Case with Ropes and Rings

by Bruce, Leo

  “Now there’s one other thing I want to ask you,” said Beef, “and perhaps it’s the most important of all. All round the gymnasium is hard asphalt, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, everywhere.”

  “How far back does it go, would you say?”

  “Twelve yards or more, I shouldn’t be surprised. There’s the music school up at the far end.”

  Beef nodded.

  “Whose job is it to sweep that asphalt?”

  “Mine,” said Stringer.

  “How often do you do it?”

  “About twice a week.”

  “How soon after you found the body did you do the job?”

  “That very day. I always do it on a Tuesday.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Find anything?” repeated Stringer.

  “Yes, anything at all? Think hard now.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “And would you have if there had been anything there? I mean, do you sweep over the whole area?”

  “Every inch of it,” said Stringer.

  “Is there anything else you can tell us?” asked Beef vaguely.

  “Well, there is one little matter,” said Stringer, “but I don’t know if it has anything to do with the case.”

  “Let’s have it,” said Beef.

  “It was on the day of the boxing championship,” Stringer said. “I was out in the yard here in the morning, when a stranger came up to me.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He was tall, but not much to him, if you take my meaning. A mean face, I thought. Nasty complexion. And he began asking me about young Alan Foulkes, what he was doing and where he went and that. I told him about the ‘White Horse,’ and said he was down there as often as not in the evening. He seemed satisfied with that, and went off.”

  “Well, that’s all right then, that’s all I wanted to know. You can go now,” said Beef grandly.

  Stringer gave a grunt, jumped on his bicycle, and pedalled away.

  “Ah, well,” said Beef, “there’s another day’s work done.”

  “Yes, but has it got us anywhere?” I asked.

  “I can’t honestly say it has,” said Beef. “Still, we must still keep on trying.” And he left me in order to seek for himself the comfort of the Porter’s Lodge.

  10

  When we reached the “White Horse” that evening, as reach it we inevitably did, Freda seemed quite pleased to see us.

  “Well, have you got any farther?” she asked when she had drawn Beef’s beer and handed me my glass of sherry.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Beef. “I can go so far as to say without any doubt at all that it wasn’t suicide.”

  Freda’s eyes opened wide.

  “You mean he was murdered?” she gasped.

  “I said so,” said Beef.

  “Whoever done it?” asked Freda, with more curiosity than good grammar.

  “That’s what we’re in the course of finding out,” Beef told her.

  “Wouldn’t have been that Indian?” suggested Freda naively. “Don’t forget he’d just been disqualified and lost the championship.”

  “It’s far too early to start naming suspects,” continued Beef. “It’ll all be clear in time.”

  At this point Freda was called away, and Beef insisted on our sitting down. I would have been quite content to remain at the bar, for I found Freda most refreshing, but the Sergeant was adamant.

  “Been on my feet all day,” he remarked, and led me to a sort of alcove from which it was no longer possible for me to watch the barmaid or to be seen by anyone entering the bar.

  We must have been there about half an hour, and Beef had already been across to the counter to replenish our glasses, when I heard a voice which I recognised at the bar behind us.

  “Evening, Freda,” it said gruffly, and I knew that it belonged to the man who had been so very rude to us the other night when we first arrived here. I was about to go forward, when Beef said “’Ush!” and raised a warning hand.

  “Have those two been in here again?” asked the man in the same loud, aggressive voice as I remembered.

  “Which two?” said Freda innocently.

  “Those two nosy-parkers what’s been asking questions about young Alan Foulkes,” explained the fellow, unable to keep the hostility out of his tone.

  At this point Freda must have told him by signs that we were seated in the alcove, for he walked straight up to where we were and looked from one to the other.

  “Oh, I see—eavesdropping, eh?”

  Beef spoke with an attempt at dignity which he is not fitted to assume.

  “I’d like you to know that I’ve got something better to do than to listen to your conversation.”

  “Then why the hell don’t you do it?” asked the man with more logic than good manners. Then, without waiting to say good-night to us or to Freda, he swallowed his drink and walked out of the bar.

  Beef went across to Freda and I followed.

  “What is that man’s name?” he asked.

  “That? Don’t you know? He’s Alf Vickers. He’s the head groundsman up at the school.”

  “Oh,” said Beef.

  “You don’t want to take any notice of him. He’s silly about me. Has been for years. Comes in here night after night and turns nasty if anyone else speaks a civil word to me. There’s no harm in him, though; it’s only his way.”

  “Still,” said Beef, “he might learn how to speak to anybody. How did he get on with young Foulkes?”

  “Well, can’t you imagine?” asked Freda, pulling out a small mirror and using a lipstick. “With Alan coming down at night to see me it wasn’t to be expected that they’d be friends, was it? I used to have terrible scenes with Alf Vickers over that. I told him a hundred times that Alan was only a schoolboy imagining he was grown-up, but Alf wouldn’t have it. Of course, he’s asked me to marry him.”

  “Well, I hope you can teach him some manners,” said Beef, “that’s all.” And he ordered two more drinks.

  “It’s the inquest to-morrow, isn’t it?” queried Freda.

  “Yes, and I shan’t be able to go,” said Beef.

  “Why ever not?”

  “I have my duties to do as School Porter,” Beef told her. “Besides, it wouldn’t be no help to me. The verdict’s a foregone conclusion already. I shan’t waste my time on it.”

  “Seems a funny way of going about investigation,” Freda remarked. Just then she was called away to serve some drinks, and it must have been ten minutes before she spoke to us again.

  “Aren’t neither of you going to enter for our darts championship?” she asked amiably.

  Beef looked very important.

  “I entered for the News of the World singles last year,” he said. “That’s All England, you know. It was only a bit of bad luck over the double five that kept me from the semi-finals. Shouldn’t hardly think it would be worth while entering for this, would it?”

  “Depends,” said Freda. “Some of them are good players.”

  “When is it?” asked Beef.

  “Well, it’s all next week really. We generally play the finals on the Saturday. It gets big crowds here. Of course, it’s only for our customers, this one. Mr. Higgs—that’s the landlord—puts up a pound note as a prize, and there’s a little silver cup that goes with it.”

  “Well, I don’t see why I shouldn’t enter,” remarked Beef. “It would help to pass the evenings while I’m working on this case.”

  “What about you?” asked Freda, turning to me with a pleasant smile, but before I could answer Beef had once again rudely interrupted.

  “He doesn’t hardly play darts.”

  I bridled.

  “What about the time . . .?” I began.

  “All right. Put him down,” said Beef. “It won’t hurt. Now we must be getting along home.”

  My brother was still up when I reached his house, and he asked me what sort of a day we had had.

 
; I sighed.

  “You know,” I said, “I’m really afraid Beef’s beaten this time. It’s part of his technique to appear completely bewildered up to the last, but I am sure that he hasn’t a clue yet. Everything he has found out seems negative. It will look very bad for you as well as for me if he turns out a complete failure in this case.”

  “I shall survive it,” said my brother coldly. “But in any case he won’t, you know.”

  Next morning Beef decided that after all he would attend the inquest.

  “It would look bad to Lord Edenbridge if I wasn’t there. I should call it a waste of time myself, but I think I shall have to put in an appearance.”

  “Good. I’ll come with you,” I said.

  “Oh, no,” said Beef. “You’ll stay here in the Porter’s Lodge and ring the bells and stamp the boys’ passes. I don’t know but what you didn’t ought to wear the uniform,” he said, running his eye over me as if to see if it would fit. “Sort of Deputy Porter, you’ll be.”

  “Uniform!” I said contemptuously. “What on earth do you take me for? It would be as well if you’d remember sometimes that I’m a distinguished modern writer, and to suggest that I should dress up in those things is absurd. However, if you feel you should attend this inquest, I will remain here and ring the bells for you. Only please don’t stay away longer than you can help. You must see that this is no task for me.”

  Presently I watched him march out of the school gates and down the road and felt myself faced with all the responsibilities of his position. I had scarcely seated myself in his chair when a cheeky-looking boy with red hair and freckles stuck his face in at the door.

  “Where’s Boggs?” he asked.

  “You mean Mr. Briggs,” I said sharply.

  I comforted myself with the reflection that it was too much to expect of the boys that they should feel any great respect for the personality of Beef, and that the use of an irreverent nickname in my presence had probably been involuntary.

  “Perhaps,” I added, half sarcastically, “you have been inventive enough to supply a nickname for me as well?”

  “Yes; Ticks,” he said quickly.

  “Ticks?” I repeated.

  “Yes. You know—things that jump,” and he proceeded to perform some saltatory movements in front of my eyes.

  I have never been one to deny sympathy to extreme youth, and I flatter myself that I have not so far forgotten my own boyhood as to be unable to appreciate the irresponsibilities of the young. But I felt that in this case I must put my foot down.

  “Most unmannerly,” I said. “Now if you want your pass stamped, kindly hand it to me.”

  “Good lord, you talk like one of the beaks,” said the boy, suppressing a yawn. “What the hell are you, anyway?”

  “At least, I’m old enough to be your father,” I pointed out.

  “God! How many times am I to hear that crack?” sighed the boy. “Here’s my pass; hurry up and stamp it because I want to get down the town.”

  Odious youngster, I thought, as I saw him disappear.

  The whole morning was most unpleasant, particularly when I was unfortunately a few minutes late in dismissing the school for break. A number of boys crowded round the Lodge and became quite threatening and abusive.

  “Well,” I pointed out, “you had an extra ten minutes the other morning.”

  This, however, though it was both just and logical, made no impression on them, and one of them even went so far as to threaten violence if I did not put the lost three minutes on to the end of their free time. This was, of course, out of the question, as I told them, and there were a number of bitter remarks. I thought it was wiser, however, not to point out to them that I was a brother of their Senior Science Master. I felt that they would have been so taken aback that it might seriously have jeopardised our chances of obtaining information in the future. So I contented myself with an angry silence. I was relieved to find that after ten minutes or so they began to move away.

  It was past one o’clock when Beef returned. I told him sharply of the predicament I had been left in, stating that I would never act for him in that capacity again. He, however, seemed more interested in the inquest he had attended, and although it apparently threw no light on the matter we were investigating, he told me at great length how each person had behaved. The cause of death was given as strangulation, which, as he pointed out, got us no farther. Jones had cut a very poor figure. His hands, Beef said, were trembling, and he was certain that he was suffering from delirium tremens. The Headmaster had given his evidence in a pained but dignified way. Lord Edenbridge had been present, but had, of course, shown no emotion.

  “So that you’ve really learned nothing?” I asked.

  “Only one thing worth mentioning,” said Beef. “The doctor said he judged the boy to have died about midnight.”

  11

  When I got down to the Porter’s Lodge the next morning I caught Beef in the very act of hanging a dart board on the door of the tall cupboard in which his silk hat was kept.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  Beef looked up, I thought a little shamefacedly.

  “Must have some practice,” he said, “now I’ve entered for the ‘White Horse’ championship.”

  “And you thought you were going to practise here? Don’t you realise that you are in a position of trust? You are acting as Porter to one of the oldest and greatest of our schools. Do you know that, scattered over the four corners of the world, there are men who look back and remember affectionately the Porter at Penshurst? Yet you were seriously proposing to introduce one of your low public-house games into these precincts?”

  “Must get some practice,” repeated Beef obstinately.

  “But with whom do you intend to play?” I enquired, not without apprehension.

  “I dare say more than one of the lads fancy themselves, and it is just what I want to establish, contact. There’s a lot I’ve got to find out yet.”

  I felt so irritated by all this that I marched out of the Porter’s Lodge and went to look for my brother. After all, he more than I had been responsible for the introduction of Beef to Penshurst, and it was his duty at least as much as mine to check this new and dangerous departure. I was told that he was in the laboratories, and, feeling that the matter was urgent, I knocked at the door and entered, to find my brother waving a piece of litmus paper over a hissing retort, while a dozen boys watched critically.

  “Hmm,” I said as loudly as possible from the door.

  “Not just now, Lionel,” he said over the heads of his class. “I’m conducting an experiment.”

  I was about to expostulate, to make him realise that Beef might be undermining the discipline of the whole school. But I saw him make an impatient gesture with his hand. I felt that to insist on a hearing then might embarrass him before his class, and decided to postpone the matter.

  When I got back to the Porter’s Lodge an hour later a most startling scene met my eyes. Beef had removed both the top-hat and the swallowtail coat of his uniform, and had rolled his sleeves to the elbows, as was his custom when competing in a darts game. At least a dozen boys had crowded into the small room, though their presence there was forbidden by the school rules. It appeared that a four-handed game was in progress, and the youth who had come to the Lodge on the first day, and described the food in Jones’ house as “Agony,” was Beef’s partner against two young men whom I knew to be school prefects.

  “Beef !” I remonstrated, for the second time that morning.

  An interruption from me seemed to be unwelcome.

  “Now don’t come barging in,” begged Beef. “We want seventy-seven to win, and it’s the third leg.”

  One of the youths standing near the door turned round also, and said in the most patronising voice: “Go away, Ticks, there’s a good fellow.”

  I needed no second invitation. I at least could not stand by and watch the tradition of a great school ruined, even if only indirectly through me. I
walked away quickly, wondering whether I had not better go and see the Rev. Horatius Knox.

  Unfortunately, as I see now, I did nothing of the sort, and it transpired that the little scene I witnessed in the Porter’s Lodge was the beginning of one of those unaccountable crazes which suddenly sweep through a whole community. From that moment the fatuous game of darts was taken up at Penshurst with a zest I should scarcely have thought possible. Dart boards were purchased and hung in corridors, and blackboards in classrooms kept the ephemeral scores of remarkable games, so that a master would come in in the morning and mistake for an interest in arithmetic the record of a “Three-O-One-Up” between two boys in his class. The Headmaster himself, on his way over to Chapel, with his gown billowing round him, overheard an inexplicable piece of conversation between two small boys and stopped to enquire its significance.

  “His third arrow was off the island,” he repeated in great perplexity. “What do you mean by that, Jenkinson?”

  “It’s a game, Sir,” stuttered the boy.

  “Ah, a game,” nodded the Headmaster, and swept on to preach a bright sermon on Ephesians 2:3–9.

  The changing-rooms became a centre of the pastime, and boys who were due at the nets would stand half-dressed, trying to get their final double. The cricket professional complained that a board had been set up in the pavilion, and that no one seemed to care about his batting average. Nor did my brother, I was glad to notice, escape the onslaught. He arrived in the physics laboratory one morning to find a most extraordinary apparatus constructed, the object of which, it appeared, was to magnetise certain wires of a dart board to attract the darts into the more profitable doubles.