Was It Murder? (5 page)

Revell, of course, opened it in the taxi.  It contained a cheque for ten guineas and a sheet of notepaper on which were written the words “For Professional Services”.

In his private diary (which he vaguely imagined might some day be published in a number of annotated volumes), Revell wrote:  “The Oakington incident is closed.  It was all quite pointless, as I thought from the beginning, but it ended in fond farewells and a cheque for ten guineas; which isn’t really so bad.  I think I rather like Roseveare, nerves or not, but I didn’t greatly care for Ellington.  The real Oakington mystery, I should think, is why such an attractive woman as Mrs. Ellington ever married him.”

CHAPTER III

THE STRANGE AFFAIR IN THE SWIMMING-BATH

More desperately than ever, upon a certain warm June morning, did Revell long for something to happen to him.  And his epic poem in the metre of Don Juan was, by a really curious coincidence, about a young man to whom simply all things happened, one after another and again and again—love affairs, adventures, thrills and escapades of every kind, and some of them not a little scandalous.

That very morning he had received a letter from an old Oxford friend asking him to join a proposed scientific and geographical expedition to New Guinea.  It was hardly the sort of thing he cared about, even in the role of “writer-up” and general publicity manager; but the terms of the invitation had given him a certain inward fretfulness that he could not shake off.  “Decadent youth,” his friend had written, with what Revell regarded as too ponderous facetiousness, “put away your cocktails and high-brow literary work for two whole years and then go back to them if you feel like it!  We hope to leave in September, and, as it happens, we want a man who can turn our adventures into a book.  I don’t know where this letter will find you, but in case you are in some other part of the world, you can consider the offer open until the middle of August.  DO come—it is a wonderful chance . . . etc., etc.”

No; decidedly the offer did not attract.  He hated flies, swamps, pigmies, and the sort of men who put adventures into books—guinea books, as a rule, remaindered at four-and-six.  “With Rod and Line in the Sahara, by Major Fitzwallop”—THAT kind of thing—heavens, no—he would not and could not do it.  And yet it was, in a way, infernally unsatisfying to long for something to happen and then to have to turn down something quite exciting when it DID happen.

Fortunately something else happened that morning which took away all thought of the New Guinea proposal.  On an inside page of his daily paper Revell’s eye caught a small paragraph headed:  “Public School Tragedy.”  It ran:

The swimming instructor at Oakington School made a gruesome discovery yesterday morning when he unlocked the door of the School swimming-bath.  On the floor of the bath, which had been emptied for cleaning, lay the dead body of Wilbraham Marshall, the head prefect of the School, who was to have given a swimming display at the coming Jubilee Speech Day celebrations.  It is surmised that Marshall went for a practice swim at night and dived in, unaware that the water had been drawn away.  By a curious coincidence, it is only nine months since his brother met with a fatal accident at the School.

This time the decadent youth about town wasted no time in pondering.  Almost frantically, and with his mind reacting fiercely to unidentifiable thrills, he consulted a railway guide and sent off the urgent-sounding telegram—“Roseveare Oakington Arriving this afternoon by one-twenty train Revell.”  He calmed down a little as he shaved, put on an O.O. tie, packed a handbag, called at the bank to draw some money, made arrangements with his landlady, and taxied to King’s Cross.  On the train he decided that he had never quite understood why Roseveare had sent for him on that first occasion, and why, having sent for him, he had appeared so eager to dismiss him.  He wished he had a Doctor Watson to talk to; he would have liked to recount the whole dormitory incident, concluding with—“Depend upon it, Watson, we have not yet heard the last of this affair.”

After the hot morning the weather had grown rapidly stormy, and by the time Oakington came into view the sky was dark, and thunder already rumbled in the distance.  There had been nearly a month without rain, and the parched fields and dusty roads seemed to stare hopefully at the clouds massing above them.  Revell, as he stepped from the train, felt the first tentative drops of rain upon his face.  Ten minutes later, when the white-haired butler ushered him into Roseveare’s study, the storm was beginning to break.

Roseveare, standing with his back to the empty fire-grate, welcomed him cordially and apparently without surprise.  He was rather pale, and with lines of anxiety about his eyes, looked perhaps more like a popular preacher than ever.  “Good of you to come,” he began, in a tone of suave melancholy.  “It is indeed a terrible affair— terrible altogether.”

Revell went directly to the point.  “I felt I HAD to be on the spot. . . .  I wish you’d give me a few details.  I know nothing, I’m afraid, except from a very short paragraph in the Mail.”

Roseveare eyed him with (so it seemed) wistful admiration of his

youthful energy and enthusiasm.  “I fear there isn’t a great deal

to tell.  I take it you already know the main facts.  Wilson—he’s

the swimming instructor—opened the door of the baths about eight

o’clock yesterday morning—his usual time.  He—“

“He OPENED the door?  In the paper it said he unlocked it.”

“No, the door was merely closed.  That was his first surprise.  He found the poor boy lying in a pool of blood at the bottom of the bath.  Quite dead—skull completely shattered.  I was sent for immediately—there was nothing that could be done, of course.  A horrible sight—I’ve seen bad enough things in the War, but somehow this seemed most horrible of all.  Murchiston came.  He agrees that the boy must have died instantly.  From the top diving-platform, too—his wrist-watch was found there.  It’s awful to think of—and happening just now—only a day before Speech Day!”

Revell inclined his head in sincere sympathy.  There really was something rather titanically perturbed about the tall, handsome figure with its crown of silver hair.  “I can guess how you must feel about it,” he said.  “That’s why—or one of the reasons why—

I came.  Do you mind if I ask a few questions?”

“Please do—any you like.”

“Thanks.  There are just one or two matters. . . .  The theory, I suppose, is that Marshall took a dive without knowing the bath was empty?”

“People are saying that, naturally.”

“It must have been dark, then, or he would have seen.  Why didn’t he switch on the lights?”

“Ah yes, I didn’t tell you that.  The fuses had gone.  We discovered it last night.”

“So, presumably, finding that the switches wouldn’t work, he decided to swim in the dark?”

“Presumably.”

“Was it usual for him to swim late at night?”

“He had done so, I believe, on previous occasions.  He was to have organised a swimming display for Speech Day afternoon, you know— that gave him sufficient excuse for any extra visits to the baths.  As he was fond of swimming and as it was a particularly hot night, I don’t think there is anything intrinsically unusual in his going there at such a time.  It is quite against the rules, of course, but rules hardly apply strictly to the head prefect.  He had a key to the baths, as a matter of fact.”

“You say he went on previous occasions?”

“Yes.  He went the night before, and on several nights last week.”

“But it isn’t dark till nearly eleven at this time of the year.

Surely he wouldn’t go there later than that?”

“It was dark earlier the night before last, owing to heavy clouds.  But in any case, we believe that he had been in the habit of going to the baths rather late.  As head prefect, you see, he could let himself in and out of the House whenever he liked.”

“Wouldn’t he have to be in the dormitory by the usual time?”

“He didn’t sleep in a dormitory.  He had one of the small rooms.”

“Oh, indeed?  How was that?”

“Well, it was rather an exceptional case, of course.  After his brother’s accident last year, he was very much distressed and didn’t sleep well.  He told Murchiston, who had him under treatment, that he thought it would help if he could get up and read for a time whenever he had one of his sleepless nights.  Of course he couldn’t do that in the dormitory, so Murchiston and I both agreed that he had better have one of the small rooms.  We were all of us very sorry for the boy, and anxious to do anything we could to help him, even at the expense of a school rule or two.”

“Quite,” agreed Revell.  “And the result was that he had his own private room and nobody therefore knew exactly when he DID go to bed?”

“I daresay not.  Both Ellington and myself would probably have turned a blind eye to any small irregularities, even if they had come under our notice.”

“Yes, I understand.  And now about the bath being empty.  How was that?”

“It was being cleaned—or rather emptied in readiness for cleaning.”

“Isn’t it remarkable that Marshall didn’t know?”

“I should certainly not have been surprised if he HAD known.  Yet, as a matter of fact, the arrangements for emptying and cleaning WERE made rather at the last moment.”

“Oh?”

“And I’m afraid that, so far as it may be blameworthy, I must take responsibility for that.  I gave the order for the emptying about six in the evening, and Wilson stayed late to see to it.  It ought to have been done earlier, but in the rush of preparing for Speech Day I had not thought of it until Ellington mentioned it during the afternoon.”

“Marshall was not informed about it?”

“Not by me, certainly.  If I had chanced to see him, I should probably have mentioned it in private conversation.  So, most likely, would Wilson or Ellington.  But it was not exactly anyone’s business to tell him.  You see what I mean?”

“Where would he have been between six in the evening and dusk?”

“Let me see—from six to half-past there would be chapel.  From then until eight I believe he superintended the juniors at preparation.  From eight onwards he stayed, I expect, in his study, though he would have to go up to his bedroom to change.”

“Did he wear a bathing-suit?”

“Yes.  And his slippers and dressing-gown were found by the side of the bath.”  Roseveare added:  “I have willingly answered all your questions, and I will just as willingly answer any others that occur to you, but I really don’t think there can be much dispute as to what happened.”

Revell regarded the other with sudden curiosity.

“Then,” he exclaimed, his curiosity turning rapidly into bewilderment, “you don’t want me to look into this affair as I did into the other?”

“By all means look into it—I will give you every assistance to do so.  The two accidents present a most terrible and remarkable coincidence, and one extremely damaging to the reputation of the School.  But I must confess that—on the evidence before us—I cannot feel much doubt as to the way in which poor Wilbraham met his death. . . .  The inquest, by the way, is to be held the day after to-morrow—perhaps you might care to attend.  Oh—just one other thing—you will stay to-night, of course.  I could not think of letting you go back before our Speech Day celebrations.  Though, Heaven knows, they come at a singularly inopportune moment. . . .”

The storm broke in all its fury as Revell left Roseveare’s house.  He made a dash across the lawn to the School House, barely escaping a complete drenching.  The interview had left him with bewilderments and misgivings that did not diminish in retrospect.  He felt in a mood for a long solitary walk on freezing roads with a biting east wind in his face, and the almost tropical downpour outside gave him the uncomfortable sensation of being trapped and frustrated.  He wondered what on earth he could or should do next.  Behind the veneer of blandness and courtesy that Roseveare had offered, it had not been difficult to detect a certain frigidity.  Queer that a man afflicted with nervous apprehensions should have worried over the first accident, yet should find (apparently) nothing but “a most terrible and remarkable coincidence” in the second!  Queer—yes, decidedly queer. . . .  Through the windows he could faintly discern, beyond the mist of falling rain, the cricket pavilion crowded with sheltering youngsters.  Suddenly a flash of vivid lightning seemed to explode the whole sky in one immense detonation.  By Jove, THAT was near. . . .  He felt he must DO something, visit someone, talk to somebody about something.  He thought of Lambourne—perhaps he would be in his room.  It was, he knew, on the ground floor, next to the studies.  He went to it and tapped on the panel of the door, but there was no answer.  After a moment’s pause he turned the handle and went in.  The room seemed empty at first, but on closer inspection he perceived that a large armchair whose back was towards him was occupied by a huddled figure.  He strode into the middle of the room and looked; it was Lambourne.

“Good Lord, man, whatever’s the matter?”  He saw that the fellow was shivering like a jelly.  He put a hand on his shoulder and felt him start sharply.

“Oh, it’s you, Revell, is it?  I—I didn’t know you were up here.”

It was a brave, rather pitiful attempt at self-composure.  “Do sit

down.  I’m—I’m sorry to—to be like this.  I can’t help it.  It’s

the storm.  Since the War I—“

“That’s all right,” Revell assured him, as if the whole matter were the most natural thing in the world.  “I think we’ve got the worst over now.  Anything I can do?  What about a spot of tea or something?  I’ll put the kettle on, eh?  No, no—you needn’t show me where everything is—I messed about in these rooms a good deal when I was here.”

The casual method succeeded where any more intensely expressed sympathy would probably have made matters worse.  While Revell chattered inconsequently and as the storm gradually subsided, Lambourne’s condition returned to normal.  “I’m afraid I’m not much of a host,” he said, as Revell pumped up the Primus stove.  “I can’t stand a din.  ‘Heaven’s artillery’, Daggat calls it in his sermons—he thinks it’s a compliment to picture heaven as a sort of super-great-power in a state of perpetual and glorious warfare. . . .  There are biscuits in that box.  I’ll be all right in a minute or two.  I suppose you’re up here for Speech Day?”