Chapter VIII

At the time he was murdered Ponsonby Paget was one of the most popular men in England. It is true he was eyed askance by some of his colleagues in Fleet Street; but that was on personal grounds, and none of them ever denied his journalistic genius. There were those indeed who said he could interest any one in anything he chose to write about. On matters affecting public morals he put into words what the plain man felt but could not express, and he was a master of that piquant and witty paragraph of society scandal which all women love. Where he got his information none of us knew; but he was certainly familiar with the private, and even secret, lives of the most distinguished people in England.

With the masses he enjoyed a reputation second to none for blunt, outspoken honesty. He never claimed to be spotless, but he never ceased to proclaim that he was British; and the public, taking this to be much the same thing, took Ponsonby Paget to its heart. On the platform after he entered Parliament he was immense. His squat, full-bodied, bull-necked figure topped by the blunt, rugged face made him so like an incarnation of John Bull himself that his audience believed what he had to say before he had time to say it. But trenchant orator as he was his real forte was journalism. He wrote prose as brilliant as Macaulay's. And it was in the _Eye Opener_, the weekly paper he owned and edited, that his genius found its full vent.

The _Eye Opener_ has now passed into other hands, and like some of those who were pilloried and exposed in its columns has changed its name. Statesmen are no longer apprehensive, nor do, I imagine, Society ladies tremble or gloat, as the case may be, while they turn its pages. It is not what it was in the days of the Ponsonby Paget _régime_, when I, an apprentice in journalism, carried it in my overcoat pocket against my heart. In those days genius was stamped all over that paper--even on the buff coloured cover. On the upper half of the cover appeared the head and nude shoulders of a massive woman with a very long neck and features of classic beauty. Her head was thrown proudly back, the lips apart, and each eye was shut by a penny piece, twopence being the price of the paper. I remember pointing out the symbolism of these two pennies to Matheson, my chief on the _Record_, when, in my early days on that journal, he caught me with the _Eye Opener_ on my desk.

"For twopence she opens the eyes of the British public," I said.

I was a callow youth then, having lately left a country town for Fleet Street, or I would have known better than to try to teach him anything. Matheson sniggered as he eyed the female bust.

"It doesn't say how much it costs to shut her mouth. Probably that price varies," he sneered.

I knew what he meant: that rich rogues who liked to pay the price could escape exposure.

"Nothing can shut that mouth," I asserted hotly.

And now--the thought comes with sudden solemnity--something _has_ shut it--Death! The great Ponsonby Paget is dead. White as alabaster and incredibly still I saw him lying, murdered, in the police mortuary at Ealing, with two penny pieces on his own eyes.

* * * * *

As we viewed the body in the presence of the police that day, my thoughts returned to the day on which I had first seen the man on whom my eyes now rested for the last time.

My acquaintance with the late Mr. Ponsonby Paget had begun with a contribution I sent to his paper. The subject matter of that article was derived not from any gossip in the sub-editors' room, but through my association with Francis McNab, the private enquiry agent, a man of whom I shall have to speak presently. The _Eye Opener_ returned my article; but instead of the usual rejection slip there came back with it a personal note from the editor asking me to call and see him.

How vivid is my first personal impression of the man! After a few enquiries into the sources of the information my article had contained, and also as to my position on the _Record_, he talked on nothing but literary style. He held out hopes of employing me provided I could liven up my style. How I hung on his words! Hung on them like a new gospel, as he paced that room, a stout, short-legged figure, more like an English farmer talking on turnips than a master discoursing on English prose.

"Above all," he said, "shun parenthetical clauses. The English don't like them. The English are a blunt, straightforward people, and they like language like themselves. There's always something Frenchified about a parenthetical clause; it sounds as if you weren't quite sure; and it seems to shilly-shally with the subject. And don't be afraid of repeating yourself. It is necessary to repeat yourself. You can no more get a point home to the British public by saying a thing once than you can get a nail home by hitting it once. Besides, the English like repetitions. They like repetitions for the same reason that they like the big drum. The big drum is the only instrument in the band they understand; it is the only instrument that keeps on saying the same thing over and over again, and therefore it sounds in earnest."

And yet, looking back, I now recognize that with all his surface simplicity and directness there was in Ponsonby Paget a subtlety and adroitness equally exceptional, though less evident to a raw recruit in journalism, as I then was. In the column of his paper headed _P. P. Peeps_, which he himself wrote, things were said about distinguished people, public men and society ladies, which no other paper would have dared to print. Not because the things were false but rather because they were true. For these things he was never prosecuted. Partly, no doubt, he owed this liberty of speech to the place he occupied in the nation's heart, and partly to his known skill with juries; but most of all probably he owed his immunity from actions for slander to the fact that no man in England could suggest so much in words so apparently innocent.

Such was the man I found lying dead, that black January night, on the study floor of his Ealing residence. Matheson had never viewed my acquaintance with him with favour, had in fact warned me against him; but Matheson owed it to me that his paper appeared with an exclusive report of the tragic discovery. And it was one of the biggest sensations the _Record_ ever created. How well I remember lingering in the street to witness the sensation our news of his awful death would create when the newsboys appeared with their papers and placards. Weary, hungry, heavy with sleep after that terrible night's experiences, I yet lingered on to hear the cry that would startle London. My eager ear caught the yell they made afar off. Like a flood they burst along the Strand, every one with a big armful of papers, and this bill dangling against their legs:

DAILY RECORD

MURDER!

PONSONBY PAGET

MURDER!

As I turned away to seek my long overdue sleep I felt sure Mr. Ponsonby Paget would have approved of that bill--had he himself, that is, not been the subject of it. For there was in it not only the repetition that he favoured but also that irresistible appeal to curiosity in which he delighted. One, that is, had to buy the paper to know whether Ponsonby Paget was criminal or victim, or even to be sure that the bill was not an incitement to murder by our own paper. No doubt that bill was the grim Matheson's own idea; but anyhow the matter behind it had been provided by me. And it proved to be one of the finest selling bills that has ever appeared on the streets of London.

* * * * *

This is the story of how I came to be the discoverer of the crime.

About one o'clock on the day of his death, which was Monday, January 15th, Mr. Ponsonby Paget rang me up as I was going out for lunch: could I, he enquired, dine with him at his house in Ealing that night? The invitation sent a pleasant glow coursing through me; it marked such a definite step forward in one's career to be taken up by a man of his standing in the world of journalism. But my heart fell as I recalled that I was booked for duty at the big political meeting in the Albert Hall that night. When I explained this regretfully there was what sounded like a muttered oath at the other end of the phone. This startled me, for he was not given to swearing. Then his cheery laugh came through.

"You're my second disappointment," he said.

"Sorry to be that," I rejoined, "but Matheson wouldn't let me off; so it's useless asking him."

"Look here," he said briskly, "what time will you be free--by ten?"

I considered a moment. To come back to the office and turn in my copy would not take half an hour. Before I could reply his voice came again, rather eagerly:

"What I want to know is: can I rely on your being here by eleven?"

"Oh, certainly."

"You are absolutely sure?"

The emphasis he put into that question was startling and I replied with becoming gravity.

"I'll let nothing stand in the way, Mr. Paget, you can depend on that."

"Good!" Then his cheery laugh came again. "Take the sack rather than disappoint me. It is a big thing for you. Afraid you'll get no dinner, though."

"Perhaps I may hope for a little supper," I suggested jocularly, meaning to respond to his change of tone.

"Eh?"

I repeated the remark.

"Oh, well, a man on whom _I_ can rely may hope for more than that--before long," he added significantly. And when the jar of his receiver came through as he rang off, I felt like a man whose future is assured.

* * * * *

It was the fog that led to his death. But for the fog Ponsonby Paget would be alive to-day, for I should have reached Ealing in time to save him. The fog came on about four o'clock, as night began to fall. Matheson had sent me round to see Francis McNab about a promising crime story I had reported from Bow Street in the forenoon. From the little window in McNab's office, which was in the Adelphi, right on the top of a lofty edifice overlooking the river, I watched the Surrey side gradually being washed out as the fog crept up, like waves of smoke rising out of the river. I watched it idly while waiting for McNab, attaching no sinister importance to its coming, my thoughts for the moment turning on the little man for whom I waited.

For some considerable time the _Record_ had specialized in the treatment of crime; not, of course, pandering to depraved tastes for the grotesque or the morbid, but, all the same, supplying matter unobtainable through the ordinary channels. The paper had come into touch with McNab rather curiously. At the time when the mysterious Acton Green affair was creating such a splash in the press, McNab sent us a letter propounding a theory on the crime so startling and apparently far-fetched and incriminating that Matheson, as I have heard, not trusting the wastepaper-basket, himself put the communication, spitted on the end of the poker, into the fire. When, however, subsequent events proved McNab right in regard to the high placed criminal, Matheson grabbed the private detective as a special contributor. He it was who over the _nom de plume_ of "The Lamplighter" contributed those illuminating articles on current crime which were so long a special feature in the _Record_.

Well, just as I was giving him up McNab came into the office. He was, with his thin, clean-shaven face and thoughtful eyes, more like a youngish doctor than a detective--except that there was nothing affable about him.

"Hullo, Chance--business or pleasure?" he asked with a nod.

"Matheson's business: my pleasure," I returned. "Come over to the Blue Bird and have tea."

"And pay half a crown for threepence worth of tea? No, no, laddie."

Then he struck a match and lit the gas ring upon which a kettle stood ready prepared. This done he sat down astride a chair to read Matheson's letter.

McNab was painfully Scotch. Matheson was Scotch too, but it flattered him to be taken for an Englishman, which was the one thing I liked about Matheson. McNab, however, was of the brand of Scotch labelled extra special. His accent made his English sound like a foreign tongue. Yet he was the only Scotchman I ever really liked, and the only acquaintance I had who never made puns on my name. At first this fact led me to infer he had no sense of humour. How well my mind goes back to that afternoon in McNab's office: it was the calm before the unsuspected storm.

"Business slack?" I enquired as he poured out the tea.

He sighed, nodding at Matheson's letter.

"So-so. A sort of haberdasher's time I'm having, big turnover but small profit."

"Matheson says he's found out you had a university training and took high distinction in logic at Aberdeen," I blurted out like an interviewer.

He threw up his hands in protest.

"Heaven forbid--not Aberdeen! I resent the accusation."

Then I broached a matter that had puzzled me for some time.

"An English university man would never think of taking up your kind of work, you know."

"Wouldn't he? Why not?"

"He'd have more--well, ambition."

"Ambition!" he cried. "Man, man, do ye not see the world is full of men just _not_ good enough for their jobs? And what is responsible for that? Ambition. Ambition pushed them on to take jobs just beyond their powers. Whereas, if they'd been content with a job well inside their capacity, they would be successful men. But no! Ambition is the itch that spurs them on to make a hash of it."

"Then, Mac," I protested, "if these are your opinions why in the name of Samuel Johnson didn't you stay on in Scotland?"

His dark eyes twinkled at me.

"Laddie, now you are making yoursel' more stupid than Nature intended ye to be. Why didn't I stay in Scotland? ye ask. Well, in the first place Scotland is an honest, law-abiding country; in the next place, in England intelligent competition is less severe."

He handed me over the biscuit tin, leaving me doubtful as to how much of all this was seriously meant.

When we had finished tea, and cigarettes were produced, I sprang the surprise on him which I had kept to the last.

"Mac, I mentioned your name in a letter to my people the other day, and I hear my maternal grandmother was Scotch."

"Not so bad. But it's highly diluted."

"What?"

"The Scots blood that's in you; it will be swamped, I doubt, or will only show in exceptional moments."

"I'm told she had red hair, and came from Aberdeen."

"From Aberdeen? That alters the case. They're all made of granite up there, like their city. So I'll not deny that the Aberdeen fluid isn't the better of a strong dilution. It needs a large infusion of the soft English blood to give it a touch of humanity."

That is the kind of man he was. One could rarely be sure whether he was serious, although he always looked so. But as I took leave of him later, thinking on this, I little thought of the seriousness of what then lay so close ahead.

* * * * *

After my duty in connection with the Foreign Secretary's speech at the Albert Hall was over I found myself with an ample margin of time to reach Ealing before eleven. But I had no sooner put my nose outside the door than I determined not to surrender control of my progress to the district railway. The risk on such a night of a probable hold up in some tunnel was too great. I therefore took a taxi--they were having a pretty thin time of it that night. A taxi if slower and more expensive was surer. Besides, I reckoned on getting clear of the fog belt somewhere beyond Kensington.

At first our pace was no more than a crawl; but this I had expected, and it caused me no uneasiness since my driver asserted he was so familiar with the route that he could travel to Ealing blindfolded.

There is this to be said for the man; he ran into nothing, nor did he once touch either kerb or refuge. Indeed, to me it seemed miraculous how he divined his track to an inch merely by the dim glow overhead that marked the position of the invisible lamp-posts. When, however, my watch showed 10.15 uneasiness began, for we had not yet passed beyond the fog radius. In a few minutes more the brakes jarred, and as the cab came to a halt the figure of a policeman loomed up alongside. My heart sank as I saw his uselessly extended arm giving directions to my driver. Hastily lowering the window I heard him speak of taking the third on the right and the second on the left: we had crossed the direct road a couple of miles back!

I am not going to give the history of our further wanderings that night. Heaven knows where we went; but at no time did we get free of the fog. In the end we found ourselves in Ealing before knowing we were near it; and I left the cab and, on the plea that it was a matter of life and death, got a policeman to take me up to Mr. Ponsonby Paget's house in Tookworth Avenue.

When he left me to return to another section of his beat I stole a look at my watch. For a long time, sitting in that wandering vehicle, I had not dared to look at it. It was almost one o'clock. I pulled up in the drive to consider what to do. The large house I dimly discerned ahead stood eerie and ghost-like in that veil of mist, without a lighted window.

Was it worth while, I asked myself, to go on? To decide the question I determined to walk round the house and see if any window behind showed a light. It would be something, at least, to prove to Mr. Ponsonby Paget that I had done my best to keep my word to him. Scouting about, I came on a bricked path, circling in among shrubbery, and taking this, found that it led me on to the lawn fronting the house. Crossing the lawn I turned the corner at the far end, and at once saw light streaming out from the windows of what appeared to be a one-storied addition to the main building. There was no door that I could see, but the brick pathway took me right up to the single step that gave entrance to the room by means of a French window. This window was slightly ajar.

After waiting a moment I tapped on the glass.

Possibly the noise I made was much less than it sounded in my nervously sensitive ears. The place was so weirdly still. Even the fog itself seemed petrified, standing thick and heavy, so that it needed a mental effort to thrust one's hand through it. Anyhow, when no response came I could not bring myself to repeat the knock. Instead I stood up on the step and tried to peer into the room. Immediately inside there appeared to be a dark curtained-off recess; but, as the curtains did not quite meet, the opening between them permitted a diagonal view into the interior beyond. I could see the soft glow of a fire showing above the back of an intervening lounge chair; but the room seemed unoccupied. Possibly, I thought, my host had fallen asleep in that huge chair beside that fire. After debating what course to pursue I tapped on the glass again, more loudly. The hollow, glassy rattle seemed to reverberate suddenly at my back. No doubt the illusion was caused by some high parallel wall behind me, invisible in such a night; but, coming from behind like that, the echo so startled me that involuntarily I pushed the glass door open, and stepped just inside the room.

My first glance showed me there was something wrong.

There had been a struggle in that room. One of the heavy curtains had, I now saw, been half torn from its suspension; a table inside the recess lay overturned, with a draught screen toppled against its upraised legs. The room itself was in great disorder, a jumble of displaced furniture, some chairs broken, with white shattered fractures showing oddly, and almost everything in disarray, or standing at unwonted angles. Somehow it was horrible to view all that evidence of violent motion in its present almost frozen stillness. Only one thing appeared to be in its normal place--the massive oak table, covered with books and writing materials, which stood opposite the fire. As I regarded it in wonder a sudden crackle came from the fire, and a flurry of gassy flame lighted up the shadowed end of the long table. Then something else caught my eye, something that protruded beyond the far end of that table--a human foot. Yes, a human foot, with the firelight now flickering brightly on the patent leather of the upraised toe.