Gale Warning (4 page)

And then, at a quarter to six, I somewhat nervously entered the City Conservative Club.

I need have had no concern.

When I gave the porter my name, he smiled and thanked me and gave me a note and a letter addressed to me. Then he asked if I would not like to see over the house, and when I said ‘ Yes,’ he instantly summoned a page and told him to take me round.

The inspection did not take long, for the rooms were few, but the atmosphere was delightful after the strife without. Comfort and peace prevailed wherever I went, and the house itself was unbelievably fine. Its panelling, staircase and ceilings were precious things, and I afterwards learned that it had been the city mansion of some great lord.

As I had expected, the note was from the Secretary, informing me of my election and stating the fees which were due. The letter was from Mansel and covered a banker’s draft for five hundred pounds.

I don’t know how you’re placed, so I send you this. You shall pay me back when you get your twelve thousand pounds. Sorry to be so abrupt, but we must not take any risks and I like to think that you’d do the same by me.

J M

Some clock was striking six when I entered a telephone-box which was cunningly set in a closet under the glorious stair.

“Minerva 4343.”

After a moment I heard a voice that I knew.

“Who is that speaking?” it said.

“This is John Bagot,” said I.

“At last,” said Lady Audrey. “What have you done?”

“All’s well,” said I.

“Thank God for that. I had a dreadful feeling the job would be gone.”

“It was,” said I, “but – they gave me another, instead.”

“Good for the remount,” said she. “What is it and when d’you start?”

“Office-boy,” said I. “And on Monday next.”

“Dear God,” says she. “Was that the best you could do?”

As soon as I could speak—

“I’m sorry,” said I, “but they hadn’t a partnership free.”

“It can’t be helped. Did you get a letter tonight?”

“I did,” said I.

“All right. Now listen to this. You can always get me here between half-past six and eight. And that is when I shall ring up, if I want to get you.”

“I’ll always be here,” said I.

I heard her sigh.

“This waiting business,” she said. “How long will it be?”

She spoke as though thinking aloud, and such was her tone it must have touched anyone’s heart. Indeed, in that moment I knew that I would ten times rather she took me unfairly to task than let me be a witness of her distress.

“Not very long,” said I. “And I haven’t wasted today. I know this country backwards for quarter of a mile.”

“Good man,” said she – and made me feel suddenly rich. “I’d give five years of my life to have our job.”

“I know,” said I, “but somebody’s got to do yours.”

“I haven’t a job. I’m only a dictaphone.”

“But not for long,” said I.

“That’s up to you. Goodbye.”

Before I could say ‘Goodbye,’ she had hung her receiver up.

The next day, in my zeal, I did a ridiculous thing. I thought it would be imprudent to haunt for two days running the purlieus of Sermon Square; so I took a binocular with me and climbed the winding stair to the top of The Monument. I had hoped from this high place to be able to gain some knowledge which, lest I attracted attention, I dared not seek from below: in other words, I had hoped to survey at leisure some one of the outside walls of 22 Sermon Square. (These walls were three, because, as I have shown, the house was the last of its row: one was facing the square, one the church and its yard, and one a seven-foot passage, called Tulip Lane.) Only a fool would have harboured a hope so vain: but I was more used to the country than to the puzzles which bricks and mortar can set.

Had it not been for the church, I should never have even located the square I sought, for I saw next to nothing but roofs and I could not even follow the lines of the streets I knew. The church, as luck would have it, I saw very well, because from where I stood I was looking up Sermon Square: and for that same reason, of course, the walls which I wished to survey were wholly obscured from my view. In a word, I stood west of the house: and the West was the only quarter from which it could never be seen.

I could see no other eminence, likely to serve my turn – except, of course, my landmark, the church of St Ives. This, I knew, must command the whole of one of the walls – and must itself be commanded by every single window that faced that way. But for this fatal defect, it would have done wonderfully well, and if visitors were not permitted to prove the leads, four great down-pipes, like ladders, were waiting there to be climbed.

With a sigh, I put up my glasses and thrust temptation away…

At five o’clock that evening I went to the club, to find a letter from Mansel which did me good.

We had champagne last night, on purpose to drink your health. From every point of view, the job you have managed to get is better than any other that I can spell.

I’m going to give you one week in which to form your habits and settle down. Please use it faithfully – and think of nothing at all but the work you are paid to do. And then we’ll get down to things.

That day the inquest on George St Omer was held. No one had seen the smash: and, in view of the evidence given, no one could blame the jury for bringing in the verdict they did. ‘Accidental Death.’ Indeed, so far as I know, nobody ever remarked that his injuries might have been caused by a violent assault. There was no reason why they should. The job had been very well done.

The evening papers, of course, reported the proceedings in full, and, as much because of their headlines as anything else, I was very reluctant to ring Lady Audrey up. But I had to acknowledge the letter which I had received, so at seven o’clock I went to the telephone.

As before, she answered herself.

“Is that John Bagot?”

“To let you know,” said I, “that he got a letter tonight.”

“I see. What’s the City like?”

“Quiet,” said I. “It’s Saturday afternoon.”

“It will be still quieter tomorrow.”

“No doubt about that.”

“Then take a day off,” says she. “I mean what I say.”

“I understand. Till Monday.”

“What did you do today?”

“I wasted my time,” said I.

“That’s my prerogative.”

“I don’t agree,” said I.

“Of course you don’t. ‘What’s Hecuba to him?’”

“‘Or he to Hecuba?’”

I heard her draw in her breath.

Then—

“Have you ever watched a fool untying a knot?”

“Not for long,” said I.

“Exactly,” says she. “Well, that’s what I’m doing now.”

“I take it,” said I, “I’m the fool.”

“It’s not your fault, John Bagot; but what do you know? How can an unskilled man do a skilled man’s job?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s terribly trying for you. But I’m going to get there somehow.”

Lady Audrey sighed.

“Oh, dear, you do mean so well. Never mind. Till Monday, then.”

“Till Monday,” said I. “If anything happens—”

“Nothing will happen,” said she. “Be sure of that. Nothing will ever happen. There’s no reason why it should.”

Before I could make any answer, she had cut off.

I returned to the smoking-room, smarting from the cuts she had dealt me, yet glad in a way to have been her whipping boy. After all, it hadn’t harmed me; and if it had done her good…

Mansel, of course, was right to forbid me to come to the City the following day. It would have made me conspicuous. As like as not, on Sundays no members entered the City Conservative Club. Not more than half a dozen were in it now.

It was now a quarter past seven, and since I was there, I decided to dine in the club. So I sent for a glass of sherry and lighted a cigarette and then read once again the dialogue of the play which had been presented near Bedford that afternoon.

How many people, I wondered, knew that it was a drama which had been produced? A dozen, perhaps, in the world. The players themselves had no idea they were acting – gravely speaking the lines which had been put into their mouths. Inspector, surgeon and earnest constable: St Omer’s cousin and heir: the pompous coroner ‘and his disciples twelve’ – all of them saying their pieces, according to plan. And the whole of the British public shaking its head and lapping the nonsense up…

Little wonder that, facing these facts, Lady Audrey Nuneham was not at her best.

After an excellent dinner, I left the club about ten, proposing to walk for a while and then pick up a cab.

The streets were so empty and quiet that it would have been asking for trouble to go through Sermon Square; but there seemed to be nothing against my walking down Tulip Lane, for though, in fact, it was slightly out of my way, no one I met would know that and, as a convenient short cut, it was very much used.

Now, as I have shown already, 22 Sermon Square backed on to Tulip Lane, which means that the lane ran parallel with the square. But whereas the square was cut short by St Ives’ churchyard, the latter, so to speak, gave way to the lane, which ran on past its railings and past the door of the church.

Turning into Tulip Lane, I lifted my head.

One glance was more than enough.

Every window on either side was dark and most were fitted with reflectors, which, though no doubt they lighted the rooms they served, effectually screened those chambers from curious eyes.

I walked on down the lane, proposing to stop and look round when I came to the door of the church, for from there I knew I could see the whole of the flank of 22 Sermon Square. But I never got so far, for before I had reached the railings which fenced the churchyard, I saw to my surprise a light in the church.

I slackened my pace, staring.

And then I saw my mistake.

It was not a light in the church.
One of the stained-glass panes was reflecting the light from a window of 22 Sermon Square
.

I think it was then that I saw that what is dangerous by day may be safe by night and that, now that darkness was come, no one could see a man on the leads of the church. And a man on the leads of the church could command the room that was lighted in 22 Sermon Square.

As I came to the churchyard railings, I glanced behind. So far as I could see, I had the lane to myself.

The railings were high enough, but I covered two spikes with my hat and clambered over this not very promising stile. Stooping low, I moved between tombstones and over, I fear, a good many unmarked graves, but I hoped that the dead would forgive me because, after all, I was seeking to serve one of them. And then at last I came to the wall of the church – and an elegant flying buttress to hide me from Tulip Lane.

I set my back to the wall and took my first look at the window from which the light came.

To my delight, I could see clean into the room, but since this was two floors up and not twenty paces away, I could only see the ceiling from where I stood. But the window was not so high up as the leads of the church, so that if I could only climb up there before the light was put out, I ought to be able to see all there was to be seen.

With that, I turned to the down-pipe I knew was at hand, thanking my stars that I had surveyed by daylight the way which I meant to go.

Looking back, I remember that I was possessed with a fear that the light in the room would go out before I could reach the leads. What I thought I was going to see, I have no idea. I do not believe that I ever got so far. And that, no doubt, was as well, for if I had questioned the instinct which ordered me up to the leads, I think that I must have seen how childish the enterprise was. Though I saw five men in the room, I should have gained nothing at all,
because I had nothing to tell me if they were the men I sought
. But, as I say, I never thought of these things. My one idea was to see right into that room.

The down-pipe was square-shaped and massive and was stoutly tied to the wall every five or six feet, and since it was flanked by windows the stone frames of which were carved, to climb it was just as easy as I had supposed: indeed I deserve little credit for anything done that night, and I even remember cursing because I had not thought to take my binocular off – the soldier cursing because he has remembered his sword.

Be that as it may, I managed to gain the leads, and there sitting down behind the open-work screen, which served for a parapet, I could see straight into the room, which belonged to the second floor of 22 Sermon Square.

A man was sitting at a table, under a powerful light. I could not see what he was doing, except that he seemed to be sitting back in his chair: but I saw that his hair was white, or else very grey.

All at once I thought of the glasses – which, had I not been so hasty, I should have left behind.

These were very powerful; and after a little adjustment, they brought the man so close I could see the ring on the hand with which he was stroking his chin, I never saw him full face, for to me he was sitting sideways and he never looked round: but the view which I had of his profile left nothing to be desired.

It was the kindly face of a man of some sixty summers in excellent health. He was clean-shaven; his thick hair was nearly white, and his colour was fresh: his features were rough, but strong: and he made me think of an old-fashioned, country parson of whom his parish is not only fond, but proud. That he had a sense of humour was perfectly clear, for he was reading some paper and smiling at what he read. Indeed, once or twice he literally shook with mirth, and I found myself laughing with him, so honest and unaffected was his merriment.

Then he turned over a page, and I saw that the paper before him was
The Evening News
.

Now, as I have shown, I had had the best of reasons to study the papers that night, and I was ready to swear that there was no humorous matter upon the front page of the paper which I have named. Two columns had been devoted to the inquest upon poor George, and the coroner’s vivid account of what he presumed had occurred had been taken out of its place and printed in heavy type…