The Secret of Chimneys (Superintendent Battle 1)

“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 applecart. 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.”

“Yes, it looks as though there’s something in it,” said Lord Caterham, with the same relish he had displayed before.

“We have found out that they were sent to a man called Jimmy, or James, McGrath, a Canadian at present in Africa.”

“Quite an Imperial affair, isn’t it?” said Lord Caterham cheerily.

“James McGrath is due to arrive by the Granarth Castle tomorrow—Thursday.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“We shall, of course, approach him at once, point out the possibly serious consequences, and beg him to defer publication of the memoirs for at least a month, and in any case to permit them to be judiciously—er—edited.”

“Supposing that he says ‘No, sir,’ or ‘I’ll goddarned well see you in hell first,’ or something bright and breezy like that?” suggested Lord Caterham.

“That’s just what I’m afraid of,” said Lomax simply. “That’s why it suddenly occurred to me that it might be a good thing to ask him down to Chimneys as well. He’d be flattered, naturally, at being asked to meet Prince Michael, and it might be easier to handle him.”

“I’m not going to do it,” said Lord Caterham hastily. “I don’t get on with Canadians, never did—especially those that have lived much in Africa!”

“You’d probably find him a splendid fellow—a rough diamond, you know.”

“No, Lomax. I put my foot down there absolutely. Somebody else has got to tackle him.”

“It has occurred to me,” said Lomax, “that a woman might be very useful here. Told enough and not too much, you understand. A woman could handle the whole thing delicately and with tact—put the position before him, as it were, without getting his back up. Not that I approve of women in politics—St. Stephen’s is ruined, absolutely ruined, nowadays. But woman in her own sphere can do wonders. Look at Henry’s wife and what she did for him. Marcia was magnificent, unique, a perfect political hostess.”

“You don’t want to ask Marcia down for this party, do you?” asked Lord Caterham faintly, turning a little pale at the mention of his redoubtable sister-in-law.

“No, no, you misunderstand me. I was speaking of the influence of women in general. No, I suggest a young woman, a woman of charm, beauty, intelligence?”

“Not Bundle? Bundle would be no use at all. She’s a red-hot Socialist if she’s anything at all, and she’d simply scream with laughter at the suggestion.”

“I was not thinking of Lady Eileen. Your daughter, Caterham, is charming, simply charming, but quite a child. We need some one with savoir faire, poise, knowledge of the world—Ah, of course, the very person. My cousin Virginia.”

“Mrs. Revel?” Lord Caterham brightened up. He began to feel that he might possibly enjoy the party after all. “A very good suggestion of yours, Lomax. The most charming woman in London.”

“She is well up in Herzoslovakian affairs too. Her husband was at the Embassy there, you remember. And, as you say, a woman of great personal charm.”

“A delightful creature,” murmured Lord Caterham.

“That is settled, then.”

Mr. Lomax relaxed his hold on Lord Caterham’s lapel, and the latter was quick to avail himself of the chance.

“Bye-bye, Lomax, you’ll make all the arrangements, won’t you?”

He dived into a taxi. As far as it is possible for one upright Christian gentleman to dislike another upright Christian gentleman, Lord Caterham disliked the Hon. George Lomax. He disliked his puffy red face, his heavy bre

athing, and his prominent earnest blue eyes. He thought of the coming weekend and sighed. A nuisance, an abominable nuisance. Then he thought of Virginia Revel and cheered up a little.

“A delightful creature,” he murmured to himself. “A most delightful creature.”

Four

INTRODUCING A VERY CHARMING LADY

George Lomax returned straightway to Whitehall. As he entered the sumptuous apartment in which he transacted affairs of State, there was a scuffling sound.

Mr. Bill Eversleigh was assiduously filing letters, but a large armchair near the window was still warm from contact with a human form.

A very likeable young man, Bill Eversleigh. Age at a guess, twenty-five, big and rather ungainly in his movements, a pleasantly ugly face, a splendid set of white teeth and a pair of honest brown eyes.

“Richardson sent up that report yet?”

“No, sir. Shall I get on to him about it?”

“It doesn’t matter. Any telephone messages?”

“Miss Oscar is dealing with most of them. Mr. Isaacstein wants to know if you can lunch with him at the Savoy tomorrow.”

“Tell Miss Oscar to look in my engagement book. If I’m not engaged, she can ring up and accept.”

“Yes, sir.”

“By the way, Eversleigh, you might ring up a number for me now. Look it up in the book. Mrs. Revel, 487 Pont Street.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bill seized the telephone book, ran an unseeing eye down a column of M’s, shut the book with a bang and moved to the instrument on the desk. With his hand upon it, he paused, as though in sudden recollection.