by Bruce, Leo
Beef, like a schoolboy receiving a prize from the hands of one of the Governors, stood first on one leg and then on the other.
“I’m sure it’s very good of you to say so,” he returned.
“Of course,” went on my brother, in his maddening cold voice, “I don’t know that you have found quite the right chronicler. My brother Lionel is, no doubt, an excellent penman, but when it comes to genius such as yours, Sergeant, you need a light touch and a real gift for writing prose. You should have approached E. M. Forster or Aldous Huxley, my dear Sergeant. Only novelists of their calibre could really do you justice.”
I saw that Beef, his vanity swelling ridiculously, was agreeing with him.
“Yes, I’ve often said . . .” he began, but I interrupted.
“Nonsense,” I said. “What you both seem to have overlooked is that from an obscure police sergeant in a country town I’ve raised Beef to the status of a famous investigator. I have made Beef,” I snapped decisively.
The two of them exchanged glances.
“My dear Lionel,” said my brother, “genius like that of the Sergeant needs no bush. And now what can I do for you?”
Beef, of course, began clumsily to assert himself.
“It’s about this young fellow that was found hanged in your gym yesterday morning.”
My brother nodded with decided interest.
“Yes,” he said. “Young Alan Foulkes.”
“It looks interesting to me,” announced Beef.
“It is interesting,” said my brother. “But I don’t know whether it’s interesting enough for you, Sergeant.”
“Well, that’s what I’m wondering,” returned Beef conceitedly. “How do you think they would take it if I was to show my hand in this matter?”
“Well, of course,” my brother surprised me by saying, “we should all be honoured. I have no doubt that the Headmaster will appreciate it profoundly.”
“Ah,” said Beef, nodding, “but what about Lord Edenbridge?”
“Lord Edenbridge is here this afternoon,” Vincent went on. “I think perhaps the best thing I can do is to go over to the Headmaster’s house and explain that you are considering taking the case up.”
I did not know what to think at finding Beef treated in this respectful way. It would have been gratifying had it not been for my brother’s attitude towards my own literary efforts.
Vincent rose, went to a cupboard, and produced, rather rashly, I felt, a decanter, siphon, and three glasses. Had he known the Sergeant as I did he would have delayed this until the evening, but he poured out three generous portions. Vincent and I drank in silence; Beef made loud smacking noises with his lips in appreciation of what he had been given.
“Came in just right, this,” he exclaimed.
“I’ll go and see the Headmaster. You two make yourselves at home. And take another drink when you’re ready for it.”
When we were left together, Beef summed up my brother’s attitude with one of his ambiguities.
“Just shows,” he said, “doesn’t it?” And he reached out for the decanter.
“Do you really think you ought to?” I enquired. “We have to interview the Headmaster, and perhaps Lord Edenbridge as well.”
“You leave it to me,” advised Beef. “I know what’s best.” And he poured out, as I thought, recklessly.
We had sat silently for perhaps ten minutes when Vincent returned.
“The Headmaster is most interested,” he announced. “Lord Edenbridge is with him now, and I do hope you will take the case, Sergeant.”
“If it’s given to you,” I added.
He then led us out into the quad.
A number of boys were lounging about and saw us walking across. I could not help wondering what sort of a figure I would cut in this procession, and when I heard a young voice remark, “Definitely not Old Penshurstians,” I could have wished that the Sergeant was less conspicuous. His bowler hat seemed to me to be the cynosure of the boys’ glances. But Vincent was leading us into the Headmaster’s reception-room.
The Rev. Horatius Knox rose to greet us. He was a tall, handsome man in the late fifties. His hair was a thick, bright silver, and he had a fine, aquiline profile. There seemed to me to be great goodness and gentleness in his face, but I wondered whether he had quite the worldliness necessary for his difficult job. Looking at him, you would have said that he was a saint rather than a great administrator.
His face just now was lined and unhappy, and I felt that here was someone who was feeling the tragedy profoundly. I knew that for this man it must have a double horror, the loss of a young life, and an inevitable scar on the good name of the school. But just now, sitting as he had been with the bereaved father, it was the humanist in him whose emotions were most roused.
“I’ll introduce you both to Lord Edenbridge,” he said in a low voice, and led us down the length of his dignified room.
At the end of this march down an endless carpet, he brought us to a man who had been sitting in a deep armchair, who rose to greet us. I examined Lord Edenbridge with some care. He was a tall, powerfully built man of about sixty, well dressed, though not with precision. He was good-looking in a heavy way, with steel-blue eyes set under a pair of prominent eyebrows. But it was his expression which struck me at once. This was completely immobile and one could not help wondering how emotion could be shown on such a lifeless mask of a face.
“This,” explained the Headmaster, “is Mr. Beef. I understand from my Senior Science Master that he is one of the ablest private detectives at present engaged in the investigation of crime. And this is Mr. Townsend, his secretary and assistant.”
The Marquess bowed gravely as a Marquess should, and I was pleased to see that he was conforming so nicely to type. Though I had not admitted it to Beef, I felt that there was some truth in his suggestion that a few distinguished people and large incomes in one of our books would not be a bad thing at all, and if anything was going to come of this, it would be “handy” (in one of Beef’s own words) to have such an obviously genuine nobleman figuring in it.
“Very sorry to hear about your youngster,” said Beef gruffly.
Lord Edenbridge gave no sign of having heard. His face remained quite mask-like, and I began to hope that I would be able to apply the term “Spartan” to his character. I always feel that it goes well with our House of Lords.
But Beef had not finished his clumsiness yet.
“It wasn’t suicide,” he said suddenly.
I noticed that both the Headmaster and Lord Edenbridge looked up suddenly at this, and when Horatius Knox spoke it was with a chill in his voice.
“Really? And what makes you state that so confidently? The police hold a contrary opinion.”
“I have my reasons,” said Beef.
I felt as I heard him say that how hopelessly out of place was my old friend in these surroundings. Such a reply might have satisfied me or one of the ordinary people concerned in Beef’s other cases, but was calculated to do no more than irritate the Headmaster of Penshurst. My brother, however, rashly put in his spoke.
“You know, Sir, detectives are like doctors. They like to keep their secrets to themselves, and Sergeant Beef assuredly has good reasons for thinking as he does.”
I felt that I should say my word in defence of the Sergeant. “In spite of his appearance, he really has,” I said, “a way of solving these cases.”
Horatius Knox coughed, and clutched the lapels of his coat, then tugged them up and down two or three times. As I watched him, I guessed that this was an idiosyncrasy of his, and I imagined that every small boy in the school who wished to imitate the Headmaster would make this the first step in doing so. At that moment, to everyone’s surprise, Lord Edenbridge’s expression relaxed sufficiently for him to speak.
“Will you undertake to clear my son of the stigma of suicide?” he asked.
“Can’t make no promises,” returned Beef, shaking his head. “But I think it’s odds on.”
I tried to nudge him to make him realise that this was no way to address a distinguished man who had just lost his son. But Beef was uncontrollable.
“I should like to have a go at it, anyway,” he persisted.
“That satisfies me,” was all that the Marquess said, and his face at once relapsed into immobility. What, I wonder, was going on behind those steel-grey eyes? Perhaps there was such grief as an ordinary man like me could never imagine. Perhaps there was great bitterness against the world. Perhaps . . . But we shall never know.
Meanwhile I snatched the opportunity of examining the sanctum of one of our great Headmasters. Not since I was a boy at St. Lawrence College, Ramsgate, had I entered such a place, and then it was on no very happy occasion. The high-pitched ceiling, crossed by massive oak beams, was discoloured with the tobacco smoke of years. The desk was a litter of papers, and books were piled on the floor in a hopeless jumble. The entire walls were lined with bookcases, and the shelves were filled with books of all sorts and sizes, placed there at random, and with no regard for order or subject. No attempt had been made to relieve the heaviness of the room, and the windows did not appear to have been opened for months. It was easy to imagine that in this room had been conceived monuments of classical erudition which would eventually be found in studies similar to this, and the man seemed to be in keeping with the room.
I had already judged this Headmaster to be a man of most distinguished mind and character. Beef, however, seemed to think otherwise, for his manner of speaking to Mr. Knox lacked the elements of courtesy and respect.
“Putting me on to it is one thing,” he said. “Helping me to get at the truth is another. Now, can you suggest any way of introducing me to the life of the school in a manner which won’t attract attention?”
We all gazed rather forlornly at the burly figure of the Sergeant, and seeing that his merely crossing the quad had called forth remarks from the junior boys, it scarcely seemed likely that he could become an integral part of the life of Penshurst without producing a sensation in the school.
My brother, however, once again stepped forward.
“If I might suggest it, Headmaster, Danvers is on the sick list. Perhaps Mr. Beef could take his place for a day or two? Danvers,” he added to Lord Edenbridge and me, “is the School Porter.”
Horatius Knox tugged violently at his lapels, and seemed to be addressing Lord Edenbridge more than anyone.
“A great deal of the efficiency of Penshurst School,” he said, “depends on the School Porter. It needs a man of experience, tact, and unfailing punctuality. If Mr. Beef has these qualities in addition to his gifts as a distinguished detective, I am quite prepared to allow him to fill the post while he is making his enquiries.”
“What do I have to do?” asked Beef bluntly.
The Headmaster waved this away as a matter too trivial for his attention.
“That will be explained to you,” he said. “You must in any case be fitted immediately with a porter’s uniform.”
We stood up, and after Beef had made an abortive and unsuccessful attempt to shake hands with Lord Edenbridge, who neither moved nor spoke, we managed to get ourselves out of the room.
3
“It strikes me,” said Sergeant Beef to my brother when we three had returned to his little house, “as you would be a gentleman who would be able to give me the outlines of this pretty clear.”
My brother smiled.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I flatter myself that my reading of the classics of modern detection has not been wasted. I find, unfortunately, that I have no flair for elucidation. But facts, ah, yes; I can give you facts.”
Out came Beef’s notebook at once.
“Let’s have them, then.”
“First of all,” began Vincent, leaning back in his chair, and bringing his finger-tips together like a parson considering the difficulties of a churchwarden, “I had better tell you something about the family from which the boy came. Lord Edenbridge is the eighth Marquess, and for two centuries at least the family has been extremely wealthy. Lord Edenbridge, as you have seen, is a man of frigid disposition. He lost his wife some years ago, and has never spoken in the House of Lords since. He still rides to hounds, however, and is Master of the Grathurst. His main interest in life has always been the welfare of his two sons and his horses. He won the Grand National three years ago, and his Tobermory is reputed to have a good chance for the Derby.
“We’ve had both his boys here; Lord Hadlow, the elder, left six years ago, and I must say that it was rather a relief to everyone. He was a most charming lad, but he richly earned the adjective traditionally applied to noblemen in their youth—he was ‘wild.’ There are legends of him which persist to this day. We never seemed able, however, to pin anything on him. He was supposed to break out of the school and go up to night clubs in London, returning in time for chapel the next morning. He was credited with having won and lost large sums on horses, and at one time with having an affair with a well-known actress, whose name escapes me at the moment. Despite his apparently wild life—drinking was one of his vices—he was, like his brother, an outstanding athlete, and at the same time he managed to do just sufficient work to avoid detection. Since then, I gather, he has given his father a good deal of trouble. He has had difficulties with moneylenders, one of whom came into Court. A man named Steinberg had lent him a hundred pounds while he was still a minor, at a rate of interest which would have shocked a usurers’ conference, and when Lord Edenbridge heard of it he took action, and the man lost his licence. I tell you this to give you an idea of the sort of story about Hadlow which has reached us down here at Penshurst.”
Beef nodded.
“I know the kind,” he said. “I remember old Murdock, who kept the ‘Green Dragon’ when I was a constable years ago. He had a son who done the same thing. He got through about £70 or £80 of the old man’s money before they realised where it was going at week-ends. Still, you go on with your story.”
“Alan had been here about four years, and it would be no exaggeration to say that he was one of the most popular boys we have ever had. His disposition was charming, irresponsible, and generous. He was an extremely handsome boy, and a magnificent athlete. Boxing was, perhaps, his chief love, but he seemed to excel at all other sports without taking very much trouble about them. He was in both the cricket and football teams, a brilliant rather than a sound player, and had been Victor Ludorum in the Sports for the last two years. You may remember that he won the Hurdles at the Public School Sports at the White City last April. Perhaps he had faults. They were those that might be expected in a young man of his temperament and disposition. He was something of an enfant gâté, with a suggestion of petulance and wilfulness, but without any real egotism or malice. In a word, a popular school hero such as has been described by Vachell in The Hill, and by Austin Harrison in Lifting Mist.
“He had one great friend, a boy called Felix Caspar, son of the great Harley Street specialist, whose name, no doubt, you know. Caspar contrasted with young Foulkes. He was one of our most brilliant classical scholars, and had already won a scholarship at Balliol, where he will go next October. As you know, I’m myself a science man, and think that the study of the minor lyric poets of Rome in its more decadent days, and droning labours over the commonplace adventures of Odysseus, are grossly overdone. Whether this is so or not, young Caspar excelled in these things, and a remarkable career was predicted for him.
“The two boys spent most of their time together, and since each was pre-eminent in his own world and not in that of the other, there was no disagreeable jealousy between them, and they seemed to appreciate one another’s qualities in a way that is not often given to boys of their years.”
I was watching Beef at work with his pencil and notebook. He did not look up from his task, to him no light one, of making his illiterate notes keep pace with my brother’s circuitous narrative. Personally, I could not help wondering why Vincent should think it necessary
to go into all these trivial details of school and friendship, but I remembered that he had always liked the sound of his own irritating voice.
He continued.
“There are two other people whom I must introduce to your attention,” he said, “and I speak now not as a master at Penshurst, but as one assisting in an investigation so important that it transcends questions of loyalty and convention. One is the young man who was Foulkes’ rival for the school Heavyweight Boxing Championship, the other his Housemaster. The boy, whom, as you will have heard, he eventually beat, was called Barricharan, and is the son of a fabulously rich merchant, an Indian. You will have, of course, an interview with him later and form your own conclusions about him, but as a matter of mere fact I must tell you that he was Foulkes’ rival in more than this particular championship. In appearance the two made an astonishing contrast; they were of exactly the same height, and both were extremely well-built, though perhaps the Indian was of more perfectly classical proportions. However, as Barricharan was black and brown, Alan was flaxen and pink; as Barricharan was dour and aquiline, Alan was broad-faced with a happy grin. They were rivals in every form of sport. Both were excellent boxers, as you know, and Barricharan was runner-up to Foulkes in the Victor Ludorum in athletics. We anticipated a close contest between them for the individual batting cup this term, while in rackets there was little to choose between them. But it must be added that this rivalry had never given rise to any kind of incident. It seemed, on the contrary, to be entirely good-natured. The two boys were not together a great deal, but no one remembered an ugly disagreement between them.
“The Housemaster . . . (I must be quite frank with you over this, and forget that I am speaking of a colleague), Herbert Jones, has been one of the misfortunes of Penshurst, and it is no secret that he has been asked to resign by the Headmaster. He is due to leave us at the end of this term, and you will, I am sure, congratulate me when I tell you that I am to have his house.”
