The Weight of the Evidence

by Michael Innes

  ‘The funk followed on his hearing of the attempt on Prisk – if it was that. When I saw him again about this telephone-business he was just short with me. Rather like Lasscock. Mornin’ to you.’

  ‘Lasscock’s turn is coming. A full and free confession from that eldest son of Morpheus is badly overdue. But about this call: the girl is quite sure?’

  ‘She’s in a bit of a stew now that Evans denies the thing. But quite clear all the same. There was a call to Evans through this machine–’

  ‘He takes his own calls direct?’

  ‘Not normally. But on Monday his secretary was away ill and nobody had been put in her place. So the call – if there was a call – went straight through to him. Somebody asked for the Vice-Chancellor from this instrument and was put through. Evans said “Sir David Evans” and this somebody said “Pluckrose here”. And then the girl plugged out.’

  ‘She’s sure it was Pluckrose?’

  ‘No, she’s not. It’s an interesting thing. She’s sure of Evans. But she’s not sure about the voice at the other end. It’s worth noting that, I think, when you consider that the voice said “Pluckrose here”. Even if she hadn’t recognized his voice at the time you’d expect her, when recollecting, to think she had. That’s psychology, as you might say. But I’d prefer a few fingerprints myself. And I’m having a man along to look for them on the telephone presently.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Well, of course we can’t go about like story-book sleuths demanding impressions from all and sundry; it would pretty well cost us our jobs. But perhaps, at this stage, we can pick up a few from people’s personal property on the quiet. Now, Pluckrose’s and Prisk’s apart, whose prints would you like to hear of inside this box?’

  Appleby considered. ‘Marlow’s,’ he said. ‘Marlow’s or Pinnegar’s.’

  ‘And now we come to times and places.’ Hobhouse, who seemed quite contented to turn the corridor into a police bureau, leant against the telephone box and again thumbed his notebook.

  ‘And distances. For instance, if Evans got a telephone call from here asking him to come over to Pluckrose’s room, just how would he do it?’

  ‘He would have to come right round the building.’ Hobhouse considered. ‘No. He could cut through the engineering department and across the court through the door of what’s called the forge room. And then through the door in the corridor here.’

  Appleby nodded. ‘It looks as if a time factor may be important, so that we have to look out for all that. You say that you’ve got most of the people pretty well taped?’

  ‘Not too badly.’ Hobhouse produced a loose sheet of paper. ‘I’ve got them between ten-fifteen and eleven-thirty. And if we find that Lasscock can time the thing more or less to the minute we’ll be not too badly off. Though, mind you, I’ve no information on the movements of the Man in the Moon.’

  ‘We can consult a nautical almanac.’ Appleby took the paper from Hobhouse. ‘It simply covers the people who seem to have been most in the picture?’

  ‘Just that. Pluckrose first. And then the rest in alphabetical order. And even if the criminal is an unknown X we shall be working towards him by eliminating these.’

  Appleby took the list and studied it.

  Pluckrose, Henry Albert. Lectured from nine to ten; manner normal. Saw students in room till ten fifteen; manner normal. Subsequent movements unknown.

  Church, Timothy. Tutoring in his room till ten-fifty-five. Alone in room till eleven-ten. Tutoring again till eleven-fifty-five.

  Crunkhorn, Richard Meredith. Spent entire morning undisturbed in own room. No confirmation available.

  Evans, Sir David. Arrived at university shortly before ten. Secretary absent. Visited by professor of philosophy at ten-five; interview over ten-twenty. Claims to have remained in his own room until shortly before eleven. Then decided, as is customary with him, to go over to refectory for cup of coffee. On his way strolled about for some minutes enjoying mild sunshine. Owing to warmth of day returned to own room to change coat. Then went direct to refectory, where observed about eleven-fifteen. Stroll authenticated by porter, who glimpsed Sir David returning to main building; vague however as to time. Remained in refectory until joined by Hissey (see below).

  Hissey, Stanley Rutgersius. Consulting with librarian till ten-twenty (confirmed). Returned to hotel for book (no confirmation yet). Remembered book not at hotel but university. Returned to university. Remembered some prints left in dark-room. Went into photographic room. Asked Atkinson the time, as he had an appointment at eleven-ten. Atkinson said time ten-fifty. Went into darkroom. Found Graves developing some of his plates. Remained helping till eleven-five. Then remembered appointment and was about to leave when news came of Pluckrose’s death. Took news to Sir David Evans in refectory; then returned to own room.

  Lasscock, Theodore Almeric de la Tour. Claims not to have been at university at all. Failed to meet first class of the day at eleven, or to send note of his absence. If he arrived about ten, went straight to Wool Court and decamped about eleven. Just possible that he might come and go unobserved. But witnesses to his presence likely to be found (?bus conductor, stray students, anyone passing through court).

  Marlow, Martin Christopher. In dark-room from ten-fifteen till news of accident arrived. Confirmed by Atkinson.

  Murn, Athelstan. As Marlow, but made several short trips to refrigerator.

  Pinnegar, Roger. Left for London before this part of investigation undertaken. Looked into photographic room and dark-room about ten-fifteen. Noticed by two students in street outside tower just as one student was asking other the time. Time was ten thirty-five. Student believes watch reliable. Pinnegar probably making his way to refectory, was there reading papers and drinking coffee about ten-forty. Remained there and seen talking politely to Sir David Evans (see above) about eleven twenty-five.

  Prisk, Peter Patterson. Nervous prostration following car accident before this part of investigation undertaken (physical injuries nil, but doctor vouches for genuineness of subsequent collapse). Seen to arrive at university about ten. Had no academic engagements during morning. Believed to have been continuously in his room and no record of being seen elsewhere except just before eleven, when he inquired for his assistant, Pinnegar, in photographic room and dark-room.

  Tavender, Hubert Wylie. Spent early part of morning in town, negotiating with a picture dealer on behalf of his wife. Arrived at university about eleven and went first to refectory for cup of coffee (story confirmed). Crossed side street to main building about eleven fifteen and records noticing door of store-room at bottom of tower as standing open. Went direct to class-room and met students at eleven twenty (five minutes late). Conducted seminar class till twelve forty-five. Has no further information. ( Hobhouse: You are sure there is nothing else you can tell me, sir? Tavender: Nothing – or nothing that would be believed by any judge or jury in the land; and that must be the same thing from your point of view. Hobhouse: This is a very serious matter, Mr Tavender. You are sure you have nothing to add? Tavender: Nothing, I do solemnly swear. Hobhouse: I am not asking you to swear, sir. I am not even taking a formal statement yet. Tavender: Nevertheless I swear it – by the beard of the prophet, my dear man.)

  Appleby handed Hobhouse back the paper. ‘I call that a very pretty document. And with a nice kick in the tail.’

  ‘That about the beard?’ Hobhouse shook his head. ‘It might be a coincidence, I suppose. But, if you ask me, that Tavender is a mischievous sort of chap. And what would he mean by that stuff about a judge and jury?’

  ‘Presumably that he possesses information of so fantastic a character that no credence would be given to it were he to divulge it.’

  Hobhouse frowned. ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, it might be a circumstance fantastic in itself; or it might be a circumstance fantastic chiefly in virtue of the character of a person or persons involved in it. For instance, if one saw Pinnegar stuffing that cupboard with spare beards that would be
fantastic in the first category. But if one saw Crunkhorn or Evans doing the same thing that would be fantastic in the second. And, by the way, though Tavender may be an extremely irresponsible person he is certainly by no means a fool. And when he has a little joke there will probably be some salt of wit hidden in it somewhere.’ Appleby looked at his watch. ‘And now I’m going to arrange a little luncheon party.’

  Hobhouse put his notebook in his pocket with some alacrity. ‘Well, I must say I could do with a nice steak. And it will go down on your expenses, not mine.’

  ‘But you’re not being asked. I said arranging, not giving. And, as it’s uncommonly short notice, I think to save time–’ And Appleby, producing an instrument from his pocket, applied himself to the door of the telephone box. ‘Not much of a lock, as you say.’ The door had swung open; he picked up a directory, referred to it, and lifted the receiver. ‘Central, please.’

  Half an hour later Appleby climbed to the top of a bus, walked forward to the front seat, and sat down beside Timothy Church. ‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Going this way?’

  Church, who was sunk in some gloomy reverie, gave a perceptible start. ‘Astonishing!’ he said with irony. ‘It’s really astonishing how you people work things out. And I own up. I’m going this way.’

  ‘Nothing like a little confession. It disburdens the heart.’

  ‘I’d rather prefer to disburden the bus. You’d find the trains very comfortable. Or wouldn’t Scotland Yard run to a taxi? Some people get sick on top of a bus.’ Church paused darkly after these witticisms. ‘How’s your nasty murder?’ he asked.

  ‘So so. The outworks of the mystery are beginning to yield. On the other hand fresh complications continue to sprout. Beards, for instance.’

  ‘Beards?’

  ‘There’s a cupboard in the dark-room which grows beards. Inside, that is to say. False beards just like Murn’s. Three have turned up so far. Now, what would you make of that?’ And Appleby looked inquiringly at Crunkhorn’s assistant.

  ‘I’m not required to make anything of so silly a story – praise God.’ Church was pulling fiercely at a large pipe. ‘And if you ask me, this squashed Pluckrose business is an absolute blight… You’re sure the bus doesn’t make you feel a bit queasy?’

  ‘Quite sure, thank you. I continue to look forward to my luncheon.’

  ‘Your luncheon?’ Church, momentarily suspicious, glanced quickly at Appleby. ‘Where’s your local friend?’

  ‘Hobhouse is investigating other aspects of the case.’

  ‘Blast the case. You can’t reconstitute Pluckrose. Best let the thing alone.’

  ‘Which is the opinion of that curious fellow, Tavender. A most irresponsible man.’

  ‘He’s nothing of the sort.’ Church spoke with sudden intellectual impatience. ‘If Tavender says let the thing alone you’ll find he has a sober reason for it.’

  Appleby looked curiously at the young man beside him. ‘What sober reason could there possibly be, Church, for ignoring a very grave crime?’

  ‘None, really – I suppose.’ Church responded quickly to Appleby’s appeal. ‘But, realistically considered, there’s a great deal of rot in retributive justice. And Tavender may know something which suggests that the truth would occasion more scandal than it is worth. A university is an important place, after all. And the public is so dam’ dumb.’

  ‘A university is much too important a place to be let become a happy hunting ground for licensed murderers. And, by the way, what you attribute to Tavender I was myself rather inclined to attribute to Evans at one time.’

  ‘Oh, him.’ Church put much into the monosyllables.

  ‘A desire to hush the thing up. Incidentally, if Tavender feels like that he has acted most illogically more than once. For he’s gone out of his way to present me with several valuable hints.’

  ‘Sporting instinct, I suppose.’ Church was suddenly gloomy again. ‘Blast the whole thing. It’s like it is sometimes with the Method of Least Squares. I can’t get it out of my head.’

  ‘I see. And when you have problems enough of your own–’

  ‘Exactly.’ Church pulled himself up, suddenly startled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Mrs Church being a bit troublesome, I suppose.’ Appleby spoke quite casually. ‘Particularly with Miss Cavenett about.’

  Church jumped to his feet. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But this is where I get off.’

  Appleby got up too. ‘Is it? Same with me, oddly enough.’ He followed Church down the steps. ‘The Mrs Churches, I ought to have said.’

  They got off the bus and walked down a side street in silence together. Only halfway down Appleby spoke. ‘I say, Church,’ he asked curiously, ‘did you ever sleep with any of them?’

  Church made no reply and they walked on in silence still. An indiscreet question. But human nature, reflected Appleby, is so extremely curious a thing. And one has the instinct to investigate where one can.

  In the gardens of St Cecilia’s Hall young ladies, equipped with secateurs and suitable gloves, gathered flowers. On the terrace other young ladies walked with Miss Godkin’s dogs. Under trees young ladies sketched. And through open windows and across the lawn floated the strains of violins and harps, pianos and cellos, discoursed by young ladies for whom, by the doom of Miss Godkin, musical accomplishments had been decreed. One could see at once that throughout the Hall refined cheerfulness and cultivated gaiety reigned. Indeed these qualities, together with unpunctuality, needle-work, dips into Country Life and The Queen, unpainted fingernails, intelligent conversation, politeness to servants, and the use of Received Standard English, were required by Miss Godkin from eight-fifteen in the morning to ten o’clock at night. Young ladies who so far wished to become girls again as to read film mags, make bets on horses, discuss boys, discuss girls, toast bloaters before gas fires, consume grocer’s port, fan dance, croon, pinch, weep, become deliciously sick on chocolate peppermint creams, tell each other about their homes and their neighbours, their mothers’ troubles with hire-purchase and their fathers’ triumphs with dogs: such recalcitrant elements could indulge their backslidings only in the nocturnal seclusion of the spare, but dainty and maiden-like, cubicles with which Miss Godkin provided them. By day life at St Cecilia’s was elegant and controlled; it combined, Miss Godkin was accustomed to say, the variousness and verve of a noble household of the Renaissance with the dignity and repose of an English country seat. And some of the girls had to stay three whole years.

  Miss Godkin herself was a prominent figure upon the scene as Appleby and Church walked up the drive. Standing under a cedar on the lawn she was giving instructions to two gardeners of decorously mature years. She was attended by two young ladies who were learning how to give instructions to gardeners. As their allotted path in life was that of primary school-teaching in an industrial town it was perhaps far from certain that they would ever bring this particular branch of knowledge into play. But – as Miss Godkin was fond of saying – one never can tell nowadays; and for this reason two of her charges were thus chosen daily to enjoy the more intimate experiences of superior living. They fed at Miss Godkin’s table and there was Georgian silver and coffee out of Crown Derby cups. The silver was not so bad; it would take a most unluckily savage bite to make any permanent impression on it. But from first stir to last sip the Crown Derby was sheer agony throughout.

  ‘Dear Mr Appleton, how good of you to come!’ Miss Godkin advanced in what might be called a garden-party way – to which was added however a faint touch of conspiratorial and businesslike feeling. ‘Mr Church, we are glad to see you.’ Miss Godkin turned to Crunkhorn’s assistant with a nice glide from cordiality to gracious condescension. ‘And now here are Miss Bearup and Miss Fisher.’ And Miss Godkin proceeded to introduce Miss Bearup and Miss Fisher to Appleby and Church to Miss Bearup and Miss Fisher. From which Appleby concluded that the curious bee about the Foreign Office must be buzzing in Miss Godkin’s head still. Indeed he could hardly otherwise have contriv
ed to arrange with the somewhat mystified lady a luncheon party on his own terms.

  ‘And now where, I wonder, is dear Else? Mr Church, she is quite a friend of yours, I believe. But she will turn up presently, I don’t doubt. The bell will ring at any moment, and she is a most punctual girl.’ Miss Godkin paused on this and smiled meaningfully at her two charges. ‘But here is another of our guests.’ And Miss Godkin again advanced over the greensward. ‘Miss Cavenett?’ she said inquiringly. ‘How do you do.’

  Mr Church’s Miss Cavenett had marked the particularity – not altogether festive – of the occasion by arriving in a taxi; and now she suffered introductions in an ominous quiet. Mr Church was understood to mumble something to the effect of having met before. Miss Cavenett, having received from Appleby over the telephone the vague impression that she was being invited into the heart of her fiancé’s harem, treated Miss Fisher and Miss Bearup to a species of rapid refrigeration of which the icy breath might have been felt half across St Cecilia’s spreading lawns. And this was hard on Miss Fisher and Miss Bearup. They were expected to be ladylike; whereas Miss Cavenett had all the horrid liberty and resources of a gentlewoman. Under the most genial circumstances they would have had some little difficulty with their hands and feet; Miss Cavenett was unconscious of the even more anxious business of turning the head upon the neck – and it was most probable that she had never as much as heard of Received Standard English. As they all walked towards the house Appleby, although he ought no doubt to have attached himself to Miss Godkin, contrived to get these unfortunate young people one on each side of him. ‘I think’, he said, ‘that you have an awfully jolly place here.’

  Miss Bearup turned her head cautiously until she might just conceivably have glimpsed the tip of Appleby’s nose. ‘It is very pleasant,’ she said. ‘It is so spacious and restful.’

  To this Appleby made no reply – and, oddly enough, Miss Bearup appeared to be encouraged by his silence. ‘In fact’, she added in something like a half-whisper, ‘it’s sometimes a bit quiet. If you know what I mean.’