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  ‘What does he suggest doing, Mr Curtis?’

  ‘He talked about going to the House to take a look at the body. I told him that he could, of course, make an attempt, but I doubted whether he would gain admission. The matter is now in the hands of the Coroner of the Household, and he is not in the position of an ordinary coroner. But he can try.’

  The woman was again silent for a time. Suddenly she sat stiffly erect and stared at Curtis.

  ‘Do you mean,’ she asked, ‘that there is going to be an inquest?’

  She was bordering on another lapse into hysteria. The two men glanced at each other. Watson left Curtis to soothe her.

  ‘Just a pure formality,’ he said casually. ‘Nothing at all for you to trouble about.’ From that point Curtis disregarded the curiously embarrassing glances of both Mrs Reardon and Watson as he maintained a thin stream of talk, striving to dim the tragedy in the widow’s mind. His idle chatter covered a vast range, skimming here, dipping there, but the light, discursive style had its effect. Ten minutes afterwards neither could have remembered a thing he said. Yet he had fed the woman’s mind with a flow of comforting suggestions, sliding away dexterously from any subject which might call for a reply. In that way he broke the silence gently rather than by expressing any views or feelings.

  Curtis had just drawn to a conclusion when a knock sounded on the door. A manservant entered.

  ‘Mr Paling would like to see you, madam,’ he announced.

  The widow closed her top teeth over her lip and tapped her foot irritably. Watson half rose, opened his mouth as though to speak and suddenly sat down again. Curtis looked from one to the other with a puzzled frown on his forehead.

  ‘I do not wish to see the gentleman tonight,’ said Mrs Reardon.

  The manservant bowed and retired. But he soon returned. This time the widow glared at him angrily.

  ‘Mr Paling says his call is reasonably important, madam, and he thinks it advisable that you should speak to him.’

  ‘Show him in,’ she snapped. She moved from her seat and stood at Watson’s side. The two men rose. Paling strolled into the room with an easy style and a confident manner. He scarcely looked the part of a man who had been curtly rebuffed.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the widow. She might have been speaking to a recalcitrant dog. Paling continued to smile. Small veins were pulsing in Watson’s forehead.

  ‘I thought I would call to tell you, Mrs Reardon,’ said Paling, ‘that a detective—I think his name was Inspector Ripple—has just called on me to ask what I know about the … eh … the tragedy.’

  The widow threw a look at Watson that was at once both startled and apprehensive. The creases on Curtis’ brow deepened.

  ‘A detective?’ repeated the woman. ‘What on earth does that mean?’

  ‘They haven’t lost much time in getting to work,’ said Curtis.

  ‘Getting to work?’ queried Watson. ‘What on earth have detectives got to do with Reardon’s death?’

  ‘I suppose they’re making inquiries instead of the coroner’s officer,’ said Curtis soothingly. ‘You’ve got to remember that this is not a routine matter. When things happen in the House of Commons the aftermath runs along lines outside the ordinary track.’

  ‘One would have imagined that this man Ripple would have seen me before anyone,’ said Watson.

  ‘You’ve got your turn to come,’ remarked Curtis.

  ‘I thought it only right that I should call and give you that information, Mrs Reardon,’ said Paling, ‘and since I realise the extent of my unpopularity I’ll leave. Good-evening.’

  The widow did not glance at him as he walked out of the room. She appeared stunned. Watson was in no condition to quieten her nerves. He drummed on the top of a chair with his fingers and licked his dry lips. It seemed that a fresh emotional disturbance had arisen.

  ‘I think,’ said Mrs Reardon deliberately, ‘that I hate that man Paling more than any person I have ever met. I loathe him.’

  ‘Come now!’ pleaded Curtis, ‘I don’t know him at all but his news wasn’t in any way bad, and it was pretty decent of Paling to drift along and tell you. Perhaps he was only trying to be considerate.’

  The woman pursed her lips. The men watched her. When she spoke the words poured in a flood, sounded so ladened with venom that hysteria might have explained them:

  ‘That’s the trouble. He’s always considerate about things that don’t matter. For nearly a year I’ve tried to stop him coming to this house, almost gone on my knees to Edgar to bar the man from here. I couldn’t do it, couldn’t do it. And I’m supposed to be the mistress of the place! I hate, loathe, and detest the man.’

  ‘He seems a gentleman,’ protested Curtis.

  ‘Gentleman? Pshaw! I hate him.’

  ‘Now I should have thought—’ The sentence was not completed. A knock sounded and the manservant entered again.

  ‘Chief Inspector Ripple wishes to speak to Mr Watson.’

  Mrs Reardon slumped into a chair. Curtis wiped his hand across his forehead. Watson stalked out of the room as though marching to meet a firing squad. The door closed. The widow commenced to sob.

  ‘I think you ought to take a sedative and retire, Mrs Reardon,’ said Curtis. ‘You are too overwrought, and each minute is making you worse. If you don’t get to bed you’ll be mentally and physically exhausted.’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep, positively couldn’t. I just want to be quiet, to be still while I realise that I’ll never see Edgar again.’

  She pushed a box of cigarettes towards the man. The hint was obvious. He lit a smoke and sat on the arm of a chair, swinging his legs, and trying unsuccessfully to blow rings. Seven or eight minutes dragged by before the door opened again. Watson entered, a little less jaunty, a trifle more pale. She stared at him with wide eyes.

  ‘Has he given you a real third degree interview?’ asked Curtis.

  ‘Asked me about two million questions. All of them uselessly mad.’

  ‘Did he happen to worry you at all about the claret and seltzer?’

  Watson started. The widow looked at Curtis with the sudden head twist of a frightened bird.

  ‘He seemed to be more interested in that infernal drink than he was in anything. I told him what bit I knew about it.’

  ‘Did he seem satisfied when you’d finished your statement?’

  ‘Those men are never satisfied, Curtis. Why, he even started talking about murder. Either that man is mad or I am.’

  Whichever was mad, Mrs Reardon was not conscious. She had fainted.

  CHAPTER III

  THE START OF THE HUNT

  MINUTES passed before Mrs Reardon returned to consciousness. She shuddered, stared round the room with haunted eyes. Watson patted her hands consolingly. Curtis waited for the widow to speak, wondering what her first thoughts would be as full consciousness returned.

  ‘Why didn’t Paling die instead of my husband?’ she inquired.

  The men tried to hide their surprise. Watson slipped another cushion under her head and said nothing.

  ‘Oh! The number of times I told Edgar, grovelled to him, begged him, not to have any more to do with the man. But it made no difference. He was always on the doorstep.’

  ‘Perhaps Edgar was fond of him,’ said Curtis.

  ‘Fond of him? I’m sure he wasn’t. He got no pleasure out of the man’s company. It wasn’t that Paling couldn’t talk. He certainly could, and he’d been everywhere. But they never had anything to talk about. While they were together it always seemed to me that some sort of a struggle—a silent struggle—was going on. I couldn’t understand it. I hated it.’ She paused to recover her breath.

  Then she rose from the chair. Every sign of her listlessness had gone. The effects of the faint had vanished. Her eyes shone with anger, her breast moved convulsively.

  ‘What was he to your husband?’ asked Curtis.

  Mrs Reardon flung up her hands and turned to face him.

  ‘What was
he? Friend, secretary, factotum … anything and everything or nothing. He seemed to do mostly what he liked.’

  ‘He had no fixed appointment with Edgar?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you. I don’t think Edgar would have tolerated the man unless he had been useful for something. I only hope that it was nothing disgraceful.’

  Curtis elevated his eyebrows, looked keenly at the widow.

  ‘Aren’t you being somewhat harsh, Mrs Reardon? Poor Edgar positively basked in affection. Do you think he might have been disturbed by the idea that you and he were drifting a little apart?’

  The woman began to tap one foot on the carpet.

  ‘I have often wondered,’ she replied softly, ‘whether Edgar loved me or whether I loved him.’

  Watson interrupted in a voice so strained that Curtis stared.

  ‘Then why did you marry him, Lola?’

  She answered and it seemed almost that she was thinking aloud:

  ‘You know that I was very young. And Edgar was Edgar. I think he could have persuaded a nightingale to sing out of his hand. But I doubt whether he would have listened to the song.’

  Watson burst into a perspiration. He drew a handkerchief and passed it to and fro across his forehead.

  ‘We’ll leave you now,’ said Curtis, ‘so that you can get to bed.’

  The men shook hands with her and left. She was gazing into the fire when the door closed after them.

  ‘I’m sorry for that little lady,’ said Curtis as they stood at the corner of Downing Street and Whitehall.

  ‘So am I. It’s a rotten shame. Poor little Lola!’

  ‘I hate to think of her being harried by Ripple and it looks as though she’s bound to be. Let’s hope that it won’t be too awkward for her. It certainly will be if she’s got a few facts she wants to hide. Those little peccadilloes can be very embarrassing.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that, Curtis. It isn’t like you to make nasty suggestions. I’ve known her ever since she was a kid, and there’s not one word that can be said against her reputation.’

  ‘Watson, you speak with the confidence of a father confessor, and with rather more than a confessor’s warmth. I could understand your tone if she were your own wife. If I were you I wouldn’t be so anxious to defend the lady’s good name before it is attacked. If the inquiry digs deep the purity of your motives might be suspected. I’ll remind you that Inspector Ripple is perhaps a coarse-minded man.’

  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 detail
s 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.’