A Question of Proof

by Nicholas Blake

  ‘Roll-call’s at seven, isn’t it?’

  ‘You on duty, Tiverton? Don’t envy you the job. Half these little devils who’ve been out with their parents will be sick as cats,’ said Gadsby.

  ‘And Tiverton can follow them about with a spade and bucket,’ added Wrench coarsely.

  ‘Ah, tchah.’

  But at seven o’clock it appeared that the excitement of the day was by no means over. To Tiverton, calling the roll in the day room, one name failed to respond.

  ‘Walters?’ ‘Sir!’

  ‘Ward?’ ‘Sir!’

  ‘Wyvern-Wemyss?’

  ‘WYVERN-WEMYSS!’

  ‘Does any one know anything about Wemyss?’

  Several sotto voce suggestions were put forward: ‘Yes, he’s a worm.’ ‘He’s probably throwing up into Percy’s wastepaper basket.’ ‘Or boozing at the Cock and Feathers.’ Nothing more constructive or audible being advanced, Tiverton asked: ‘Did he go out with relations?’

  Silence.

  ‘Come along,’ said Tiverton irritably. ‘He must have told someone whether he was going out or not.’

  A small boy at the back stood up and every head turned round towards him, as though he had them on strings.

  ‘Please, sir, he t-told me he thought he w-would not be going out.’

  ‘When did he tell you this?’

  ‘Yesterday, sir.’

  A babel of voices arose.

  ‘Sir, do you think he’s run away?’

  ‘Good riddance.’

  ‘Please, sir, perhaps he’s been kidnapped, sir.’

  ‘STOP TALKING! Sit quietly at your desks. Prefects, see that there’s no ragging about.’

  Tiverton went through to the private side and found the headmaster in his study.

  ‘Wemyss is absent from roll-call.’

  The Rev. Vale turned round sharply from his desk.

  ‘Absent? My nephew? But that’s impossible.’

  Tiverton enlarged wearily.

  ‘He failed to answer his name. None of the boys seem to know anything about it. Had he leave out?’

  ‘Leave out? No, I don’t remember – I’ll just make sure.’

  He opened a drawer and referred to a printed list.

  ‘No. No one was taking him out. This is most extraordinary. Unless Urquhart drove over – but he would have let me know. Have you ascertained whether he is anywhere on the premises?’ Vale was quite flustered.

  ‘No. I thought it best to inform you before any sort of search was instituted,’ replied Tiverton in his most official tones.

  ‘Er, yes. Quite right. What do you, er, suggest?’

  ‘Perhaps we should ask Matron first. He may have felt ill and gone to the sickroom.’

  The matron was sent for, a large, imperturbable woman.

  ‘Master Wyvern-Wemyss? No, he has not come to me.’

  The headmaster, who had by now regained some of his composure, directed Tiverton to keep the boys in the day room and the matron to organise the servants for a thorough search of the buildings. He himself hurried along to the common room, where the masters were at supper.

  ‘My nephew, Wyvern-Wemyss, is not to be found. Can anyone throw any light –?’

  No one could.

  ‘The matron is supervising a search over the house. Perhaps it would be well to look over the grounds too, in case he has met with some accident. Could you arrange, Gadsby –?’

  ‘Certainly. I suppose you will be ringing up the police?’ added Gadsby tactlessly.

  ‘The police?’ Vale raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Well, I mean to say, he might have run away.’

  ‘And for what reason, pray, should he take such an extraordinary course? Are you suggesting that he had grounds for –? Really, Mr. Gadsby.’

  Gadsby abased himself, and the search began. Gadsby himself went over the Big Field: Sims into the far field: Evans was allotted the garden, Griffin and Wrench the thicket. Haymakers had just come to work late on the hayfield, so it was not considered necessary for the staff to search there, or advisable to broadcast a possible scandal amongst the labourers.

  Michael wandered about disconsolately for ten minutes or so, thinking of Hero, cursing the search for a farce and peering perfunctorily into bushes. When they assembled again, it was without tidings of the missing Wemyss. Matron and her forces had been equally unsuccessful; and the headmaster, deciding that Gadsby’s tactless hypothesis must now be entertained, rang up the village constable. A description of the lad was given, and the constable promised to make inquiries in the village and to communicate with the superintendent at Staverton, so that a watch might be set on all adjacent stations and bus-routes. Further questioning by Tiverton in the day room had elicited the act that no one seemed to have set eyes on Wemyss in the course of the afternoon, so it appeared that he might really have taken the incomprehensible liberty of removing himself from the Rev. Vale’s tutelage.

  But the masters had scarcely settled down again in the common room when there was heard a clatter of boots outside, and a figure passed the window at a shambling run going towards the headmaster’s private door. A few minutes after this, a message came requesting Tiverton’s presence in the study. And almost before Gadsby had time to fire off a salvo of rhetorical questions, Tiverton returned, dazed and white in the face.

  ‘Percy wants you all in his study. They’ve found Wemyss in the hayfield. He’s been strangled. They found him when they were dismantling the haystacks. In one of the haystacks.’

  III

  Enter a Posse

  MICHAEL’S FIRST SENSATION was one he had several times experienced in his boyhood, when at chapel a notice was given out that ‘the whole school will assemble immediately after service’ and one knew that a really serious row was on and said to oneself ‘Thank God, it’s not me.’ Now, as then, he felt as though his heart had dropped into his stomach and was fluttering there uneasily. He became aware, even, of feeling a curious surprise that he had nothing to do with that luckless body in the hayfield, a relief that it was not he who had committed the crime – as though the point had been undecided till now. Then his mind started working furiously and irrationally, like an engine accelerated with the clutch in. Well, at any rate this will prevent Hero going away. It’s an ill wind. But why should anyone? And who? WHO? The hayfield. Why the hayfield? Why not? In the morning, in the morning, in the happy field of hay. Only it’s the evening. Tiverton looked bad. Mouth twitching, like a baby going to cry. I wonder whereabouts in the hayfield. Nuisance; police about, I suppose; will mess up the work. Oh, of course, he said in one of the haystacks. How lovely Hero looked. Her body is the sunlight of my flesh. That’s blank verse. Not a very good line either. One of the haystacks. Which one? Come on, say it out. Not the Fifth form stack, I hope. I hope not. Why, what on earth does it matter to you which? Five haystacks. Odds are four to one against. Please don’t let it be there. Not where Hero and I were. Oh, dry up. Pull yourself together. The happy field of –

  He found himself in the study. The headmaster was there, a queer bluish tinge overlaying his ruddy cheeks, spasmodically putting on and taking off his pince-nez. He glanced round at his colleagues. They were restlessly silent, like people seeing off a train. Tiverton was not there. Michael mumbled some condolements to Vale, who replied: ‘Thank you, Evans, thank you. I – this shocking disclosure has quite unmanned me. Such a thing has never occurred in my school before.’ Griffin was not sufficiently overawed by the occasion to refrain from an outrageous wink at Michael. Vale went on, his habitual pedantry of phrase contrasting oddly with his broken, almost appealing tones. ‘The poor, unfortunate boy! It passes my comprehension why anyone should want to – to, er, make away with him! The scandal! The publicity! I have asked Tiverton to make it known among the boys that my nephew has met with an accident, a fatal accident. It may yet be possible to prevent the – a-ah – facts from reaching the parents. I have rung up Dr. Maddox: he will be here shortly: and the police, of cour
se. I should be obliged, Griffin, if you would meet the doctor when he comes and take him to – I do not feel capable myself. If you have any suggestions, any of you, as to other immediate steps that might be taken –?’

  Michael realised that Vale was asking to be relieved of his responsibilities, and said: ‘Perhaps it would be advisable for me – for Sims and myself to go out and see that the men do not interfere with the – the scene of the crime. I believe that the police would wish things to remain as far as possible as they were found.’

  ‘Certainly, Evans, certainly. An excellent suggestion.’

  ‘Excuse me, headmaster, but should we not – er – get in touch with the unfortunate boy’s relatives?’

  Vale, relieved of the necessity for action, was in a mood to resent any further encroachment upon his authority.

  ‘My dear Sims, it should be unnecessary for me to have to assure you that any such very obvious steps would have been taken by me, if the situation had called for them. As it happens, I am the boy’s nearest living relative myself. If you have no more constructive proposals to make, perhaps you will accompany Evans and give him what assistance you can.’

  Sims blushed and Michael felt awkward. Vale, feeling better for his act of devastation, indicated that the audience was over, and Sims and Evans went out of doors. Michael, fearing the worst, forced himself to look towards the hayfield. A group of men with pitchforks was gathered round one of the haystacks. Yes, the Fifth form one. It would be. Half of the structure had been demolished and the last sunlight shone sadly on the red and yellow of the new wagon beside it. The labourers stepped back a pace as Evans and Sims approached. Where part of the wall had been lifted, untidily crumpled, with pieces of straw still clinging to its clothing, lay the body of Algernon Wyvern-Wemyss. He was not a pretty sight. The manner of his death had robbed him of that last consolation. Michael turned away, feeling sick. Sims was staring fascinated at the body. The foreman of the labourers walked heavily up to Michael, touching his hat:

  ‘Tur’ble business, this, sur. Looks like he been murdered. Bill, here, he lifts up stook on fork. “Gor,” he says, “one of they boys has left his coat underneath here.” We lifts two more stooks, and there he was, sur. “Gor,” says Bill, “it’s a carpse.” Gave us a fair turn, I can tell ’ee, sur; ar, that it did.’

  ‘Yes, it must have done,’ said Michael inadequately. ‘By the way, did you move it at all?’

  ‘No, sur. Bill, he says, “Us had better shift the poor young gentleman and make him more comfortable like.” “Bill,” I says, “thou’rt a bloody chump. Leave un alone. Police woa’nt have ’ee meddlin’ with murdered carpses.” So I sent him in to tell Reverend Vale as how one of his boys was in hayfield. Ar, that was the size o’ the matter.’

  ‘Quite right. I should think it would probably be best if you sent your men back to the village. They can do no good for the present, and the police will want to search the field as it is. If you and – er – Bill could wait till they come –?’

  The foreman gave the necessary directions and his small party broke up. Wrench came half running out of the school. Michael surprised a curious look on his face as he approached. Ruminating on it later, the best analysis he could come to was that it presented a kind of alternation of relief and fear. He had no time for analysis at the moment, as Wrench, after one brief glance at the contents of the stack, retired a few paces and began to retch. He felt himself being drawn aside by Sims.

  ‘I say, Evans do you know anything about this sort of thing? I mean, he looks as if he’d been dead – for quite a long time, somehow.’

  Michael had got the same impression, though he could not say why. Wemyss did look so very dead. Sims’s remark must have reached Wrench’s ear, for the latter turned and said in a high tense voice:

  ‘Well? What of it? What are you getting at?’

  ‘Well, you see, I’ve just remembered that Griffin was out in the field over there this evening till we began the search, and he would have seen if – if it had happened then. And before that was the sports. So the only time left is between lunch and two-thirty – that is, if he was at lunch.’ Sims concluded his involved argument with a mildly triumphant look.

  ‘Well?’ snapped Wrench.

  ‘What I’m getting at is that I suppose we’ll all be asked where we were then. Alibis, you know,’ he added brightly.

  The other two were silent for rather a long time, each thinking his own thoughts. Then Wrench spoke in a vicious tone.

  ‘Are you one of the secret police, or what? All this panic about alibis just because you have had a verbal inspiration, I suppose it must be, that he has been dead a long time. No doubt you’ve a perfect alibi yourself?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, now I come to think of it, I don’t think I have got a very good one,’ Sims replied more slowly.

  ‘Ah, well, cheer up,’ said Michael with forced heartiness, ‘the real murderer always has a perfect alibi. It’s us innocent ones who are never able to cook one up.’

  All the same, he thought to himself, it would not be funny at all if Sims is right. He saw his objection to the body being found on his and Hero’s rendezvous, which had before been merely aesthetic, assuming a very different significance. Uneasy speculation was interrupted by the arrival of Griffin with Dr. Maddox. The school doctor was a round, bouncing little man, exuding urbanity and antisepsis. Michael might have been amused at another time by the delicate way his patent-leather-shod feet pranced through the dewy stubble.

  ‘Good-evening, gentlemen,’ the doctor said, restraining himself with difficulty – the fancy occurred to Michael-from pirouetting up to the corpse on his shining toes. ‘Very sad. Poor young laddie. Well, well!’ He knelt down beside the body, putting his black hag in front of him, and got to work. The others looked away. A feeble and grotesque pun, turning on the word ‘examinations,’ arose unbidden in Michael’s mind. Griffin was screwing his heel round in the earth, rather in the manner of one preparing for a placekick. Wrench threw one or two hasty glances over his shoulder, and turned back with a visible shudder. ‘O, they looked at one another. And they looked away,’ Michael found himself muttering.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Wrench.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Dr. Maddox straightened himself up, with a rueful glance at his soaking knees.

  ‘Dear me, dear me!’ he exclaimed. ‘Most extraordinary – and, er, tragic. No question about it, I’m afraid. Murder or manslaughter. He seems to have been throttled first by his assailant’s hands. These bruises, you see. Then a thin cord tied round his neck. You will observe the red line: it has sunk in rather deeply.’

  No one cared to verify the statement. Michael wondered how long he would be able to refrain from asking the question that was on the tip of at least three tongues. After an awkward silence, it was finally Sims who took the plunge.

  ‘How long would you say he had been dead, doctor?’

  They were kept on tenterhooks for half a minute, while the doctor disported himself in a stream of technicalities.

  ‘To put it more simply,’ he concluded, ‘rigor mortis is fully established. That means he has been dead for more than four hours; probably for six. Of course, if the body has been lying under hay all the time, that would tend to defer the process and thus extend the period. You understand we can only fix the time very roughly: I should put it between four and seven hours ago as the outside limits.’

  Wrench moved his right hand abruptly towards his left wrist, paused in the act, then thought better of it and uncovered the face of his wrist watch.

  ‘Five to eight.’

  At least three heads did lightning calculations, but before the results could be compared, a murmur of talk was heard and a procession appeared out of the side door, led by the headmaster and a gigantic pale-faced man, the superintendent from Staverton. Behind these two straggled a sergeant, the Sudeley constable, and two other men, one bearing a camera.

  ‘This is Superintendent Armstrong,�
�� announced the headmaster. ‘Superintendent, I dare say you know Dr. Maddox. These gentlemen are members of my staff – Mr. Sims, Mr. Evans, Mr. Griffin, Mr. Wrench.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ the officer nodded perfunctorily. Polite murmurs from the members of the Rev. Vale’s staff.

  The headmaster continued: ‘Should you wish for any assistance I am sure these gentlemen –’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ interrupted Armstrong, with an indecent disregard for the rules of academic conversation, ‘I will certainly ask for what assistance I may need. If you gentlemen will all go indoors for the present. I shall ask for statements from you in the course of the evening. Who was it who found the body?’

  The foreman stepped forward.

  ‘You can wait. And I should like a word with you now, Dr. Maddox. Good evening, gentlemen.’

  At this pointed dismissal, the gentlemen trailed back into the school; Griffin and Evans were several paces behind the rest. Griffin whispered:

  ‘Percy will get an apoplexy if he has much more of this rough stuff applied to him. What do you think of our Mr. Armstrong?’

  ‘I do not like him.’

  ‘Personally, I think he’s a –’

  ‘You may well be right.’

  Supper was a silent affair. The boys were subdued and had their ears open for any crumbs of information that might fall down from the high table. But none did, for the masters had instructions to keep the real facts to themselves for the present – not that there was much chance of concealing them, as Griffin remarked, with a posse of police tramping about outside the back windows. Michael was glad of the absence of the usual chatter, for he was concentrating all his powers on a difficult decision. As soon as supper was over he went through to the private side in search of Hero. Luckily he found her alone, sitting rather forlornly over an uneaten meal. She looked up at him with a twist at the corner of her mouth, half provocative, half pathetic.

  ‘Isn’t this very imprudent, dear Michael?’

  ‘Hero, listen. I was not with you at lunch today. You were alone in the haystack.’