Читать книгу An English Murder - Alfred Alexander Gordon Clark - Страница 5

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Sir Julius Warbeck allowed the rug to be adjusted over his knees, exchanged a few last words with his secretary, and leaned back wearily against the cushions as the car drove away from Downing Street. On the seat beside him was an official bag, containing the latest report on the vital negotiations then being conducted in Washington on behalf of the Treasury with the government of the United States. It was there to occupy him during the two hours' drive to Warbeck, so that not a moment of the Chancellor's precious official time should be wasted; but the car had threaded the maze of central London and began to cruise smoothly along the arterial road before Sir Julius made a move towards it.

He drew the bag on to his knees, unlocked it and began to study the closely typed sheets. It was an admirably written report, he reflected, as one might expect from Carstairs. He felt a little pride as he remembered that Carstairs had been his discovery in the first place. There could have been few who foresaw ten years ago the position that that young man was likely to attain, and Sir Julius, who was not usually slow to give himself credit for his own achievements, gave himself full credit for having been one of them.

Dun-coloured clouds, threatening snow, obscured the wintry sky, and the figures began to dance before the Chancellor's tired eyes. He was glad to take the excuse to return the report half-read to the bag, and to lean back again in his seat. Carstairs! The name recurred to him with a hint of irritation. Yes, undoubtedly that fellow had come a long way and was going further yet. More than one informed writer had spoken of him as the next Chancellor of the Exchequer, and Sir Julius, with the realism of an experienced politician, admitted to himself that nobody could last for ever and that he should be thankful that there should be such capable shoulders waiting to take up the burden, when the time came for him to lay it down. (Not that that time was likely to come soon, whatever some people, Carstairs included, might be inclined to think!) But he had to admit to himself that in his heart of hearts he did not like his brilliant young colleague. There was something about the man, for all his undoubted charm and talent, that was not quite—the dreadful words well bred flickered in his mind. He exorcized them with a shudder. This would never do! Alan Carstairs was an excellent fellow. It was not his fault—it was very much to his credit—that he had risen in the world with so few initial advantages. Remembering his own assured background, he ran over in his mind the pattern of Carstairs' career. Elementary school, scholarships, the London School of Economics, a fortunate marriage—yes, a very fortunate marriage, Sir Julius reflected. Without the encouragement of that active, ambitious woman, would he have ever got anywhere, for all his brains? Mrs. Carstairs was to be at Warbeck, his cousin had told him. "I must remember to say something civil to her about her husband," he said to himself. Somehow he always found it difficult to be civil to Mrs. Carstairs. She had a way of belittling all politicians except her beloved Alan. And Sir Julius did not relish being belittled.

He sat for a time staring absently in front of him. Beyond the glass partition he could see the rigid backs of the two silent men sitting in front. Their stiffness and impersonality, even towards each other, affronted him. Why should officialdom always tend to turn men into automatons? Sir Julius liked to think of himself as a genial, friendly type of man, conscious—as was only proper—of his own position and what was due to it, but within proper limits human and approachable. But try as he would, he had never succeeded in getting on proper terms with these two. There must be something wrong with them. Holly, the driver, was not so bad. His people lived near Markhampton, and Sir Julius had been at some pains to arrange that he should take the car on to his home over Christmas, calling at Warbeck Hall for the return journey after the holiday. He had at least shown some gratitude for the gesture, though not as much as might have been expected. But the other man—Rogers—the detective assigned to him by the Special Branch of Scotland Yard—what could one make of him? Sometimes he wondered whether Rogers was human at all. For the last three months the man had been his constant shadow, and he was no nearer to knowing him than he had been at the beginning. The fellow was quiet, civil, answered when spoken to, and that was all that there was to it. No doubt he should consider himself lucky that Rogers possessed no actively disagreeable quality—unlike the dreadful man who had preceded him and sniffed continually—but he remained dissatisfied. It was disheartening to be so much in the company of a man on whom one could make no impression. That, if he had but known it, was the root of the whole trouble. Sir Julius, vain gregarious soul that he was, had made his career by impressing other people. It was a cruel fate that had given him for guardian a man whom the warm rays of his personality impressed no more than if they had been the cold beams of the moon.

By now a few flakes of snow had begun to strike against the windscreen and the wiper was clicking back and forth with the persistence of a metronome. The car had left the main road and was following a route that, in spite of the gathering darkness, was more and more familiar to the eyes of the elderly man sitting inside. As the miles passed, it seemed to become almost an extension of his own personality in the way that only places known and loved from childhood can. For it was no longer a road leading from London into Markshire; it was the way to Warbeck. And as he travelled, something very strange occurred inside the Right Honourable Sir Julius Warbeck, M.P., Chancellor of the Exchequer in the most advanced socialist government of Western Europe. He was fifteen years old, up from Eton to spend the Christmas holidays with his uncle; and as one remembered landmark succeeded another, he felt again that curious blend of pride at belonging to one of the oldest families in England and envy for his cousin, the heir to all the splendours of that lovely place. When the car slowed down to negotiate the hump-backed bridge over the stream that separated Warbeck village from the demesne, he even found himself, forty years after, reviling the fate that had made his father a younger son and deprived him of the position he would have filled with such dignity and grace.

The jolting of the car on the ill-kept drive effectually broke the spell. Sir Julius abruptly found himself back in mid-twentieth century, in a world where the owners of historic mansions were pitiable anachronisms, helplessly awaiting the hour when the advancing tread of social justice would force them from the privileged positions they had too long usurped. (The phrases of his last election address came back to him with triumphant satisfaction. The envious schoolboy of forty years ago was avenged!) Not that he felt any ill will towards his cousin. He appreciated the gesture he had made in inviting the representative of the new order to the family home for the last time—and he had shown his appreciation by accepting. But quite certainly it was for the last time. Lord Warbeck was not long for this world. He had made that clear enough in his letter of invitation. After him there would be no more Warbecks of Warbeck Hall. The next Budget would see to that. It was just as well. The old order would disappear with a decent and dignified representative at least. As for young Robert—— At the very thought of Robert Warbeck and all that he stood for, the Chancellor's blood boiled in his veins, so that it was an unreasonably flushed and angry man that alighted from his car at the end of the journey.

"What train are you taking tomorrow, Camilla?" the Countess of Simnel asked her daughter.

"The two o'clock. I'm lunching with the Carstairs woman first and we'll be travelling down together."

"I see. Won't you find that rather dull?"

Lady Camilla laughed.

"I expect I shall," she said. "But I haven't any choice. That's the train Uncle Tom has arranged to have met, and I can't afford to pay for a taxi out from the station for myself, so that's the train I have to take. Anyhow, travelling with her saves one the trouble of making conversation. One needn't listen to her, either. So long as one looks intelligent, she'll go on talking all day about her marvellous Alan without expecting one to answer."

"Mrs. Carstairs," observed Lady Simnel succinctly, "is a bore. At the same time, there is something admirable in her devotion to her husband. A woman is lucky who has found a purpose in life, as she has done."

Lady Camilla said nothing, but the expression on her handsome, intelligent face showed that she understood more in the words than their surface meaning.

"It will be chilly at Warbeck at this time of year," her mother went on. "I hope you are taking plenty of warm things."

"I'm taking everything I've got. And what's more, I intend to wear it all. All at once. I shall positively bulge with clothes. I know what Warbeck can be in a cold snap."

"Don't you think you would be more comfortable spending Christmas quietly with me in London?"

Lady Camilla looked round the small, well-furnished drawing-room of her mother's flat and smiled.

"Much more comfortable, Mother dear," she agreed.

"You really think it is worth your while to go?"

"But of course I've got to go, Mother. Uncle Tom particularly asked me. And this may be my last chance of seeing the old dear——"

Lady Simnel sniffed. Whether it was because of some particularly forbidding quality in the sniff, or because her words did not sound very convincing to herself, Camilla left the sentence hanging in mid-air.

"Robert will be there, I suppose?" Lady Simnel asked abruptly.

"Robert? Oh yes, I suppose so. Sure to be."

"How long is it since you last saw him, Camilla?"

"I don't know exactly. Quite a time. He—he's been very busy lately."

"Very busy," said Lady Simnel dryly. "If you can call this imbecile League of Liberty and whatever-it-is a business. Too busy to have any time to spare for his old friends, at any rate."

"Robert," said Camilla, rather breathlessly, "is a very brave man. He proved that in the war. And what is more, he is a patriot. One may not agree with all his views, but that's no reason for abusing him."

"Well," her mother replied calmly, "you are twenty-five, and old enough to know your own mind. Quite apart from his politics, I don't think that Robert is any great catch, myself. It isn't as though he would ever be able to afford to live at Warbeck. But that's your affair. I don't believe in interfering in matters of this kind. As for abusing him, all I did was to point out that he has been avoiding you for some time past."

"Look here, Mother!" Lady Camilla turned abruptly in her chair to look her mother in the face. "You think I'm running after Robert, don't you?"

"Well, my dear, I don't know what the modern expression is for that sort of thing, but that's what it would have been called in my day."

"Then you're quite right—I am. And when I get to Warbeck I mean to have it out with him one way or the other. I can't go on like this—I can't. If he doesn't want me, let him just say so, and not try to back out of things by keeping out of the way. And why the hell should he not want me, I should like to know?"

Lady Camilla stood up, a magnificent figure of a young woman. Her mother looked at her with disillusioned, appraising eyes.

"It might be because he wanted someone else," she observed. "But you had better go to Warbeck and find out, as you say—one way or the other."

Mrs. Carstairs was speaking to Washington on the transatlantic telephone. Her voice poured out into the mouthpiece in hurried gusts of speech, with only the briefest intervals for a reply. It was as if she was determined to get the greatest possible value in words for her three-minute call.

"Marvellous to hear your voice, darling," she was saying. "You're not feeling too tired after all your work? ... And you're sure you're getting proper food?... Oh, of course, dear, I know you are, but you have to be so careful with your digestion.... You will promise me you won't overdo it, won't you?... You know, I ought really to be there to look after you.... Yes, dear, I know, and after all I am doing my little bit to hold the fort while you are away. I wrote and told you I was going to Warbeck for Christmas, didn't I?... Oh, yes, the Chancellor will be there, silly pompous old man.... Well, perhaps I shouldn't, but you know he is. It makes me mad to think of him standing in your way, when everybody knows ... No, dear, of course I won't. I shall be very polite to him. I think he realizes now just how much he owes to you.... Darling, you're much too modest. If you only knew how proud I feel of you. I saw the P.M. on Tuesday, and the things he said about you made me so happy.... Darling, that was sweet of you. Of course I'd do anything in the world to help you, but it's little enough a poor, weak woman can do.... Yes, I go down to Warbeck tomorrow. It will be nice to be there again. I only wish you could be there with me. ... Alan, dear, don't be so absurd! Of course you wouldn't be out of place anywhere! Don't you realize that you are a great man now? Why, I shall simply be basking in your reflected glory.... Oh, no, it isn't a house-party—simply a little family gathering.... Yes, Robert will be there, I'm afraid.... I know, darling, horrid, but it can't be helped. It's a pity, he used to be such a nice boy.... But, darling, you don't really think this League of his can be dangerous, do you?... No, no, of course one can't discuss it over the telephone, but a nod's as good as a wink, and I promise I'll be very careful. ... Yes, darling, you can trust me, you know, to do everything I can. I always have, haven't I?... Oh, Alan, dearest, if you only knew how proud I feel. The Daily Trumpet had a marvellous article all about you yesterday, on the leader page. It made me laugh! When one thinks how the Trumpet used to——" And so on, and on, and on.

In a gaunt room on the upper floor of a disused warehouse in South London, Robert Warbeck was concluding a monthly conference of section leaders of the League of Liberty and Justice. He was a tall, good-looking young man with red-brown hair and the fixed look of a fanatic in his rather prominent grey eyes. The dozen or so men he had been addressing for the last half-hour were a mixed collection of all types and classes. None were more than thirty-five years of age. The common factor that united them, apart from the complete absorption with which they hung upon their leader's words, was their dress. In common with him, each wore a pair of grey flannel trousers and a purple pullover, on the left breast of which was embroidered a white dagger.

"That will be all for this evening, gentlemen. You will be notified in due course of the date of the next conference. You are dismissed."

Each man rose from his chair, stood for a moment at attention and executed a somewhat complicated salute with the left hand which Robert Warbeck gravely returned. There then followed a moment of anticlimax. Retiring to the back of the room, the men stripped off their pullovers, handed them to one of their number and trooped out in their shirt-sleeves, to resume downstairs the coats and waistcoats of civil life.

Warbeck was left alone with the man who had received the garments. He watched in silence while they were ceremoniously folded up and put away in a large cupboard which ran the length of the room. Then he stretched himself wearily, removed his own and handed it to his lieutenant, to be put away in a special locked compartment of its own.

"The time is coming," he said, "when we shall wear the uniform in public. But that time is not yet."

"Yes, chief." The reply was respectful, but a shade perfunctory, as from a man who had heard the same remark many times before. "The key of your cupboard, chief."

"Thank you."

"You look tired, chief."

"I shall be glad of a few days' rest," Warbeck admitted, as though ashamed to confess to a human weakness.

"You leave town tomorrow, chief?"

"Yes. I shall look in at the Fulham branch on my way out of London. Those fellows want to learn the meaning of discipline."

"You'll teach them, chief."

"I shall be back at the beginning of next week. We can make arrangements for the North London rally then. Meanwhile you know where you can get in touch with me if necessary."

"Yes, chief. I hope you have an enjoyable Christmas."

Warbeck said nothing for a moment. He was knotting his tie and looking reflectively in the glass as he did so.

"Thank you," he said at last. "I shall have the enjoyment of doing my duty, at least. One owes something to one's family."

"I'm afraid you may find your company rather trying, chief," his attendant ventured.

Warbeck swung round upon him.

"What do you mean?" he asked fiercely.

"Well, chief," the man stuttered, "I—I only meant—I was referring to Sir Julius, chief."

"Julius? What the hell has he got to do with it?"

"But I understood he was spending Christmas at Warbeck Hall, chief. Isn't that correct?"

"It's the first I've heard of it."

"There was a paragraph in this morning's Times, chief. I thought you must know about it."

"Good God! My father must be——" He checked himself in time. He had almost forgotten the golden rule, never to discuss his personal affairs with subordinates. "Well, thanks for telling me, Sikes," he went on, as he put on his coat. "I had missed the notice in The Times. I don't usually read the snobs' page, anyway. Forewarned is forearmed. I shan't be sorry to have the chance of giving that windbag a piece of my mind. Perhaps he won't have such an enjoyable Christmas. Good night!"

"Good night, chief."

He walked out into the drab street, where the thinly falling snow was fast turning into grey slush.