Was It Murder?

by James Hilton

  “You met someone while you were out, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, yes. I thought your inquiry concerned merely my own movements, or I would have mentioned it. I met Ellington, as a matter of fact.”

  “I see. And that is really all you have to tell me?”

  “Yes. I think it is.”

  “Would you like time to think a little more?”

  Lambourne’s hands twitched nervously as he jerkily shook his head. Guthrie, nevertheless, allowed considerable time to elapse before he spoke again; but he was watching the other continuously. At last, and with a sharpness that was rather like the bark of a dog, he said: “I’m sorry you should think it worth while to lie to me, Mr. Lambourne.”

  “LIE? But I’m—I’m not lying!”

  “YOU ARE!” Again the bark. “You were seen entering the swimming-bath at half-past ten!”

  The effect of this was not quite what Revell had expected. Lambourne did not break down, but by a mighty effort he managed to appear amused. He laughed, even—rather hysterically, it is true—and threw his half- smoked cigarette almost jauntily into the fireplace. “The game’s up, I see,” he remarked, with an air of nonchalance. “You’re a cleverer sleuth than I took you for, Mr. Guthrie. May I ask you how you found out?”

  “No, you mayn’t. You’re here to answer questions, not to ask them. You admit that you were in the swimming-bath at ten-thirty?”

  “I suppose I must.”

  “Did you see Marshall?”

  “Yes, I saw him.” The note of hysteria almost dominated his voice.

  “Then you were probably the last person to see him alive. Do you know that?”

  “Not at all.” Lambourne’s voice rose to a high-pitched declamation. “Oh no, not at all. On the contrary, I was far more probably the second person —counting the murderer—to see him dead. Don’t you believe me? No, of course you don’t—I don’t expect you to—that’s why I never told you or anyone else. And besides… Oh God, what a muddle it all is!” He dropped his head into his hands and began to sob.

  “Calm yourself and let’s have the whole story. You went to the swimming-bath. Why?”

  Lambourne, when he looked up, was again laughing hysterically. “Why did I go? Because, my dear Sherlock Holmes—oh, you’d never guess unless I told you. I went because I wanted a swim!” And his face worked with uncanny merriment.

  Guthrie took no notice. “Go on. You went to the swimming-bath because you fancied a swim. Did you meet anyone on the way?”

  “No.”

  “What happened when you got there?”

  “First of all, I found the door unlocked. That surprised me, to begin with. Then I was surprised again to find that the switches wouldn’t work. But it wasn’t quite dark, so I went through into the main building. I saw then that the bath was empty.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “As I looked down into the empty bath I could see something at one end that showed faintly against the white tiles—some dark heap of something, it looked. I—I climbed down the steps at the end to see what it was—I struck a match—and—and—” He shuddered. “I don’t want to have to describe it—don’t ask me— please don’t ask me! But I’ll tell you this much—the blood was still warm!”

  “Well, go on. What did you do?”

  Lambourne prepared himself for an obvious ordeal. “I’ll tell you,” he cried, “though I know you won’t believe me. I hardly believe myself, when I think of it. I stood perfectly still by the side of the body for about a quarter of an hour and thought things out. And by that time I had come to the conclusion that seems to be fairly generally accepted now—that the affair wasn’t an accident at all, but a murder. More than that, I had made up my own mind as to who had done it. I saw the whole diabolical plot— this second affair as the perfect counterpart of the first one—murder of an amazingly clever and subtle kind. And I decided, at that same moment, to accept the murderer’s challenge, as it were, and do something that would bring his marvellous and intricate scheme to ruin!”

  “Go on,” repeated Guthrie impatiently. “Let’s have less of what you decided and more of what you did.”

  “I’m coming to what I did. My aim was to ruin the accident theory, and —more than that—to incriminate the murderer. The murderer I knew to be Ellington. So I thought out a scheme as neat as his own, and, having thought it out, I put it into operation immediately. I left the swimming-bath and walked over to the sports pavilion. In Ellington’s locker, as I had guessed, there was a cricket-bat. I took it back with me to the bath; I smeared it in the blood that was lying about; and then I left the bath finally, closing, but not of course locking, the door behind me. Last of all, I hid the bat in some bushes near the rifle-range, where I knew it would be found sooner or later.”

  “You provided us, that is to say, with a faked clue?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t it occur to you to come straight to us and tell us the truth about it all?”

  “Because I never thought you’d believe it was murder unless you had a clue of some kind.”

  “Did you have any idea that the boy had been shot?”

  “Not the slightest. My theory was that he had been killed by bashing on the head—that was why I thought of the cricket-bat.”

  “Did you tell anyone of your suspicions about Ellington?”

  “There was—and is still—a young fellow here named Revell who took an interest in the case—I told him.”

  “But no one else?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I—I didn’t want to be—personally—connected with the affair at all. I—I hate inquests and law-courts and all that sort of thing.”

  Guthrie’s face, already hard, appeared to harden. Slowly his cross- examination was becoming keener and more hostile. “Now let’s turn to another aspect of the matter. What were your relations with the boy?”

  “With Marshall? I had hardly any at all. I didn’t tutor him in anything.”

  “I know enough of public-school life to know how little that may count. You were both in School House—you must have been fairly often in contact. How did you get on together?”

  “Fairly well, I think.”

  “Wasn’t there some kind of trouble at the beginning of this Term?”

  “There was a bit of an incident—I should hardly call it ‘trouble’.”

  “Never mind what you’d call it—we’re not here to split hairs. Do you feel inclined to give us your version of the incident or the trouble or whatever name you think it ought to have?”

  “It was really quite a trifling matter. The boy had been speaking of me —rather openly—in a way that tended to undermine my discipline.”

  “And you lost your temper with him?”

  “I’m afraid I did.”

  “You threatened him?”

  “I—I may have done. I lost my temper—and—and when I do that I—I—probably—say things I don’t mean.”

  “Now, Mr. Lambourne, will you tell me—”

  But just then two things took place almost simultaneously. Lambourne, his nerves strained to breaking-point, gave a little cry and plunged forward in a state of collapse, while, at the same moment, the door opened and Mrs. Ellington appeared, halted for a second on the threshold, and then rushed forward.

  She took in the situation with her usual alertness; nor was she doubtful as to whose side she favoured. “Oh, what a shame!” she exclaimed, turning on Guthrie sharply. “I suppose this is what they call the third degree— to bully someone weaker than yourself! You couldn’t try any of your games on my husband, so you thought you’d have better luck with a poor fellow who was shell-shocked in the War and has suffered from neurasthenia ever since! You coward!”

  In any other circumstances Revell would have been amused at such a gallant attack. Yet Guthrie faced it stolidly enough. “I’m sorry you think so hardly of me, Mrs. Ellington,” he said, quite calmly, “but I’m afraid it can’t be
helped. People have to be questioned, you know—especially if they have things to hide. Anyhow, I suppose there’s nothing more can be done just now. Have you any brandy you could get me for him?”

  “If you’ll help him along to my house,” she answered with cold dignity, “I think I can manage all the rest myself. I used to be a nurse, and I’ve helped Mr. Lambourne before when he’s been ill.”

  Lambourne had by this time recovered somewhat, and with Guthrie and Mrs. Ellington on either side, he managed to stagger out of the room.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 7. — THE THIRD OAKINGTON TRAGEDY

  Revell did not see Guthrie again that evening. After the detective had left with Mrs. Ellington and Lambourne, Revell followed the party at a discreet distance and saw them enter Ellington’s house. He rather expected Guthrie would seek him out afterwards, but as time passed he grew tired of pacing about the quadrangle in anticipation. Then, while the school were in evening chapel, he suddenly saw Mrs. Ellington and Lambourne walking over to School House. He could only conclude that Guthrie had gone back to his lodgings in the village—perhaps by the side-door that communicated directly with the lane.

  On the whole, he was not too pleased with Guthrie. He rather inclined to agree with Mrs. Ellington that the cross-examination of Lambourne had been harsh, if not positively cruel. He had to admit, however, that Lambourne’s story in some sense justified it; the man, on his own confession, had lied, suppressed evidence, manufactured false clues—committed almost every crime to rouse the ire of a detective.

  Presumably, of course, it was the cricket-bat that Guthrie’s men had discovered, though Guthrie had not definitely said so. Lambourne’s story exculpated Ellington to that extent, but in other ways it seemed only to strengthen the probability of the housemaster’s guilt. The motive, combined with the missing revolver, certainly made strong evidence. But what had been the make and calibre of Ellington’s revolver, and did it tally with the bullet found in the body? Surely Guthrie must already have pursued such obvious lines of inquiry. The trouble was that the detective, after his first confidential outburst, had seemed to disclose less and less of his routine procedure.

  It was another hot night, and Revell slept badly. Soon after dawn the twittering of the birds awoke him—a sound which ought to have been soothing, but somehow on this occasion missed being so. On the contrary, after a few minutes of it, he was so restless that he got up, had a cold bath, dressed, and went downstairs. Till about seven o’clock he idly read the previous day’s evening papers; then, as the servants began to be heard, he let himself out at the front door into the cool, sunny air of early morning. For several minutes he walked about with aimless vigour, wondering why he didn’t get up as early every morning of his life (though it was quite obvious why not). Soon, however, his meditations were interrupted by the realisation that someone was running towards him and trying to attract his attention. It was Daggat. With hair unkempt and a dressing-gown wrapped round his fat little body, he looked more like a cherub than ever. (Though a cherub would not, Revell decided as the man came nearer, have smelt so aggressively of soap and bath salts.)

  “Thank God somebody’s awake and up!” he cried, panting with excitement. “Revell, the most frightful thing has happened—oh, the most frightful —”

  Here his breath gave way and he leaned limply on Revell’s arm till he recovered. Revell was almost equally astonished and excited. “Good heavens, Daggat—what’s the matter? What on earth’s happened?”

  “It’s—it’s another of these frightful tragedies. There’s a curse laid on the School—I’ve heard people say it before—and I’m beginning to believe it. I was having my morning tub when Brownley came for me. He’d been to Lambourne’s room to call him and couldn’t get an answer. Then when he went in he found—oh, it’s terrible—on top of all these other affairs—”

  “Come on, man, get it out! You mean that Lambourne’s DEAD?”

  “Yes. Died in his sleep apparently. I’ve already sent for Murchiston. I told Brownley to send for the Head, too. No need for anyone else to know just yet. But I’m dashed glad to find you about the place—one feels the need of a pal in an affair like this. Come back with me now to his room, will you?”

  If only Daggat wouldn’t be so provokingly sentimental, Revell thought; but he allowed the man to cling to his arm affectionately during the hurried walk. “It’s pretty awful, Daggat, but you must keep calm about it,” he said. “I wonder—” He was wondering what Guthrie would think about it, but he checked himself in time and merely added: “I wonder how soon the papers will get hold of it. Tremendous sensation, of course. Third tragedy at Oakington —can’t you just picture it all?”

  When they reached the familiar room at the end of the ground-floor corridor, they found Dr. Roseveare already there, partially dressed, and talked in a hushed voice to Brownley, the School House butler. “A terrible business, gentlemen,” he said, in a voice that seemed to Revell the most perfect example of correct and appropriate feeling in the circumstances. Not that he imagined Roseveare to be at all insincere. On the contrary, the bitter anxiety in his face and eyes was only too visible. But it was all done with such perfect technique, and Revell admired technique.

  He moved a little forward and looked at the bed. Lambourne was lying on it quite normally; but for a little extra pallor and curious rigidity of feature, it would not have been hard to think him merely asleep. There was no sign of a struggle or of any suffering before the end. Roseveare seemed to be reading Revell’s thoughts, for he remarked: “A peaceful finish, don’t you think? Poor fellow—one can almost feel glad, in a way. Few people ever knew how much he suffered.” He half-glanced at Brownley, as if he might have said more had not the servant been present.

  But the arrival of Murchiston put an end to such observations. The seventy-year-old doctor, whose house lay just across the road from the School main entrance, had evidently made no delay in answering the summons. Yet even at such short notice he had attired himself in the conventional frock-coat and striped trousers of an earlier generation of practitioners. Carrying his tall hat and gloves, he looked rather grotesque by the side of Daggat and the Head. “Dear me, this is very sad!” he murmured, almost mechanically, as he shuffled into the centre of the little group. Revell felt that Murchiston had arrived at an age when nothing could or would very much surprise him. Nevertheless, he approached the bedside with a briskness rather startling in such an obvious antique, and for several moments gazed steadfastly and without speaking at the dead man. Perhaps he was thinking, Revell speculated; or perhaps he was merely wondering what to think. At length he pulled down the bedclothes and gave the body a businesslike though necessarily perfunctory examination. When he turned round he addressed Roseveare. “Sudden heart attack, I should imagine,” he said. “But I’d better not give it you as a certainty. Have a look yourself if you like.”

  “I had already come to the same opinion, doctor,” replied Roseveare, without moving. “In fact, I should hardly think myself there is any doubt about it. I always understood that the poor fellow was liable to drop dead at any moment.”

  “Yes, but I haven’t been attending him for several months and—and —” Murchiston coughed gruffly and added: “In the ordinary course of things I would have given a certificate, but after recent affairs— with all these damnable insinuations going about—one can’t be overcautious.”

  “Yes, of course. I quite appreciate your position. So you think there will have to be a post-mortem?”

  “If anybody wants to do it. _I_ won’t.”

  Revell could not but feel a certain grudging sympathy with the downright old fellow. The newspapers had been none too kind to him about his evidence at the Marshall inquests, and their innuendoes had evidently stung him pretty deeply. And, after all, as Revell had to admit, who could have expected him to probe the boy’s shattered head in search of a bullet? Anyhow, he was clearly determined not to make any more blunders, and Revell did not blame him
for his attitude.

  While Roseveare was discussing with Murchiston and Brownley the arrangements to be made about the body, Revell, struck with a sudden idea, slipped away from them and hastened to the Head’s house. There, at the study telephone, he rang up the local police-station and asked if a message could be sent to Detective Guthrie. There had been an important development at the School, was all he said, and could the detective come over as quickly as possible? The voice at the other end gave a promise that such a message should be delivered immediately; after which Revell put down the instrument and hurried away to breakfast. Roseveare did not make an appearance, and from the butler’s face Revell knew that the news had already spread.

  A quarter of an hour later he saw the detective’s car entering the drive. He rushed out and in a few short sentences told him what had happened. Guthrie nodded. “All right—thanks for sending for me. Let’s go and see things.” They hastened together into School House.

  Brownley, on guard outside the locked door of Lambourne’s room, barred their admission. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have orders from the Headmaster not to—” he began, but Guthrie cut him short. “You’ll open that door, my man, or you’ll find yourself under arrest,” he snapped, with outrageous exaggeration of his own powers. “I’m a detective and I don’t intend to waste any time over you.” He whipped out his official card with a gesture that Revell had seen before, but only at the cinema. Brownley caved in and admitted them.

  In the little room where Lambourne’s body still lay, Guthrie continued to behave more like a stage or screen detective than Revell would ever have imagined. He pranced about the room, examining books, papers, crockery —anything, it seemed, that came under his roving notice. Revell half-expected him to produce at any moment an insufflator or a magnifying-glass or some other implement of the more sensational modern Sherlock. He did seize a small bottle with evident triumph and put it in his pocket, but Revell, having glanced at it before, had noticed that it contained only aspirin tablets.