Below the Clock

He paused and a rippling whisper wafted round the House.

A Member in a far back bench commenced to giggle. The Speaker intervened with no uncertain tongue:

‘If the Honourable Member cannot control his mirth it might be better if he indulged it outside the House. This is a serious matter.’

Ingram looked at Curtis as though grieved. The barrister had said what the Premier had carefully avoided. Curtis sat down.

‘In the long history of this House,’ said the Premier, ‘there has been no such thing as a suicide. It is true that a murder did occur, but that tragical happening took place outside in the Lobby. I mention those two facts for one reason only—so that you will rightly regard the present set of circumstances as entirely without precedent. That being so I feel justified and compelled to ask this House to take exceptional measures to deal with it.’

No arguments were raised. Members were oppressed by the oddities surrounding the death, by the peculiarities of this new type of heart failure. Ingram had certainly suggested that a murder had been committed while they were all looking on!

Watson shivered as though seized with an attack of ague. But the day was warm, and the House overheated. Curtis smiled consolingly. Watson nodded, anxious to get outside the building.

The Prime Minister scribbled a note and had it passed to Watson. Eric read it twice before he grasped the meaning of the contents:

‘The small man in the pew under the gallery is in charge of the investigation. Rough hair, untidy clothes, rimless glasses.’

Watson flushed almost guiltily. Why should Ingram pass on the information to him? Then he pulled himself together, realised that he was solely in charge of Reardon’s papers which the police would want to examine. Watson rose and walked to the pew which is reserved for Civil Servants whom Ministers on the Treasury Bench may want to consult at short notice. Watson felt less alarmed when he saw the little man. There was a disarming air of simplicity about him.

‘Are you anxious to get rid of me?’ he asked Watson.

‘I didn’t know that you knew me. I only came to say that I’d like to hand over Reardon’s papers if you are ready to look them over. The keys have been given to me and I want to go home.’

‘I’ll be sorry to leave this seat. I found it all most amusing.’

‘You’re the only person here who could see the joke.’

Watson stopped abruptly and looked at the solicitor. Perhaps, after all, he wasn’t as innocent as his appearance advertised. They did not speak as Watson led the way through the door at the back of the pew and entered a lobby, walking from there to the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s private room. Amos glanced round the chamber with sudden speed, and sat down on the edge of a table. He seemed quite happy and entirely at ease.

A half empty bottle of claret stood on a side shelf. Petrie eyed it almost casually and passed no comment.

CHAPTER V (#ulink_5f4e60b8-0add-5dcb-a1b3-f86c2d3ccd37)

WATSON PLAYS FOR SAFETY

‘SEEMS impossible that a murder could have taken place in there before hundreds of people until you’ve seen the place,’ said Amos.

‘It seems less improbable to you now?’

‘Much. I sat in that pew working out a few ways in which it could be done. But most of my schemes lacked finesse.’ Petrie wagged his head to indicate that deficiency in finesse was as deplorable as the murder itself. Watson again felt confident. There was nothing to fear about this strange little person. Watson thought it over and decided to take a gambler’s throw and clear the atmosphere.

‘Among these theories you’ve been working out, did you find one that fitted me?’

Petrie produced his handkerchief and his voice dropped a tone:

‘I’ve got a separate theory for you—one all for yourself.’

Eric repressed the shiver that coursed down his spine and took another plunge:

‘Thinking, of course, of the claret and soda?’

Amos nodded brightly, almost as though seized by sudden delight.

‘I don’t want to ask you about that now. But I don’t mind telling you that one man felt inclined to arrest you last night.’

‘Meaning Inspector Ripple?’

‘Yes. You know him?’

‘His fame reached me last night,’ said Watson nastily. ‘He was pictured to me as a person lacking in your favourite finesse.’

‘Dear me! Poor Ripple would be mortified to hear that. I’ve blamed him at times for many things—but never for that. It’s too bad.’

‘The man deserves all that’s coming to him if he thinks I’d poison a friend with six hundred people looking on.’

‘It would be gauche,’ conceded Amos. ‘Very gauche.’

‘Why don’t you want to question me about the claret and soda?’

‘My friend, when I go fishing I study the conditions of the stream before I throw in my line. I don’t know enough about this case yet.’

Petrie was staring over Watson’s shoulder. The younger man grew restive, turned to discover that the solicitor was looking at a blank wall and bit his lips as he considered the position. Finally, he commenced to speak with a burst of words:

‘Look here, I’m in rather a mess. I’m not standing in too good a spot. It might be said that things look suspicious as far as I’m concerned. But I’m prepared to put myself in your hands. You can make any search you like and I’ll answer any questions you like. I can’t be fairer or more open than that, can I?’

‘Perhaps you can’t. It might be an advantage.’

‘An advantage to me?’

‘Possibly. Who can say? Ever do any fishing yourself?’

‘Fishing? What on earth has that got to do with it?’

‘Nothing at all,’ replied the little man easily. ‘You’ve missed a lot, my friend.’ He looked round the room as though taking his first glance. Then he pointed to the claret bottle.

‘Is that the bottle from which Reardon’s last drink was taken?’

‘That’s the one, and I poured out the drink personally.’

‘How interesting. For myself I prefer beer. But it takes all sorts to make a world, and I can’t blame anyone for liking claret. I don’t think many people would like to drink out of this bottle.’

‘Surely you don’t think the strophantin was in the claret?’

‘I never could guess. Pity I’ve lost my palate for wine.’ Petrie removed the cork and sniffed the contents of the bottle daintily. He had a wholesome respect for strophantin fumes—if any were present. Watson eyed him suspiciously, waiting for some change of expression on the wrinkled face. The solicitor smiled.

‘Can you lend me some sort of a case so that I can take this bottle away? The stuff will have to be analysed.’

Watson produced a small attaché case and the bottle was stowed away.