The Labors of Hercules - Agatha Christie [40]
It coincided, it was true, with the popular estimate. Edward Ferrier was considered sound—just that—not brilliant, not great, not a particularly eloquent orator, not a man of deep learning. He was a sound man—a man bred in the tradition—a man who had married John Hammett’s daughter—who had been John Hammett’s right-hand man and who could be trusted to carry on the government of the country in the John Hammett tradition.
For John Hammett was particularly dear to the people and Press of England. He represented every quality which was dear to Englishmen. People said of him: “One does feel that Hammett’s honest.” Anecdotes were told of his simple home life, of his fondness for gardening. Corresponding to Baldwin’s pipe and Chamberlain’s umbrella, there was John Hammett’s raincoat. He always carried it—a weather-worn garment. It stood as a symbol—of the English climate, of the prudent forethought of the English race, of their attachment to old possessions. Moreover, in his bluff British way, John Hammett was an orator. His speeches, quietly and earnestly delivered, contained those simple sentimental clichés which are so deeply rooted in the English heart. Foreigners sometimes criticize them as being both hypocritical and unbearably noble. John Hammett did not in the least mind being noble—in a sporting, public school, deprecating fashion.
Moreover, he was a man of fine presence, tall, upstanding, with fair colouring and very bright blue eyes. His mother had been a Dane and he himself had been for many years First Lord of the Admiralty, which gave rise to his nickname of “the Viking.” When at last ill-health forced him to give up the reins of office, deep uneasiness was felt. Who would succeed him? The brilliant Lord Charles Delafield? (Too brilliant—England didn’t need brilliance.) Evan Whittler? (Clever—but perhaps a little unscrupulous.) John Potter? (The sort of man who might fancy himself as Dictator—and we didn’t want any dictators in this country, thank you very much.) So a sigh of relief went up when the quiet Edward Ferrier assumed office. Ferrier was all right. He had been trained by the Old Man, he had married the Old Man’s daughter. In the classic British phrase, Ferrier would “carry on.”
Hercule Poirot studied the quiet dark-faced man with the low pleasant voice. Lean and dark and tired-looking.
Edward Ferrier was saying:
“Perhaps, M. Poirot, you are acquainted with a weekly periodical called the X-ray News?”
“I have glanced at it,” admitted Poirot, blushing slightly.
The Prime Minister said:
“Then you know more or less of what it consists. Semilibellous matter. Snappy paragraphs hinting at sensational secret history. Some of them true, some of them harmless—but all served up in a spicy manner. Occasionally—”
He paused and then said, his voice altering a little:
“Occasionally something more.”
Hercule Poirot did not speak. Ferrier went on:
“For two weeks now there have been hints of impending disclosures of a first-class scandal in ‘the highest political circles.’ ‘Astonishing revelations of corruption and jobbery.’ ”
Hercule Poirot said, shrugging his shoulders:
“A common trick. When the actual revelations come they usually disappoint the cravers after sensation badly.”
Ferrier said drily: “These will not disappoint them.”
Hercule Poirot asked:
“You know then, what these revelations are going to be?”
“With a fair amount of accuracy.”
Edward Ferrier paused a minute, then he began speaking. Carefully, methodically, he outlined the story.
It was not an edifying story. Accusations of shameless chicanery, of share juggling, of a gross misuse of Party Funds. The charges were levelled against the late Prime Minister, John Hammett. They showed him to be a dishonest rascal, a gigantic confidence trickster, who had used his position to amass for himself a vast private fortune.
The Prime Minister’s quiet voice stopped at last. The Home Secretary groaned. He spluttered out:
“It’s monstrous—monstrous! This fellow, Perry, who edits the rag,