The court in which the Mickleton election petition was to be heard
sat in the Town Hall of that borough, and the first day, Tuesday, was
occupied in formalities, but even so the end of the great room set
aside for the public was crowded.
The main part of the business was taken the next morning, the
proceedings were short--and they proved decisive. After a few
unimportant witnesses had been called--their testimony was very
inconclusive--Mr. Stephens was heard. To the member's intense relief
not a word passed upon the Bogey Man, not a word upon the bag of
sovereigns, for the inquiry was conducted with honour, and the
conventions of our elections were allowed. When Mr. Clutterbuck heard
that his own secretary was to be examined, he could not but feel
confident in the result, but the spectacle of one whom he trusted
and who was his right hand throughout the struggle being used by the
lawyers against himself, was a thing Mr. Clutterbuck very properly
resented. He silenced his anger by remembering that justice will have
its course.
Charlie Fitzgerald gave his evidence in that simple, direct way which
should be a model for us all; he answered every question in few words,
neither embellishing nor concealing anything. He admitted the very
considerable influence of the Fishmonger Relief Committee, and was
proceeding to estimate the ten or twelve thousand it had spent for
his employer, when Sir John Compton at once interfered and ruled the
evidence out. It had been clearly laid down in three precedents that an
independent organisation was free to spend what sums it saw fit so long
as those funds did not proceed from the pocket of the candidate or his
agent.
The thing seemed settled and Mr. Clutterbuck was breathing again
towards the close of that day, when counsel in a tone ominously calm,
said shortly:
"Now, Mr. Fitzgerald, will you tell us where you were between half past
nine and midnight, of Monday the 6th of November of last year?"
Mr. Fitzgerald remembered the hour and day and all the events with
truly remarkable accuracy. He said with perfect frankness that he had
spent the evening going in a cab from the Curzon Arms to the Mother
Bunch; from the Mother Bunch to the Harvest Home; from the Harvest
Home to the Drovers, from the Drovers to the Naked Man; from the Naked
Man to the Adam and Eve; and from the Adam and Eve to the Prince of
Wales's Feathers; he could not be absolutely certain of the order but
it was more or less as he had stated it.
Those in court who did not understand the nature of the confession
began to smile, but in a few moments they saw the drift of the
examination when counsel put this perfectly plain demand:
"Mr. Fitzgerald, think carefully: did you or did you not offer a glass
of whiskey in the Prince of Wales's Feathers to one Alfred Arthur
Pound?"
"I offered a glass of whiskey to him and to several gentlemen," said
Charlie Fitzgerald openly.
"You offered whiskey to these electors, Mr. Fitzgerald?" said counsel.
"I couldn't see," began Charlie Fitzgerald.
But the Bench at once interrupted. "You are not here, witness, to tell
us what you saw or what you did not see. You are here to give us your
evidence."
And Charlie Fitzgerald was silent. He was asked further questions. He
had given whiskey to various citizens at the Curzon Arms, at the Naked
Man, at the Adam and Eve, and in fact at every public-house but one
upon the whole of that night. And of the men who could be traced, every
one of whom gave evidence upon oath in rapid succession, no less than
72·6 per cent. possessed votes in the constituency.
The finding of the commission was very brief; it could not be
otherwise after what they had heard. They emphasised in the strongest
possible manner Mr. Clutterbuck's own innocence in the affair. The
Bench affirmed in the most flattering and emphatic terms that a more
honourable man than Mr. Clutterbuck had not appeared in the arena of
our public life.
Fitzgerald also, in spite of what had proved a lamentable imprudence,
was heartily and gladly exonerated of any attempt to corrupt that high
standard of purity which is the glory of our public life. Sir John
Compton was careful to add that no shadow of suspicion rested on Mr.
Stephens; he was willing to exonerate Alfred Arthur Pound. But there
was no choice offered to a reasonable man, before whom the facts had
been presented; though most certainly no one had intended corruption
or pressure in any form--_that_, he hoped, was absent from our public
life--yet it was plain that within three weeks of the poll a large
number of electors had received a benefit especially defined by statute
as illegal and had received it at the hands of one virtually acting
(though of course in complete innocence of any unworthy motive) for
the gentleman who was candidate for the borough. Even had there been
no such statute or definition, the conclusion was plain, and it was
their very painful but solemn duty to declare, in accordance with the
evidence they had heard--evidence Sir John Compton was careful to point
out, which no one had attempted to rebut, and which he, for his part,
had very fully believed, that the election was invalid.
Mr. Clutterbuck jumped up wildly:
"Oh my Lord!" he said.
But his counsel pulled him sharply by the coat tail, tearing in so
doing, I am sorry to say, the seam by which that appendage is sometimes
attached to the upper part of the garment; while Mr. Justice Paisley,
who had hitherto been silent, sternly ordered him to be seated.
Once again within six months the Borough of Mickleton was widowed of
its proud share in the administration of our land.
Whether it would or would not be disfranchised for a period of years
was a matter which little concerned the unhappy man upon whom the blow
had fallen. He walked distractedly away at such a pace that it was
some hundred yards before Fitzgerald had caught him up and attempted
to quiet his perturbation. To his first mood of despair was rapidly
being added a second mood of anger and outraged justice, but he was
honourable enough not to lay to the poor young man's account the
terrible misfortune that had befallen himself. He did not forget all
that Fitzgerald had done for him during the critical days of the
election, and he was grateful even now for the many services rendered
by one without whom his first and ephemeral success would never have
been won.
Nevertheless he insisted, as the reader may well imagine, in seeking
some relief in the company of William Bailey, and Charlie, after a
moment's hesitation, was too wise to dissuade him.
He left his employer at the door in Bruton Street, with an appointment
to meet later in the evening, and the broken man was ushered by Zachary
into that familiar room, where he waited in a dull agony for his
mentor's return.
It was a full half-hour before William Bailey came in. He had been
hurriedly told in the hall what visitor he had. He had not troubled to
look at the tape at his Club; he was pretty certain of the result, and
there was a sort of I-told-you-so look on his face as he greeted Mr.
Clutterbuck, which did little to raise that gentleman's spirits.
It was a foolish thing to ask, but Mr. Clutterbuck did ask William
Bailey what he was to do.
William Bailey answered without hesitation that he could do nothing.
"Unless indeed," he added, "you care to act and to lead from outside;
you can still do that. One good meeting by an unseated member can do
more against a Government than a dozen questions in the House. D'you
care to try? It's risky, you know.... They'll put the whole thing into
court and muzzle you; and you'll have to speak before Parliament opens
also, because on the first day it'll be called out of order unless
there's a really _strong_ press outside."
Mr. Clutterbuck was in a mood for anything. What he was to do, or why,
was quite beyond him; but there was to be a meeting and it would hurt
those who had hurt him: so much he saw.
"Other men have done it," said William Bailey, citing examples from a
less orderly past, "and you can do it if you like."
"I'm willing enough," said Mr. Clutterbuck, setting his teeth. "You
mean," he added, brilliantly concealing his ignorance; "you mean, I'm
to go on about the mines?"
"That's it," said William Bailey.
"Well," said Mr. Clutterbuck, his head sinking upon his shoulders
again, "you'll have to do it, Mr. Bailey. I can't see or think or plan;
and I don't know what the Anapootra can do for me or any one, supposing
I did----"
"Oh, nonsense," said Mr. Bailey briskly, "a man must do what he can;
you can't get your seat again by main force. You can't get the other
things you want right off the shelf by helping yourself. You must go
on pressing and pressing. It's the only way--it's the one way in which
anything gets done. Besides which, it's enough to make any man----"
"You're right there," said Mr. Clutterbuck eagerly; "it's enough to
make any man take action. What will you do, Mr. Bailey?"
Mr. Bailey, when he had to form a rapid plan, gave a sort of false
impression of rapidity and strength which had deceived many. He mapped
out all the dates.
"You know the Directors are going for libel against the _Courier_?" he
said.
Mr. Clutterbuck didn't know it.
"Well, but they are. To-day's Wednesday, and it will be before the
courts to-day week, next Wednesday," he said. "Once it's before the
courts you'll go to choke if you speak about it; so will any other
Johnny except in Parliament; besides which, Parliament meets the same
day, and what's more, I'm not at all sure they'd allow it even in
Questions, and there won't be any Questions until Wednesday, and by
that time, as I say, unless we get steam up outside it'll be out of
order. Monday's no good, you can't get people on Monday. It'll take a
day to get the posters up, and the advertisements and to dry them.
We'll say Saturday--Saturday at eight, in the Jubilee Hall."
"What for?" said his slower minded companion.
"For the meeting of course," said Mr. Bailey in surprise; "for the
great meeting of protest by the ex-Member from Mickleton, on the
Anapootra Ruby Mines!"
For all Mr. Clutterbuck's determination he was somewhat appalled. "I'm
not at all sure that I should speak, well I--I don't know even what or
who ..." he began slowly.
"Oh that's all right," cut in William Bailey eager for the fray. "I'll
write your speech out, and I'll introduce you on the platform. It's the
_name_ we want, and your power in the constituency. They know _that_.
The papers won't dare boycott it, and you'll get the horny-handed in
thousands. We'll have a grand time!"
He said it with the irresponsibility of a boy, but that mood is
dangerous in a man.
So was it decided that on the next Saturday, before Parliament opened,
and before the matter was, to be classical, _sub-judice_, a great
meeting should be held and the ball set rolling by Mr. Clutterbuck,
Champion of the People; but the Champion was torn between fear and
desire.
Mr. Clutterbuck when he reached the Plâs, was careful to keep the
meeting even from his wife. He told it to none but Fitzgerald.
Fitzgerald was sympathetic and it felt like old times.
Meanwhile, in London, Mr. Bailey had hired the Jubilee Hall, and, if it
were necessary for overflow, the Coronation Annex.
The next day he spent some hours with Mr. Clutterbuck, drilling his
speech into him with unwearied repetition; and Charlie Fitzgerald,
having nothing better to do, called on his dear old friend the Duke
of Battersea, and passed with him a most delightful afternoon. Mr.
Clutterbuck and Fitzgerald met at Victoria. The merchant and his
secretary went home together. And that same evening the Duke of
Battersea did what he had to do.
A telephone message to the Prime Minister's house and the assurance of
a hearty welcome, made what he had to do easier for him. He found that
statesman, still spirited and young in spite of his increasing trouble
with the left lung, crouched over the fire, spreading his hands to the
blaze. He talked to him of various things: of the session that was
about to open, of the plague in Burmah, of Mrs. Kempton's latest book.
He said a few words about Mr. Bailey, and casually mentioned the step
which that gentleman was apparently about to take.
For a man in such doubtful health (and for one before whom such arduous
duties immediately lay) the Prime Minister was quite vivacious in his
replies. He differed from the Duke of Battersea with regard to Mrs.
Kempton's latest book, and criticised her attitude towards Malthus. He
spoke cheerfully of the coming session though he joked a little about
the smallness of the majority; he was very grave indeed about the
plague in Burmah--and he said nothing at all about Mr. Bailey.
The Duke of Battersea remained not more than twenty minutes. It was
his interest to show his sympathy with the Prime Minister's illness
rather than to detain him in conversation, and he could understand
that the amusing story of Mr. Bailey's fanatical outburst would be
touched on lightly or passed in silence by a man who sat in the same
Cabinet with Lord Burpham; for after all, Lord Burpham's son, since the
Duchess of Drayton's second marriage was stepfather to the girl whom
William Bailey's favourite nephew had recently married, and relations
of this kind, when they occur in the political life of our democracy,
are naturally sacred. For all the shortness of his visit, the Duke of
Battersea had learnt what he wanted to know. He did not depend upon the
Prime Minister's aid. He re-entered his car with an alternative scheme
clear before him, and when he reached home he began to carry it into
effect.
In the midst of the room where the Philanthropist and Financier
habitually worked, was a large table which had formerly been the
property of the Cardinal de Rohan; it had passed into other hands
during the misfortunes of the Reinachs[10] some twenty odd years
before. Its broad surface supported but a few simple and necessary
things: two tall Georgian candlesticks of silver plate, now fitted with
electric lamps; a great ink-pot, and by the side of it an electric bell.
The Duke of Battersea spread out a large sheet of paper upon the
table before him, made a few notes, re-arranged certain details, was
satisfied with his plan, and next, without looking up, stretched
forth his hand to touch the electric bell. He was old and some of his
movements uncertain. His finger had the misfortune to find not the
electric bell but the ink-pot, into which it deeply plunged. A lesser
man would have been disturbed at the accident, and a coarser one might
have been moved to suck the injured limb. The Duke of Battersea showed
no such weakness. He looked up, rubbed his finger on the blotting-pad,
made sure of the electric bell, and when it was answered, said in a low
voice:
"Mr. Befan."
The servant disappeared, and came back in half an hour with the message:
"Mr. Bevan is not at the Agency, your grace; he is watching the Hampton
divorce case, your grace. The Agency says, your grace, will you have
Penderton?"
"Certainly not," said the Duke of Battersea, still intent upon the
paper before him. "Find out when he will be back."
In a quarter of an hour he was told that the detective was expected
home from Hertfordshire at half-past twelve that night.
The duke looked at his watch, compared it with a fine specimen of
Toledo clockwork set in a German monstrance upon the mantelpiece, and
saw that he had an hour to wait. He made a motion with his hand and was
left alone. He was determined to see Bevan and to see him that night,
but it was nearly one in the morning before the door opened and the
detective appeared.
The detective was a short gentlemanly man with a hare lip and a
malformation of the forehead which raised one eyebrow considerably
above the other. He did not limp, but when he walked the emphasis was
upon the right leg. His ears which were large and prominent did much
to counter-balance the pleasing intelligence of his expression. He
was not a man whom one would at the first sight, nor at the second,
have chosen for the unravelling of difficult problems, but the Duke of
Battersea knew far too much of the world to judge by any other standard
than that of performance and of practice. And Mr. Bevan had not failed
him on two recent occasions when rapid execution had been essential, as
it was essential now.
He wasted no words. He described who had to be watched and what
evidence if possible had to be gathered. He gave the address in Bruton
Street, and as the detective stood respectfully at the door, he named a
hundred pounds.
"It's worth a hundred and fifty, your grace," said Mr. Bevan, as he
repeated the conditions which were laid down to him.
"Sefen and sixpence," said the Duke with a gentle smile, "if what I
have told you already was all indeed"--and having said that he gave
time for it to soak in.
Mr. Bevan changed his hat from one hand to the other, then held it in
both hands and said he was sure he didn't mean to say more than one
should say, and he would certainly leave it to the Duke, who nodded and
answered him:
"That is good--that is right. For this reason I make it a hundred; and
if he does nothing as you want, you shall see him do, and you shall be
a witness."
"I can't make a man do anything worth telling you, my lord," said Mr.
Bevan rather surlily.
"Why, then," said the Duke of Battersea, approaching his wrists and
opening his hands widely outwards, "how can I either pay?"
Mr. Bevan sighed unpleasantly and was content.
He left the Presence before two o'clock, but such was his intimacy with
more than one of the servants that it was half-past two in the morning
before he was clear of Barnett House. He did not wait for the tardy
advent of the winter dawn; he was home before three; he then and there
put on his professional boots, to the soles of which were attached
small pads of india-rubber. He secreted upon his person a small
revolver, a yet smaller electric lantern, £5 in change in case the
hunt should take him far afield, a flask of Scotch whiskey, a box of
fusees, some cigarettes such as are smoked by the landed classes, two
good cigars, five cheap ones, a little Craven mixture in one side of
his tobacco pouch and some peculiarly vile shag in the other. He put on
a waistcoat within the lining of which his true name and address were
inscribed upon a linen pad, thrust into his breast pocket an envelope
bearing a false name and address, and put into a visiting card case
certain visiting cards bearing yet a third name and address, that of
one Hilling, a commercial traveller in the Seven Sisters Road; others
inscribed Mr. John Hilling, Captain 47th Fusiliers, Rochester, he also
secreted in various pockets, and a few more in which the same name was
played upon in other ways.
The reader will be surprised to hear that after these preparations
he put upon his head a billycock hat of the most demonstrative type,
and committed the imprudence of wearing a large, made-up blue tie.
But genius, however universal, however disciplined and experienced,
is human. It is easy to criticise a fault in detail; it is more
difficult to reproduce the general plan of the master; and those who
may be disposed to ridicule the large made-up tie of Mr. Bevan, or the
billycock hat which I have gone so far as to call demonstrative, would
do well to ask themselves whether they would have had the learning or
the intuition to provide themselves--I mention but one point--with
cigarettes such as are smoked by the landed gentry, with Craven mixture
upon one side of the tobacco pouch and with a peculiarly vile shag upon
the other; yet Mr. Bevan had thought of these things!
A few glasses of hot whiskey and water to prepare him for the ordeal
were rapidly swallowed--for Mr. Bevan, like most men of acute
intelligence, was a moderate drinker--and he went out into the night.
It was a little after four o'clock.
A man of less experience in the ways of the world might have neglected
to observe the movements of so wealthy a personage as Mr. Bailey until
a later hour in the morning, so universal has the deplorable habit of
late rising become among the governing classes of this country. Mr.
Bevan knew better. He had seen many a dark deed done between five and
seven of a London January morning, nay, in the old days as a member of
the Force he could well remember routing out the Alsatians close upon
six o'clock, though to be sure on that occasion the Force had been
guided to those abandoned premises by the sound of boisterous music and
the firing of a rocket through one of the upper windows.
It was not five, then, when Mr. Bevan took his stand opposite the
little house in Bruton Street. He had chosen his advantage very well.
With a courage and skill which only those who have served in the
Metropolitan Police can understand, he hid himself in a corner where
a shadow thrown by a buttress put him in complete darkness. He was a
short man and yet had to crouch a little, but he was used to discomfort
in the prosecution of his duty, and in this attitude, unable even to
smoke for fear the light should betray him, he watched for over an
hour. At the end of that time rain began to fall. He did not upon
that account abandon his post; the tardy winter dawn gleamed at last
over the shining roofs of London. With the first hint of daylight the
light on his collar, which he had neglected to cover, betrayed him to a
policeman of the name of Tooley, who was slowly pacing the street and
whistling a mournful air.
As quick as lightning Mr. Bevan was grabbed by both elbows, his face
thrust against the rough brick-work, and a natural demand, brief and
perhaps somewhat too violent, as to his occupation and intentions was
addressed to him by that Civil Servant. To the policeman's astonishment
Mr. Bevan's only reply to these manœuvres was what is technically
known in the Force as "the shake," and retreating rapidly three steps
backward he had the presence of mind to say in a low tone, "I'll pass
the order."
With these words he satisfied his colleague in the manner which is
usual with our efficient and highly trained body of public guardians,
of the nature and legitimacy of his mission. The respective positions
of the Duke of Battersea and of Mr. Bailey were quite enough to
convince a sober judgment, and policeman Tooley, an active and
intelligent man, at once appreciated the situation, but felt bound in
duty to add:
"I must keep my eye on you, mind," to which Mr. Bevan cheerfully
replied by a nod of the head, and resumed his former post.
At about half-past seven the rain ceased. Eight o'clock struck: no one
in the street was stirring. A milkman passed down on foot, leaving his
little can at every gate, but carefully refraining from uttering that
musical cry, which the upper classes have, very properly, forbidden in
the neighbourhood of their town residences. It was a quarter to nine
and the whiskey in Mr. Bevan's stomach had long ago grown cold; nay,
he felt positively weak for want of breakfast, when the first signs of
life appeared in Mr. Bailey's house: these took the form, first of a
cat leaping out as though in panic from the area gate, and immediately
afterwards the appearance of a young woman's head utterly incomplete
in toilet, and, in everything save the sex and youth of its owner,
repulsive. Next, two blinds were drawn up in a bedroom on the second
floor. The window was thrown open; and for a little while nothing more
of real importance occurred.
Within the house, Mr. Bailey's man Zachary had woken his master and had
flooded the room with light.
"It is ten o'clock, sir," he said in his customary tone of mingled
severity and deference.
"That's a lie," said Mr. Bailey, not moving his head from the pillow,
nor withdrawing it by one inch from beneath the bedclothes.
Zachary made no reply. He was accustomed to conversations of this kind.
He made an unnecessary noise with the hot water, banged the furniture
about, and then before leaving the room said:
"May I go out for the day, sir?" in a tone rather of menace than of
inquiry.
"You can go at a quarter past ten--it must be nearly that now,"
chuckled Mr. Bailey with sleepy humour.
Mr. Bailey's man Zachary was annoyed to have been caught in this trap;
he consoled himself by remembering that he might leave the house at
once and his master be none the wiser.
"If you're not back by six this evening," said Mr. Bailey
good-naturedly, stretching his arms and yawning, "you'll be in the
workhouse in a week or two."
"Very good, sir," said Zachary in a more respectful tone than he had
yet adopted; he shut the door very softly after him and went tiptoe
down the deep carpet of the stairs. For the next ten minutes he was
dressing as befitted a man of his temper, and well before ten o'clock
he had emerged from the front door in a quiet, sensible frock-coat, a
good but not obtrusive top hat, quite new gloves of a deep brown, and
a serviceable but neat umbrella. His boots, however, were laced, not
buttoned; blacked, not polished.
Mr. Bevan's heart rose with a bound. His long vigil was ended! He
permitted Zachary to turn the corner of Bruton Street into Berkeley
Square, and then, gauging his pace at much the same as that set by this
excellent domestic, he followed.
The error was not only natural, it was inevitable. It was no case for
hesitation nor even for rapid decision; but even had such a necessity
arisen in Mr. Bevan's mind, his habit of prompt decision would have
saved him from even a moment's delay. He had found his quarry and he
would hunt it down.
With the sober walk that denotes a man of the world, but now and then
twirling his umbrella as though his birth and status gave him a right
to despise convention, nay, going once or twice so far as to whistle
the bar of a tune, Zachary proceeded northward to the Tube, and turned
into that station which takes its name from Bond Street.
The Tubes of London have added yet another problem to the already
arduous intellectual task of that great army of detectives which stands
between Society and Anarchy. To follow a man in the street, to pursue
his cab or his omnibus at the regulation distance advised by Captain
Wattlebury, M. Grignan, and other authorities of European reputation,
is an easy matter; but once let your man get into the train ahead of
you on the Tube, and you have lost him! The Tube necessitates, as
all my readers who have engaged in detective work will recognise, a
close proximity to the person watched; but Mr. Bevan was equal to the
occasion. Fully appreciating the strategical advantage of the stairs,
he was at their foot long before the lift had reached the level of the
trains, and following Zachary's tall hat through the crush, he sat
down in the carriage next to that in which the scent lay, gazing into
vacancy and sucking the top of his umbrella. Mr. Bevan watched him
narrowly through a contrivance with which all the forces of law and
order are familiar: a little book which can be easily held before the
face as though one were reading, but which is pierced by a convenient
hole through which the right eye can sweep the landscape beyond.
Zachary changed for Hampstead, and so did Mr. Bevan. At the junction he
bought a newspaper, the name of which Mr. Bevan, to his great chagrin,
was unable to note, as he folded it inside-out and read the lower half
of the sheet. At Hampstead, I find it in Mr. Bevan's notes that they
alit, and they reached the happy upper world together. Zachary made
straight for the Heath. Mr. Bevan, now free to follow him at a discreet
distance, did so, but grew fainter and weaker as he walked, for he was
in desperate need of food. He hoped and prayed that the chase would
turn into a restaurant: his prayer was answered, though in a manner
shocking to one who still maintained his respect for rank.
Zachary turned into a little public-house of an unpleasing type, nodded
cheerfully to the potman, whom he addressed as "Larky," and ordered--of
all things in the world--gin and water!
The accident was a godsend to Mr. Bevan. He noticed that his quarry had
at least had the decency to go into the saloon bar; he dashed into the
public one, gulped down a glass of beer, bought a handful of biscuits,
went out immediately lest he should miss the trail, and was glad to see
that his victim yet lingered within.
In twenty minutes or so he came out, his eyes a little watery, and
continued his unsuspecting way towards the Heath with the detective
after him. But he was not alone! By his side there walked, dressed in a
manner that would have appalled the Press itself, a young woman!
The plot thickened. And Mr. Bevan, who had expected a very different
occupation to be provided for him, divined at once the possibilities
which his discovery contained. He had no need now to fear hunger,
anxiety, or lack of matter. It was plain sailing for the whole
afternoon. He followed them to the Heath, he saw them seated and
embraced behind a clump of thorn and ready to devour a luncheon they
had purchased and carried in a paper bag. He would leave them now; he
had time to return to the little public-house and to inquire of the
potman every detail of the unhappy man's conduct; he was told of his
monstrous promise to marry the daughter of the potman's master; of
his repeated and lengthy calls; he learnt at full length the whole
disgraceful business, and with admirable self-mastery he pretended
to no surprise when he heard that the name the visitor was known to
the publican and his servant by was "Zachary Hemmings." He waited
patiently until the guilty man reappeared with his paramour in her
father's home. He waited outside in the advancing dusk until the male
offender had reappeared, somewhat unsteadily, and giving every sign of
an exhilaration due to something more than requited affection. His hat
was not absolutely straight upon his head; his umbrella trailed upon
the ground; his face was indolently happy. Zachary did not take the
Tube, but as it was now already dark and as he remembered in a fuddled
way that his place was in jeopardy, he had the cunning to hail a lonely
taximeter which was returning in no good humour after depositing a fare
at the Spaniards.
There are in the humbler strata of our national life qualities of
courage and immediate decision such as produce a Kitchener, a Milner,
or a Macdonald in the higher ranks. A taximeter is the fleetest of all
beasts: in Hampstead taximeters are rare. Mr. Bevan had decided in a
flash. He dashed up, pulled off his hat, imitating with partial success
the speech of a man out of breath with running, and told Zachary at
top speed that if he would permit him to share his taximeter back to
town he would be saving the life of a young child, of whose sudden
accidental fall he had but just heard by telephone. The domestic,
though perhaps not naturally warm-hearted, or if warm-hearted, rendered
callous by years of exacting labour, was, under the combined influences
which he had enjoyed, in a softer--nay, in an effusive mood. He seized
Mr. Bevan's hands, swung him into the cab, shouted "Cer'nly!" and
putting his head out of the window said to the astonished chauffeur,
"Home!"
Before that mechanician had time to reply in suitable terms, Mr. Bevan
had whispered through the little hole, "That's all right, Bond Street:
tell you where to stop," and they darted away down the hill.
Zachary tried twice to sing, remembered each time that he was in
company, smiled vapidly each time, and each time was silent again. But
I cannot deny that at Chalk Farm, quite forgetting the child whose
unhappy accident was causing an agonised father to be his guest, he
insisted on getting out and drinking--a course from which that agonised
father made no attempt to dissuade him; he repeated his folly at the
Horseshoe.
At the corner of Bond Street the taximeter pulled up abruptly. Mr.
Bevan leaped out, and nodding hurriedly at the astonished Zachary who
had a vague comprehension that some things were too well known, and
other things too mysterious, he gave the number in Bruton Street to
the chauffeur and disappeared. The taximeter swept round eight or nine
corners, waited perhaps a quarter of an hour behind as many blocks in
the traffic, and finally deposited the unhappy Zachary at his master's
door.
The noise of the engine attracted that master to the ground floor
windows of his study, and Zachary noted with alarm the vision of his
face. His confused brain prepared a defence. The sum marked upon the
taximeter was four and tuppence: he feared for one idiotic moment that
it represented 42_s_. Recovering from his alarm he remembered to divide
it by eight, which is the number of pence per mile commonly charged
by these useful vehicles, failed to arrive at a quotient, pressed ten
shillings into the chauffeur's hand, and was only too glad to see him
depart in the direction of Berkeley Square and of those wealthy regions
to the West. The wretched man was fumbling with his latch-key for the
keyhole, when he nearly fell forward inwards as the door was suddenly
opened by Mr. Bailey.
Mr. Bailey's face was genial, his eyes bright as ever, his whiskers
as healthy and florid as though he had but just completed his morning
toilet. With his hands in his pockets he looked down on his abashed
servitor and said pleasantly:
"How drunk you are to-night, Zachary!" He then added as Zachary's hat
fell to the floor: "I hope that's your hat, Zachary, and not mine!"
Zachary said "Yes, sir," with painful clarity of intonation.
"You come in here, Zachary," said Mr. Bailey, opening the door of the
study. "I want to talk to you. Sit down in that chair, a long way from
the fire."
Zachary did as he was bid: Mr. Bailey shut him in, went to the kitchen
stairs and roared down them:
"Jane-bring-me-up-a-cup-of-very-hot-coffee-with-no-sugar-in-it-at-once
-I-don't-want-to-be-kept-waiting-in-the-study!" For such was Mr.
Bailey's method of delivering an order in person on the rare occasions
when he put himself to that inconvenience. The consequence of that
method was that hardly had he joined Zachary in the study when
Jane appeared, purple in the face, with a large cup of coffee which
contained no trace of sugar, and which was extremely hot. The moment
she was out of the room Mr. Bailey solemnly dropped a pinch of salt
into the coffee and said to his miserable servant:
"Drink that!"
"I do assure you, sir--" said Zachary in tones of increasing sobriety.
"Drink that, you ass," said Mr. Bailey, "do you suppose I don't know
what's good for you?"
"Yes, sir, certainly sir," said Zachary humbly. He gulped the coffee
down, and when he had done so began: "It's not near seven, sir."
Mr. Bailey put up his hand.
"Now look here, Zachary," he said; "what I want is information. First
of all, you came in a taxi' cab."
"Yes, sir, I did, sir," said Zachary. "I'm sure, sir, I wouldn't
have----"
"I don't mind your coming home in a pumpkin with six white mice," said
Mr. Bailey. "I don't want to know why about anything. What I want is
information. Where did you come from?"
"'Ampstead, sir," said Zachary, who but rarely dropped his h's, but
thought there were occasions when it was necessary to do so. Then
forgetting his master's injunction, he added: "But there was a
gentleman, with me, sir."
"Oh," said Mr. Bailey, thoroughly interested. "That's what I
wanted--information. You came in a taximeter (that I could see for
myself). You came from Hampstead, you came drunk (I'm sure you won't
mind my saying that!) and there was a gentleman with you. Now, who was
that gentleman?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said the bewildered Zachary.
"Good heavens!" replied Mr. Bailey. "Can't you remember where you met
him?"
"It was coming out of my friend's father's house that is to be," said
Zachary, with a precision rather of visual concept than of terminology.
"The Hop and Garters?" said Mr. Bailey, with vague reminiscence.
"No, sir," said Zachary, with as much severity as he had power under
the conditions to assume. "The Hop Garden, sir; that's the name of the
house, the Hop Garden."
"How had you passed your time till then?" asked Mr. Bailey.
Zachary recounted his day in no great detail, and in some fear lest his
dignity should suffer as he told the story.
Mr. Bailey mused. To characters so wayward and loose the solid
plans whereby great men of affairs achieve their ends are at once
inexplicable and tedious. Mr. Bailey had no conception of what was
toward. He might even have been ready, had Zachary remembered the
circumstance, to believe the story the detective told about a sick
child and the necessity for speed. As it was, he was merely bewildered,
and was filled with a sort of instinctive muddled conception that
somehow or other it had been worth somebody's while to shadow Zachary
as far as the top of Bond Street and no further. But why on earth
should any one want to shadow Zachary? He thought of burglars, but
burglars do not become intimate with servants by exciting their
suspicions. He thought of practical jokes; he thought of petty theft,
but Zachary assured him he was only ten shillings out, and even then
remembered that he had given the ten shillings to the chauffeur.
While he was in this sort of study, making neither head nor tail of the
adventure, Zachary volunteered, a little nervously, for he was afraid
it might sound like an explanation and not like the "information" his
master was after:
"I'm sure he was a gentleman, sir--he knew where you lived."
Mr. Bailey was quite seriously concerned. To men of his intellectual
calibre, utterly unworthy to compete with the great directing brains
of our masterful time, and capable only of a superficial and purely
verbal display, a sense of a force which knows _them_ while they do
not know _it_, is intolerable. Such men are the weak, hunted creatures
of our powerful and creative generation--that is, when the hunt is
worth the hunter's while. And the hunters--the successful hunters--are
the financiers, the statesmen, the owners, the doers--the Hearsts,
the Northcliffes, the Clemenceaus, the Roosevelts, the Levi Leiter
Juniors--who make us what we are.
Mr. Bailey, who knew so little of reality, knew this at least, and with
the instinct of all hunted things, he was troubled. He was much graver
when he rose after this conversation and said:
"That's all right, Zachary, you'd better go to bed. Don't eat anything,
and drink nothing beyond such cold water as you absolutely require. I'm
sure it will be sufficient."
"I thank you humbly, sir," said Zachary. He went out of the room quite
sober--such is the effect of coffee with a little salt--and crept up to
bed.
Mr. Bailey remained for an hour and more gazing at the fire; then he
rang the bell and ordered dinner with the most precise care, choosing
just those articles which could be cooked lightly and quickly,
insisting to the cook whom he saw in person, that they should follow
in a precise order and at precise intervals of time, and adding, as was
his invariable custom after each item:
"If you haven't got it, send for it."
At half-past eight this repast was to be ready, and for him alone. He
puzzled at Zachary's mysterious adventure for some moments and longer,
could make nothing of it, and in order perhaps to relieve his uneasy
sense of incapacity, took refuge in reading one evening newspaper after
another, and passing upon each some silent, facile, cynical comment as
he read.
Meanwhile Mr. Bevan had reported at Barnett House. He was at once
admitted.
He found the aged statesman and philanthropist before the Adams
chimney-piece, a mass of papers upon a what-not beside him, his
telephone mobilised upon the great central table, and a pile of
bank-notes standing by the side of it under a paper-weight of bronze
representing the Ariadne of Knidos, a bust the poor Master of Kendale
had especially admired.
Mr. Bevan stood waiting at the door. The Duke of Battersea with
exquisite good breeding waved his aged hand towards a chair, but Mr.
Bevan preferred to remain standing, and he was not pressed. He first
broke the silence:
"I've done the job proper, my lord--your grace, I mean," he said;
"heavy, too."
"I ask you to tell me quite shortly what you have found," said the
Duke, without lifting his eyes.
It was almost the same order that Mr. Bailey was giving to his servant
at that same moment some two or three hundred yards away, but what a
gulf between the two men! The strong and secure architect of his own
and of his country's successes, sitting in the splendour of Barnett
House, doing, controlling all--and the poor egoist whose feeble
good-nature or vanity had been the chief feature of the interview in
Bruton Street! Mr. Bevan told his story with precision, described
the well-dressed gentleman leaving the house in Bruton Street; his
disgraceful adventures in a lower rank; his assumed name of "Zachary
Hemmings." The Duke asked the detective whether he were sure Mr. Bailey
used that false name. Mr. Bevan said "Quite sure, your grace," and
completed his tale with the story of the drunkenness, the taxi, and all
the nasty business. When he had done he pulled out the piece of paper
which had accompanied him throughout the day and to which he had added
a few lines in the Bull and Flummery, on his way from Bond Street to
Barnett House.
"I've got it all writ down here, sir--I mean your grace." (The Duke
of Battersea made an impatient gesture--he could not bear to have
his title insisted upon.) "It's all here," repeated Mr. Bevan with
legitimate pride.
"Give it me," said the Duke of Battersea quietly.
Mr. Bevan knew the world as well as a man can under his circumstances;
he also was one of the strong girders of our State, not one of its
painted ornaments; but when two generals meet the greater conquers.
He handed over the paper quite innocently, and before he knew what
had happened, the Duke of Battersea had put it in the fire; nay,
with a vigour rare at his age and rarer still in men of his worldly
possessions, he had thrust it among the coals with the toe of his boot.
Mr. Bevan could not restrain a movement towards it. He was too late to
save it, then the reserve which the presence of the Great imposes upon
us all recalled him to himself.
This brief episode over--and it did not take thirty seconds--the Duke
of Battersea said in a rather louder, more vibrant tone than he had yet
used:
"Thank you, Bevan, there iss your money"--he wagged his head towards
the table. "You said you would not take it in a cheque; so: but I like
to know where my money goes; and how also."
Mr. Bevan opened his mouth to speak.
"It is take it or leaf it," said the Duke of Battersea.
Mr. Bevan took it.
"I do think, sir ..." began Mr. Bevan.
There passed suddenly over the Duke of Battersea's face an expression
of such concentration and power as may have passed perhaps over that of
another great genius[11] when he planned the Parliamentary fortunes of
the Panama Canal and seemed for a moment thwarted. It was an expression
of enormous intensity, and Mr. Bevan, putting the notes without
counting them into a side pocket of his coat, and keeping his hand upon
it, quietly left the room.
When he was gone the Duke of Battersea took a note which he had already
written and was keeping against this moment, and sent it round the
corner in a cab to the club where he knew that Fitzgerald was waiting
upon that critical night before going back to the Plâs. The cab came
back immediately with Charles Fitzgerald in it. Here at least was a man
who understood haste. He was not even wearing a hat!
The Duke of Battersea rose to receive him--a rare honour, but he knew
when to pay honour. He was affectionate to him, put one hand upon
his shoulder, and asked him whether he would drink anything, which
Fitzgerald very gladly did; and when Fitzgerald had drunk he said:
"Do you think you can bring Mr. Bailey at once here? Ah?"
"He'll be dining now," said Fitzgerald.
"He is dining alone to-night," said the Duke of Battersea, "he is not
dining till half-past eight o'clock. It is twenty minutes only past
seven o'clock." He knew these things.
He added a number of other details, stuffed with research,
concentration, and plan, and Fitzgerald admired all he heard.
Fitzgerald waited a moment. "Mary Smith could get him," he said
finally, thinking as he spoke and holding his head to one side. "I'll
telephone to her and she'll telephone to him. Then she'll let me know,
and I'll go and fetch him. I'm sure he'll come."
He bothered for no formalities but went out at once, for he knew what
was wanted.
The time seemed very long to the Duke of Battersea. The moments were
important. Fitzgerald was gone but twenty-five minutes, and when he
returned the Duke was glad to hear two shambling footsteps accompanying
Fitzgerald's own decided step down the marble of the passage.
And sure enough, there came in, half a head above the tall young man,
the taller, somewhat hesitating figure with its good-natured face,
upon which could now be very palpably read a lack of ease.
The Duke of Battersea put out his hand, but Mr. Bailey was so awkward
as to be occupied at that moment in blowing his nose. It was but one of
many indications of the man's inward disturbance. Then he sat down, and
behind him, without a word of comment or apology, Fitzgerald withdrew
and was off to Mr. Clutterbuck's home.
When they were alone the Duke of Battersea said in a very gentle but
very decided tone:
"Mr. Bailey, I think we know each other. I want to tell you a story.
Will you listen out?"
"Listen what?" said Mr. Bailey, with his irritating verbal quibbles.
"Listen out to me," said the Duke of Battersea, certain of his idiom.
"Would I listen you out?" said Mr. Bailey.
"Yes," said the Duke of Battersea, still thoroughly master of himself.
"Go ahead," said Mr. Bailey. He leant back, put his hands into his
pockets as though that drawing-room were the most familiar to him
in the world, and surveyed the Duke of Battersea downward through
half-shut eyes.
The old man began his tale. The wording of it was perfect, and if here
and there a foreign idiom crept into his terse and carefully chosen
phrases, Mr. Bailey would murmur a correction. To such impertinences
the Duke paid no attention. He told the story of a man who had left
home that morning; he gave the precise hour at which he left home, the
manner of his dress, and the very lace upon his boots. He told the
whole shameful story of the Tube, of the Hop Garden--
"Hop and Garters," said Mr. Bailey quietly.
"So--well then," cried the Duke of Battersea, for one moment visibly
angered, "laugh at last and you laugh best." Then he sank back into
his own sense of power, recovered English idiom and continued. As he
went on to the story of the Heath, and of the luncheon, Mr. Bailey
rose and began pacing up and down the room. When the Duke came to the
final visit to the public-house, to the name "Zachary Hemming," which
he scanned slowly, hardening the gutturals in "Zachary" and filling
that word with sting, Mr. Bailey sat down again, and before the Duke
had concluded he had covered his face with his hands. But the old man
was pitiless. He told the story of the excesses at Chalk Farm, of
further excesses at the Horseshoe; he gave the very description of the
mysterious stranger, of the taximeter--of all. Then he ceased.
There is always something of the Cad in the Fanatic. A gentleman would
have warned the aged Philanthropist of the error under which he
laboured. Not so Mr. Bailey.
Mr. Bailey's face was still hidden. A slight movement of the shoulders
did not betray his emotion. There was a long interval of silence. Then
the Duke said:
"Well, Mr. Bailey, now who laughs at last?"
Mr. Bailey answered never a word.
"Mr. Bailey," continued the Duke, "I will do nothing, but so also you
will nothing. No-thing," he added, pronouncing the word quite slowly,
"no-thing at all." He wagged his head gently, and permitted the
slightest of smiles to greet Mr. Bailey's face as it rose from between
his hands. "No-thing at all. That is all is there," he ended.
Mr. Bailey, with bowed head and with an inaudible sigh repeated, but in
a lower tone, stunned as it were into repeating the very phrases and
accent of his host, "No-thing at all--that is all is there."
And he went out without another word.
In this way the Duke of Battersea secured himself from danger, and he
slept that night certain that the meeting would not be held. He had won
his battle.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 10: I do not allude to M. de Reinach, the great French
statesman and champion of Truth and Justice, but to his uncle, whose
sudden demise will be familiar to many.]
[Footnote 11: I refer once more to the (alas!) late Baron de Reinach,
uncle of the great French statesman, Joseph de Reinach.]