Lord Arthur ate a solitary lunch, and thought a good deal.
As he was sipping his coffee afterwards a diffident visitor arrived to see him. It was the clerk from the registry in the India Office who had searched vainly on the previous afternoon for any record of Lacy’s recent visit to India, and he brought with him the answer to Lord Arthur’s cablegram. The message was not in cypher; and having bade the young man be seated and ordered another cup to be brought for him-a proceeding which caused his visitor to alternate rapidly between a deep pink and a pale puce – Lord Arthur set himself to study the laconic wording.
The result was disappointing. No particularly close watch had been kept on Lacy, and only a few of his more important interviews had been recorded. These were more or less what might have been expected of any politician of the Left visiting India, and the only name which caused Lord Arthur the least interest was that of the Maharajah of Barghiala.
‘So that’s where he got his information about Mansel’s activities,’ Lord Arthur thought to himself. ‘But not from the Maharajah himself, I’ll be bound. The old boy’s too foxy for that. Some underling must have given the game away.’
‘Humph!’ he said aloud. ‘Not much here, I’m afraid.’
The young man, now almost mauve, produced a couple of folders from under his arm, nearly upsetting his coffee-cup in the process.
‘I th-thought you might like to see these,’ he stammered.
‘I had another look round this morning and came across them.’
‘Thank you. I’m afraid our activities were rather abruptly interrupted yesterday evening,’ Lord Arthur said, taking the folders. ‘Did you know that poor young fellow – Farly?’
‘No, I didn’t know him, not to speak to. Is it – is it true they were after you, my lord?’ asked the young man in a rush.
Lord Arthur smiled. ‘I wish I could think I was so much in their way. No, I fancy that was just a coincidence. Let’s see, what are these?’
‘One’s a report on the railway accident, when Colonel and Mrs Lacy were killed in 1912. The other’s a file on Dr Ghaijana. I thought you might like…’
‘Yes, very thoughtful of you,’ said Lord Arthur courteously.
In order not to disappoint the young man he ran quickly through the contents of each folder, little though he saw how they could help him.
The first contained only information which in a general way he knew already. The accident had taken place in a deserted part of the country; the subsequent inquiry showed definitely that a deliberate attempt had been made to wreck the train, but fortunately the attempt had been half-hearted and the result had not been so serious as it might have been; by an unhappy chance there had in any case been a bare half-dozen passengers aboard in addition to the Lacy party, against whom the attempt had obviously been made; unhappily, a telegraph pole, which apparently had been intended to fall in the path of the engine, must have proved tougher than the wreckers expected, for it had fallen instead by an unhappy chance across the compartment occupied by Colonel and Mrs Lacy, killing them both. There was a coldly gruesome description of the head injuries which had caused their deaths, and accounts of various witnesses who had seen men running away from the scene of the accident. Needless to say, these men were never caught, though there was some suspicion that the engine-driver might have been privy to the attempt, since it seemed clear that the train must have slowed down as it approached the fatal place; this, however, the driver strongly denied, and his denials were corroborated by the fireman. The report hinted that both men were probably lying.
The ayah had finished the journey with the baby alone, handed the infant Reginald over to the first Government official she could find, indulged in a fit of hysterics, apparently under the impression that she was to be blamed for the whole thing, and then incontinently vanished.
Lord Arthur wondered idly what Freud or Adler or any other Continental psychologist might have found to say about the possible effect of all this on the infant mind, and whether they would have traced a direct line from the telegraph pole in 1912 to the enamel on young Lacy’s fingernails today. Lord Arthur thought they probably would.
The other file had even less news to impart. Lord Arthur, already tolerably conversant with the details of Dr Ghaijana’s restless career, skimmed hastily through the tale of his activities almost from the time of his birth, in Benares, of obscure and respectable middle-class parents, to his election to Parliament two years ago.
He handed the folders back with a word of thanks.
The young man, having no further excuse for remaining, hastily gulped the dregs of his coffee and departed.
Lord Arthur wondered what to do next: for do something he felt he must.
The question was answered for him. A ring on the telephone was followed by the appearance of his man with the information that Mr Lloyd-Evans was on the line.
Mr Lloyd-Evans was brief. Could Lord Arthur come round to Carlton House Terrace and see him, at once? Lord Arthur promised to be there in ten minutes, sleuths and all.
He was there in nine.
Lloyd-Evans was pale but calm.
‘It’s come, Linton,’ he said, as soon as they were alone. ‘I knew it would, and it has.’
‘What has?’ Lord Arthur asked patiently. He disliked drama in the home, but could not deny that Mr Lloyd-Evans had every excuse.
Lloyd-Evans spread his hands. ‘Exposure. Ruin.’
‘Oh?’ Lord Arthur felt he was being inadequate. ‘You mean, you’ve heard something?’
‘I have. I was rung up half an hour ago. I don’t know by whom. It was a man, and he simply said that my… my secret would be made public in two days’ time. They know I’ve talked, already. I’ve written out my resignation.’
‘That’s bad.’ Again Lord Arthur felt inadequate. ‘Did you ring up Scotland Yard and ask them to trace the call?’
‘No need. At my own request Scotland Yard have been listening in on my telephone ever since I… came clean.’ Mr Lloyd-Evans smiled wanly. ‘I’ve already heard that the call had been made from a public call-box. When the police got there it was of course empty. By the way, I’ve released Lesley from his promise of secrecy. I thought it would be more helpful if other police officials could know that I was at any rate involved.’
‘That was good of you, in the circumstances.’
‘It can’t make any difference now,’ said Lloyd-Evans, drearily. ‘I’m finished anyhow.’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t give up yet,’ Lord Arthur returned, with a heartiness that to his own ears rang dismally false. ‘Er – at all events they haven’t dealt with you as they did with Mansel.’
‘No, they haven’t,’ agreed Mr Lloyd-Evans with sudden energy. ‘But why not? That’s been puzzling me. As soon as I heard about Mansel of course I expected the same. But there’s been no attempt. I know I’m guarded – well guarded; but upon my word I’m beginning to believe these people can get past any guards if they’ve the mind. Why did they kill Mansel, but not me?’
‘Mansel must have known more. And they got him before he had a chance to talk. You’ve done so already.’
‘Yes, I suppose that must be it. And after all, I don’t know very much. Just the faces of a few of the smaller fry. No, I suppose I’m of no real importance to them. They’ll just break me, and make me a present of my life,’ Lloyd-Evans said bitterly.
Lord Arthur broke an uncomfortable silence.
‘You haven’t seen the man they caught, I suppose? The fellow who blew up my office?’
‘Yes, indeed I have. I was taken to Scotland Yard yesterday evening, and was able to identify him as one of the men who had once given me instructions. Not the man I met in the restaurant; another Indian. At least I’ve been able to give the authorities that much help.’
‘Well, that’s something,’ Lord Arthur rallied him.
‘Not a great deal, I fear,’ Lloyd-Evans sighed. ‘Well, you’ll be wanting to know why I asked you to come here. It’s for this reason. I told you I have written out my resignation; but I haven’t sent it to the Prime Minister yet. I propose in fact to postpone doing so for twenty-four hours: by which time,’ added Mr Lloyd-Evans with a ghastly smile, ‘there may be no need.’
‘What exactly do you mean?’ Lord Arthur asked uneasily. Mr Lloyd-Evans reminded him in a grotesque way of a schoolmaster. It seemed somehow indecent to be present when a schoolmaster was baring his soul. Schoolmasters ought not to bare their own souls. Their job is to bare other people’s.
‘Quite simple,’ said Mr Lloyd-Evans. ‘I’d like to do a useful job before I go. I want to make that speech in the House tomorrow, instead of… well, I don’t know who is to make it, but he can’t fail to be of more use than I can ever be, now.’
‘You know the risk?’ Lord Arthur asked mechanically. He was wondering if this was a clever plan to elicit the name of the speaker: information to be passed on to the Terrorists in a final bid for their silence. It seemed cruel to suspect the unhappy man before him of such a piece of treachery, but Lord Arthur was in the mood to trust no one. And after all, Lloyd-Evans had already shown his base metal.
‘The risk? You mean, the certainty. Oh, yes, I know. But in a way I welcome it. My life’s over. I can’t face disgrace, and possible public prosecution… and yet I know I should never have the courage to kill myself. If these persons would be kind enough to do it for me…’
‘Come, don’t let’s be melodramatic,’ Lord Arthur said sharply. ‘If your offer’s genuine, it’s a brave one whatever may be prompting it. But you should make it to the Prime Minister, not to me.’
‘I know that; I know that,’ returned Mr Lloyd-Evans, testily. ‘And of course I shall do so, in due course. I merely wished to consult you, as Under-Secretary for the Department, to learn if you approved.’
‘Why should I disapprove? Except that in my opinion the job is properly my own. In fact I’ve already offered to do it, but my offer has not been accepted.’
‘That means… yes, I feared as much… the Prime Minister is going…’ Mr Lloyd-Evans threw an interrogative glance, perhaps an involuntary one, at his visitor.
‘I have no information concerning the proposed speaker,’ Lord Arthur answered it stiffly.
‘Of course not. After all, it is the Cabinet’s privilege… and duty… exactly. In any case, Linton, we won’t beat about the bush. You are understood to be in the Prime Minister’s confidence over this matter. I should be obliged if you would use all your powers of persuasion on him to allow me to speak on the Bill on Monday. There is no need to mention my forthcoming resignation. As I said, if I am privileged to speak I anticipate that matter will not arise. I am under no illusions. To speak on Monday, I’m convinced, will be certain death… for anyone. I am the only person to whom death would be a relief, and the easiest way out. Therefore I ask you earnestly to further my cause with the Prime Minister.’
Lord Arthur was moved. In contrast to the touch of the dramatic in his earlier manner, Lloyd-Evans had spoken simply and quietly. If ever a man was sincere, thought Lord Arthur, this one was. And what he said was plain sense too. If this wretched secret was really as bad as he seemed to think, if it really involved a possible criminal prosecution, then he would be much better dead than exposed, for his own sake as well as that of his wife and daughter.
‘Write your offer to the Prime Minister,’ Lord Arthur said. ‘I’ll take it round myself, at once; and I give you my word that I’ll use every effort to persuade him to accept it.’
‘Thank you, Linton; that’s very good of you.’
Without a further word Mr Lloyd-Evans drew a piece of notepaper out of the drawer beside his hand and began to write.
No sooner had the silence settled than Lord Arthur began to fret. Uneasy doubts presented themselves. Was Lloyd-Evans really to be trusted? He had the reputation of a clever, almost too clever man. Was he really throwing in his hand like this? It did not seem like him. But if there was anything wrong, what was his object in wanting to speak? How could he help the Terrorists by doing so… assuming that this was one last tremendous bid to rehabilitate himself with them and, even at the last, almost impossible moment, buy off exposure and disgrace? It was true that the man had sounded pathetically genuine, but… he had been an actor, and…
Lord Arthur caught his breath. Supposing that Lloyd-Evans wanted to gain the floor not to speak for the Bill at all but to move its abandonment?
The Government benches would be taken completely by surprise. The Prime Minister might not even be in the House at all. Only three or four minutes would be needed, and…
Why, in three or four minutes the whole game might be deliberately lost. It was touch and go as things were. There would be no lack of supporters from the Opposition. The whole thing might even be prearranged, with Lacy or someone, or even Dickson himself, ready to jump up the moment the Government benches tumbled to what was happening, second the motion and force a snap division. And if the proposal actually came from the Government side of the House, the result of a division would almost certainly be against the Bill.
Lord Arthur’s mind raced.
‘Here you are, then,’ said Mr Lloyd-Evans, sealing the envelope. ‘I really am most grateful to you, Linton.’
‘That’s all right,’ Lord Arthur muttered. He took the letter and put it in his breast pocket, but did not rise to go. Somehow, he felt, he must clarify his ideas before trying to see the Prime Minister. What could he usefully ask Lloyd-Evans?
‘And just in case, perhaps you’d let me have a copy of poor Wellacombe’s speech,’ he heard Lloyd-Evans saying, in an almost cheerful voice. ‘No need for you to waste your time going through it with me. I’ll just read it off.’
‘I’ll send a copy round,’ said Lord Arthur, mechanically. He added the first question that came into his head: ‘Who gave you that anonymous letter to deliver to No. 10?’
Lloyd-Evans looked surprised. ‘That letter from the… Brown Hand? No one. I told Lesley. It wasn’t I who delivered it.’
‘Not you?’ It was Lord Arthur’s turn to look surprised. ‘But I thought…’
‘Oh, you had every reason for thinking so, no doubt,’ said Mr Lloyd-Evans with acridity. ‘I remember now that it was among the accusations you hurled at me in our previous conversation. I was too taken aback by the large number that were true to collect my wits sufficiently to deny the false.’
‘Then… it was someone impersonating you all the time?’
‘Undoubtedly.’
Lord Arthur considered this new development: or rather, this return to the old status quo ante.
‘It’s queer. Very queer, taken in conjunction with that box of thorns. They seem to have been deliberately trying to throw suspicion on you, in spite of the fact that you were helping them – and very usefully. I don’t understand it at all.
You haven’t any personal enemy who could be mixed up with them, have you? It would be a valuable pointer if you had.’
‘The police asked me that. I can’t think of anyone.’
Lord Arthur reflected. Mr Lloyd-Evans was a rich man: or rather, he had been prudent enough to marry an extremely rich wife, the young widow of an elderly shipping magnate. Rich men always have enemies; but unfortunately the majority are hidden enemies, from the obscure employee nursing some grudge to a jealous rival of equal standing. No, there was not likely to be much help there.
He stood up abruptly.
‘Well, I’ll be off. I may not be able to see the Prime Minister, and even if I do it’s very doubtful whether he’ll listen to me. I have no more influence with him than you have yourself. In either case I’ll notify you as soon as possible.’
Mr Lloyd-Evans went with him to get his hat and coat. Passing through the hall as Lord Arthur came out of the cloakroom was Mrs Lloyd-Evans, and he stopped for a word with her. The young widow of the shipping magnate was now a handsome matron and the mother of a remarkably pretty daughter. Most people, Lord Arthur knew, were a little afraid of her, for she had a biting wit, inspired by a penetrating intelligence, and she seldom hesitated to use it; but he found her refreshing and honest. Her husband’s disgrace would be a terrible shock to her, for his career had been largely her work.
Feeling uncommonly depressed, Lord Arthur waited for his sleuths to disentangle themselves from the still more numerous sleuths guarding the Lloyd-Evans house and then, deep in uneasy thought, turned into the Mall and walked rapidly towards Whitehall.
It was a quarter to four when he reached No. 10. By four o’clock he was ringing up Lloyd-Evans in accordance with his promise. Five minutes the Prime Minister had been able to spare him, but five minutes had been more than enough.
Glancing quickly through Lloyd-Evans’ note, the Prime Minister had said:
‘Yes? And what have you to say about this, Arthur?’
‘I strongly urge you to accept the offer, sir.’ Lord Arthur had decided in the end to back Lloyd-Evans against his own doubts.
‘It’s very handsome of Lloyd-Evans. Frankly, I shouldn’t have thought he had it in him. Ring him up for me and thank him, Arthur, and say I much regret that other arrangements have already been concluded. He doesn’t know what arrangements, of course?’
‘No, sir.’ Lord Arthur hesitated. ‘You still intend…? Honestly, sir, it’s madness. The country can’t afford to lose you. It’s your duty to keep alive. You must let me make that speech-or Lloyd-Evans, of course, if you prefer.’
The Prime Minister smiled. ‘The Opposition newspapers call me an obstinate old man, Arthur. I am. Now run along. By the way, Isabel knows, so you can discuss my obstinacy with her. But I rather fancy you’ll find she shares the same brand.’
Lord Arthur went. He knew it was no use to persist further.
Isabel was in the morning-room, filing some press cuttings.
‘Isabel, I want you to come back to Whitehall Court with me,’ Lord Arthur said, abruptly. ‘I’ve just seen your father, and he’s quite determined. If I can’t persuade him to change his mind, at least I can still try to save him. I’ve got an idea. It sounds quite fantastic and it’s probably all wrong, but it’s the only idea I’ve got. It involves rehearsing that speech of Wellacombe’s, perhaps a dozen times over. Could you bear it?’
Isabel asked no questions.
‘I’ll get my hat,’ she said.