The Moving Toyshop (26 page)

Wilkes rose from Sharman’s tattered and bleeding body.

“He’s not dead,” he said. “There are a lot of things broken, but he’ll live.”

“To be hanged,” said Fen in a shaky voice. “Which,” he added more cheerfully, “will be one Janeite the less, anyway.”

This must be the last recorded comment of the day. Almost as Fen spoke, Mr. Scott and Mr. Beavis drove up in Lily Christine III; they were followed by the Chief Constable and his minions; they were followed by the owner of the blue Hillman; he was followed by the police whom Sally had telephoned; they were followed by the owner of the bicycle which Sharman had taken; he was followed by Mr. Barnaby and his army, much inspired by the resources of the station bar, and they were followed by the Junior Proctor, the University Marshal, and two bulldogs, who had been advised by the railway authorities that trouble was afoot, and who looked as severe, authoritative, and ineffectual as ever.

It was quite a reunion.

“Explanations,” said Fen gloomily. “Explanations, explanations, explanations. Explaining to the police; explaining to the proctors, explaining to the newspapers. I’ve been leading a dog’s life this last forty-eight hours. My reputation is gone. No one respects me any more. My students openly titter. People point at Lily Christine as I pass. And I still don’t see what I’ve done to deserve it.” Fatalistically, he drank his whisky. Nobody looked particularly sympathetic; even after two days it was impossible to be anything but elated.

Cadogan, Wilkes, Sally, and Mr. Hoskins were sitting with him in the Gothic bar of the ‘Mace and Sceptre’. The time was eight o’clock in the evening, so the room was tolerably full. The young man with glasses and a long neck had finished
Nightmare Abbey
and was now reading
Crotchet Castle;
the undergraduate with the broad mouth was still discussing horses with the barman; and the red-headed socialist held forth as before to his consort on the economic iniquities of the earth.

“Rosseter’s inquest,” Fen pursued. “Police inquiries. Why did I steal a car? Why did Dr. Wilkes steal a bicycle? Why did Mr. Cadogan steal groceries?
Petty minds.
It turns me sour. There’s no justice.”

“I gather that Sharman’s confession confirmed your deductions,” said Cadogan, “but I haven’t yet succeeded in gathering what your deductions were.”

“Everything confirms everything.” Fen’s gloom was Intense. “Miss Tardy’s body was found where Havering said it was. Rosseter’s brief-case, and the rifle he was shot with, were found in Sharman’s house—it was a small one, by the way, and I think he must have hidden it under his clothes. The police caught the Winkworth woman this afternoon, trying to clear out of the country—did you know that? They’ve got Havering, of course. I expect they’ll both be tried for something or other.” He ordered a second round of drinks. “Sharman won’t be fit for six months, the doctors say. Nor shall I, if it comes to that. I had to apologize to the Chaplain for that business in the vestry. Humiliating. One gets no thanks for anything.”

“I thought all those people’s stories of what happened in the toyshop were intended to incriminate Sally.”

They might have been. I had an open mind on the subject. The only thing was that if, as a hypothesis, they were true, there was one obvious way the murder could have been done, and one obvious person—Sharman—who could have done it.”

“I still don’t see it.
Did
she die at about 11:40, as Havering said? Because if so, all the others were together in a different room at the time.”

The drinks arrived and Fen paid for them. “Oh, yes, she died at 11:40 all right,” he said. “And not of natural causes either. You see, there are no two ways about it; she was suffocated.”

“Suffocated?”

“She must have been. The symptoms of strangulation and suffocation are exactly the same—obviously, because they’re both means of cutting off air from the lungs, the one at the mouth, the other at the throat. So if it was impossible for her to have been strangled, she must have been suffocated. Strangulation’s almost immediate, you see, but suffocation may take quite a time.”

Cadogan gulped his beer. “What about marks—bruises—on the throat, I thought?”

“They can be induced after death.” Fen groped in his pocket and produced a grubby slip of paper. “I wrote this down for you. It’s from a standard authority. ‘A long line of medical jurisprudents,’” he read, “‘has established that marks of strangulation indicted on a living person are hardly if at all to be distinguished from those produced on a corpse, especially if death be very recent.’” 
¹
 And death
was
very recent.

“The point about the apparent impossibility of the thing was simply this: that if you strangle a person you’ve got to be there when he dies, but if you suffocate him, you needn’t be.

“Of course, the theory of suffocation pointed immediately to Sharman. You remember the situation? Rosseter talked to the woman, and according to two other witnesses besides himself, she was alive
and talking
when he left her—and if she was talking she couldn’t very well have been in the first stages of suffocation. He then joined Havering and the Winkworth woman, and the
only
person who was on his own from then until the time of death was Sharman. It was as simple as that.

“What happened was that
he
had come to realize that this intimidation business was going to be no good. So he went in, knocked the woman unconscious, plugged her nostrils and stuffed a handkerchief down her throat, and left her to die. Then when Rosseter sent him back to her with the gun, he removed the evidences of suffocation and tied the string round her neck (using that tale about the light as an excuse).”

“But for heaven’s sake,” Cadogan put in,
“why
arrange a business like that?
Why
make it look impossible? Besides, for all he knew, she might not even be dead by the time he got back, which would ruin the whole plan.”

“Obviously, he didn’t intend it to look impossible,” Fen answered impatiently. “What happened was that when he’d arranged the suffocation machinery he came back and found the others together, when he’d expected them to be in different rooms; and that, for reasons we’ve discussed, would throw the guilt infallibly on him. So he had to fake the thing to look like something else, and strangulation, in view of the symptoms, was the sole possibility.”

“Then what about that story he told of someone prowling round? Sally said there wasn’t anyone prowling.”

“Certainly there wasn’t.” Fen’s tone was disgusted. “What he heard was
Sally.
Isn’t that so, Wilkes?” he added sharply.

“Eh?” said Wilkes, startled at being thus brusquely addressed.

“You see,” Fen proceeded, “Wilkes’ acute and active mind had jumped instantly to the same conclusion.” He glared malevolently at his aged colleague. “Naturally, all this depended on the witnesses’ stories being true. Fortunately, one didn’t have to go into all that, because Sharman gave himself away at our second interview. He said: ‘Not a soul can testify I was involved in any conspiracy.’ Well, Rosseter could have testified, if he’d been alive. The only people, apart from the murderer, who knew he was dead were ourselves and the police. Argal, Sharman killed Rosseter; Argal, he also killed Miss Tardy.”

“How did he get Miss Snaith to leave him the money? Has anyone found out?”

“Oh, he published some rubbishy book on education, and she was interested in the subject. They corresponded, and eventually met. He played up to her, and she liked it. Miserable little sycophant.”

In the silence that followed: “To each according to his needs,” the red-headed undergraduate could be heard saying. “Not absolute equality, because people have
different
needs.”

“Who’s to decide what people’s needs are?” his companion asked. 

“The State, of course. Don’t ask such silly questions.” 

Fen had reverted to his grievances. “Just because Scott and Beavis led the Chief Constable half the way to London and back,” he said, “I don’t see that he’s entitled to swear at me like a railway navvy.”

“How did they come to turn up at the Fair, by the way?”

“Oh, they ran into some of Barnaby’s gang at the station. Which reminds me, we’re supposed to be going round to New College to have a drink with him in ten minutes. Let’s have another for the road.”

“I’ll get it,” said Cadogan. He ordered the drinks. “Spode’s gone back to London. I tried to get him to increase my royalties, but he wouldn’t. Evasive as a fish.”

“So you’re going to write some poetry now?” Sally asked.

“Yes. That’s my
métier
. I might even try my hand at a novel.”

“Flogging dead horses in mid-stream…” Fen grumbled. “What are you going to do, Sally?”

“Oh—I dunno. I shall keep on with my job for a bit. I shouldn’t know how to get through the day otherwise. How about you, Anthony?”

Mr. Hoskins stirred. “I shall continue my studies… Good evening, Jacqueline,” he saluted a passing blonde.

“Wilkes,” said Fen sharply.

“Eh?”

“What are you going to do with yourself now?”

“Mind your own business,” said Wilkes.

Cadogan hastily interposed with: “How about you, Gervase?”

“I?” said Fen. “I shall pursue my orderly and dignified progress towards the grave.”

The crowd in the bar increased, and the smoke was beginning to sting the eyes. Fen drank his whisky gloomily. The young man with the glasses and the long neck finished
Crotchet Castle
and began
Headlong Hall
. Sally and Mr. Hoskins were deep in conversation. Wilkes seemed on the point of slumber. And Cadogan’s mind was pleasingly blank.

“Let’s play ‘Awful Lines from Shakespeare’,” he suggested.

However, they were not destined to begin this immediately, as: “Women,” said Mr. Hoskins suddenly, “have strange ways.” Everyone listened with respectful attention. “But for the eccentricities of Miss Snaith, none of this business would have come about. You remember what Pope said about women in
The Rape of the Lock?”
He looked inquiringly about him. “It goes like this:

‘With varying vanities, from every part,
They shift the moving toyshop of their heart…’

“Dear me…”

¹
Hans Gross,
Criminal Investigation
(Sweet and Maxwell, 1934).