by Bruce, Leo
Copyright © 1949 by Leo Bruce
All rights reserved
This edition published in 2019 by Academy Chicago Publishers
An imprint of Chicago Review Press Incorporated
814 North Franklin Street
Chicago, Illinois 60610
ISBN 978-1-64160-194-8
The Library of Congress has cataloged the previous edition as follows:
Croft-Cooke, Rupert, 1903
Case with ropes and rings
Reprint of the 1975 ed. published by Ian Henry
Publications, Essex, Eng
I. Title.
PZ3.C8742Cast1980[PR6005.R673]823’.91280-36840
ISBN 0-89733-034-X
ISBN 0-89733-035-8 (pbk.)
Cover design: Lindsey Cleworth Schauer
Interior design: Nord Compo
Printed in the United States of America
This digital document has been produced by Nord Compo.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
1
It was nearly three months since Beef had had a case. The Sergeant, who has his pension and his savings, did not seem to worry much about this, but I have to make my living as an investigator’s chronicler, and I was beginning to get anxious.
I had made several attempts to get him a job, but these had been frustrated by a number of circumstances. In the first, a nice little murder up in Shropshire, the wife of the murdered man had explained tartly that even if she did employ an investigator, she would not have the killing of her husband with a meat-chopper made the subject of a novel. Another, a parson in Norfolk, who was having all sorts of trouble in his parish on account of a deluge of anonymous letters, had shaken his head sadly. “The publicity, my dear Sir, the publicity!” And Beef had said that he quite understood his objection. So that it had begun to look as though, in spite of his success in the Circus case, Beef was back to where he began; that was, in the old position in which no one would take him seriously.
He did not fail to complain of this to me.
“It’s the way you write them up,” he said. “If you make a joke of me, how do you expect people to take me on?”
I tried to explain to Beef that it was my interpretation of his performances, an interpretation which I always considered rather witty, which gave our books even the mild success they had achieved.
“So it may of,” said Beef, with such disdain for grammar that my teeth were set on edge. “But it doesn’t get us cases.” And it seemed for the moment that Beef was right.
One morning, however, the familiar voice, rattling my telephone receiver, implored me to come round to Lilac Crescent immediately.
“We’re on to something,” said Beef, “as sure as eggs is eggs.”
Not very confidently, but with the hopefulness that is part of my trade, I got into my car and drove round to the dingy row of houses, defiantly near Baker Street, in which Beef had made his home. In the small front room he pulled out a copy of the Daily Dose without waiting to greet me, and stuck his large forefinger on a column of it.
“There you are,” he announced triumphantly.
I glanced sceptically at the headlines. They announced, with that gleeful emphasis which the popular Press reserves for the misfortunes of the aristocracy, that young Lord Alan Foulkes, second son of the Marquess of Edenbridge, who was being educated at Penshurst School, had been found hanging from a beam in the gymnasium on the morning after he had won the School Heavyweight Boxing Championship.
“What about it?” I asked.
“That’s just the case for me,” said Beef.
“Case? But the poor boy committed suicide,” I pointed out.
“How do you know?” asked Beef.
“Well, I don’t know,” I admitted. “But it seems fairly obvious, doesn’t it?”
“Not to me, it doesn’t,” retorted Beef, and then added, “Penshurst? Isn’t that where your brother is a teacher?”
I was startled. It was quite true that my brother Vincent has been Senior Science Master at Penshurst for some years, but we had never been the best of friends. His description of me, to a girl in whom we were both interested, as “pompous” had not helped to endear him to me, and when he had further written to my mother that “Lionel had better give up writing and return to Insurance, since no one without a sense of humour could hope to make a living by the pen,” I was little short of furious. I know that it is often necessary for me in writing the stories of Beef’s exploits to be a humourless prig, infinitely credulous and stupid, but actually I like to think that behind that façade there is a quick and effective brain which will some day surprise Beef by finding the solution to a problem before he has done more than fill his giant notebook.
My brother, at any rate, grossly underestimated me, and there was no love lost between us. The mere thought of Beef’s getting mixed up in a case with which he was in any way associated alarmed me. I could imagine his cold jeer at my old friend the ex-policeman, and at what would appear to Vincent’s scientific mind as Beef’s fumbling amateurism. I could imagine him saying of me that, even with what he regarded as my mental inadequacy, I deserved better fare than to spend my life chronicling the clumsy buffoonery of the Sergeant, however successful Beef might have happened to be in the cases which he had undertaken. I could imagine, too, Vincent’s distaste for a situation in which his quiet life at Penshurst was disturbed by our arrival.
However, I answered: “Yes, that is the school where my brother is a master, and that makes any suggestion of your going there quite inadmissible.”
“How’s that?” asked Beef with his usual tactlessness. “Couldn’t he get us the job?”
I sighed as patiently as I could.
“In the first place,” I pointed out, “I can’t see that there is a job. In the second place, if there were, I can scarcely think of an investigator less suitable than yourself to undertake it. In the third place, I very much doubt if my brother could do anything. And in the fourth place, I shouldn’t dream of asking him. So that settles the matter.”
“I don’t know,” said Beef. “I don’t know. I’ve always had a fancy for one of these hanging cases. You’re often reading in the papers of young fellows tying themselves up in all sorts of ways and then getting hanged from the banisters. I’d be interested to look into it.”
“Possibly,” I said. “But I very much doubt if the Marquess of Edenbridge would see it quite that way. He, perhaps you’re forgetting, has just lost his son in most tragic circumstances.”
Beef took his pipe out of his mouth.
“Tragic circumstances,” he began sententiously, “have never been sufficient to put off an investigator. They love tragic circumstances, the whole lot of them. Haven’t you ever noticed in detective novels what a good time everybody has with a few tragic circumstances?”
“But you don’t seem to realise, Beef, that this boy came from one of our greatest families. Penshurst is among the oldest a
nd finest of the public schools. You’d be completely out of place in such surroundings.”
“I don’t agree with you at all,” said Beef huffily. “I’ve nothing against a man being a lord. He can’t help it. And as for schools, well, I was educated at Purley Board School. We were always sorry for the young fellows from the Whitgift, who had to wear those silly little coloured caps on their heads. We didn’t half knock them off, either,” he added, grinning.
“I don’t know whether you’re trying to be funny, or you’re more obtuse than usual,” I replied. “Perhaps I should speak plainly. If there’s a case here at all—which I doubt—it’s a case for an investigator who is at the same time a man of the world, a gentleman, and one used to decent society. Lord Simon Plimsoll could probably handle it, but not you, Beef, not you.”
“Now look here,” said Beef truculently. “I’ve had about enough of this. Either you write up my cases or you don’t. This is the chance of a lifetime for me, and I don’t mean to miss it. We’re going to hop in that little car of yours and we’re going straight down to see your brother, and I hope he’s got more sense than what you have.”
“We’re going to do nothing of the sort,” I said angrily.
“You may not be,” rejoined Beef. “But I am, and that’s flat.”
This bludgeoning method of Beef’s always put me in a quandary. Obviously I could not have him arriving at Penshurst School and announcing to my brother that he was a friend of mine who wanted to investigate the suicide of Lord Alan Foulkes. So I tried another line of defence.
“But, Beef,” I said, “what we want is a case which you’re commissioned to handle. There’s no money in solution for solution’s sake. It was all very well with the Circus, because we had to get you back on the map after your failure in the Sydenham case. But this time you want something with fees to it.”
“Exactly,” said Beef. “Exactly. And there should be a nice little fee with this. Lord Edenbridge is one of the richest men in England, and if I was to prove that his son hadn’t committed suicide, wouldn’t he want to show his generosity?”
“It’s a little too far-fetched,” I retorted.
“And talking about fees,” put in Beef impressively, “there’s a thing I’ve been meaning to say for some time. When we do a case like that Circus one, when there’s nothing direct for me in it, I really don’t see why I should not have a cut at the book rights.”
I was taken aback.
“The book rights?” I repeated.
“Yes,” said Beef. “And the American rights, and the serial rights, if there are any, and the film rights, if your agents are ever clever enough to sell them. (I should be all right on the films, and why Gordon Harker hasn’t discovered me years ago as a character for him to play I can’t think.) Anyway, I don’t see why I shouldn’t have my share. I do all the work, don’t I? It’s me as lays my hand on the murderer’s shoulder in the last chapter, isn’t it? Why shouldn’t I be in on the pickings?”
I stared at him aghast.
“Beef,” I said solemnly, “you’re getting beyond yourself.”
“Mind you,” said Beef, “I’m not saying anything about the cases where I do get paid, like in the Sydenham case. But it’s those we do just for the story’s sake. I mean, fair’s fair, isn’t it?”
I did not wish to discuss this monstrous suggestion.
“I shall have to think about it,” I said curtly.
“I should very much like to know what the other investigators would advise,” went on Beef expansively. “You never hardly find them discussing money. How do you suppose Dr. Thorndyke and Amer Picon and them got on? I know Lord Simon Plimsoll has a private income. Do you suppose the rest of them do it for love?”
“I refuse to discuss it any further,” I said, and picked up my hat.
“Well, it doesn’t matter so much in this case,” admitted Beef, “because if I do what I think I can, Lord Edenbridge will look after me.”
“There isn’t going to be a case,” I said hurriedly. “I shouldn’t consider approaching my brother.” Privately I was regretting that I had ever informed Beef of his existence.
“You ought to be glad of it,” the Sergeant persisted. “It’s just what we need, lords and Old Schools and all that. Our cases have been getting quite sordid lately. People like to read about those with money and the goings on of the aristocracy. I’m really only thinking of your book when I suggest it.”
I felt myself beginning to weaken.
“If I were to consent to our calling on my brother,” I suggested nervously, “would you promise to abide by what he said? I mean, if he tells you that it’s impossible, you’ll come back straight to town with me?”
Beef considered for a moment.
“All right,” he said. “If he says it’s orf, I’ll give in.”
I stood up.
“Very well,” I conceded, “I suppose there’s nothing for it. I shall have to take you down to see him.”
Beef grinned.
“That’s right,” he said. “I knew you would be sensible in the end. And just to encourage you, let me tell you this. I’ve got an idea about this case. I may be wrong, mind you, but I believe we’re going to make history. If we’re lucky enough to have the police call this suicide, we’re home. It all depends on the inquest, but you mark my words, Townsend, we’re on to something good.”
“I consider that rather vulgar,” I said, remembering that he was speaking of a tragedy. But I did eventually lead him round to the car.
2
Penshurst School, as half the world knows, stands near the Essex coast in the small town of Gorridge. It is one of the many old schools erroneously attributed to the foundation of King Edward VI. Unlike many similar foundations which have grown to the status of great public schools from a purely local foundation, it has from the start attracted boys from a far wider area than its own. For nearly three centuries it furnished the needs of the local inhabitants, for whom it was primarily intended, while also receiving “commoners,” boys not on the foundation, until the appointment of a Headmaster in 1820, under whose lax discipline and lack of interest the numbers of the school dwindled from nearly two hundred boys to forty, nearly all of whom were local, entitled to free education under the old statutes. His successor, however, a certain William Butler, was a man of different calibre; he was young for a Headmaster in those days, and his energy quickly re-established the school both in numbers and scholarship. At the end of his thirty years’ tenure of office, Penshurst had come to be considered as one of the half-dozen leading public schools.
We arrived at Gorridge about two o’clock that afternoon and made our way straight to the school. I pulled my car into the kerb opposite the main gates, and since I already knew the place well I left Beef to form his impressions himself.
Penshurst School may not possess the beauty of Winchester, but it has a certain charm of its own. The original buildings of the sixteenth century remain untouched, and form a small quadrangle of mellow red brick, leading off from which is the old chapel, now used as a library. To the left are the school buildings proper, which are constructed on utilitarian rather than aesthetic lines. But even they have been toned down by time and do not appear to clash with the old part of the school. The huge hall is a memorial to the efforts of Butler, and it stands isolated, on the east of the main group. At the back of the school are the wide, terraced playing-fields, flanked by scattered buildings, one of which stands out prominently. This is the gymnasium, which was built as a memorial to Old Penshurstians who fell in the Great War. The gymnasium is an unusually well-equipped building, far superior to those usually found in schools, and Penshurstians make full use of it. Of late years the school has had a great boxing tradition, and it is unusual not to find more than two representatives in the Oxford and Cambridge teams. In fact, in 1932 there were no fewer than seven Blues in the two teams who were Penshurstians.
The Chapel is unfortunate. It is certainly impressive in size, and seen fr
om a distance after sunset its proportions are good, but it was built at that unhappy architectural period when Butterfield-worship was at its height. Fifty years have not dimmed its garishness. Most of the boarding-houses are in the town itself, except for the old School House, the Second Master’s House, and two others, which form part of the old block.
“I suppose there’s something to it,” said Beef. “I mean, I don’t say I should want a son of mine to learn his lessons here; it might give him ideas. All the same, you can’t help seeing it’s all right, can you?”
I nodded curtly, for I have always considered the public school system to be an integral part of the great tradition of English superiority to every other race and régime in the entire world.
I then decided to drive round to my brother’s house.
I need scarcely say that this was a very difficult and nervous moment for me. It was several years since I had seen Vincent, and his caustic way of talking both irritated and embarrassed me at all times. I could scarcely bear to wonder what he would say about Beef, and when his servant said that he was in, and showed us into a stuffy, book-lined room, I wished heartily that we were somewhere else.
Vincent entered.
“Well, well,” he said in that mocking voice of his. “My long-lost brother. And how are you, Lionel?”
I coughed, and took his proffered hand.
“How do you do?” I said as politely as possible, and proceeded to introduce Beef.
To my amazement, my brother seemed delighted to meet the Sergeant.
“The Sergeant Beef?” he said. “I’m really honoured now. I’ve been watching your career for years. I would like to tell you straight away and without any reservation that I consider you to be the greatest investigator of our time.”
Now I knew my brother sufficiently well to realise that in spite of all his sarcasm he was speaking with sincerity. Beef himself, of course, was grinning with childish pleasure.
“Thank you, Sir,” he said.
“I speak quite in earnest,” my brother went on. “I read every detective novel that appears. I am intimately cognisant of the work of all the investigators solving crimes to-day, and I have even gone so far as to examine the clumsy efforts of Scotland Yard. But no one, let me tell you, has exhibited such sureness of touch, such incredible astuteness, such feeling for a correct solution as yourself. You are a master, Sir, a master.”
