Was It Murder?

by James Hilton

  “Well now, consider my position when you came. I did not feel justified in telling you the truth—to have done so, I judged, would have prejudiced the impartiality of your investigation, apart from being an atrocious slander upon a colleague for whom I had, and still have, every respect. On the other hand, it was clearly necessary that I should give you some reason for having sent for you. I therefore concocted the little note which I told you had been left between the pages of the boy’s algebra-book.” He half-smiled. “It sounds, I daresay, a childish thing to have done, but it was really the only thing I could think of. And I was, I confess, rather amused when you discovered a plausible and an altogether satisfactory reason why the boy should have left the note which, in fact, he did not write at all. The moral, perhaps, is that it is easy for an ingenious person to find reasons for anything.”

  He continued, after a pause: “That week-end you were here, however, something happened that removed all my misgivings completely. The lady in question visited me again, but in very different circumstances. She came, in fact, to apologise for her previous visit, and to tell me that all her suspicions were really quite groundless and merely the result of nerves. This tallied, of course, with my own theory of the incident, and I was very glad to take her word about it.”

  “Although really you had no more reason to suppose she was speaking the truth then than before?”

  “Well, perhaps not, according to the strictest logic. But you must remember that, as something of a doctor myself, I could see the immense improvement in her condition—she was calm and rational upon this second visit and gave every evidence of being bitterly ashamed of her previous one. Anyhow, I DID believe her. And so, by the time you made your report to me, the matter was already settled in my mind and I was thinking that I had sent for you on somewhat of a fool’s errand. It was not, of course, your fault, but I was naturally anxious for you not to waste any more of your time.”

  “And what about this second accident? Didn’t it awaken any of the old suspicions?”

  “Why should it have done? It was, I admit, a most remarkable coincidence, but in the face of Murchiston’s evidence, to say nothing of the evidence of my own eyes, how could I have thought of anything but accident? Your attitude, of course, was bound to be different, for you could not know the whole truth about the first affair. I wasn’t in the least surprised that you came along, but you can hardly have expected me to invite you.”

  “You really thought it possible that the boy did dive into the empty bath?”

  “Certainly. It was unlikely, but perfectly possible. It seemed far more possible to me than any theory of murder. In fact, but for the bullet which you say has been discovered, I doubt if murder could or would have been thought of. What puzzles me is why the Home Office so readily permitted the exhumation. They must have been given reasons beyond mere local tittle-tattle.”

  “The detective told me his men had found something—some piece of evidence—he didn’t tell me what.”

  “Found something? Where?”

  “Here. On the premises, somewhere or other.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that policemen have been searching the School?”

  “Not searching, I think, so much as watching.”

  “Watching or searching, it is all equally scandalous.” His voice lost, for the first time, its smooth precision. “Common courtesy, I should have thought, would have made even a detective ask for the permission which he might know I should have to give. You may tell your detective friend, Revell, if you see him again, that I should like very much to know by whose authority he sets his spies to trespass on private property! A disgraceful infringement of all public and personal rights!”

  And so the interview closed on that note of anger. It was something to have found out that trespass, if not murder, could raise the ire of the Headmaster of Oakington.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 6. — LAMBOURNE’S STORY

  Revell was determined not to sacrifice his entire independence in the investigation. Greatly as he respected Guthrie, he had no desire to be merely his assistant, or to give up his own rather interesting position in an affair that was certainly becoming more interesting at every moment. When he met the detective that evening in one of the country lanes near the School, he gave him a fairly full account of his interview with Roseveare. Guthrie nodded complimentarily when he had finished.

  “So you got it out of him, then? The question is, of course—is it the truth?”

  Revell had wondered the same thing himself, but he was a little astonished by Guthrie’s calm suspicion. “Do you mean that you suspect him?” he queried.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as that. It’s rather that I always suspect a queer yarn. And this, you’ll admit, is pretty queer. Who’s this woman he was talking about—I suppose you DID make a guess?”

  Revell paused uncomfortably. “I don’t know whether I ought—”

  “Of course you ought,” interrupted Guthrie with a laugh. “It’s all informal—between ourselves, you know. Anyhow, if you prefer it, I’ll have a shot myself and say she’s Ellington’s wife. Impudent-looking piece, with black hair and a turned-up nose—that’s the lady, isn’t it?”

  The description astonished Revell so much that he did not reply; but Guthrie evidently took his silence for an affirmative.

  “Why should she go to the Head with such a yarn, I wonder? If she DID go, that is. We must remember that either or both of them may be complete liars. By the way, Roseveare wasn’t Head in your time here, was he?”

  “No. He came a few years after the end of the War. I daresay you know all about his War record and so on?”

  “Oh yes, I gathered he was rather a mandarin in those days. I even went a bit farther back and looked up his record before the War. That was quite exciting, too.” Guthrie stopped to light his pipe in the gathering dusk. “Thought so—these hedges are full of young lovers, and young lovers, contrary to the popular idea, are not so intent on their own affairs that they won’t listen to two strangers chattering in high-pitched voices about a local big pot. We must talk more quietly… Now let me tell you a few things about our friend the Headmaster of Oakington. To begin with, he hasn’t any ordinary schoolmaster’s degree—the ‘doctor’ before his name is a medical title.”

  “I knew that.”

  “Oh, you did? Well, it’s unusual, rather, isn’t it? Then again, he had no scholastic experience before he came to Oakington. He’s been many things in his time—doctor, politician, business man, even a sort of gentleman farmer—but till a few years ago he never ran a school.” Guthrie paused and puffed reflectively. “Of course, you know why Oakington took him? The place was in a bit of a bad way under the previous fellow—Jury, wasn’t his name?—and they—the School governors— imagined Roseveare would pull the show out of the mire. Which, to a large extent, I believe he has done.”

  “He has a wonderful personality, I think.”

  “Oh yes—no doubt about that. Don’t think I’m attacking the fellow at all. I’m merely pointing out that we’re not dealing with the average Eton and Oxford headmaster who composes Greek epigrams and wears a parson’s collar. Roseveare’s a man of wider experience altogether. Twice at least he made a fortune and lost it—once in America and again in New Zealand. He had, and still has, an extraordinarily persuasive way with him. In America he made a great hit as a company-promoter.”

  “Really? That reminds me that I’ve very often seen him poring over stock-market reports in the papers.”

  Guthrie smiled. “That, by itself, isn’t very remarkable, I’m afraid. There’s hardly a headmaster in England who hasn’t dabbled in shares— generally to his loss… Roseveare, however, really was a sort of financier at one time in his career. Oh, quite honest, yes—or at least as honest as a financier can be. He was unlucky, though, in the end—lost all his money and crossed to New Zealand. There he set up as a local doctor in a small town where the schoolmaster’s name was Ellington.”

&n
bsp; “Good Lord—you mean the Ellington who’s here at Oakington now?”

  “Yes. What’s more, when Roseveare became successful and took a practice in a larger town, Ellington soon afterwards followed him there as a schoolmaster. They were obviously very close friends. The only place Ellington didn’t follow Roseveare to was the War. He stayed in New Zealand, where there wasn’t conscription, and became rather unpopular. Later, when Roseveare was appointed to Oakington, Ellington came hopping over from the other side of the world to become a housemaster here. Curious, don’t you think?”

  “Very curious. I say, don’t you think it looks rather like blackmail? Suppose Ellington knew something a little bit discreditable about Roseveare’s past—after all, a man with all those different careers may well have done something or other—”

  “He may, of course, but there’s absolutely not a shadow of evidence.”

  “Well, just for the moment assuming that he had done something a little bit over the line in one way or another—”

  “That’s all very well, but I fail to see what possible connexion it can have with the murder of the boy Marshall. After all, that’s what we’re investigating.”

  Suddenly Revell was attacked, conquered, and completely overwhelmed by an idea. “Yes, I know, and see how it fits in. Do you remember me telling you that the boy came back unexpectedly that night and that very few people knew he was in the dormitory? Roseveare didn’t—at least, I don’t think he did. Well, supposing Roseveare, having been blackmailed by Ellington till he was desperate, had decided to get rid of his oppressor once and for all! He knew that Ellington had to sleep in Marshall’s bed in the dormitory until the boy came back. He didn’t expect the boy back until Monday. Isn’t it just possible, then, that the death of the first Marshall was that somewhat rare combination—a murder AND an accident?”

  Guthrie broke into a gust of laughter. “Now that’s really clever of you, Revell, and if there were only the least little bit of evidence in support of it, I’d say it was worth looking into. Even so, I don’t know how you’d fit in the second affair. What possible motive could the respected Headmaster have had for murdering the second boy?”

  “Exactly.” Revell’s voice was sharp with excitement. “And have I ever suggested that he murdered them both? Mayn’t there just as easily have been two murderers as two murders?”

  “Oh, get away with you—you’re too clever for a poor old honest plodder like me. Besides, I think we’ve done enough theorising for the time being. What we want is facts, and the sooner we set about getting them the better. Now let’s turn back for a final drink before bed-time.”

  Nor would he say another word about the case except, just before they separated, to mention that it might be just as well, in the circumstances, if Revell were to stay on for a time as the guest of Dr. Roseveare.

  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.”