Michael White - The Art of Murder

Archibald indicated a seat but then, ignoring me, started to speak into the contraption held close to his head. Then I realised what it was. I had read in The Times about these things. Of a sudden he was finished. With a curt, ‘goodbye’, he replaced the device, a cylindrical black object, on a squat rectangular box in front of him on the desk.

‘Damned accursed things,’ he said, standing up and offering me a hand. ‘Alexander Graham Bell should be taken out at dawn and shot,’ he went on. ‘A telephone, Tumbril. Seen one before?’

I shook my head. ‘No.’

‘Can’t hear a damn thing most of the time. And when I do, all I get is demands from my financiers. We’re the only people who have the bloody things … millionaires and harassed newspaper editors! Still, I suppose that’s progress for you. I’m told that one day every home will have one.’ And he laughed. ‘Come on then, Harry. Let’s go to lunch. I’m famished. Reform Club all right with you?’

It was a short walk. Archibald marched along as though the seconds were passing faster than they actually were and he was trying to fit more into the day than was possible or reasonable. At the Reform Club, he nodded to the doorman and slipped him a shilling before ushering me into the cool, cavernous interior.

As we ascended the grand marble staircase, we could hear voices coming from one of the rooms on the first floor; a peal of laughter followed by the clink of cutlery. A waiter in white tie and tails met us at the top of the stairs and led us into a vast room with huge windows offering a view over St James’s Park. We sat at a table to one end of the room close to the windows and Archibald ordered a bottle of claret. ‘It’s not half bad here, Harry,’ he said. ‘Quite a decent wine list.’

I gazed around me at the opulence and inhaled the scent of wealth and privilege. I was used to such things, had mixed with company far beyond my social standing at Oxford, and there was nothing the Reform could offer that I had not previously experienced at the Oxford Union or High Table at Christ Church. I could tell, though, that Archibald was enamoured of it all. He was a clever, educated man, but had only recently come into money after working his way up the slippery pole to mix with those who ran the country. He confessed to me once that at Cambridge he had been forced to keep to himself and had got by on a meagre allowance because his father was struggling financially at the time.

‘Don’t look round, but we have rather a decent turnout today,’ Archibald said matter-of-factly.

I gave him a puzzled look.

‘Quite a broad spectrum of the great and the good. Over there is Henry James the novelist.’ And Archibald nodded discreetly to a point beyond my left shoulder. ‘Oh, and Henry Irving the actor. Overrated if you ask me. And, well, well, well, what a surprise … there’s Dilke.’

I gave him another puzzled look.

‘Charles Dilke? The politician?’

I nodded and looked down at my menu.

‘I’m astonished the man has the cheek to show his face so soon after the scandal. Oh, well. And … oh, goodness.’

I looked up and frowned. ‘Who now, Archibald? The Queen?’

‘Almost, Harry. Gladstone. God, he looks positively prehistoric.’

I turned at this and saw a very old man sitting at a corner table, two much younger men accompanying him. He was eating a bread roll with such tiny bites I could not imagine how he would ever finish it, let alone make it to the soup course. When I looked back, Archibald was still staring. I gave a brief cough and he broke away.

‘Why have you invited me to lunch?’

I asked. He was about to reply when the waiter appeared to take our orders. The wine waiter then topped up our glasses, and Archibald raised his. ‘To fortunate meetings,’ he said, and there was a silence for a moment as we savoured the fine claret. ‘A bit too sharp at the top end,’ Archibald said judiciously. I searched his face for a moment, thinking he might be making a joke, but he was perfectly serious. I felt a sudden wave of nausea, took another sip of my wine, and it passed.

‘I appreciate the gesture,’ I said. ‘But why did you invite me here?’

‘To offer you a job of course, Harry.’

I was genuinely surprised, and Archibald laughed. ‘Is it really so improbable?’

I shook my head slowly.

‘Let me explain,’ he went on. ‘I want my newspaper to be modern.’ He almost hissed the last word. ‘These fellows,’ and he waved a hand towards the famous men seated around the room, ‘most of them are yesterday’s men. They are rooted in the nineteenth century, while I am a man of tomorrow. I’m already thinking like a man of the twentieth century, Harry.’

I studied his face in silence. I was not interested in a single word he was saying, but I had lost none of my ability to fool others.

‘I intend to be radical,’ he went on. ‘Not so much in the political sense, although my convictions do lean that way, I’m thinking more about the style of the Clarion , Harry. The way we report. I want my paper to epitomise the coming age, not pay lip service to an era that is passing.’

‘Forgive me, Archibald,’ I said. ‘But I don’t understand what that has to do with me.’

The first course arrived as he was about to reply. It did not slow him down. Between mouthfuls, he ran on. ‘I’ve seen your work. I like what you do. You have guts. You’re not afraid to represent reality. I want you to be my number one illustrator.’

‘But you already have artists.’

‘I do. But none of them has your eye.’

‘I’m flattered,’ I lied.

He looked at me eagerly, with that ridiculously enthusiastic expression of his, and I felt like retching again. ‘All right, Harry. Let me make it clear. This city …’ And he paused, wiped his mouth and swept out one hand to encompass the view visible through the windows. ‘This city is a most wretched place. Every day we report at least one terrible murder — vile acts from every level of society. I want to let our readers see the reality. I’m tired of pussyfooting around with euphemism and innuendo.’

‘But you must have rules and guidelines to follow?’

‘We do, but there is leeway, my good fellow. The written word is one thing, but I want to capture the true nature of our modern world using the skill of men like yourself. All my artists are competent draughtsmen, but none of them has your sense of realism.’

I was not sure what to say. I studied Archibald’s face and realised for the first time that the man was most probably insane, or at least heading along the road to insanity. He was perfectly able to function and may yet have much to offer the world, but he was becoming unbridled, losing track of himself.

‘What about photography?’ I said after a long silence. ‘Surely that’s the modern way to proceed?’

He exhaled loudly and shook his head dismissively. ‘Have you seen how long photographers take to set up their equipment? And have you seen the quality of their work when they have? No, Harry, the future is all about ideas, not gadgets. It’s like that damned telephone, it’s a gimmick. No, it’s up here,’ he proclaimed, tapping his forehead, his cheeks flushed with excitement and claret. ‘It’s up here. That’s where the future is made. Ideas, Harry, ideas.’

I was about to point out to him that gadgets came from ideas, when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement. Archibald turned, a puzzled look on his face, and then his expression relaxed. The head waiter appeared at our table. Beside him was a young man in a cheap, ill-fitting suit. He had a light fuzz of hair in the middle of his chin, very pale skin and small brown eyes.

‘Sir, this fellow says he has a message for you.’