Was It Murder? (12 page)

Revell accordingly spent another night in the Head’s comfortable house.  Roseveare had already gone to bed when he came in, but it was clear that he was expected to stay, since his bag had been unpacked again and whisky and sandwiches left hospitably on the dining-room sideboard.

In the morning, when he went down to breakfast, the butler told him that Dr. Roseveare presented his apologies but was breakfasting that morning in the Masters’ Common Room.

The reason for that became apparent an hour later, when Revell met Lambourne in the corridor of School House.  “Hullo, Revell!” cried the latter, with a jaunty air.  “Still here?  I guess you’ll stay on now, won’t you?  Such a sensation, isn’t it?  Come along into my room, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

As soon as the door had closed upon them, Lambourne continued breathlessly:  “We’ve just been accorded the rarest of honours.  The Head breakfasted with us in the Common Room.  You’ve no idea, Revell, not being a poor devil of an usher, what that means.  Of course we knew immediately that something had happened or was going to happen—the last time we had him to share our Quaker Oats was when five prefects made a dash to the Wembley Exhibition with five barmaids.  But that was years and years ago.  This time the news was even more serious.  Unfortunately the surprise part of it was rather ruined by the fact that we’d all just been reading the thrilling news in the Daily Mail.  Journalistic enterprise in these days, my boy, is a horse that wants some beating.”

“I wish you’d tell me what on earth you’re talking about,” said Revell, a trifle peevishly.  He had slept badly and was in none too good a humour.

“Is it possible that you haven’t yet seen the morning papers?”

“I haven’t, no.”

“Then you aren’t aware that Wilbraham Marshall’s body has been exhumed and that the authorities suspect what the Sunday Press will delight to call ‘foul play’?”

Revell’s surprise needed no assuming, for he had had no idea that the matter would already have come to the notice of the newspapers.  Lambourne continued, well satisfied with the sensation he was creating:  “That’s a pretty sort of scandal to happen to a school whose clientele is just struggling on to the border-line that separates Golder’s Green from Kensington!  Naturally our learned and respected chief was fairly rattled about it.  Told us, in so many words, that detectives were about and that any one of us, at any time, might be suspected of murder.  Advised us all to keep calm and ‘endeavour to reconcile our duty to the School with our duty to society’.  I suppose he means we’re not to be too helpful when the detectives come to cross-examine us.”

“I expect you were all pretty staggered, eh?”

“STAGGERED?  Wouldn’t you have been?”

“Did anybody—anybody in particular—appear concerned?”

“Ellington went rather pale, if that’s what you’re angling after.  As a matter of fact, the person most affected was quite probably myself—I fainted.  Never could stand the little touch of drama.”

“Well, well,” said Revell, with a sigh, “I suppose we must resign ourselves to events.”

“The Head isn’t exactly in a mood of resignation, I can tell you.  He’s put servants at all the gates to act as pickets and stop newspaper men from coming in.  No one is to enter the grounds without authority—no one is to answer any questions put by strangers—all town-leave is stopped for the whole school, prefects included, until further notice.  We’re a beleaguered garrison, rallying under our gallant Captain Roseveare against the expected onslaughts of the Fleet Street Fusiliers.”  The bell began to ring for morning school.  “That means I must hurry away to inject a little English literature into the fourth form.  They won’t do any work, of course—and do you blame them?”

Revell laughed and left him.  Since Guthrie’s cautionary remark, he had taken care not to confide too much in Lambourne; indeed, he was now definitely on his guard against him.

The Head was just leaving his study when Revell entered it a little while later.  He greeted Revell with his customary urbanity; and never, in some sense, had Revell felt his charm more hypnotically.  In such a presence the theory that postulated him as a murderer melted into absurdity.

“Sorry to have left you alone for breakfast,” Roseveare began, “but I thought it best to make an announcement to the staff at the earliest possible moment.  Even so, I find I have been forestalled by the newspapers.  I do wish your detective acquaintance would hurry up with his inquiries—I am afraid the work of the School will be sadly affected until the whole thing is cleared up.  Have you any idea what he intends to do and when?”

Revell confessed that he knew nothing.  “I should think, though, that he’ll get to work pretty quickly—he seems that sort of man.”

“I’m glad to hear it.  In spite of his discourtesy, I shall be very willing to give him all the help I can.  Do you yet know, by the way, what it was that his men found here while they were searching— or, as you put it, watching—the place?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“I only wondered if it might have been a revolver.  Because Mr.  Ellington told me this morning that he had missed his from the place where he usually keeps it.”

Revell fought back his excitement.  “Really?  I didn’t know he had a revolver, even.”

“Neither did I till he told me.  It’s a relic, apparently, of more strenuous days in the colonies before he came to Oakington.  Anyhow, he discovered last night that it was missing.  Naturally, it occurred to me that perhaps it was that which the police had discovered.”

“It may have been.  In any case, the missing revolver seems an important clue.”

“Very, I should think.  Mr. Ellington was most distressed about it, as you can imagine.”

“I suppose he felt that it—er—in a way—threw a certain amount of suspicion on himself?”

Roseveare appeared utterly shocked and astonished.  “Good God, no—

I don’t suppose such a preposterous notion ever entered his head— or anyone else’s, either!  What distressed him was the thought that by his own slackness in leaving his drawer unlocked the tragedy may have been enabled to take place.”

“You mean that the murderer may have taken Ellington’s revolver?”

“Murderer?  Why are you and your detective-friend so persistent in assuming murder?  All that is known is that the boy was shot.  Far be it from me to teach Scotland Yard, its job, but I really do feel convinced, in my own mind, that suicide is a far likelier supposition.  It is horrible enough, but it is by no means impossible.  Ellington, I may say, tells me that ever since the death of the boy’s brother last year, Wilbraham suffered from moods of extreme depression.  He confided in Ellington a good deal, it appears, and had free access to his rooms at all times—which would have given him ample opportunity to take the revolver.”

“But why on earth should he shoot himself in the swimming-bath, of all places?”

“How can I tell you?  It might occur to him as a place where he would be likely to cause least disturbance.”

“And why should he climb to the top diving-platform?”

“Again, how can I tell you?  But, in any case, are you sure that he did?”

Revell looked his astonishment, and Roseveare, taking his chance, resumed:  “My dear boy, don’t be so bewildered.  In a case like this it is really our duty to consider all possibilities, however remote.  I may as well tell you that I have given a good deal of careful consideration to the matter, and I have already evolved a theory—tentatively, of course—which seems to me at least as reasonable as any other.  I believe, briefly, that the boy DID commit suicide.”

“From the top diving-platform?”

“Not necessarily.  The bath is ten feet deep and the extent of his injuries seemed to me quite consistent with a fall from the edge.  And I speak, remember, with some medical knowledge and experience.”

“And the wrist-watch?”

“Ah, now we come to a different point.  Clearly the wrist-watch was placed on the top platform by somebody, and if not by the boy himself, then by whom?  And, even more important, why?  The only reason I can think of is that someone entered the bath after poor Wilbraham had shot himself, discovered the tragedy, and tried to make a suicide look like an accident.”

“Why?”

“The obvious reason would be consideration for the boy’s family— for the School’s reputation—for, indeed, everybody concerned.  Accident is bad enough, but suicide, you will agree, is much worse.”

“And murder worst of all?”

“Oh, undoubtedly, but I really must decline to consider such a possibility until every other avenue has been thoroughly explored.”

“Well, according to your theory, the thoughtful visitor, whoever he was, placed the boy’s wrist-watch on the top platform, removed his dressing-gown and slippers, if he had them on, and also took away the revolver.”

“Those are undoubtedly matters that would naturally occur to anyone who wished to produce the impression of an accident.”

“But he would hardly leave the revolver lying about for the police to discover afterwards?”

“Pardon me, but how do we know that the police have discovered it?

I understood just now that you yourself were not certain about it.  All that seems definitely established is that Ellington’s revolver is missing, and since Ellington reported the loss himself, it would seem obvious that he, at any rate, was NOT the person who visited the scene of the tragedy that night.”

“Then whom do you suspect?”

“My dear boy, that is hardly my province.  I am merely putting forward a theory which, for all its excessive complication and intricacy, seems to me infinitely less improbable than to suppose that one of my colleagues, whom I have known and respected for many years, should suddenly and for no conceivable reason commit the cold-blooded murder of his own cousin.  As a matter of fact, I do happen to know, on very good authority, that someone did visit the swimming-bath a short time after it may be supposed that the tragedy took place.  Now, now, don’t cross-examine me—I am not, at the moment, prepared to say more than that.”

With which altogether cryptic remark he gathered up his papers and gown and left Revell to think things over.

He thought things over, and two hours later, having received a message from a uniformed policeman (there was not much pretence of secrecy about things now), met Guthrie outside the School entrance.  He had his car with him, and the two drove rapidly to Easthampton.  “I’ve got to fetch my things across,” he explained.  “I’ve taken lodgings for the present at the house of the local police-sergeant— it’s on the spot, and Oakington gossip doesn’t matter so much now.  You don’t mind the ride to Easthampton and back, I suppose?”

Revell assured him that he would positively enjoy it, and further went on to describe his recent interview with Dr. Roseveare.  Guthrie listened attentively.  At the end he offered no comment of his own, but asked Revell for his.

Revell hastened to oblige.  “Well, it seemed to me pretty obvious that Roseveare and Ellington had had a confidential chat together.  Roseveare never hinted at suicide yesterday when I talked to him, but he had it all very pat to-day.”

“It’s an ingenious theory, anyhow.  We mustn’t ignore it.”

“It looks to me as if it were made specially to fit in with the possibility that the police have discovered Ellington’s revolver.  I wish you’d tell me whether they really have or not.”

Guthrie half-smiled.  “I think once again I must plead the Official Secrets Acts,” he answered, jocularly.

“But why?  I’ve been pretty frank with you, and you said it was a

bargain between us—“

“All right,” Guthrie interrupted, with that imperturbable good humour that was perhaps his most annoying trait.  “Tell you what— if you really are devoured with curiosity, you can listen in to a couple of interviews I shall be having this evening.  It’ll be a bit stagey, but that can’t be helped.  I shall be in Ellington’s room in School House, and you can hide in the little room next door.  The partition’s only matchboard—you’ll be able to hear through it.  By Jove, yes, it’s an idea—and you might be really useful, too, apart from enjoying yourself.  Do you happen to know shorthand, by the way?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Pity.  I’ve never yet met an Oxford graduate who did, but I’ve met dozens who’d be twice as efficient IF they did.  Take my tip, Revell, and learn it as soon as ever you get back to town—join a class and work till you can do at least a hundred and fifty words a minute. . . .  Anyhow, if you can’t take shorthand notes, you can keep your ears wide open, I daresay.  It might be handy to have you as a witness afterwards.”

“I’ll do my best, I assure you.  Who are the two persons you intend to see?”

“You’ll know in good time.”

He was, Revell felt, being merely provoking, but there was nothing for it but to accept the situation as it stood.  They lunched at Easthampton and then, after the detective had settled his account at the hotel, drove back to Oakington and deposited his luggage at the police-sergeant’s cottage on the outskirts of the village.  The sergeant was on duty, but his buxom wife offered tea, which they took in a parlour which, in less strenuous days, Revell would have lauded as a masterpiece of Victorianism.  As it was, he allowed Guthrie to talk football and politics to his heart’s content (the detective was almost equally ardent as a Twickenham rugger “fan” and as a Liberal).  Not till the village clock struck five did Guthrie suggest a move, and then, with a sudden return to business, he gave instructions.  “I don’t want us to be seen together too much,” he said, “so you had better walk to the School from here and go straight up to Ellington’s room in School House.  I shall take the car—I’ll be ahead of you by ten minutes or so, I should reckon.  Anyhow, a minute or so either way won’t matter.”

Revell agreed, and within a quarter of an hour, after a warm walk over the meadows, was turning the handle of Ellington’s door.  Guthrie was there, reading a newspaper by the window, and gave him a nod and a signal to be quiet.  “Ah, that’s right, Revell, you’re in plenty of time.”  Following the detective’s further instructions, Revell settled himself in the small adjoining apartment, which had at one time been the bedroom of an unmarried master.  There were cracks here and there in the matchboard partition, and he arranged his chair so that he could see a good deal of what went on in the main room.  Guthrie cautiously approved.  “All right so long as you’re not seen yourself,” he whispered.  “I expect our first visitor along in a few minutes.  Just wait patiently, and for the Lord’s sake don’t want to sneeze.”