A Question of Proof

by Nicholas Blake

  Armstrong proposed to remain by Urquhart’s bedside in the hospital till he recovered consciousness; if he ever should. But he thanked Michael, a little awkwardly, for his help and promised to come up to the school that evening if he could, and tell them all about it.

  ‘Is he – James – the man, the one you’re looking for?’ said Hero, as Armstrong was preparing to depart.

  ‘Well, no, he’s not the murderer, ma’am. At least, I should be very surprised if – but if he ever gets over this, he’ll see the inside of a prison all right, I can promise you that.’

  With this they had to rest contented for seven hours or so. After dinner that night, when the headmaster and his wife, Michael and Nigel were discussing the affair in the drawing room, the superintendent was announced. He walked gravely up to Percival Vale, ‘I’m afraid this will be a terrible shock to you, sir. Mr. Urquhart is dead. Before he died he made a confession. One which, I may say, confirmed my own theory about him. He had been playing fast and loose with your nephew’s fortune. He had appropriated a considerable part of it from time to time for his own uses, then speculated, unsuccessfully, in an attempt to make good the estate. I think he knew that I suspected this, for when I went to interview him this morning he sent in a message that he would see me in five minutes, and he spent those five minutes in collecting whatever remained and was accessible of Master Wemyss’ property. I had posted a plainclothes man at the door, but he got past him. For the rest we have to thank Mrs. Vale for her car and Mr. Evans for his fine driving.’

  The headmaster sank into a chair, his face was buried in his trembling hands, and Armstrong could only guess what emotions were being concealed. He went on:

  ‘And, of course, that means that the murderer is still at large. Mr. Urquhart would be the last person to kill the boy, since his death would inevitably lead to his own immediate exposure. I take it that you had no suspicion of what was going on, Mr. Vale?’

  The headmaster raised the face of one who saw the last props of a shaken world give way, ‘It can be scarcely necessary for me to say that I had no idea of it,’ he answered hopelessly.

  ‘I have a reason for asking the question, sir,’ said Armstrong, and proceeded to relate the incident of the anonymous note which had brought the solicitor to Edgworth Wood. ‘You see,’ he explained, ‘I couldn’t imagine what would induce Mr. Urquhart to keep such an unprofessional appointment, unless he himself had something on his conscience and the note referred to it. Now that we know he had something on his conscience, we can infer that the writer of the note must have known of it or guessed it –’

  ‘It might have been a shot in the dark,’ interrupted Strangeways.

  ‘That is barely possible, of course. Do you know of anyone who would be likely to have discovered Mr. Urquhart’s frauds, sir? Anyone, that is, who also had personal connection with your nephew?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That is a pity, sir, because there doesn’t seem much doubt that a person who fulfils those two qualifications wrote the note, and the person who wrote the note was the murderer.’

  VII

  About it and About

  THE NEXT DAY Strangeways spent in getting the feel of the place, as he put it. He had a great advantage over the superintendent here; not only was he understood to be ‘on our side,’ for so the common room looked upon it, but he had an uncanny knack for fitting into the different kinds of circles and societies into which his profession brought him. He did this, not as most ‘mixers’ do, by altering himself to suit the environment, or by any apparent exercise of social tact. It was his obvious and genuine interest in the person he was talking to – a far more sincere form of flattery than imitation – that was his passport to so many differing types of individual. This interest was actually far less flattering to the individual than it seemed on the surface, for it proceeded from scientific and not sentimental curiosity, but its ultimately impersonal nature was concealed by Strangeways’ personal vitality and good manners, and very few of those who were subjects of it realised that they were dealing with a kind of human microscope.

  Let us follow him as he steers an erratic, seemingly aimless course through a school day. He has had breakfast with the staff. Work has begun. He moves slowly down the corridor between classrooms, as Michael did three days before. First on the left, the headmaster taking Latin. The real, genuine old pedagogue’s voice, matured in the wood, snapping and buzzing away like electric sparks in a tense, strained silence. That man, thinks Nigel, has not passion enough for one kind of murder, and surely his mind is too complacent and academic for the other. The school is the symbol and vindication of his own ego. His reaction to the crime, Hero and Michael agree, is a feeling that his life work had been badly damaged; a kind of blow, not simply at his reputation, but at himself. That feeling is real, not assumed; I can see that for myself. It is unthinkable that such a man, in order to get hold of a property which he does not need, would commit a murder bound to damage the school and therefore to violate his own ego.

  He moved on. Gadsby. A common enough type. Good-looking once, the life and soul of the party, a great success in a small, mentally confined circle. And then he grows older, loses his looks and youthful zest, the circle is broken up and he is left defenceless. There remains drink; ‘love affairs’; some kind of drug to make him forget his losses. He is almost burnt out, a bonhomous automaton. Almost burnt out, but perhaps not quite. The sort of person who might be found mixed up in one of these squalid ‘crimes passionnels.’ The sort to commit murder from fright, not for revenge. Wonder how he supports this monastic life. He doesn’t talk to the boys like a homosexual, repressed or otherwise. I must have a look at the servants, that was a handsome wench waiting at breakfast.

  A devilish hubbub broke into his thoughts. He moved over to the door on his right whence it proceeded, murmuring, ‘Mon Dieu, quel hulerberlu! Quel, I might even say, tohu-bohu!’ Feet were clattering on desks, books falling, or, more likely, being thrown, hoots, groans and scuffles. A jerky, ineffectual voice said, ‘Stop this noise, won’t you! You two, sit down at once. What’s all this disturbance about?’

  ‘Please, sir, Pompo’s lizard has escaped. Wooh! Look out, sir, it’s going up your trouser leg.’

  ‘Lizard? What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Don’t you know what a lizard is, sir? A reptilian quadruped, common in tropical regions, with a long tail, and knobs on.’ ‘Ponsonby, none of your insolence or I’ll report you to Mr. Vale. Now then, Bastin, what’s all this about your filthy lizard?’ ‘Sir, he’s not filthy, sir, his name is Gloucestershire, because he’s got a long tail, you see, sir.’

  ‘Chew yourself, Pomps. We beat your mouldy old Middlesex anyway.’

  The anguished voice of Sims blurted out again. It was just like a sheep strayed on the mountains, Nigel thought. ‘The next boy who talks without permission will be kept in this afternoon. Now then, what do you mean by bringing a lizard into form?’ Dead silence. ‘Will you answer me at once.’

  ‘Please, sir, you didn’t give me permission to speak.’ Sims laughed, an uncertain, would-be ingratiating laugh, ‘The point is well taken. You may speak.’

  ‘Well, sir, he was so lonely by himself in my desk – oh corks! Look out, you chaps, he’s trying to get under the door!’ There was a trebly increased rumpus, several bodies crashed against the door, then an angry wail arose, ‘Curse you, Stevens II, you’ve pulled its tail off! I’ll give you such a conk on the nut.’ ‘I’m frightfully sorry, Pompo. It just cime awiy in me ’and: ‘oh, you would, would you?’ Crash, bang, thump, screech. Strangeways moved off at a brisk walk, as he heard the headmaster’s door opening, and stopped again at a discreeter distance. Mr. Vale entered the inferno. Medusa herself could not have had a more petrifying effect, ‘The whole of this form will stay in this afternoon and write out lines for me. You three, Stevens II., Bastin and Ponsonby, will also come to my study at twelve-forty-five for a thrashing. A word with you, please, Mr. Sims.�
� Strangeways moved hurriedly into the common room while the outraged headmaster swept past, towing Sims, as pale as dead Hector, at his chariot wheels. Strangeways unashamedly put his head to the study door and heard a dressing-down which made his ears tingle. Poor little devil, he thought, no one has ever given him a chance. Just like Vale to take up this line with him. Sarcasm, biting contempt, talking to him like he talks to one of the boys. Of course, Vale is really angry, indiscipline lets down the school; ergo, is an insult to himself. My hat, though, if anyone spoke to me like that 1’d break his head. But Sims is too crushed for that; the slave mentality. Chock-full of inferiority feeling no doubt. The way the boys seem to treat him would do it alone. Is there a point at which such slaves rebel? I wonder does a worm turn, in actual fact. Must find out whether Wemyss was numbered amongst his oppressors.

  Sims returned, flushed and shaken, to his classroom, and Strangeways resumed his promenade. He smiled involuntarily as he stood outside Griffin’s door. He was teaching history, Nigel realised at last, full of flagrant inexactitudes and gross caricatures of eminent personages. Nigel left him as Henry the Eighth, decapitating wives right and left with a ruler. There was enormous competition amongst his form for the place of honour on the block. No, if murder is there, thought Nigel, I’ll eat all my hats and join the nudists. He moved further down the passage. Tiverton’s room. There was order here, but maintained at the cost of incessant nervous effort. The boys answered questions in respectful enough tones, but one felt that they would break out if the master let up his nervous pressure for a moment. There was no real sympathy between him and his pupils; they were not even united by the bond of fear, like the headmaster and his. I doubt if Tiverton is in the right job; he has enthusiasm, but no channel to communicate it here. Might have made a good scientist if he’d had more brains, or an expert connoisseur, perhaps, if he’d had the money. Murder? I doubt it. Too spinsterish and comfort-loving. I imagine he’s got a soft centre, too. But not absolutely off the cards.

  Strangeways moved across the passage and stopped, quite startled, outside Wrench’s room. Good Lord, what have we here? This man has something very near a genius for teaching, and at breakfast I thought he was just the usual scrubby prep-school nonentity. The silence in the room was one of rapt attention. Wrench’s voice was confident and incisive, the faint Midland accent lending it a curious kind of distinction. Patient, illuminating, right on top of his work, Nigel said to himself. He’s obviously got brains. Brains enough to plan a subtle murder, and the single-minded desire of the bright lower-middle-class lad to get somewhere. I can imagine him remorseless against anything that stood in the path of his ambition. But how could Wemyss? Supposing there was something that threatened to ruin his career; supposing Wemyss knew of it? Stop! We only want impressions so far; theories must wait for facts.

  The bell rang for the end of the hour. Doors vomited forth a stream of boys. Evans came along and dragged his friend towards his own classroom. ‘You’ve got to come and take the part of Hamlet, if we succeed in doing any work at all. The boys have heard that there’s a new sleuth on the premises, so you’ll probably have to give a lecture on crime.’ A few minutes found Nigel, stripped to the shirt sleeves, a lath sword in hand, confronting the Laertes of Anstruther. Nigel was no actor; but, if he lacked dramatic talent, he was equally lacking in self-consciousness, and his boisterous abandon soon affected the other players. There was, perhaps, more sawing of the air, o’erdoing Termagant, and out-heroding Herod than the refined Prince of Denmark would have cared for; still, the Elizabethan gusto of the actors compensated for much. Laertes was truculent, Hamlet elaborately ironic. A smallish, rabbit-faced boy, representing the king in a purple tablecloth and a pie-frill crown, began to declaim:

  ‘Set me the stoups of wine upon that table.’ Two advanced bearing lemonade bottles, while the court made ribald comments, not unconnected with the weakness of Mr. Gadsby.

  ‘If Hamlet give the first or second hit,

  Or quit in answer of the third exchange,

  Let all the battlements their ordnance fire;

  The King shall drink to Hamlet’s better breath;

  And in the cup an onion shall he throw –’

  The King was not allowed to proceed any further. Yelps and howls of mirth convulsed the company. Michael realised that it would take them the rest of the hour to recover from giggling fits, so he suggested that Strangeways might be willing to answer any questions they liked to ask. The form leaped at the chance and plied him for many minutes, with the thirteen-yearold’s quaint blend of sophistication and naïveté. Then Anstruther asked him how he would have gone about solving the mystery of his father’s death, supposing he had been Hamlet. This opened the floodgates, and Nigel talked on and on to a spellbound audience. As the hands of the clock hovered over ten-thirty, he noticed that one of his audience had conceived an idea and wished to deliver it. He broke off. ‘Did you want to ask something special?’

  ‘Sir, excuse my interrupting –’ it was Stevens, the head boy, speaking – ‘but wouldn’t it be fine if we could find out who killed Wemyss by acting the murder over again, like Hamlet made the players do before the king.’ Strangeways received the suggestion with perfect gravity. ‘Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll remember it. And by the way,’ he said, striking while the iron is hot, ‘if any of you have any ideas about this business, I shall be in Mr. Evans’ room after lunch. Remember, anything you know about Wemyss, any little detail you noticed that struck you as queer, however unimportant it may seem, may help a great deal.’ The bell rang, and Nigel left the room having made twelve hero-worshippers, allies, and possibly too zealous assistants.

  Michael and his friend strolled into the common room, where they were received with friendly nods. Tiverton stretched out his cigarette case to Strangeways, looking at him quizzically. Strangeways took one, lit it, and said, ‘Anything wrong? They aren’t opium, are they? Or have I a smut on the end of my nose?’ Tiverton smiled, ‘Another illusion shattered! I’ve never read a detective story in which the great man didn’t “carefully select a cigarette from the case,” and I’ve always wondered how and why he did it when the case was generally full of Players.’

  ‘Just padding,’ said Wrench, ‘they can never spin a single crime over three hundred pages, so they either have to fill up with carefully selected drinks and smokes or make their criminal commit a few more murders.’

  Sims looked over the top of his Daily Mirror, ‘Let’s hope our local criminal doesn’t adopt your second alternative.’

  Wrench frowned and exclaimed irritably, ‘Oh, God, why is everybody always bringing up this subject? Need we all become monomaniacs just because we all suspect that one of us is a maniac?’

  There was a painful silence. It was the first public appearance of a truth, so to speak, and it got the welcome that truths usually get on their first appearance. Nigel looked down his nose in a noncommittal way, seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts – actually listening hard for the intonations of voices. Griffin pushed back his chair and said:

  ‘A deep wedge of depression is moving quickly down from Iceland. There will be local soul-storms tomorrow.’

  ‘Look here, Wrench, that’s a nasty thing to say,’ exclaimed Sims. ‘I mean, do you really think the murderer’s a maniac? It’s not a very agreeable thought.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, Sims, nobody would hurt you,’ Wrench replied, the contempt in his voice scarcely veiled. Sims ducked back behind his paper. Gadsby, who had been trying in vain to get a word in, rasped in his throat, collected eyes like a hostess, making a marked exception of Wrench’s, and said:

  ‘Rather a morbid subject this. Let’s change it. Well, Strangeways, getting any forrarder?’

  ‘That is not changing the subject,’ remarked Wrench belligerently.

  Gadsby ignored the objection, and continued to stare expectantly at Nigel, with his rather grisly animation of face – the expression of a galvanised corpse.

  ‘Early days y
et, Mr. Gadsby,’ said Nigel. ‘At present I’m so interested in the workings of a preparatory school that I have almost forgotten what I came here for.’

  ‘And what is your opinion of our workings?’ asked Wrench, a little on the defensive.

  ‘I think your boys are very lucky to be at school now and not thirty years ago. Nice common room you’ve got here. I’ve a dim recollection of the one at my own private school; no windows, one dusty skylight, a foil without the button in one comer and a broken brassie in another, on the table a Latin grammar without a cover, a bottle of invalid port, and a tooth tumbler. A very good expressionist picture of early twentieth century education.’

  There was general laughter, to which Gadsby added a rather puzzled contribution, ‘There’s something in what you say,’ he remarked. ‘Talking of education, that reminds me, can’t find my French prose book.’ He got up and began looking into lockers that lined the far wall. ‘Suppose it can’t have got among your books by mistake, Tiverton?’

  Tiverton turned round abruptly in his chair, ‘No, it could not. And will you kindly keep your nose out of my locker. You know perfectly well that there’s an unwritten law here against snooping into other people’s belongings in the common room.’

  Sims looked up in a worried way and Strangeways looked down his nose again. The aggrieved Gadsby said, ‘Oh, very well, very well. Seem to have put my foot in it again. Got Lady Chatterley tucked away in there, have you?’

  A further outburst from Tiverton was averted by the entrance of the headmaster, ‘Oh, there you are, Strangeways. Getting acquainted with the – a-ah – genius loci? Now, is there anything you want, any assistance we can give you?’