Cyril Hare - An English Murder

"Lord Warbeck," Dr. Bottwink said diffidently, "I wonder whether, in all the circumstances, it might perhaps be preferable if I did not accept your kind invitation to take dinner with your family this evening? It seems to me that possibly——"

"Nonsense, my dear fellow," said his lordship kindly. "I insist that you should. You are to consider yourself a guest of the house, just like anybody else."

"But——"

"Of course you must dine with us," Camilla put in. "I shan't have anybody to talk to if you don't. Some more tea, Robert?" she added, with an innocent air.

"No, thank you," said Robert emphatically. He rose to his feet. "If I'm to preside over this festive affair tonight, I'd better have a word with Briggs about what we're going to drink."

He stalked out of the room.

An awkward pause followed his departure. Mrs. Carstairs, whose exposition of the problem of colonial sugar had temporarily exhausted itself, watched him go with an expression of shocked disapproval. Lord Warbeck's face was an angry red, Dr. Bottwink's very pale. Camilla's hand trembled, so that she set down her cup with a clatter that sounded loud in the sudden silence. Only Sir Julius, deeply occupied in masticating plum cake, seemed unaware that anything out of the way had occurred.

Lord Warbeck was the first to speak. He was breathing heavily, and articulated with difficulty.

"I—I am sorry," he contrived to say. "My only son—a guest in my house—I am ashamed——"

"Do not distress yourself, my lord, I beg of you," Dr. Bottwink said swiftly, his English becoming more formal than ever under the stress of the occasion. "I comprehend the position perfectly. This regrettable little incident was only to be expected. It serves to confirm me in my opinion that I should absent myself from dinner this evening. Indeed, I indicated as much to your good Briggs yesterday. It is not that I do not appreciate your hospitality, but where matters of politics are concerned——"

"No politics in this house," said Lord Warbeck feebly.

"Come here a moment," said Camilla firmly. "I want to talk to you." She took the bewildered Bottwink by the arm and led him to the further end of the room. "Look," she said, "I know exactly how you're feeling about this, but you've simply got to help us see this evening through. It's going to be pretty bloody anyhow, but without you it will only be worse, with Robert in his present mood."

"Worse, Lady Camilla? I do not understand. How could it be worse, seeing that it is I who am the offender in his eyes?"

"Oh, don't imagine that you are the only one! You were merely the excuse for his bad manners. He hates Sir Julius every bit as much—more, I should say, because he thinks he is one of his own clan who has gone over to the other side. And he can't stand Mrs. Carstairs either, for the same reason."

"And you, my lady? Does he hate you also? And for what reason, if so?"

"That," said Camilla slowly, "is what I came down here to find out."

"I comprehend you."

"Thanks. I thought you would. You seem a—a comprehending sort of person."

Dr. Bottwink was silent for a moment. Then, looking towards the sofa, he said, "It would distress Lord Warbeck, would it not, if I were to refuse?" "It would upset him very much. This party was entirely his idea, and he's not likely to have another."

Dr. Bottwink sighed. "I owe a great deal to his lordship," he said. "I will join your party this evening, Lady Camilla." "Thank you. I am really grateful for that."

"All the same," he continued ruefully, "I fear that at the best I shall be somewhat of a fish out of water. Apart from being the object of Mr. Robert's displeasure, there is so little in common between me and my fellow guests."

"I'm sure you could get on with anyone."

Dr. Bottwink shook his head.

"It is not so," he said. "I am a man of rather specialized attainments. I had looked forward to meeting your Chancellor of the Exchequer, because there were certain points of constitutional theory and history affecting his office on which I fancied he could enlighten me. But when I broached the subject at breakfast I found him most unresponsive—indeed, I should have said ignorant."

Camilla laughed. "That was very simple of you, Dr. Bottwink," she said. "Did you really expect a Cabinet Minister to know the first thing about constitutional history? He's much too busy running his department to bother about a thing like that."

"I fear that my knowledge of England is still imperfect," said the historian mildly. "On the Continent it used not to be uncommon to find professors of history in Cabinet posts."

"Well, it's no good thinking you'll make the party go by trying to cross-examine Julius about the British constitution," said Camilla firmly. "He hates talking shop, anyhow. Didn't you see how Mrs. Carstairs was boring him just now about the sugar duties? No, if you want to draw him out, try golf or fishing. Those are the only subjects he's really keen about."

"Golf and fishing," echoed Dr. Bottwink gravely. "Thank you, Lady Camilla. I shall remember. Perhaps with your assistance I shall even understand English public life at last!"

Robert closed the door of the library behind him and stepped out into the corridor with a sigh of relief. To reach the servants' quarters he would have had to turn to his left, but instead, after a moment's hesitation, he walked in the opposite direction. He had not taken more than a few paces before he stopped in surprise. A man was standing near the wall at a corner of the corridor, apparently engaged in earnest contemplation of an equestrian portrait of the sixth Lord Warbeck as master of the Mid-Markshire foxhounds. The stranger was neatly dressed in a grey tweed suit and contrived to be at once very large and quite unobtrusive. He appeared to be quite at his ease, and at Robert's approach moved to one side to let him pass with the air of one who expected his presence to be taken for granted.

Robert was in no mood to take anything or anybody for granted. His Christmas at Warbeck, he felt, was becoming a whole series of disagreeable surprises. The presence of yet another unexpected guest was the last straw.

"And who the devil may you be?" he asked truculently.

"The name, sir, is Rogers," the large man replied civilly. There was something oddly impersonal about his voice, as though it came from a particularly well-bred machine.

"What are you doing, hanging about here?"

"Well, sir, hanging about is my job, in a manner of speaking. My card, sir."

A small, square card materialized suddenly in his hand, and Robert found himself reading:

"METROPOLITAN POLICE. SPECIAL BRANCH.

James Arthur Rogers holds the rank of sergeant in the Metropolitan Police. This is his warrant and authority for executing the duties of his office."

"I see." He handed the card back to its owner, holding it between his finger-tips as though its very touch was distasteful. "So you're one of those, are you? Haven't I seen you before, some time?"

"Yes, sir. On Sunday, September twentieth last, between the hours of 8.0 and 10.0 p.m."

"Eh?"

"Open-air meeting, League of Liberty and Justice, sir. I was on duty."

"That explains it. And now they've sent you down here to continue your spying, I suppose?"

"Oh no, sir. I'm here on protection duty—looking after Sir Julius."

Robert threw back his head and laughed out loud.

"Protection!" he said. "That's rich! He needs it! I can tell you this, my man, and you can tell your superiors when you get back to Scotland Yard: when our movement gets into power, fellows like you are going to be out of a job."

"Oh no, sir," the detective replied imperturbably. "That's just what Sir Julius's friends used to say in the old days when I attended their meetings. You'll want protection just the same. They all do."