The Black Swan (5 page)

The morning after he had made his speech, his name was well to the fore.

LANSDON OPPOSES BILL. GLADSTONE’S HENCHMAN MAKES A RIGHT TURN. CONSERVATIVES JUBILANT.

I went to his study where he was reading the papers.

“So, you have done it,” I said.

“I believe it was right to do it,” he said. He seemed relieved.

It was a tense and exciting time. We followed the progress of the Bill through the House. It passed in all its stages—though, my father pointed out to me, with minute majorities.

Then … it was rejected by the Lords.

The thick black headlines stared at us from all the papers.

They were all about the Bill and Gladstone’s defeat. In several columns the view was stressed that it was my father’s outspoken opposition to it which had done a great deal to bring it to defeat.

The tension increased. My father admitted to me that he had lost all chances of Cabinet rank.

Gladstone was bitter. He wanted to call an election and go to the polls on a slogan:
THE COUNTRY VERSUS THE LORDS
.

“The Old Man doesn’t realize that the country is heartily tired of the subject. He thinks everyone is as engrossed in the Irish question as he is.”

“And how is he feeling about you?” I asked.

“Oh … he’s bitterly disappointed in me. Hurt, too. I wish I could make him understand. He really is looking very old and tired these days.”

“What are you going to do?”

He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. It was one of the few times I had seen him uncertain.

Then he said, “For now … carry on. Disagreeing with the PM doesn’t mean I’m not still member for Manorleigh.”

“Shall you give up politics in time?”

“Indeed not! Accept defeat? Certainly not, and I shall not hesitate to voice my opinions.”

“Well, isn’t that what all members should do?”

“They should, but sometimes one’s views do not always coincide with those of the party. Then one has to make a choice.”

“As you have done.”

I felt I wanted to be with him at this time … always ready if he wanted to talk to me; and he did talk to me, more freely than ever at this time. It was not only politics that we were discussing.

So we came to that particular evening when I was waiting for him to return from the House.

As usual I had prepared the supper in his study. I had the soup waiting to be heated up on the little stove, some cold chicken and homemade crusty bread.

The time was getting on. It was almost ten o’clock. I wondered what was happening in the House. I fancied some of his fellow members were not very pleased with him. But he had done right, I assured myself. People must act according to what they believed even if by doing so they go against the policy of the party. Parliament was the place for discussion. That must be understood.

I tried to settle down to read. I started to think about Joel and wondered what he would be doing at this moment. How long would the mission take? At least six weeks after he arrived. It would be some time before he came home.

The time passed slowly. It was nearly eleven o’clock. Sometimes the House would go on sitting into the early hours of the morning. If he did not come by eleven thirty I would go to bed. It was the rule. If he were as late as that he would stay at the Greenham’s, according to the custom. But there was still a little time to go.

I went to the window and looked out. There was a high wind which had taken most of the leaves off the trees; some lay on the pavement on the opposite side of the road. They came from the trees in the garden which was for the use of residents in the square.

I noticed a man standing by the railings of the gardens. He was dressed in a cape and an opera hat. He took a few paces to the right, then he turned and walked a few more in the opposite direction. Afterward he stopped and stood still, looking along the road.

I could see him quite clearly for there was a street lamp close by. And as I stood there I heard a cab coming along the road.

This must be my father, I thought. I looked down, expecting it to slow down and my father alight; but it went straight past the house.

Disappointed, I stood there; then I noticed that the man had come to the edge of the pavement, his hand in his pocket; he was staring after the cab, and oddly enough I seemed to sense an exasperated frustration—which suggested that he, too, might have been disappointed that the cab had gone by.

While I was thinking how strange it was and wondering what he could be waiting for, there was a gust of wind which lifted his hat and sent it rolling along the pavement under the street lamp.

For a few seconds I looked straight into his face. I noticed at once that his dark hair grew rather low on his forehead into what I had heard called a widow’s peak; and there was a white mark on his left cheek which looked like a scar.

Then he was running along the pavement to retrieve his hat. This he did and slammed it back on his head.

I had become quite interested in him by this time and was wondering whether he intended to wait there the whole night. He must be waiting for someone. I wondered who.

I went back to my book and attempted to read for just a little longer. I was soon yawning. My father would not come now. Obviously he had gone to the Greenham’s. It must have been a very late sitting.

I went back to my bedroom, but before retiring for the night I went to the window to look out on the square.

The man had gone.

At about eleven o’clock the next morning my father came home.

“It was a very late night sitting,” I said.

“Yes, it went on until one.”

“How are the Greenhams?”

“Delighted about Joel. They can’t talk of anything else.”

“Can you guess how long it will be before he comes home?”

“I imagine it will be quite six weeks out there and then of course there is the journey to and from. I must say it is very convenient to have their hospitality. Their place is only a five-minute walk from the House, and there’s always someone to let me in and the room is kept ready. I think Sir John likes to hear all that went on the previous night. He’s always wanting a good chat in the morning.”

“I suppose Bates could bring you home.”

Bates was the coachman who drove him to the House but he always came home by cab because of the uncertainty of the time.

“It would be impossible,” he said now. “He might be there all night. No. This is an excellent arrangement. I’m lucky to have friends so near. It’s become a custom. I think they’d be hurt if I didn’t make us of it.”

“Will you be going to the House this afternoon?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Another late sitting?”

“Who knows? But I expect everyone will be a little weary after last night. There’s a great deal going on, though. I don’t think the government can last. Salisbury is eagerly waiting in the wings, and this defeat from the Lords over the Bill …”

I said nothing. I did not want to stress his part in the defeat.

He was ready to leave in mid-afternoon.

“I can’t believe it will be another late night,” he said, “but have my supper waiting just in case.”

“I will,” I promised.

In the hall I helped him into his coat and put the white silk scarf about his neck.

“You need that,” I said. “This horrible wind cuts right through you.”

He smiled indulgently at me, pretending to laugh at my coddling; but I knew he liked it.

Bates, the coachman, had brought the carriage round from the mews and was waiting for him; the horse was pawing the ground impatiently.

I went down the four steps with him to the carriage door; he turned to me to smile as he prepared to get in. Then it happened. I heard the loud explosion. I saw the look of surprise on my father’s face. The blood was spurting over his coat, staining the white silk scarf which I had just a few moments before put round his neck.

Then I saw the man standing there … the gun in his hand.

My father swayed toward me. I put out my hands and held him as slowly he slipped to the ground.

I knelt beside him and looked about me helplessly. I was stunned.

Briefly I saw the man, then I knew that although he was dressed differently, he was the one I had seen last night waiting on the other side of the road. He had changed his opera cloak and hat for a cloth cap which was pulled down over his eyes. For a second we looked fully at each other. I could not see the widow’s peak, but I did recognize the scar on his left cheek; and instinctively I knew that he was the man who had stood on the other side of the road, and that last night he had been waiting for my father so that he might do then what he had done today.

He had turned away and made off.

People were shouting. They were all round us. Bates was kneeling by my father, and servants were dashing out of the house.

It was like a nightmare … fearfully real. A terrible fear had come over me. I might never wait for him to come home to a late supper … never again talk to him of his ambitions.

I had never known such desolation.

My memories of that time come back to me like a series of bad dreams—overshadowed by a terrible sense of loss. I found myself trying to cling to the past, telling myself that it had not really happened … but it had.

Celeste was beside me. She clung to me. She was as dazed as I was.

They had taken him to the hospital. Celeste and I went with him. We sat side by side, holding hands, waiting.

I think I knew from the start that there was no hope. He had been shot through the heart and was on the point of death by the time they got him to the hospital.

Celeste, I am sure, found a grain of comfort in looking after me. I had been there at the vital moment, I had seen it happen. Small wonder that I was in a state of shock.

I was taken back to the house. There was a hushed atmosphere there. It did not seem like the same house. The servants were silent. There was tension everywhere.

I was given something to drink and made to lie on my bed; and after a while I slipped into blessed oblivion.

But soon I was awake again. My respite was brief; and the nightmare continued.

I soon realized that I was to play an important part in the drama, for I was the one who had been with my father when it happened. I was the one the police wanted to talk to.

I soon found myself in their company. They asked questions which I tried to answer. The conversation kept going round and round in my head.

“Did you see the man with the gun?”

“Yes. I saw him.”

“Would you recognize him again?”

“Yes.”

“You seem certain.”

“I saw him the night before.”

They were alert. I had said something of the utmost importance and I had to explain.

“I was waiting for my father’s return from the House of Commons. When he was late home I kept a little supper for him in his study. It was a custom between us. While I was waiting for him I looked out of the window and saw a man. He was waiting on the other side of the road by the railings of the garden. He looked as if he were waiting for someone.”

“What was he like? Was he tall?”

“Of medium height. His hat blew off. There was a strong wind. I saw him clearly under the lamplight. He had dark hair which grew to a peak in the middle of his forehead. And there was a white scar on his left cheek.”

They were very excited now. They looked at me in wonder and then exchanged glances. One of them, the Inspector, I think, nodded his head slowly.

“This is excellent,” he said. “And you saw the same man when the shooting took place?”

“Yes, but he was wearing a cloth cap pulled down over his face. I did not see his hair, but I saw the scar. And I knew he was the one who had waited last night.”

“Very good. Thank you, Miss Lansdon.”

There were headlines in the papers.

BENEDICT LANSDON ASSASSINATED.

BENEDICT LANSDON WAS SHOT DEAD OUTSIDE HIS HOME TODAY. HIS DAUGHTER, MISS LUCIE LANSDON, WAS AT HIS SIDE.

The newsboys were shouting in the streets. All London was talking of the death of Benedict Lansdon who had so recently been making the headlines with his opposition to Gladstone’s Home Rule Bill.

Late in the afternoon of the second day, my half sister, Rebecca, arrived from Cornwall. The very sight of her lifted my spirits a little, and I remembered how in my childhood I had always gone to her for comfort.

She came to my room and we clung together.

“My poor, poor Lucie,” she said. “This is terrible. And you were with him at the time. What does it mean? Who could have done this?”

I shook my head. “The police have been here. There have been a lot of questions. Celeste didn’t want me to see them but they insisted.”

“They are hinting that this is something to do with his opposition to the Irish Bill.”

I nodded. “They are saying that the Bill failed to get through the Lords because of my father’s speaking out against it. And, of course, he was one of those who voted against it.”

“Surely that could not be a reason for … murder!”

“I don’t know. It’s probably some wild conjecture. The press has brought it up to make it more sensational. There is a mention of the Phoenix Park murders.”

“That was years ago.”

“About ten. And then Lord Frederick Cavendish and his Under Secretary were shot … just as my father was.”

She nodded.

“So it seems possible,” I said. “Who else would do it?”

“Perhaps someone he knew long ago. Perhaps it was some personal feud. Did you know of anything? I suppose a man such as he was might have enemies.”

“I don’t know, but I expect the police will find out.”

“Lucie, you must come back with me to Cornwall.”

“I couldn’t go yet, Rebecca. I have to wait here for a while. The fact that I was with him when it happened … you see, they come here and ask me questions. There will be an inquest and after that … what do you think will happen? Will they catch this man?”

She lifted her shoulders.

“I saw him, you see,” I went on. “I saw him clearly.”

I told her about the man who had waited by the railings the night before the shooting, and how I had seen him next day kill my father.