David Brawn - Below the Clock

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A classic Golden Age detective novel set at the heart of Westminster, when the murder of the Chancellor of the Exchequer threatens to topple the whole House of Cards…Many highly dramatic and historic scenes have been enacted below the clock of Big Ben, but none more sensational than on that April afternoon when, before the eyes of a chamber crowded to capacity for the Budget Speech, the Chancellor fell headlong to the floor with a resounding crash. For the first time a murder had been committed in the House of Commons itself – and Amos Petrie faced the toughest case of his career.In Below the Clock, John Victor Turner – a journalist who as David Hume had become known as ‘the new Edgar Wallace’ for creating Britain’s first hardboiled detective series – returned to classic Golden Age writing with an ingenious whodunit set at the heart of the establishment, a novel that did the unthinkable by turning Parliament into a crime scene and all its Members into murder suspects.This Detective Club classic is introduced by David Brawn, who looks at the distinguished crime-writing career of J. V. Turner and his alter egos Nicholas Brady and David Hume, who achieved remarkable success with nearly 50 books in only 14 years.

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‘I couldn’t tell you. He was not the sort of man to worry about that. In any case, he had every right to trust me and he did trust me.’

‘Do you consider that Mrs Reardon is in no way concerned with her husband’s death?’

‘Good God, man! I am certain upon that point. Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Then why have you swerved away from questions, become annoyed over trifles, and acted like a person with a lot to hide?’

‘I have acted quite straightforwardly all the way through.’

‘Was that bottle of claret unopened when you took the drink out of it for Reardon?’

‘Quite untouched. I had to extract the cork myself.’

‘You would have noticed if the bottle had been tampered with?’

‘Naturally. I can swear that it had not been touched.’

Petrie frowned and rapped on the table.

‘Are you trying to make things as awkward as possible for yourself.’

‘Certainly not. I am telling you the truth. Don’t you believe me?’

‘Did Reardon instruct you personally to bring him a claret and soda? I know that he would take a drink, but did he specify what sort of drink he wanted?’

‘Certainly. Men don’t drink an unusual mixture like that by pure accident. Surely you know that without asking me?’

‘Being nothing except a beer drinker I couldn’t answer you. I don’t think we’ll detain you any longer. When you see Mrs Reardon again you might tell her that within the next few hours I’ll call upon her. It might save her from a shock when I arrive.’

‘Is it necessary, Mr Petrie?’ asked Watson anxiously.

‘Entirely so—and you haven’t helped her position.’

‘I haven’t?’ Watson seemed staggered, quite amazed. ‘But I’d never do a thing to make difficulties for her.’

‘Perhaps that accounts for most of the trouble. Your object in asking me to come here has failed. Partial revelation is never of any service to a man unless he’s fighting for time. Instead of clearing yourself and getting Mrs Reardon out of the line of inquiry, you’ve merely presented me with a new problem. You have compelled me to ask myself whether you can have any object in gaining time.’

‘Mr Petrie, this is outrageous!’

‘Believe me, my friend, nothing is further from my immature mind than outrage. I came here thinking that you might assist me and that in return for your help I might give you a few words of fatherly advice. You have not enabled me to do anything of the kind. The only way in which you can help me is by complete frankness. I hope you’ll bear that in mind. It might assist you the next time we meet—and that will be before much more water flows under Westminster Bridge.’

‘Doesn’t sound as though you’re satisfied,’ said Watson.

‘I’m not. Oh! Before I go would you mind telling me what you know about this man Paling?’

‘That’s quite easy. I only know that he has been associated with Reardon during the last twelve months. I don’t know how, why, or where they met, and I don’t know what they had in common. It always seemed to me that they were frightened of each other. That’s all I know.’

‘Doesn’t help me. Thanks very much.’

Petrie and Ripple left the building and walked round to the Yard. The miserable Ripple was more melancholic than ever.

‘This case will never break in a month of Sundays,’ he complained.

‘Maybe it won’t, Sunshine. You’ll find when you do get to the tail end of it that all your trouble has been worthwhile. I can see quite a lot of things that don’t fit. It may help us to discover what’s happened about the analysis of that claret. At any rate, the report should give us a start. Think it will be ready?’

‘I imagine so. I’ll give a ring as soon as we reach the office.’

Petrie sat down with a copy of the Fishing Gazette while the Inspector got his number. The little man heard Ripple’s request for information and then saw the man’s jaw sag. The Yard man slapped down the receiver and slumped into a chair.

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