The Case of the Gilded Fly (10 page)

‘And nothing further occurred?' asked Robert.

‘Nothing, except that to everyone's surprise the Dean began to attend chapel, and ended his life, I believe, a staunch churchman. Oh, there is one thing which perhaps I should have mentioned: in the document which gives the account of the killing of John Ketteriburgh, the ringleader is mentioned as being one Richard Pegwell, who was organist at the time. But whether that has any bearing on the matter I couldn't say.'

They sat in silence while Fen did the black-out and turned on the lights. Robert slipped up to him and made a whispered inquiry as to the whereabout of the nearest lavatory.

‘Bottom of the stairs on the right, my dear fellow. You will come back, won't you?'

‘Of course. I shan't be a moment.' Robert nodded and slipped out.

‘A very pleasant story,' said Sir Richard. ‘Or, conversely, a very unpleasant story. What did you think of it, Mrs Fen? I'm sure you're the most sensible one of us here.'

‘I thought it was a good story,' said Mrs Fen, ‘and very well told, Mr Wilkes. But it sounded, if you'll forgive me, a little too neat and artificial to be true. As Mr Wilkes said, real ghosts appear to be tedious and unenterprising, though I'm sure I've never come across one myself, and never want to.' She resumed her knitting.

Fen gazed at her with something of the triumphant and sentimental pride of a dog-owner whose pet has succeeded in balancing a biscuit on its nose.

1. Position of body.

2. Where Williams sat.

3. Where Donald Fellowes sat.

4. Where Nicholas Barclay sat.

‘Exactly my opinion!' he said. Then somewhat suspiciously: ‘By the way, Wilkes, how is it I've never heard this story before? You haven't been making it up, have you?'

Rather to Nigel's surprise, Wilkes shook his head. ‘No,' he said, ‘I haven't been making it up. There are still a few people alive who can confirm it. As I say, it was kept pretty quiet; that's probably why you haven't come across it.'

‘And do you think there's any chance of the – thing's – getting out again?' asked Nigel rather shamefacedly. In the blaze of electric light the remark sounded a good deal more foolish than it would have done a few minutes before.

But Wilkes treated it seriously. ‘Not in the same way, perhaps. People are still scared of bags of bones, but they believe that one way or another they can understand them and deal with them. Possibly it will happen some other way. It is the killing, after all, which is the essential thing, however it be contrived. Killing always engenders more killing, that is to say that the debit account is never wiped off. And John Kettenburgh has, when you come to think of it, a great many scores to settle. So I dare say that some day, somehow –'

And it was at that moment that they heard the shot.

The nudity of flesh will blush though tameless,

The extreme nudity of bone grins shameless,

The unsexed skeleton mocks shroud and pall.

 

Thomson

The room had grown so quiet that for a moment the noise of it seemed deafening. It was only when Nigel had recovered from his initial stupefaction that he realized it had come from below – Donald Fellowes' room. In conjunction with the story they had been hearing it was not an inspiriting sound. Even the phlegmatic Sir Richard sat up sharply. He said:

‘Is that some of your fool undergraduates messing about, Fen?'

‘If it is,' said Fen, rising in a determined manner, ‘they're going to hear about it. You wait here, dear,' he said to his wife, ‘and I'll go and find out what's happened.'

‘I'll come with you,' said Sir Richard.

‘Me, too,' said Nigel ungrammatically.

Fen's wife nodded, and went on with her knitting. Wilkes said nothing, but stared absently at the dying embers of the fire. As they left the room, looking, as Nigel said afterwards, very determined and grim, Sir Richard took out his watch and turned to Nigel.

‘What do you make the time?' he said.

‘8.24 exactly,' said Nigel after a brief glance at his own.

‘Right, We've been about a minute so far. 8.23 is near enough.'

‘Aren't you anticipating rather?' asked Nigel.

‘It's as well to know,' said the other briefly. And they followed Fen down the stairs.

At the bottom they met Robert Warner, who was coming out of the lavatory with a ludicrously anxious expression on his face.

‘What on earth was that din?' he inquired. ‘Sounded like a shot to me.'

‘That's what we're going to find out,' said Fen. ‘I think I'm right in saying it came from in here.'

The door of the sitting-room on their left, which had the inscription ‘Mr D. A. Fellowes' in white over the top, was ajar. Fen pushed it open and they all followed him in. The room presented nothing of particular interest. Like most college rooms, it was scantily furnished, and the only unusual feature was a grand piano to the right of the doorway. To the left was a screen, intended presumably to trap draughts, which as Nigel well remembered tend to be numerous in the majority of college rooms, but a cursory glance failed to discover anyone or anything concealed behind it. Over by the far window, on the right, was a small flat-topped desk; a table with one or two uncomfortable chairs stood in the middle of a threadbare carpet; and the fireplace, over on the left, was flanked by a couple of chintz-covered armchairs. The only other item of furniture was an enormous bookcase, which contained on one of its shelves a few lonely looking volumes and on another a large pile of music, hymn-books, anthems and services. The walls, which were disagreeably panelled in dark oak, were scarcely relieved by a few very small reproductions of modern paintings, and in the dusk the general effect was one of profound gloom. But the room was typical of many such, and as it had no occupant, Donald Fellowes or any other, Nigel gave it no more than a brief glance, and hurried on after Fen and Sir Richard to the door in the wall opposite, which led to the bedroom.

This also was ajar, and entering, they found themselves in a cold, comfortless, coffin-shaped room, furnished even more sparsely than the sitting-room they had just left. But for the moment they had eyes for none of the details.

For beside the doorway stood a man, looking down at Yseut Haskell, who lay on the floor with a black hole in the centre of her forehead, and the whole of the top part of her face blackened and scorched.

Like most people, Nigel had often tried to imagine how he would feel in the presence of violent death. Like most people, he had thought of himself as being calm, collected, almost indifferent. So the conscious part of him was totally unprepared for the sudden acute spasm of nausea which seized him at the
sight of that motionless, lifeless form. He went quickly back to the sitting-room, and sat down with his face in his hands. Through the uncontrollable whirl of his thoughts and suspicions, he heard Sir Richard say, with a politeness which he remembered thinking excessive:

‘Will you please tell me who you are and what you're doing here?'

It was a sensible homely voice which replied.

‘Yessir, o' course, and the Professor here'll confirm what I say. Me name's Joe Williams, an' I bin workin' on repairin' the stonework in the archway opposite there. I was jest downin' tools an' makin' ready to be orf 'ome, when I 'ears that bloody racket – beggin' your pardon – and 'ops in 'ere quick as lightnin' to investigate. Must a' bin only a minute afore you gentlemen.'

‘You haven't touched anything, have you?'

The voice replied with some scorn:

‘Not likely. But I 'ad a good dekko round this room, and the other, and there ain't no one 'idin' in either of them, unless in that wardrobe there. An' you can be sure I kep' me eye on
that
. No one's come art o' this room since I bin 'ere. That's right, ain't it, Professor?'

‘Williams is all right, Dick,' said Fen. ‘He's been employed, in the college for years on odd jobs about the place, and I don't think he's liable to fits of homicidal mania.'

‘Not me.'

‘Turn on the light, Fen,' said Sir Richard.

‘Black-out,' said Fen gloomily.

‘Oh, blast the black-out. We mustn't touch anything.'

‘Black-out none the less.'

‘Oh, very well.' Nigel heard the sound of curtains being drawn over the single window, and a shaft of light cut into the sitting-room from the half-open door. He pulled himself together abruptly and went and blacked out the room, wondering as he did so whether he were likely to be destroying valuable evidence.

From inside the bedroom Sir Richard was saying: ‘Well, I must get on to the station before I do anything else. Where's the nearest telephone?'

‘My room,' Fen replied. ‘The lodge will put you through. You'd better tell Wilkes and my wife what's happened, but don't let them come down here. Tell Dolly if she likes to wait a while I'll be up as soon as I can get away for a moment. Wilkes had better go home, the old nuisance.'

‘All right. Keep an eye on things while I'm away, and for God's sake don't mess about.'

‘I never mess about,' said Fen in a pained voice.

‘Williams, you'd better go across to the lodge and wait there. We shall want you for questioning later.'

‘Right you are,' replied Williams cheerfully. ‘Hour and a 'alf afore they close yet, anyway. P'raps you can get me over first,' he added hopefully.

‘Tell Parsons on my authority to see that you get some beer from the buttery,' said Fen.

‘Oh, thank you sir, I'm sure.' And Williams came out of the bedroom. He stopped as he saw Nigel and whistled. ‘Well, if it isn't Mr Blake! 'Ow are you, sir, after all this time? Very glad to see you again, I'm sure.'

‘I'm fine, Williams, thank you. And you?'

‘Might be worse, sir, might be worse. Just able to sit up and take nourishment, as you might say.' Then, lowering his voice: ‘Nasty business, this, sir. Pretty young thing, too. Friend of Mr Fellowes. I seen 'er come in 'ere several times afore. Only twenty minutes ago she come in 'ere, and 'er give me a “good evening” pretty as you like.'

‘You saw her come in? That may be important.'

‘No doubt about it, sir, no doubt about it. Still, mustn't talk about the case before the police get at it, I s'pose. Not that they'll 'ave much of a job. It's suicide, plain as mustard.'

‘Do you think so?'

‘What else can it be? No one come in or out o' this room for last 'alf hour except 'er. An' she couldn't 'a bin shot through the winder, 'cos it was shut when I arrived.'

Nigel felt a profound feeling of relief sweep over him. ‘I'm glad of that, anyway,' he said. ‘It means no one else is involved.'

‘Ar, that's right. But what could 'ave induced 'er to do such a thing, I should like to know? Such a pretty, polite girl, I always
thought, without a care in the world as one could tell. Well, I must be getting along. See you later, sir, I've no doubt.' He saluted and went out, his heavy boots clumping down the steps and into the quadrangle.

One man at least has retained his illusions about Yseut, thought Nigel bitterly. There must be few of her acquaintance who would be sorry to hear her dead. He wondered where Donald was, and how he would take the news. Then he went and joined the others, though for the moment he carefully refrained from looking again at the body.

Fen and Sir Richard were engaged in a brief muttered colloquy. Robert Warner stood nearby, looking about him with an air of methodical concentration. It was almost with a sense of shock that Nigel realized his presence. They had come in together less than five minutes ago, but the shock of seeing Yseut had driven everything else from his mind. He ventured to look again at the body, and was relieved to find that his first sickness did not return.

Sir Richard turned to Robert. ‘I don't want to detain you, Mr Warner,' he said.

‘I'm so sorry,' Robert replied. ‘Of course you don't want a lot of people hanging around. It was only that – well, this has come as such a shock, and that I feel – well, responsible for the girl, in a way.'

‘You know who she is?' said Sir Richard sharply.

‘Oh, yes. Her name is Yseut Haskell, and she's an actress at the Repertory Theatre here.'

‘I see,' said Sir Richard more cordially. ‘In that case, no doubt you'll be able to help us. But I'd be glad if you didn't stop here. Perhaps you wouldn't mind waiting in Fen's room for a bit – I can't do anything until the local people arrive. If you smoke his cigarettes and drink his whisky I'm sure he won't mind.'

‘No, no, make yourself at home,' said Fen vaguely. He was wandering about the room staring glumly at the furniture. ‘These rooms are damp,' he added. ‘Something ought to be done about them. I'll speak to the Domestic Bursar.'