POLITICS

The Singular Experience of Harold Laski House

FERDINAND MOUNT

brick, creeper-clad house in Lavender Gar- dens, Clapham.

`So this is where she used to live. Excellent,' my companion mused.

`You speak in riddles, Holmes,' I expost- ulated, 'why have you brought us here and who the devil is she? Are you still brooding on Irene Adler?'

`Certainly not, Watson, although the woman of whom I speak might also have made an admirable queen.'

`You don't mean —' I cried.

`Precisely so. This is where Miss Sarah Ferguson resided up to the moment of her betrothal last week. Now what strikes you about the neighbourhood?' `Well, it is a modest sort of area. I used to walk past here to visit my poor cousin, the Reverend John Selby Watson.'

"the Stockwell Murderer, I recall the case well, of course.'

`He was a much misunderstood man. I fear that a sensational book has recently revived the whole wretched business, writ- ten by a Miss Bainbridge.'

`Ah, the divine Beryl.'

`Look here, Holmes, we can't stay here all day mooning over strange women. Our instructions are to cover the by-election in Fulham, and it may have escaped your attention but we are still on the wrong side of the river.' I spoke with some impati- ence, for I could not recall without a shudder our meeting with the laconic Australian financer in that grim fortress towering over the streets of Wapping.

`Exactly, my dear fellow. Why would Miss Sarah Ferguson live in this artisan's cottage on the wrong side of the river? Her father farms in a substantial way in Hamp- shire. You may recall that we passed his estate on our way to solve that strange affair of the Copper Beeches at exactly the time when I confided to you my belief that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do hot present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful coun- tryside.'

`Holmes, there is no mystery at all about why Miss Ferguson chose to live here. It is all very well for an old bachelor frowsting in rent-controlled rooms in Baker Street, but everywhere else house prices have gone through the roof. Why, even Fulham is too expensive for a mere medical man these days.'

`Ah my dear Watson, you begin to understand. Even Fulham . . . . You once had the kindness to estimate my know- ledge of politics as feeble, but the feeblest intelligence might deduce that such cir- cumstances are unlikely to favour the Labour Party's chances of regaining the seat. Nor is the fact that, if I recollect correctly, the percentage of owner- occupiers in Fulham rose from 22.2 per cent to 33.6 per cent during the 1970s alone.'

`Wonderful, Holmes!' I ejaculated.

`But now we must cross the river and take a closer look at our quarry.' My spirit rose as we bowled over Wands- worth Bridge and saw the pleasant lawns of Hurlingham spread out before us. • We drew up outside a fine modern school building set in spacious grounds.

`What splendid premises,' I murmured as we entered the airy hall with its high windows. 'I only wish my own schooldays had been spent in such surroundings.'

`I doubt whether all the parents here would share your feelings, Watson. This schodl happens to produce the worst ex- amination results in the whole of London. The deputy headmaster refuses to allow the police on the premises, claiming that they distribute racist and sexist literature. Gregson and Lestrade were pelted with the school lunch leftovers when they attemp- ted to deliver a lecture on community relations. But quiet, here comes our man.'

A florid gentleman of some 60 summers mounted the platform. He had the air of one who has seen life and enjoyed it. I noticed that he had a singular manner of pronouncing his r's, and I commented upon this trait.

Abersychan Grammer School and Bal- liol,' whispered Holmes. 'I should guess that he had three-quarters of a bottle of Margaux '61 for luncheon, probably at Brooks's, to judge by the cockroach in his left-hand trouser turn-up.'

`The candidate, Mr Liddle, seems like a very steady young man to me. If I lived in Fulham —' `You would vote for the Alliance. Of course you would, Watson, and so will thousands like you. That is why your Mr Liddle will win the election with some 13,000 votes, with the Labour man 1,000 votes behind and the Conservative another 2,000 votes behind him in third place. There is never any shortage of simpletons.'

`Really Holmes,' I retorted, somewhat nettled, 'I am beginning to think that tnY original estimate of your political judg- ment was entirely correct. There is no one so blinkered as a Tory diehard.'

`You are in error, Watson. My brother Mycroft and I, like all rational men, have voted Labour at every election since 1906. But let us meet the Labour candidate, Mr Raynsford, an excellent fellow and a good deal sharper than his opponents.' In no time, we were crawling along the New King's Road, past boutiques and Nyjne bars and soft furnishing establishments. `You perceive the Futon Factor?' nlY conipanion inquired. `Holmes, you know I have no taste for science fiction.'

`A futon, my dear Watson, is a Japanese cotton-filled mattress. The Yuppies bring them over from the United States.'

I was aware from our adventure among the Mormons that Holnies had some know' ledge of those esoteric religious move- ments which spring up among our Amer' ican cousins, but I had not • previously heard him refer to this particular sect. However, Holmes was in one of this brown studies and would give no further explaria" tion until we disembarked at a bleak white building, emblazoned with the words , `Harold Laski House', and were ushereu, into a bare room which contained two halo men in spectacles sitting at a table. `The younger, I suppose, is your Mr Raynsford. But who is the other?' `Surely it must be obvious, Watson. Slightly hunted look, incurable addiction to highly coloured adjectives and imPr9b: able statistics, undoubtedly has spell' several years working on the New States: man, we are evidently in the presence the Shadow Home Secretary, Mr Geraw Kaufman.' `Why is he talking like a commercial traveller for locks and burglar alarms?' `Elementary, my dear fellow. The Ytir pies value their futons more dearly than life itself. The party which can offer the the most secure protection stands to will' But it is too late. For this house contains a dreadful secret. One day, I shall tell You the Strange Story of the Militant Tenders' cy, and the Peculiar Affair at Broadwate.' Farm, and the Adventure at Orgreave and . . . sound `I fear,' I said hastily, that these so t like stories for which the world is not Yet prepared'.