The Deadly Affair

Mr Fennan, we know it's idiotic,

but when the Foreign Secretary finds

that sort of letter in his in-tray,

it's like London airport

getting an anonymous phone call

to say that there's a bomb

on the Prime Minister's plane,

and somebody's got to do a check.

- Was the letter anonymous?

- Yes.

Was it literate?

Oh, yes, properly spelt,

properly punctuated. No cranky stuff.

- Handwriting?

- It was typewritten.

An Olivetti portable. Westminster postmark.

And what exactly did it allege?

It said that you were a member

of the Communist Party at Oxford in the '30s

and that you were still secretly sympathetic

with the communist cause.

- But my dear Mr...

- Dobbs, Charles Dobbs.

Practically everybody was a member

of the Party at Oxford in the '30s.

- Half the present Cabinet were Party...

- Please!

You know, Mr Dobbs, when you're young,

you hitch the wagon

of whatever you believe in

to whatever star looks likely

to get the wagon moving.

When I was an undergraduate,

the wagon was social justice,

and the star was Karl Marx.

We perambulated with banners.

We fed hunger marchers.

A few of us fought in Spain.

Some of us even wrote poetry.

I still believe it was a good wagon,

but an impracticable star.

We had faith and hope and charity.

A wrong faith, a false hope

but I still think the right sort of charity.

Our eyes were dewy with it.

Dewy and half shut.

Who opened them?

- Ann?

- No, no, Appleby.

Oh, Bill! I'm sorry.

Well, I hope you're wide awake, old boy,

because your subject Fennan

has shot himself.

But when I was in the park

with him this morning,

he was as happy as a bloody lark.

I liked him.

We had a perfectly satisfactory interview,

and I as good as promised him

full security clearance.

What on Earth makes them think

it was suicide?

- Body position.

- Yes. I'll be right over.

- How long?

- In, well, about 20 minutes if I can get a taxi.

Ann took the car

and I don't think she's back yet.

- Does the Adviser know yet?

- Yes.

Oh, hell.

Well, I'll be as quick as I can. Bye.

Ann?

I want to go to...

Oh, Lord, that's my own car coming back.

- There you are, five bob, all right?

- Oh, thanks. Thanks very much.

- Good night.

- Good night.

Are you arriving or leaving, Charles?

Leaving. Just the office. There's a flap on.

You have a good evening?

Yes,

I'm afraid so.

Who was it this time?

Oh, I see. Somebody I know.

Do you want the car?

- Darling...

- Get back to bed, darling.

Back?

I turned your fire on. It's bloody cold.

Oh, Charlie, you're in the nick of time.

What for?

To stop the Adviser

from having kittens, darling.

He just left Scotland Yard

in a state of advanced pregnancy.

There was a squabble going on

about which department handles the case.

Special Branch says Special Branch.

CID says CID.

Poor old Surrey police

don't know what's hit them.

Well, what does the Foreign Office say?

Oh, Foreign Office think

they do know what's hit them.

The death of a loyal

and talented staff member, blah, blah, blah.

Well, he was, Bill.

Worried sick and driven to suicide

by the Gestapo methods

of a brutal intelligence officer, blah, blah.

You know that's a load of bull.

I had a perfectly friendly interview

with this man in the park.

I left him happy.

Well, if you tell that to the Adviser,

you'll leave him unhappy.

He's scared enough

about the newspapers splashing a suicide.

If this department starts even hinting

that Fennan might have been murdered,

and then it turned out to be wrong...

I warn you, he'll want to play it safe.

Tell us exactly what happened.

Fennan and his wife lived down in...

Surrey.

At Walliston, I know that!

She went to the local theatre alone

this evening, well, yesterday evening now.

She came home about 10:45,

found he'd shot himself in the living room.

He left a sealed letter

addressed to the Foreign Secretary.

Has it been opened?

- Appleby.

- Has Dobbs arrived?

- Yes, Adviser.

- At once, please!

Save a kitten for me, darling!

Thank you.

The police believe it to be

a clear case of suicide.

- Do you?

- What I believe is not the point, Dobbs.

The point is,

the Foreign Office believe the police.

It's unfortunate

that in this distressing matter

we are now answerable

to the two public bodies

with whom our current relations

are most, shall I say, uneasy.

If, of course, there are facts

not included in your confidential report

which point to Fennan's suicide for reasons

other than his interview with you,

I shall be happy to hear about them.

Are there?

- Have they opened his suicide letter?

- They're photostatting the original.

It was typed on Fennan's own machine

and signed with what's indubitably

his own signature.

It carries not only the date, January the 3rd,

but also the time, 10:30 p.m.

That's a little unusual.

A methodical man

could still be methodical in extremis.

"My dear Minister, after some hesitation

I have decided to take my life.

"I cannot spend my remaining years

under a cloud of suspected disloyalty.

"I realise that I am the victim of

paid informers and that my career is ruined.

"Yours sincerely, Samuel Fennan."

- May I have your comments?

- Yes, you may.

- He must have been raving mad.

- The letter sounds perfectly sane.

But so did he when I interviewed him!

He was a little over-talkative perhaps,

but I put that down

to understandable nervousness.

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