The Age of Treachery

by Gavin Scott

  Forrester waited a few moments – Norton and Bitteridge were now arguing about whether it had been wise to raise the school leaving age to fifteen – and then slipped away himself. He glanced down into the body of the hall to make sure Harrison was aware he was going, and then headed out into the quiet darkness of the quad.

  Lyall’s rooms were on the other side of the quadrangle from Forrester’s, and it took only a few moments to reach them. Although the presence of the Master made their visit legitimate, there was still a conspiratorial air as the three of them met in the corridor in front of Lyall’s door and Winters unlocked it.

  Harrison reached for the light switch but the Master put a restraining hand on his arm. “I don’t particularly want to advertise our visit here tonight,” he said. “Would you mind if we used torches? I brought one.” And he produced a hefty air raid warden’s torch.

  “Me too,” said Harrison, bringing out something even bigger. And in they went.

  Their first search was deliberately superficial: desktop, bookshelves, bedside cabinet, open drawers – all the obvious places – as they familiarised themselves with Lyall’s mode of living.

  Then they rolled up the carpets, examined the nails in every floorboard for signs of tampering, and in one case where the nails seemed new, pulled up the floorboard and peered into the space below.

  Nothing.

  They took each picture off the wall, checked behind it and examined the paper backing to see if anything had been slipped behind it. They picked the locks on the desk drawers and examined the contents; then they removed all the drawers and felt around beneath them and inside the framework of the desk. They did the same with the bedside cabinet, and then took the bedding off the bed and removed the mattress.

  Nothing. Well, not nothing: there was a letter in the bedside cabinet from Lyall’s father, telling him of his mother’s illness, and without warning, for all his dislike of the man, Forrester was reminded that he had been a fellow human being, with parents, a home to which he would never return, hopes and aspirations which had forever been consigned to oblivion by whoever had killed him.

  However much of a shit he had been, he had not deserved that.

  They checked the wardrobe, the top of the wardrobe, the clothes in the wardrobe.

  They checked the light fittings.

  Nothing. And then Harrison walked back to the light switch, took out a penknife, and unscrewed it.

  “I don’t like to be a naysayer,” said the Master, “but I’d be very reluctant to see you electrocuted, Mr. Harrison.”

  “Me too, Master,” said Harrison, “so I’ll be very careful,” and he kept on removing screws. The plate came away. Forrester shone his torch into the little cavity, mostly filled with red and black insulated electric wires.

  And there, right at the back, peeping out from the lath behind which it had been tucked, was the edge of a photographic print. Forrester recognised it at once: the scalloped edges were identical to the photograph he himself had taken from the album on the Arnfeldt-Laurvig estate.

  “Oh, my goodness,” said the Master. “Well done.”

  Harrison was about to reach in to ease it out, but Winters stopped him.

  “Not until the power has been turned off,” he said. “I’m afraid I absolutely insist on that, for your own safety. Do you know where the junction box is?”

  “Yes,” said Harrison. “It’s on the other side of the quad, next to the Porter’s Lodge, and it’s really not necessary.”

  “I’m sorry, but as Master of this college I am charged with ensuring your safety, and I think that includes making sure you are not electrocuted. Would you agree, Dr. Forrester?”

  Reluctantly, Forrester nodded. Winters might be being an old fusspot, but it would be his responsibility if anything went wrong. “Let’s play it safe, Harrison,” he said.

  “Thank you,” said Winters. “I believe this corridor is controlled by the fuses on the upper half of the board; there’s no need to rob the entire building of power.” Harrison shrugged and went off down the corridor.

  Winters sat down and Forrester perched on the edge of the desk.

  “Well, we seem to be on the verge of a discovery,” Winters said with satisfaction.

  “It is looking hopeful,” said Forrester.

  “I have to confess to a certain excitement,” said the Master. “Who will the photograph reveal? What will it tell us about events in the Bjornsfjord in 1937? I feel as if I’m in a detective novel.”

  “Except with real lives at stake,” said Forrester.

  “Very much so,” said the Master, and at that moment the lights all over the college went out.

  “Oh good Lord,” said Winters. “What has that young man done now?”

  Forrester pushed up the window and looked out: Harrison was emerging from the door next to the Porter’s Lodge as other windows shot up around the quad and angry voices sounded in the night.

  “What the hell are you playing at, Harrison?” shouted somebody, and then the porter himself appeared, bleary-eyed, and began remonstrating.

  “What a nuisance,” said Winters. “Your young friend does seem to have been a little ham-fisted.”

  * * *

  In the end Forrester and the Master had to go down to sort out the row, and by the time power was restored Winters was quite adamant: they had discovered what was almost certainly an important piece of evidence, and it was their duty to inform the police. They phoned Oxford Police Station and explained what had happened, but the sergeant on duty resolutely refused to give them Barber’s home telephone number. He agreed, after some argument, to contact the inspector himself, and Forrester and Harrison waited impatiently by the phone in the Master’s Lodge until Barber called back, in not very good temper.

  It did not take him long to make up his mind when he had heard the Master out. “I will come by tomorrow,” he said. “Lock the room, do not permit anyone to enter it, and be ready to accompany me to inspect it at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  The Master began to protest that the matter was urgent, but Barber overrode him. “I think I’ve made myself quite clear, Professor Winters,” Forrester heard him say, “and I will take a very dim view of it if anybody else goes anywhere near that room tonight. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Inspector,” said Winters resignedly. “Perfectly understood.”

  He put the phone down and turned to Forrester and Harrison.

  “And there, I’m afraid, gentlemen, matters must remain for the next—” he glanced at his watch “—eleven hours.” Harrison opened his mouth to say something, but Winters held up a hand.

  “I don’t blame you for your mistake, Mr. Harrison,” he said, “those junction boxes are in urgent need of updating. In fact, I blame myself for giving you such sketchy instructions. But no harm has been done, and if we can contain our impatience, we will find out tomorrow what we have discovered. Whether Inspector Barber wants you to be there or not, I insist, of course, that you both be present when the photograph is removed. If it had not been for you, it might never have been discovered.”

  And with this, he bade them goodnight.

  * * *

  Barber was as good as his word: he appeared promptly at 9.00 a.m. the next morning, and though he looked askance at both Forrester and Harrison, he raised no objection to their presence.

  This time the power was turned off formally, with the porter present, and it turned out the fuses controlling Lyall’s corridor were on the lower part of the box, not the upper. They fell into step as they went up the stairs to Lyall’s rooms, and Forrester felt oddly as if he was in a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, and that at any moment they might all be expected to burst into song about a policeman’s lot not being a happy one. The Master opened Lyall’s door with all due ceremony and they trooped inside. The room was still in the dishevelled state in which their search had left it, and the light switch plate was still suspended in the air in front of the cavity, held up by the rigid r
ed and black insulated wires.

  Barber looked disapprovingly around the room. “I see you did yourselves proud last night,” he remarked laconically.

  “Just trying to assist the police with their enquiries, Inspector,” said the Master, unruffled.

  “So where is it?” said Barber, peering into the cavity.

  “On the left,” said Forrester. “It’s stuck behind a piece of lath, but you can see the edges quite easily.”

  “I brought some long-handled pliers,” said Harrison, and gave them to Barber, who pulled a face but accepted them graciously enough. He reached into the cavity and carefully gripped the distinctively scalloped edge of the photograph with the pliers.

  Then, with painstaking slowness, he pulled it out, and held it so that only he could see it. Forrester glanced at the Master; his eyes were glittering with excitement.

  “Well,” said Barber. “This is interesting.”

  “What does it show?” said Winters.

  “I haven’t seen anything like this for years,” said Barber. “I can see why it was hidden so carefully.” And he turned the photograph so they could see it.

  The image was of a plump woman wearing only a large Edwardian hat and a pair of high-heeled shoes. She was holding a parasol and the caption beneath read, “I think it’s going to be wet today.”

  Winters gaped. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “I think it’s perfectly clear,” said Barber. “This was hidden by some sex-starved don when Edward the Seventh was on the throne, or possibly Queen Victoria. He couldn’t risk it being found, he couldn’t bear to throw it away, so he tucked it into what was then, doubtless, the newfangled lighting system.” He handed the photograph to Winters. “I don’t think this is of any interest to us, sir. You may want to add it to your collection.”

  And Barber took his leave. Forrester saw no smirk on his face as he turned away, but he knew perfectly well there was one there.

  And who could blame him?

  26

  SNOWBALL ON A GREY AFTERNOON

  As they came down the stairs from Lyall’s rooms Alan Norton stepped out of the shadows and fell into step with them.

  “It’s about the Lady Tower, Master,” he said. “I wonder if I could have a word.”

  “This is not a good moment, Norton,” said Winters.

  “It’s just that I believe I’ve come up with a way we could speed up the repairs.”

  “I look forward to hearing it,” said the Master smoothly. “Perhaps you could come to the Lodge tomorrow?”

  “Certainly,” said Norton, now walking with them as though they had all decided to take a stroll together. “When would be a good time?” And Forrester had the odd sensation that Norton – on the surface the least devious of men – was determined at all costs to insinuate himself into the conversation, or at the very least prevent Forrester from speaking to the Master alone for another minute. Before he could work out why, the porter hurried up and addressed Forrester.

  “Young lady come to see you while you was with the inspector, sir,” he said. Forrester felt the Master’s eye on him, and it did not feel like an approving glance. Normally, of course, the porter would have made no such effort to bring him such a trivial piece of information, but he was plainly agog to find out what had happened in Lyall’s rooms – in fact the whole college must have been agog after the events of the night before.

  “Yes?” said Forrester without enthusiasm.

  “I told her you was busy with the police, sir,” said the porter, and Forrester felt the Master’s eye grow colder. “So she left a note.” And he handed Forrester an envelope. Alice Hayley’s name was written in bold script on the upper left corner, but eager though Forrester was to read it, this was not the time. “Thank you, Piggot,” he said, and thrust the envelope into a pocket.

  “Before there are any more interruptions,” said the Master, “I think we should proceed to the Lodge where we can speak in private.” To Norton he said, “Three o’clock tomorrow, Dr. Norton,” and turned away.

  At the Lodge, Winters did his best to be gracious, but he had plainly been mortified by his encounter with Barber and hugely embarrassed by the antique piece of pornography that was all their search had uncovered.

  “Perhaps the lesson of all this, Dr. Forrester, is that it is best to leave the actual mechanics of detection to the professionals,” he said finally. He picked up the photograph as if it was infected. “I assume you don’t want this item as part of your case?” and when Forrester shook his head went on, “Then I propose we burn the wretched thing,” and when neither of them objected, threw it into the fire.

  Harrison had lectures to attend that morning, and Forrester a lecture to give, and by mutual consent they put aside the investigation and got on with their own activities. After the lecture came three tutorials in a row, and it was only that afternoon – when a student named Sitwell failed to turn up – that Forrester remembered the note from Alice Hayley and took it out of his pocket to read it.

  Dear Dr. Forrester,

  I have been thinking about our conversation about David’s death, and there is something I would like to tell you. Perhaps you could let me know when would be a good time to meet?

  Alice Hayley

  Forrester noted the return address, sat down and began to compose a note in reply, and then changed his mind: if Sitwell had not turned up by now, it was unlikely he was going to turn up, and Forrester might as well use the unexpectedly available time. He put on his overcoat and set off to cycle over to Alice Hayley’s lodgings, which turned out to be on Chalfont Road in north Oxford. As he bicycled down the street, there was a pinging noise from his front wheel as a large, hard snowball hit the spokes at considerable speed and sent the wheel – and Forrester – skidding across the street.

  Fighting to regain control he saw two small shapes diving for cover in a passageway between two houses, and an old inner tube nailed across a gap in a wooden fence.

  At the end of the passage the boys were trapped against a gate, trying to scramble over it and finding it was too tall. “I’m sorry, mister,” said one of them when he realised there was no way out. “We didn’t mean to.”

  Forrester looked at the inner tube. “Ballista,” he said.

  “What?” said the older boy.

  “You’ve made a ballista,” said Forrester. “The ancient Romans used to build them, although they didn’t have rubber bike tubes to work with.”

  The boys looked at each other and clearly made a collective decision that Forrester was harmless. They came closer.

  “It makes snowballs go a long way,” said the other boy, with a hint of pride.

  “Yes,” said Forrester. “Just be careful which way you fire them in future. You could have caused an accident.”

  “Alright, mister. Sorry,” said the boy, relieved the man was going to take it no further, and Forrester got on his bike again and rode the rest of the way to Alice Hayley’s lodgings. The landlady, when she opened the door, looked at him disapprovingly.

  “I have a strict rule for my young ladies,” she said. “No gentlemen visitors.”

  “I am a don at Barnard College,” said Forrester, “and I’m coming in response to a note from Miss Hayley.”

  “I daresay you are,” said the landlady. “But that doesn’t make it right, does it?”

  “Do you have a sitting room?” asked Forrester. “I’d be perfectly happy to talk to her there.” The landlady looked at him narrowly, as if weighing up what trouble he could get up to in the sitting room, and as Forrester smiled reassuringly at her, clearly decided Not much, I suppose, sniffed, and went upstairs to fetch her boarder.

  A minute later she came down. “She’s not in,” she said, with some satisfaction. Forrester was about to depart when it occurred to him to ask if the landlady had seen Alice Hayley leave.

  “No, I didn’t, as a matter of fact.”

  For no reason he understood Forrester began to feel uneasy. “I imagine
you keep a fairly close eye on comings and goings here,” he said carefully.

  “Naturally I do,” said the landlady.

  “So I wonder how Miss Hayley slipped away without you seeing her?”

  “I really can’t say,” said the landlady. “I can’t be responsible for everything these young women do,” and Forrester suddenly realised why he was uneasy. The faintest, the very faintest of olfactory sensations. “What’s that smell?”

  They both stood there for a moment, and then the landlady was running back up the stairs with Forrester close behind her.

  “She tried this before,” she said. “She promised she’d never do it again!”

  The door was bolted on the inside but Forrester aimed a massive kick at the handle and it sprang open. Inside, Alice Hayley was kneeling by her unlit gas fire, like a worshipper at a shrine, and the room was thick with fumes. “Oh my God,” said the landlady.

  “Call an ambulance,” said Forrester, choking on the gas, and as the landlady retreated downstairs he took a deep breath, rushed into the room, grabbed Alice Hayley and pulled her away, half dragging, half carrying her towards the door. Her face was blue, her eyes rolled up in her head. Lifting her in his arms he staggered down the stairs, through the front door and out into the freezing evening air as curtains were pulled aside and doors opened in the neighbouring houses, letting shafts of yellow light out onto the trodden snow.