.
Not that there was very much choice. The only line that Lord Arthur could see was the one that led to Lloyd-Evans. Having allowed a decent interval for digestion, he therefore called for his hat and set out for Carlton House Terrace.
It was in a somewhat grim mood that he arrived there, to learn with satisfaction that Mr Lloyd-Evans was at home. The police, using correct methods, had failed to obtain any information from the President of the Board of Trade. There were only two inferences to be drawn. Either no such information existed, or else correct methods were not adequate. Lord Arthur, convinced that the information was there, had made up his mind to take a risk; for a man in his position, a big risk.
Shown into the Lloyd-Evans study therefore, and greeted with a certain wariness which, if anything, increased his suspicions, Lord Arthur came to the point with deliberately brutal directness.
‘Mr Lloyd-Evans,’ he said, coldly and firmly, ‘I’m conducting a quite unofficial, investigation of my own into the murders of my Chief and his successor, and I must warn you that I’ve already made considerable progress. You are implicated, at present only you and I know how deeply. Do you wish me to go to the police with the information at my disposal, or would you rather discuss the matter privately with me?’
For a moment Lord Arthur thought he had missed the mark. Mr Lloyd-Evans drew himself up and seemed to bristle all over.
‘Will you kindly explain what you mean by that remarkable speech, Lord Arthur?’ he demanded.
‘Certainly.’ Lord Arthur drew a quick breath. ‘I know you have been divulging Cabinet secrets to the Terrorists; I know it was you yourself and not anyone masquerading as you who delivered the anonymous letter naming Middleton at 10, Downing Street, and finally I know the details of the discreditable business about which they have been blackmailing you.’
This time there was no mistaking that the mark had been hit. The President of the Board of Trade seemed to shrink in his chair; his face became pasty, his forehead moist; he looked as if he were going to collapse at Lord Arthur’s feet.
Lord Arthur almost gasped with relief. It had been a terrific shot in the dark, but his reasoning had not been at fault. Certain that Lloyd-Evans was the cause of the Cabinet leakage, and equally certain that the man would not be risking his whole career and almost his freedom for material gain, Lord Arthur had come to the conclusion that the other side must have some kind of hold over him and had been using it to the limit. The shot had in reality not been so wild. Cabinet Ministers, after all, were human once. There are incidents in the lives of most of them that they would not care for the public to know; there are episodes buried in the past of more than a few which, if brought to light, would write finis to the most brilliant career. It does not need such a very large scandal to wreck a Minister’s reputation. And once reputation was gone, office has gone with it.
Lord Arthur gazed unrelentingly at the wretched hulk before him. Mr Lloyd-Evans reminded him of the skin of a squeezed orange, a minute before bulging with pompous rectitude, now a shapeless mass of pulp,
‘Well?’ he said.
Mr Lloyd-Evans made an effort to retrieve his voice, but only a dry whisper resulted.
‘You know about… about what happened at…?’
‘Yes,’ Lord Arthur said stoutly, wondering what on earth had happened, and where.
‘Oh, God!’ whimpered Mr Lloyd-Evans.
Lord Arthur felt uncomfortable. ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I won’t divulge it, of course…’
‘You won’t?’ repeated Lloyd-Evans, incredulously.
Lord Arthur began to feel that the hidden misdeed must be a formidable one. ‘In the circumstances,’ he said, not without a touch of pomposity of his own, ‘no. Provided, of course, that you talk freely to me now.’
‘Oh, I’ll talk,’ agreed Lloyd-Evans, miserably. ‘It doesn’t matter what I say now. I’m finished, anyway.’
‘Oh, surely not,’ Lord Arthur tried to comfort him.
‘What do you think they’ll do, when they know I’ve talked?’ asked the dreary voice. ‘Well, never mind. I knew it could only be a question of time. You want to know everything, I suppose? I’m afraid I can’t tell you such a very great deal. But first I’d like to say that I… I’d have faced it out if I’d been alone. At least, I think I would. It was just that I couldn’t bear to bring the disgrace on my wife and daughter. I… oh, well, never mind. What is it you want to know?’
Lord Arthur, reminding himself that in the national interests he must not spare the unfortunate creature before him, began to put his questions.
By the end of an hour he was in possession of a fairly connected story.
Lloyd-Evans had been blackmailed from the beginning. How the other side had learned of the unnamed incident in his past, he could not imagine; but they had. One evening, just five months ago, he had had a telephone conversation with a person of unknown identity. Lloyd-Evans had the idea that his voice sounded vaguely familiar, but could not place it. The unknown had referred in guarded tones to the past, sufficiently clearly at any rate to send Lloyd-Evans scurrying out into the summer night to keep an appointment with the speaker.
There he saw that he must have been mistaken, for the man, though speaking perfect English, was an Indian and quite unknown to him; his voice still sounded faintly familiar, but this was evidently some trick of memory, for Mr Lloyd-Evans could not remember ever having spoken with an Indian in his life.
To cut a long story short, the man had laid down his terms, and Lloyd-Evans had accepted them.
At first the coils had not been drawn very tightly. Lloyd-Evans had been required to use all his influence to prevent the Government from introducing restrictive measures in India, and to furnish reports concerning the Cabinet’s deliberations on the subject. These reports were always made by word of mouth, and nearly always to a different person. A code had been arranged, and Lloyd-Evans was informed by telephone where he was to go and at what time. He never knew whom he was to meet, but the other party always seemed to know him. The places chosen varied from West End restaurants, through cinemas, to Underground stations, but always within a mile or two of Westminster. Sometimes the contacts were made by night in a quiet street.
Gradually he had found himself more and more enmeshed, until Wellacombe’s murder. Lloyd-Evans was never given any information himself; he had known of the anonymous letters and the threats only in the same way as the rest of the Cabinet, and in spite of his position he had never seriously believed that murder was intended. Even when he had received orders to make sure of sitting beside Lord Wellacombe on the front bench he had attached no importance to the injunction. The actual death of the Secretary of State for India had been a ghastly shock to him. Then had come the decision to appoint Middleton. Half-dead with panic, Lloyd-Evans had passed on the news, wondering as he did so whether he might not be signing the Colonial Secretary’s death-warrant. The same inexplicable order had followed. Lloyd-Evans had obeyed it… and Middleton had died. This time the shock had nearly killed Lloyd-Evans, too; he almost wished it had.
As to the box of thorns…
A knock at the door interrupted the story. It was the butler with a note addressed to Lord Arthur.
Dear Linton, ran the note, I think you may like to hear at once that your friend delivered the goods all right. We raided the flat in question, and found a supply of thorns right under our noses, forming part of the pattern of a bit of native embroidery hanging on the wall. The ingenious owner is now under lock and key. – Yours, Hubert J Lesley.
Lord Arthur looked up.
‘Well, cheer up,’ he said exultantly. ‘At all events they’ve nabbed the man at the top.’