The Secret of Chimneys

‘My dear fellow, I’m in a position to know!’

‘Oh, quite so, quite so,’ said Lord Caterham, falling back upon his previous line of defence.

‘One slip over this Herzoslovakian business and we’re done. It is most important that the oil concessions should be granted to a British company. You must see that?’

‘Of course, of course.’

‘Prince Michael Obolovitch arrives the end of the week, and the whole thing can be carried through at Chimneys under the guise of a shooting party.’

‘I was thinking of going abroad this week,’ said Lord Caterham.

‘Nonsense, my dear Caterham, no one goes abroad in early October.’

‘My doctor seems to think I’m in rather a bad way,’ said Lord Caterham, longingly eyeing a taxi that was crawling past.

He was quite unable to make a dash for liberty, however, since Lomax had the unpleasant habit of retaining a hold upon a person with whom he was engaged in serious conversation–doubtless the result of long experience. In this case, he had a firm grip of the lapel of Lord Caterham’s coat.

‘My dear man, I put it to you imperially. In a moment of national crisis, such as is fast approaching–’

Lord Caterham wriggled uneasily. He felt suddenly that he would rather give any number of house parties than listen to George Lomax quoting from one of his own speeches. He knew by experience that Lomax was quite capable of going on for twenty minutes without a stop.

‘All right,’ he said hastily, ‘I’ll do it. You’ll arrange the whole thing, I suppose.’

‘My dear fellow, there’s nothing to arrange. Chimneys, quite apart from its historic associations, is ideally situated. I shall be at the Abbey, less than seven miles away. It wouldn’t do, of course, for me to be actually a member of the house party.’

‘Of course not,’ agreed Lord Caterham, who had no idea why it would not do, and was not interested to learn.

‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind having Bill Eversleigh, though. He’d be useful to run messages.’

‘Delighted,’ said Lord Caterham, with a shade more animation. ‘Bill’s quite a decent shot, and Bundle likes him.’

‘The shooting, of course, is not really important. It’s only the pretext, as it were.’

Lord Caterham looked depressed again.

‘That will be all, then. The Prince, his suite, Bill Eversleigh, Herman Isaacstein–’

‘Who?’

‘Herman Isaacstein. The representative of the syndicate I spoke to you about.’

‘The all-British syndicate?

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Nothing–nothing–I only wondered, that’s all. Curious names these people have.’

‘Then, of course, there ought to be one or two outsiders–just to give the thing a bona fide appearance. Lady Eileen could see to that–young people, uncritical, and with no idea of politics.’

‘Bundle would attend to that all right, I’m sure.’

‘I wonder now.’ Lomax seemed struck by an idea. ‘You remember the matter I was speaking about just now?’

‘You’ve been speaking about so many things.’

‘No, no, I mean this unfortunate contretemps’–he lowered his voice to a mysterious whisper–‘the memoirs–Count Stylptitch’s memoirs.’

‘I think you’re wrong about that,’ said Lord Caterham, suppressing a yawn. ‘People like scandal. Damn it all, I read reminiscences myself–and enjoy ’em too.’

‘The point is not whether people will read them or not–they’ll read them fast enough–but their publication at this juncture might ruin everything–everything. The people of Herzoslovakia wish to restore the monarchy, and are prepared to offer the crown to Prince Michael, who has the support and encouragement of His Majesty’s Government–’

‘And who is prepared to grant concessions to Mr Ikey Hermanstein and Co in return for the loan of a million or so to set him on the throne–’

‘Caterham, Caterham,’ implored Lomax in an agonized whisper. ‘Discretion, I beg of you. Above all things, discretion.’

‘And the point is,’ continued Lord Caterham, with some relish, though he lowered his voice in obedience to the other’s appeal, ‘that some of Stylptitch’s reminiscences may upset the apple-cart. Tyranny and misbehaviour of the Obolovitch family generally, eh? Questions asked in the House. Why replace the present broad-minded and democratic form of government by an obsolete tyranny? Policy dictated by the bloodsucking capitalists. Down with the Government. That kind of thing–eh?’

Lomax nodded.

‘And there might be worse still,’ he breathed. ‘Suppose–only suppose that some reference should be made to–to that unfortunate disappearance–you know what I mean.’

Lord Caterham stared at him.

‘No, I don’t. What disappearance?’

‘You must have heard of it? Why, it happened while they were at Chimneys. Henry was terribly upset about it. It almost ruined his career.’

‘You interest me enormously,’ said Lord Caterham. ‘Who or what disappeared?’

Lomax leant forward and put his mouth to Lord Caterham’s ear. The latter withdrew it hastily.

‘For God’s sake, don’t hiss at me.’

‘You heard what I said?’

‘Yes, I did,’ said Lord Caterham reluctantly. ‘I remember now hearing something about it at the time. Very curious affair. I wonder who did it. It was never recovered?’

‘Never. Of course we had to go about the matter with the utmost discretion. No hint of the loss could be allowed to leak out. But Stylptitch was there at the time. He knew something. Not all, but something. We were at loggerheads with him once or twice over the Turkish question. Suppose that in sheer malice he has set the whole thing down for the world to read. Think of the scandal–of the far-reaching results. Everyone would say–why was it hushed up?’

‘Of course they would,’ said Lord Caterham, with evident enjoyment.

Lomax, whose voice had risen to a high pitch, took a grip on himself.

‘I must keep calm,’ he murmured. ‘I must keep calm. But I ask you this, my dear fellow. If he didn’t mean mischief, why did he send the manuscript to London in this roundabout way?’

‘It’s odd, certainly. You are sure of your facts?’

‘Absolutely. We–er–had our agents in Paris. The memoirs were conveyed away secretly some weeks before his death.’