by Gavin Scott
“I have,” said Forrester. “Like how to swim in deep waters. Thanks for the champagne.” And retrieving his overcoat from the cloakroom, Forrester headed back into the real world.
Out in Regent Street, the fog was thicker than ever, and the buses moving more slowly than ever, and he decided to walk back to Paddington. But as he walked his mind was moving much, much faster than his feet.
29
A MESSAGE FROM HAMLET’S CASTLE
When his train finally reached Oxford, Margaret Clark was walking into the station as Forrester was walking out of it. As he saw her, Forrester felt a jolt, like an electric shock, of pure dislike. Dislike, and deep distrust. Whatever he had found out about the role wartime espionage might have played in the death of David Lyall, he no longer trusted Margaret Clark.
“Hello, Margaret,” he said as they came abreast. She stopped, letting the crowd flow into the station around her like a rock in a stream.
“Any progress?” she asked.
Forrester gave her an edited summary of what he had learned so far.
“That sounds promising,” she said, “though I’m not quite clear how it helps.”
“At this stage neither am I.”
“Gordon’s not holding up well,” she said. “He seems to have given up hope.”
Forrester looked at her, and was certain that her concern for Gordon’s state of mind was a performance. Once again he considered the possibility that after some lovers’ quarrel, it was she who had lured David Lyall up to Gordon’s rooms and stabbed him in the heart.
But with such force that he crashed backwards through the window? Not really physically possible. And as this thought came to him he had the sudden sensation of holding the broken inner tube in his hands on Chalfont Road, and the ping of the snowball as it catapulted into the wheel of his bike.
Catapulted. Yes. It was as if David Lyall had not just been stabbed, but catapulted out of the window of Gordon Clark’s rooms. So vivid was this image – if impossible to conceive how it might have been achieved – that for a moment Forrester did not realise that Margaret was speaking.
“…he was sympathetic,” she was saying. “But I don’t feel he’s going to be any use.”
“I’m sorry, who are we talking about?”
“Why, the Master, of course. I thought he might be able to help, but I sensed he just wanted to distance himself from the whole thing.”
“That may be my fault: we had something of a debacle the other night searching Lyall’s rooms.”
“No, it wasn’t that. He’s been against me from the start.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean, from the start?”
“Of my affair with David.”
“I don’t understand. He knew about that?”
“I’m sure he did. Well, not exactly sure; it wasn’t him who saw us.”
“Saw you where? What are you talking about?”
“Lady Hilary came across us on the towpath one day. She pretended not to have seen anything, but it was perfectly obvious. And I’m sure she told the Master. I’d hoped it wouldn’t matter, but I’m afraid it does. It’s so unfair, though – it’s Gordon I’m asking help for, not me!”
Forrester stared at her. “Just to be clear, you’re saying Lady Hilary knew you were having an affair with David Lyall all along? She knew Gordon was being cuckolded?”
“Don’t use that horrible word! But yes, she did. Is it important?”
Forrester was silent for a moment. “It depends who she told, doesn’t it?”
There was a crackle of incomprehensible chatter from the station loudspeaker, and a guard blew a whistle.
“That’s my train,” said Margaret. “Do go and see Gordon soon, Duncan. He needs all the support he can get.”
And she was gone. Forrester stood there for a long moment, his hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat, thinking about what she had said. Then he set off for the college, where a letter was waiting for him in the Porter’s Lodge.
It was postmarked Copenhagen.
* * *
Back in his rooms, before he could open the letter – before, indeed, he had taken off his coat – Harrison was knocking at the door in a state of some excitement.
“I’ve had an idea,” he said, without preamble, as soon as Forrester had let him in.
“Fire away,” said Forrester, taking off the British Warm and hanging it up.
“What if Lyall wasn’t killed during the reading?”
“What are you talking about? We know he was.”
“How do you know?” demanded Harrison.
“Because,” said Forrester patiently, “we heard the sound of him smashing through Clark’s window and came out and saw the body lying in the snow.”
“That’s not the same thing as knowing he was killed then.”
Forrester dropped into his armchair. “The police doctor said nothing about the body having been dead for some time.”
“Yes, but it needn’t have been dead for ‘some time’ – just long enough for whoever did it to put him there and get back into the reading, thus establishing an alibi.”
“Hmm,” said Forrester, thinking this over.
“Which greatly widens the number of potential suspects,” said Harrison. “You said it couldn’t be anybody in the room with you, including Dorfmann, but if he’d killed Lyall before the reading began, he’s back on the list, and with what you’ve found out, he absolutely ought to be there.”
“I’d love to put Dorfmann on that list, but even if we hypothesise that Lyall was killed earlier – and we’ve got no evidence for that – it still leaves the question of the smashed window. There’s no way anyone could have smashed the window in Clark’s room and got back to the Lodge while the reading was still going on. We tried that experiment ourselves: it couldn’t be done.”
“True,” said Harrison, crestfallen.
“And there’s also the fact that Lyall was lying in a patch of virgin snow: no-one could have carried the body there without leaving footprints, and there were none.”
“Blast! I’m not sure I can see a way round that.”
“Never mind,” said Forrester. “There’s still a bit of that Chianti left. Pour a couple of glasses while I read this letter.” And as Harrison did as he was told, Forrester slit the envelope, took out the heavy, creamy sheet of paper with the embossed heading “Biblioteket fra det kongelige palads i Helsingborg”.
But the spidery writing below was in English of an oddly endearing kind.
Dearest Mr. Doktor Forrester,
I am to myself wondering should you by God with the second sight have been gifted? Because I have this day, the very day we were meeting, evidence discovered that our late German occupiers indeed have taken several volumes from these historic shelves, and one of these being, as suggested by you, a saga of the Norsemen. This theft remained undetected because this volume in our catalogue was listed as The Lay of Asgaard, and The Lay of Asgaard on our shelves safely remains.
“Fascinating,” said Harrison, handing Forrester a glass. “Not sure it gets us very far, though.”
“Wait,” said Forrester. “There’s more.” And he turned the sheet over.
This was puzzlement to me, as imagine you can, so back through the older catalogues went I, always dustier and dustier were my garments becoming. And there was much coughing before I was coming over a note with spørgsmålstegn attached, which interested me greatly. I am sorry, I do not know the English word for spørgsmålstegn.
“Bugger,” said Harrison, “neither do I. You?”
“No,” said Forrester, and read on.
Beside this spørgsmålstegn was just one word. “Heimskringla.” It is not surprising to me that a spørgsmålstegn to this was amalgamated, because it is known to all that this particular saga was as long ago as the seventeenth century from sight disappeared. I am sorry this information not more conclusive can be, but as I have promised to inform you on this subject, all the particles of fact
I have at this moment are by this letter now available to you, as promised on that day you were from a bad fall saving me. Oh yes, a colleague of mine has just the information provided. The English word for spørgsmålstegn is “question mark”.
Yours, in the extremity of sincerity, Emil Lundquist, Librarian, Kronborg Castle, Helsingør
Forrester and Harrison looked at each other.
“What on earth was all that about?” said Harrison. “Apart from spørgsmålstegn? Good Lord, he sounds a rum ’un.”
“He was very sweet, actually,” said Forrester. “And this may be rather important.”
“I’m damned if I can see how,” said Harrison.
“Never mind, for the time being,” said Forrester, “but there’s something you can do that might be rather useful.”
“Ask away,” said Harrison.
“Did any of the Scandinavian students you spoke to come from Denmark?”
“I think one did. There may have been others in the group.”
“Would you go and see them and ask if any of them have any Danish postage stamps they could lend you?”
“Danish stamps?”
“They can be used ones. Perhaps from letters from home.”
“I’m not sure I fully understand,” said Harrison.
“You don’t need to at this point,” said Forrester. “I’d just be grateful if you could collect the stamps. A dozen should do it, I think.”
Harrison stared at him, but Forrester was already putting on his coat. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“To see Kenneth Tynan,” said Forrester. “I think the moment has come to draw on his particular expertise.”
The glass of slightly oxidised Chianti remained halfway to Harrison’s lips as Forrester put his overcoat back on and hurried out of the room.
* * *
Tynan was alone in the darkened Borringer Theatre when Forrester arrived, building a model of a theatrical set from pieces of cardboard, and rather to Forrester’s surprise, recognised him at once.
“Ah, the inquisitor,” he said. “Were you responsible for robbing me of my second lead?”
“I was responsible for getting your second lead away from the gas tap,” said Forrester. “And I have my suspicions about who might have put her in there.” Tynan looked at him with fresh interest.
“Enlighten me,” he said, and Forrester did.
“Well I never,” said Tynan, when Forrester had finished. “But how can I help?”
“By building me a model,” said Forrester. “And then perhaps we could see how we could light it.” Tynan grinned like a schoolboy.
“That sounds like fun,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
* * *
When he came back from the Borringer, Forrester went to the telephone box outside the college, called the Porter’s Lodge and said he had an urgent message for Dr. Norton. As soon as Forrester saw Piggot leave to bring Norton down he slipped into the Lodge and took the key to the Lady Tower.
With any luck, he thought, Norton would not realise it had gone.
This task completed, Forrester went to Harrison’s rooms and woke him for a technical discussion based on his experiences in the army signals corps, after which they drew up a list of army surplus communications equipment that might reasonably be rounded up in Oxford within the next twenty-four hours.
Only then did Forrester return to his rooms and go to bed.
30
PREPARATIONS
The next morning, when the first of Forrester’s students arrived for a tutorial, they found a note on the door apologising that he would not be available that day.
The reason for this was that at 9.30 a.m. Forrester was closeted with the secretary of the committee which awarded the Rotherfield Lectureship.
As he left him, he passed Dr. Alan Norton, who looked at him suspiciously but said nothing.
At 10.00 a.m. Forrester was with Professor Roland Bitteridge, who had, it turned out, also been on that committee.
At 11.00 a.m. he was with the Reverend Robert Glastonbury, Vicar of St. Mary the Virgin in his study, going through the back issues of Clear Skies, the magazine he had edited in the thirties.
At 12.00 p.m. Forrester used the vicarage phone to call the War Ministry, and asked to speak urgently to Archibald MacLean.
At 12.30 p.m. Forrester telephoned the Foreign Editor of The Sunday Times, catching him just before he left to take a former Czechoslovakian prime minister to lunch at the Gay Hussar.
At 12.45 p.m., insisting on leaving Reverend Glastonbury enough money to cover the cost of the two calls he had made from his study, Forrester walked across the city towards the Eagle and Child pub.
As he walked down Cornmarket Street he was certain that Margaret Clark was watching him from the doorway of a newsagent, but affected not to be aware of her presence.
Shortly after 1.00 p.m., he met with Harrison in the Eagle and Child, went over certain technical matters and took possession of a small collection of used Danish postage stamps.
At 1.15 p.m. Professor J.R.R. Tolkien came in to the Eagle and Child and Forrester had a brief, discreet conversation with him.
At 2.00 p.m. Forrester made a purchase at Blackwell’s bookshop.
At 3.00 p.m. he visited the Churchill Hospital, and asked to speak to Alice Hayley. He was prevented from doing so by Detective Inspector Alec Barber.
Between 3.15 p.m. and 3.30 p.m. a short, sometimes acrimonious conversation took place between Forrester and Inspector Barber, with each retiring to consult other parties.
At 4.30 p.m., as a Post Office van was delivering the afternoon’s mail to Barnard College, Piggot was drawn out of his Porter’s Lodge by the sound of a firecracker being let off in the quadrangle, an activity specifically forbidden by college regulations.
At 4.45 p.m., having failed to find the culprit, but holding the spent firecracker as evidence for use in future investigations, the chagrined porter returned to his cubicle and found, to his further annoyance, an unusually large pile of mail awaiting distribution.
At 5.00 p.m. both Alan Norton and the Master visited the Porter’s Lodge to collect their mail, and noted the large parcel that had come for Dr. Forrester, festooned with an impressive number of Danish stamps.
At 5.15 p.m. Piggot informed Dr. Forrester this parcel was awaiting his collection.
At 8.15 p.m., during High Table, Forrester passed a note to the Master, asking for an urgent meeting during which he promised to be able to reveal the identity of David Lyall’s murderer.
The note was passed to the Master via Alan Norton, who held it in his hand for a long moment before passing it on.
When the Master read the note, somewhat to his surprise, he found that Dr. Forrester was asking him to hold this meeting that night, at the top of the Lady Tower.
31
THE SECRET OF THE BOOK
“To say you are testing the limits of my goodwill, Forrester, would be an understatement,” said Winters, genially enough, as they climbed the stairs to the top of the Lady Tower. “But I must warn you that if this results in the kind of embarrassment your last investigation produced, you will not rise in my estimation.”
“I quite understand, Master,” said Forrester. “But I think this time you will be impressed. In fact, I think I’ll finally be able to show you not just who murdered David Lyall, but how they did it.”
“Then it will all have been worth it,” said Winters, “and I will heartily forgive you for any inconvenience caused.”
“Thank you, Master,” said Forrester. “I appreciate your patience.”
Winters and Forrester came out through the trap door onto the flat roof of the tower, still covered in its frozen tangle of building equipment. The night was clear and it was bitterly cold, the moonlight glittering on the frosted surfaces.
Winters looked around, as though expecting something to reveal itself. When it did not, he turned to Forrester.
“Well?” he said. “Is there something I should
already have taken in?”
“Let’s put it this way, Master,” said Forrester, “the idea came to me when some children fired a snowball at me on Chalfont Road.”
“A snowball?” said Winters, with just a hint of asperity. “I trust you weren’t injured.”
“No, no; but the spokes of my bicycle were slightly bent,” said Forrester, “and the reason for that was because the boys had used an inner tube to create a sort of primitive ballista.”
“How ingenious of them,” said Winters. “Perhaps there is hope for the younger generation yet.”
“Once I began thinking about ballistae, I was alerted by Mr. Harrison to the idea that Lyall might have been killed not in Dr. Clark’s rooms, but elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?”
“And propelled there.”
A beat.
“By a conveniently available ballista?” said Winters.
“By an improvised ballista,” said Forrester.
He turned to the building debris.
“Such as might have been constructed from the materials here.” There was a pause.
“With respect, Forrester, this sounds very far-fetched.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” said Forrester. “But let me demonstrate. Let us say, just for the sake of argument, that Dr Lyall was stabbed here. His body might well have fallen – there.”
And he gestured to a frozen tarpaulin.
“You’ll note,” he said, “how the material has been left carelessly, not in a neat roll, but with a distinct dip in the middle, so it forms a kind of chute.”
He picked up the rigid tarpaulin and propped one open end between two of the crenellations of the tower.
“You can imagine that anything sliding down this chute would fly right out from the tower into the quadrangle below,” he said.
“I can,” said Winters, “and I estimate it would travel perhaps twenty feet beyond the tower, ending up, at best, a third of the way across the quad. Not beneath Dr Clark’s window, which was where we found David Lyall’s body.”
“Exactly,” said Forrester. “And this is where the ballista concept comes in.” He walked to the far side of the tower and picked up an ice-stiff coil of rope. “But if I attached this end of the rope to the upright scaffolding here,” he said, “and the other” – he walked across the tower – “to this upright here, there would be room to pull the rope backwards until it was stretched as tight as a bowstring. Then, when the rope was released, Lyall’s body would not simply slide out of the chute, but be propelled like an arrow from a bow.”
