by James Hilton
“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.”
Revell waited, and after a few moments heard the School bell ringing for the end of afternoon school. A few seconds later came the sound of heavy footsteps ascending the stairs and marching along the corridor; then the door was suddenly flung open and Ellington in cap and
gown, and with books under his arm, strode into the room.
“Good evening, Mr. Ellington,” said Guthrie instantly.
Ellington stopped sharply as he heard his name spoken. “Hullo!” he barked, seeing the trespasser. Then he added: “I don’t think I know you. What the devil are you doing in my room, anyway?”
“Oh, merely waiting to have a little chat with you, Mr. Ellington.”
“Chat be damned! What I want to know is what right you have to be here!”
“But surely, Mr. Ellington, you don’t object to people waiting in your room when they call on you and you happen to be out, do you?”
“It’s not that. It’s—it’s—the circumstances. I suppose you’re the detective that’s been prowling about here lately?”
“Yes, you’ve guessed it.”
Ellington raised his eyes to the ceiling as if in mute protest to the powers above. “All I can say,” he retorted, at length, “is that if _I_ were Head _I_ wouldn’t put up with you interfering with the whole routine of the School in this infernal way! It’s scandalous, and I’ve told the Head so! There seems to be a conspiracy on the part of officialdom to ruin the School altogether!”
“Now that’s an interesting idea, Mr. Ellington,” said Guthrie, with exquisite blandness. “I wonder if there could possibly be anything in it? The Home Secretary, shall we say, murders a boy in order that the resulting hullabaloo shall make Oakington a less dangerous rival of Eton and Harrow! By Jove, I don’t think the idea had ever struck me before!”
“It’s no joking matter, I should think.”
“You’re quite right. It isn’t.” Guthrie’s voice became suddenly serious. “Look here, Mr. Ellington, I’m only the servant of authority—I have to do these things. There’s been a murder committed—it’s my job to investigate it. Don’t you see?”
“I don’t see, because in the first place I don’t agree that there HAS been a murder committed,” retorted Ellington, but his manner was certainly a shade less truculent. He went on: “Ever since Robert’s accident last year there’s been a positive epidemic of unpleasant rumours going about the School. No proof, no evidence—merely suspicion, insinuation, and scandal. I’ve done my best to trace it all to its source, but without success. Now comes the second affair, and I find the Home Office and police taking all these ugly rumours for evidence and framing a murder theory quite vaguely and off-hand, without the slightest foundation that would stand up in a court of law—”
“I’m afraid the murder is a little more than a theory by now, Mr. Ellington. You know, of course, that a bullet was discovered in the boy’s head.”
“So I understand. But I still say that to deduce murder from such evidence is the most fatuous thing I ever heard of! Who would or could have shot the boy? On the one hand you have absolutely no reason at all why the boy could have been murdered, and on the other hand you have a very likely reason why the boy could have taken his own life!”
“Really?” Guthrie leaned forward with as much interest as if the idea were absolutely new to him. “Yet another theory, Mr. Ellington? Come now, you must give us details.”
And Ellington proceeded, with a fluency rather unexpected in a man of his type, to outline the identical theory that Roseveare had previously outlined to Revell, and that the latter had recapitulated for Guthrie’s benefit. Guthrie listened with every appearance of respectful attention and nodded gravely when Ellington had finished. “A highly ingenious theory, Mr. Ellington,” he commented. “Is it impertinent to ask if you thought of it yourself?”
Ellington looked for a moment on the edge of a complete explosion of temper. Guthrie continued: “I’m really not meaning to be offensive at all. Only I happen to know that Dr. Roseveare has given his support to the same theory, and I should like to know whether he suggested it to you or you to him. It doesn’t very much matter, of course.”
“It was his idea, first of all,” said Ellington gruffly, after a pause. “I’m not the sort of person who could have thought of such a thing, and I won’t pretend I am. But I do entirely endorse it—every word of it.”
“Quite,” agreed Guthrie. “And thanks for being so confidential. You really are helping me tremendously… By the way, I understand you missed a revolver of yours quite recently?”
“Yes.” Ellington’s face went a little pale, though he had obviously been prepared for the question.
“I wish you’d tell me how it happened.”
“I missed it yesterday—I opened the drawer where it usually was and found it gone. The drawer was unlocked—I’m afraid that must have been due to my own slackness some time or other, but I can’t remember when.”
“When did you last see your revolver?”
“Months ago—perhaps six months. I keep it in the bottom drawer of an old bureau along with a lot of old examination papers. I just happened to want to refer to them yesterday—otherwise I might not have missed the thing at all. It’s no use here, of course.”
“Was it loaded?”
“No, but there were cartridges in the drawer along with it.”
“Were any of these missing?”
“I really couldn’t say. I can’t remember exactly how many there were to begin with.”
Guthrie nodded as if in complete satisfaction and understanding. After a pause he continued: “Oh, by the way, Mr. Ellington, you don’t happen to have missed anything else lately, do you? Not a weapon—but just— well, anything?”
Ellington seemed puzzled. “No—at least, I don’t think I have. Why?”
“Oh, I only wondered. I thought perhaps you might have lost, say, a cricket-bat.”
“A cricket-bat?” A curious look of astonishment came into his eyes. “That’s really very extraordinary, you know. For I believe I have lost one —now you come to remind me of it. I was looking for it in the sports pavilion the other day, though of course I didn’t bother very much when I couldn’t find it—I had too many other things to think about. And besides, I wasn’t sure if I hadn’t put it somewhere else.”
“You have a locker in the pavilion, I suppose?”
“Yes, but I’m afraid it’s a locker that doesn’t lock.” A touch of his earlier and perhaps more normal truculence returned to him. “People here borrow one’s possessions in a most disgraceful way—it’s quite possible that one of the boys took my bat and has it still. I’ll make inquiries, if you like.”
“Oh no, I wouldn’t bother.”
The truculence blazed up suddenly. “Indeed I shall! I have a right to investigate the loss of my own property, surely? Ah, but I see… are you suggesting that the cricket-bat and the revolver are connected in any way?”
“My dear Mr. Ellington, I’m suggesting nothing at all. But I really am most grateful to you for answering my questions, and before you go there’s only one other thing I want to say. And that is, do you mind if I stay here for half an hour or so and talk to someone else whom I have asked to meet me here?”
“Stay here as long as you like,” said Ellington. “I can’t stop you, can I?” He took up his cap and gown and made towards the door.
“I’m afraid, if it comes to the point, you can’t,” Guthrie called after him through the already opening door. “But I always like to be polite whenever I can, that’s all.”
Some seconds after Ellington’s footsteps had ceased to echo down the corridor and staircase, Revell cautiously peered round the edge of the partition. Guthrie was relighting his pipe and grinning. “What an unfortunate man, Revell!” he exclaimed. “And still more, what an unfortunate manner! Do you think I ought to have arrested him?”
“It depends whether you think him guilty. Do you?”
“Well, there’s rather a good deal against him, you know. Motive, of course, to begin with. And then the missing revolver.”
“He gave us that information himself, remember.”
“Oh yes. But not until Roseveare had told him that my men had found something. He may have thought it good tactics to come forward
with a voluntary statement. As it happens, what my men found wasn’t the revolver, so our friend Ellington has thoughtfully made us a free gift of valuable evidence.”
“It wasn’t the revolver?”
“‘Fraid not.”
“I suppose you’re waiting for me to ask again what it really was.”
“Not at all. And in any case, I don’t propose to tell you—not yet, anyhow. Perhaps it won’t be long before you find out, though.”
Conversation soon wilted under the strain of the detective’s irritatingly vague responses, and for the final ten minutes before the arrival of the second visitor Revell and Guthrie hardly spoke at all. At last came the sound of slower, quieter footsteps along the outside corridor; the door opened cautiously; and Lambourne entered.
His face was exceedingly pale, Revell noticed; he was obviously very nervous. “You wished to see me?” he began, approaching Guthrie.
“Yes, that’s right, Mr. Lambourne. Please sit down. I’m glad it wasn’t inconvenient for you to come at this hour.”
“Oh no, I managed it all right.”
“Good. Smoke if you care to.”
Lambourne sat in the easy-chair facing Guthrie and quakingly lit a cigarette. Guthrie did not speak for at least a minute; then, with a manner very much more direct than he had adopted with Ellington, he plunged straight into the midst of things. “I would like you, Mr. Lambourne,” he said, quietly, “to tell me exactly where you were and what you were doing between the hours of eight-thirty P.M. and two A.M. on the night of Wilbraham Marshall’s murder. I choose eight-thirty as a beginning, because I know that until then you were taking preparation in the Hall. Now tell me just what happened after that.”
Lambourne inhaled vigorously before replying, as if struggling for some sort of control over himself. “I think,” he answered, at length, “I was in my study most of the time until midnight. It was terribly hot—the hottest night of the year, I believe. I knew I should have difficulty in sleeping, so about midnight or so I thought I would go for a walk outside —I have often found that a good way of bringing on drowsiness. I therefore went out, took a stroll round the Ring, and came back. I might have been out perhaps a quarter of an hour altogether. Then I went to bed and fell asleep fairly quickly—probably long before two A.M. That’s about all I can tell you, I think.”
