by Bruce, Leo
Beef interrupted.
“Why, what’s the matter with this one?” he asked.
My brother, patiently, with much detail, explained to Beef the privileges of being a Housemaster.
“Oh, I see,” said Beef, nodding. “Is that how you do it? Sort of seaside landlady, eh? I suppose there’s quite a lot of money in it?”
Vincent coughed.
“I believe that it is possible to produce a small credit margin,” he admitted. “But, of course, the welfare of the boys comes first.”
“Still,” said Beef, “catering’s all right if you know how to handle it. I’ve often thought I’d like a little Free House somewhere where we could do dinners, teas, suppers and that. Where you’ve got your customers there for a certain eight months in the year and can reckon out ahead what you need of everything, it ought to be a good business. I’m very glad they’ve given you one of the houses, and I hope you do well with it.”
Vincent smiled.
“But I was telling you about Herbert Jones.”
“Ah, yes,” said Beef. “Herbert Jones. What was the trouble, drink?”
“I’m afraid so,” said my brother. “But there were other things as well. A most unsteady person. He is Modern Language Master here, but there have been stories in the school for years now of his association with disreputable women in neighbouring districts, and on more than one occasion I believe the prefects in his house have had to carry him up and put him to bed in a state of hopeless intoxication. What brought matters to a head, however, was an incident last term, when Jones, returning to his house half drunk, lost his temper with a small boy, and struck him without any real reason across the side of the head. Young Alan Foulkes led a deputation to the Headmaster, and explained that for the good of the school they wished to give him certain details of Herbert Jones’ conduct. It was on the strength of this that the Headmaster took action. Mr. Knox, you will perhaps have noticed, is a somewhat unworldly man, a great scholar and a great gentleman, but not perhaps a great administrator, because he has such faith in the goodness of everybody that he finds it hard to see the minor evils going on under his nose. A saint himself, he assumes the saintliness of others, and it must have been a terrible shock to him when these boys arrived with the story they had to tell.
“Jones, you see, was more than one of our Housemasters. He was, in theory, at any rate, a part of the Penshurstian tradition. His father had been a Housemaster here, and Jones had come down straight from the University to be an assistant master. He was, though you would not think it to look at him, one of the best fast bowlers the school has ever produced. He got his Blue at Cambridge, and played for England against the Australians in 1906. If you follow the annals of cricket you will remember his 7 for 46 against them in the last innings of the Test match at Lord’s. This made it more hard than ever for the Headmaster to realise that he was dealing with a degenerate drunk, a man more suited to teach at Narkover than at Penshurst. There has even been some doubt expressed lately of Jones’ sanity, and his eyes have certainly an odd look in them. All this, of course, you will see for yourself.
“You can imagine that after young Alan Foulkes had made these representations to the Headmaster his position with Jones was a difficult one. He was Head of Jones’ house, and therefore often in contact with his Housemaster. And the school was full of stories of the hostility between them. Alan seemed to bear no grudge, but Jones was for ever attempting to humiliate the boy in front of his fellows, and more than once succeeded in doing so. His hatred of Foulkes might almost be described as insane, a hatred incidentally which was to some extent shared by his wife. There you have the situation up to the evening of the school boxing championships.”
Once again my brother cleared his throat like someone picking at a tight wire.
“Ve-ry interesting,” said Beef, “ve-ry interesting. You certainly have a clear way of putting the facts forward.” He glanced rudely across at me.
“This boxing championship,” Vincent resumed, “was a great event. Penshurst has always been a boxing school. We take it much more seriously than most places. We have had most of the best-known champions down here to give exhibitions, and it would be no exaggeration to say that the Heavyweight Champion of the School is a bigger noise among the boys than the Captain of Cricket. The championship is normally held at the end of the Lent term, but we had a measles epidemic last March which disorganised everything, and the fights had been postponed. There was nothing to choose between young Foulkes and Barricharan, though some critics among the boys used to say that Foulkes had more stamina. I don’t know a great deal about boxing, but I do gather that they were most equally matched.
“The minor fights went off without incident. There were some very good scraps among the lighter weights, and Whitehead, the games master, who was the referee, has told me since that the school has never reached a higher standard. The first two rounds of the Foulkes-Barricharan fight were terrific. There were good boxing and hard hitting. Each took punishment, but neither went down. Then suddenly, in the third round, a most unexpected thing happened. Barricharan hit low, and was at once disqualified by Whitehead, so that Foulkes automatically became champion. But it wasn’t quite as simple as that. Alan himself, though in great pain, protested that he had not been hit low, and the general opinion in the gymnasium was that if it were a foul it was in no way deliberate. However, Whitehead was satisfied, and the decision was given. Barricharan appeared to take it quite well. He congratulated Foulkes and if he did not do so effusively, it must be remembered that he was not an effusive person. They shook hands, and Alan seemed very distressed that he had won the championship in this inconclusive and unsatisfactory way.
“The routine of the school continued as usual that evening. The boys did their preparation and went to bed. I myself had some papers to correct and brought them over here at about nine o’clock. I settled down to work and went to bed at eleven o’clock. Nothing abnormal about the movements of anybody for the rest of the evening has been discovered. Next morning, however, Foulkes’ cubicle was found to be empty. Felix Caspar, who made the discovery, appears to have thought that Alan had slipped up to London, come in by an early train, and would be in time for Chapel, so that he made no report. It transpires that young Hadlow had come down to see the boxing, driving his own car, a very old Bentley, in which he did some remarkable speeds. I gather that Caspar seems to have imagined that Alan had accompanied Hadlow to London in it.
“It was a man named Stringer who made the discovery. It was his duty to sweep out the gymnasium. He should have been there at seven, but for some reason which he has not explained he was late. He went in at eight-thirty and found young Foulkes hanging from a beam.
“There were several curious features about this, however. First of all, he was wearing boxing kit, one of his black boxing boots was on and laced up, the other was not. The rope which had been used was one of the ropes from the rings which had been taken down the previous evening, and there was an overturned chair which, if it was suicide, he had certainly used. The gymnasium was locked, and no door had been forced, or window broken, but as young Foulkes was known to have a key by special permission of the gym instructor it was not remarkable that he should have entered. The rest of the details you will doubtless gather for yourself. So far as any of us here can possibly imagine there was no conceivable reason for suicide. The boy was immensely happy, and as far as we know had no worries at all. On the other hand, it is equally hard to imagine that anyone could have a motive for murdering him. However, all that is for you to discover.”
Beef closed his notebook.
“Well,” he said, “I think I’ve got that clear. Now what about this porter’s job?”
Vincent smiled.
“I think you will find it a little exacting,” he said. “The uniform is a traditional one. You wear a silk hat with gold braid on it, a yellow and black waistcoat, and a coat with gilt buttons.”
At this point I laughed loudly, an
d Beef turned round to me.
“Whatever’s the matter?” he said.
I looked across at my brother.
“I may have no sense of humour,” I said, “but I can’t help finding the thought of Beef dressed up in this gear which you describe something supremely ridiculous!” And I laughed again, defiantly this time, and in despite of their solemn faces.
“I don’t see why,” said Beef. “There’s worse things worn outside cinemas. If it’s an old custom of the school, well, we must follow it, that’s all. I believe in old customs.”
“Don’t you think that the boys will laugh at you?” I asked.
“If they do, they’ll feel the weight of my hand,” promised Beef with futile emphasis.
Vincent went on to explain what Beef’s other duties would be—the ringing of the electric bell which sounds in every corner of the building and marks the beginning and end of school periods, the taking round during class of the Headmaster’s notices to be read out by each master to the boys he is teaching, and the supervision of the locking of the classrooms. He then offered to take Beef across and show him the Porter’s Lodge which would be in future his headquarters. This turned out to be a cosy little room inside the main arch, where a fire was burning, and an enormous key-rack showed a great diversity of polished steel keys.
Beef gazed about him with some satisfaction.
“Nice wall for a dart board,” he commented, and proceeded to try on the ornate top-hat which hung there. It fitted him perfectly, and he stood for a moment examining his large face. He stared at his straggling ginger moustache, his rather liquid blue eyes, and his highly coloured nose with evident satisfaction.
“Well,” he said, “I never thought that I should ever be taking on a job like this. But there you are, you never know,” and he sat down heavily on the porter’s chair.
When Vincent had left us, I thought it my duty to show some disapproval of his levity.
“You know, Beef,” I said, “you seem to show very little appreciation of the fact that a promising young boy has lost his life.”
He stared up at me with innocent surprise.
“I don’t?” he said. “You don’t know me, that’s all. I was very sorry to hear about the young fellow. As soon as I read it in the papers this morning, I said to Mrs. Beef—‘It’s a shame,’ I said, ‘that’s what it is.’ With his whole life before him. And if I can do anything to make it easier for his Dad, I shall do it. You mustn’t run away with the idea that I’m heartless, because I have to dress up to do my job. It’s a serious matter this, and I’m the last to forget it.”
He spoke so earnestly that I was genuinely impressed.
“All right, Beef,” I said. “You get at the truth, and I won’t grumble at your methods.”
4
I was to stay at my brother’s house, an arrangement which did not altogether suit my taste. On the very first morning at breakfast he began to make invidious comparisons between his life and mine, ending up by saying that he supposed the precariousness of a writer’s life was in my case counterbalanced by a small annuity which had been left me by an aunt, whose favourite nephew I was. This annuity had already caused considerable bitterness and jealousy on my brother’s part, for he failed to realise that having sneered at the Victorian furniture in her house, and told her to her face that the playing of a small harmonium which she kept in her drawing-room was “disastrous,” he was scarcely likely to benefit from her generosity.
He proceeded then to congratulate me on my discovery of Beef, which I thought a very back-handed compliment.
“You really have got something there,” he said. “That old policeman’s a genius in his way. His scope is limited, of course; he would be no good in some great international espionage case, but for commonplace murders and so on he’s excellent.”
“I am interested in the fact that you find it necessary to tell me this,” I retorted curtly.
“My dear Lionel,” my brother replied, “it seems only too necessary to tell you. However, when your friend has unravelled this mystery, perhaps you will have more faith in him. We must now go over to school.”
My first impression of Beef in the Porter’s Lodge was an unfortunate one. Dressed in the garish costume which, we had been told, was the traditional one for his office, he was standing in the doorway looking so self-conscious that he might have been posing for a photograph, while several mildly interested boys stood round with their hands in their pockets.
“I wonder what it’s called?” I heard one boy say to another.
“I don’t know. Looks a boozer to me,” replied his friend, moving away as though bored.
I approached the Sergeant.
“Better say your name’s Briggs,” I told him in an undertone. “Some of them have probably read my books, which would give the whole game away.”
“Shouldn’t hardly think it’s likely,” sniffed Beef. “They don’t sell enough to get down here, and boys like something exciting.”
He was watching the clock above his head studiously, and when it had reached the hour he moved hurriedly across to the button of the school bell. I saw his wide thumbnail whiten with the energy he put into the ringing of this. It was the first time that he had done it, and it was evident that he enjoyed the sense of authority it gave him.
He seemed to do fairly well during the early part of that morning, for as I walked about the school I noticed classes changing regularly at their appointed times. But after the Eleven O’clock Break there appeared to be some confusion. Small groups of boys hung about with furtive looks on their faces, fearing that if they spoke this extension sent from heaven would be snatched away from them. A master or two looked up surprised at the big clock in the quad, and went away apparently muttering, as if the whole matter was much too deep for them to understand. Never had such a thing happened before. There was a strange feeling of uncertainty about the place, and not liking the appearance of the situation, I dashed down to the Porter’s Lodge, extremely perturbed myself. But I saw Beef lethargically glancing at the morning paper.
“Beef !” I exclaimed. “It’s ten minutes past the bell.”
“I know, I know,” said Beef, and yawned.
“Then why don’t you ring it?”
“Give them a bit of extra time off,” explained Beef. “I know I would have liked it when I was a nipper.”
“But, Beef, you don’t seem to realise that this isn’t a kindergarten. It’s a great public school. It’s tradition . . .”
“Can’t see what difference that makes,” said Beef. “Boys is boys all the world over. I saw then crowding into the tuckshop just now. I said to myself, ‘They shall have ten minutes extra this morning.’ Now there are six hundred of them. So I reckon I’ve given over four days’ holiday one way and another. And that’s something in a hard-working world.”
“Beef!” I exclaimed desperately. “Ring that bell!”
With maddening slowness he did eventually press the button, and the school curriculum was resumed.
It was not, however, until the afternoon that Beef began the more serious business of investigation.
“Come on,” he said to me, “we’re going to have a look at the gymnasium,” and I found myself marching across the quad beside a silk-hatted Beef, who looked rather like one of the attendants at the doors of the Stock Exchange.
“They promise me nothing’s been touched,” he said as he unlocked the door. “So we can have a good look round. Lock that up again, and we’ll have the place to ourselves for a bit.”
The gymnasium at Penshurst, as I have said, appeared from the outside to be a large building, but from the inside, deserted as it was, it seemed huge. It was about three times as long as it was broad, with a wooden floor covering the length of the building. About twenty feet from the ground, above the wall bars which surrounded the walls, were the long, narrow windows which lighted the building. There was the usual apparatus to be found in buildings of this kind: vaulting-horses, large coconu
t-matting squares, parallel and horizontal bars, ropes and rings. At one end was a large wooden gallery, below which were the doors leading to the changing rooms and shower-baths.
After a glance around him in which he might have been a prospective tenant examining the front room of a new house, Beef started a very minute examination of every foot of floor space. He walked slowly up and down, his eyes travelling left and right till he had thoroughly covered the whole expanse of timber which made the floor. Having done that he started on the apparatus, even going under the leather of the vaulting-horses as if to see if there were any cuts or tears in which something might have been concealed. He looked at the ropes which were used for climbing, at the one rope left of the rings, and at the other which had been used for the fatal purpose we knew, and which was lying on one of the benches.
On the ground was the one soft leather boot which Alan Foulkes had not been wearing. Beef picked this up and pushed his fingers down to the toe, then examined its marking, the tape which had been stitched inside and bore the name A. Foulkes in printed red letters. He picked up a pair of boxing-gloves which were beside the boot, and made an equally thorough examination of these. Then, moving over to the chair, which now stood forlornly in the centre of the gymnasium, he ran his eye over it. I began to get impatient, not only because I felt that this was a waste of time, but also because I was convinced that Beef was behaving in this way with the deliberate intention either of exasperating or impressing me—I could not be sure which. I imagined that he had read of detectives making “searching examinations” or “minute investigations” of this or that, and now supposed that he must do his part.
“Oh, come on, Beef,” I said, when he had gone on all fours to examine the thick coconut-matting in front of a vaulting-horse. “Surely that is not necessary?”
