A Question of Proof

by Nicholas Blake

  Nigel rolled his eyes mutely up to heaven. Then he went out and returned with Smithers. The boy sat down stiffly in a straight-backed chair, casting an apprehensive glance at the superintendent.

  ‘All right,’ said Nigel, ‘he won’t eat you; he’s quite a nice man really.’ Armstrong passed his finger round the inside of his collar. ‘Now then,’ Nigel went on, ‘the superintendent would like to know what you told me just now. Start where you went upstairs.’

  ‘Well, sir, just before the sports I went up to see Mr. Wrench. I’d just finished an impot, you see. He wasn’t in his room, so I waited a minute or two.’

  ‘And then?’ said Nigel encouragingly.

  ‘I looked out of the window. You can see the hayfield from it. I saw Wemyss in the haystack,’ he broke off lamely.

  ‘Well, what about it? We all know he was in the haystack then. He’d just been murdered,’ said Armstrong impatiently.

  ‘Oh, n-no,’ stammered the boy. ‘I mean he was there, of course. You see he waved to me.’

  ‘He WHAT?’ bellowed the superintendent, starting out of his chair. Smithers bit his lip. He looked as if he were going to cry.

  ‘That’s all right, old man,’ said Nigel. ‘Mr. Armstrong is just a little surprised, that’s all.’

  ‘Did I hear you say he WAVED to you?’ asked the superintendent, making a herculean effort to control his seething emotions.

  ‘Yes, sir. I s’pose he heard me opening the window or something. He was sitting up against the side of the haystack, and he waved his hand.’

  ‘Just after morning school Wemyss hinted to Smithers that he was going to be tried for the Black Spot Society – a gross breach of confidence by the way, but Wemyss wanted to crow over Smithers. Smithers said he didn’t believe the Black Spot would ever think of having a worm like Wemyss for a member, or words to that effect. So Wemyss told him it was a deadly secret, and he (Smithers) would be murdered if he let out anything about it. That’s why Smithers held his tongue when you asked if any boy knew what Wemyss was doing after school,’ amplified Nigel.

  ‘And when did you leave Mr. Wrench’s rooms?’ asked the superintendent, in an ominously quiet voice.

  ‘Immediately after that, sir. I only got on to the field just in time for the first race.’

  Seeing that Armstrong was blowing up for a hurricane, Nigel dismissed the boy with a nod. Armstrong beat his clenched fist slowly against the table. ‘That means Wemyss was not murdered till after two-thirty,’ he said incredulously.

  ‘Your deduction is inexpungible.’

  ‘Gawd! Now we’ve got to start all over again. Look here, sir, was this your great idea?’ Armstrong said suspiciously. ‘Yes; believe it or not, I’d decided some time ago that Wemyss hadn’t been killed when you thought. But I had no proof till this morning.’

  ‘Well, hadn’t you better tell me exactly when he was killed, and by whom?’

  Nigel looked down his nose. ‘I think not. I need one thing to prove my case. If I don’t get it, I shall have no more material proof than you have against Evans and Mrs. Vale – a sight less, in fact. We can do you a very nice variety of suspects, though. Wrench running out on to the field, so he says, when the pistol went off; he might have taken the haystack en route. All the masters were on the field during the sports and they’ve all got nice alibis for after the sports. All of them except Griffin were near enough to Vale to murder him during the cricket match. You’re going to have a jolly morning’s work.’

  The superintendent groaned. ‘For all that, sir, Mrs. Vale and Mr. Evans are my choice for the second murder. And if they did the second, one of them presumably did the first,’ he said doggedly.

  ‘So you’re going to arrest them still, are you?’

  ‘Ah, that’s another matter.’

  Nigel blinked at Armstrong in a friendly way. ‘You know, I wish you would. I half promised Evans you would, in fact.’ Armstrong gaped. ‘You see,’ Nigel went on, ‘the murderer wants them hung. Every one is expecting you to arrest them. If you don’t, the murderer will know you’ve found some new evidence, and I’m rather afraid he may get impatient and have a shot at doing them in himself.’

  Armstrong hesitated. ‘That’s only your theory, sir.’

  ‘Please. You can’t do any harm by arresting them. And we don’t want any more murders for a day or two.’ Nigel spoke lightly, but there was a strong compulsion in his look. ‘Don’t you see,’ he added, ‘it will put the murderer off his guard too. Knowing they are in prison, he may get careless and give something away when you question him on your new lines.’

  Armstrong extricated his huge bulk from the chair. ‘Very well, sir, as you say, it can’t do any harm.’

  ‘That stiletto affair, what do you make of it?’ asked Nigel.

  ‘It’s queer, sir. An ordinary carpenter’s tool, you can see for yourself, with the end filed to a point. Wiped clean, of course; no fingermarks or traces of blood. Pearson is inquiring which of the masters used the carpenter’s shop here and whether any tools are missing. Anything strike you about it – the weapon, I mean?’ Armstrong gave Nigel a sly look.

  ‘Well, I don’t know. Yes, of course, why has the handle been removed?’

  ‘Exactly, sir. And I can tell you for why. It had to be removed in order that the weapon might be hidden. I’ve tried with a tool of the same size that had the handle, and you can see it just sticking out over the top of the picture rail. And, by Jove, sir! Look at it this way. If the murderer, as you suggest, put it there to incriminate Mr. Evans, he’d have left the handle on because he’d want it to be noticed. Therefore, I say it’s Mr. Evans who put it there.’

  ‘Think again. It was mere chance that Evans didn’t go into his sitting room before you this morning. If the murderer had any sense, he wouldn’t leave the handle on, because Evans might notice it, and get rid of the weapon before you came. He was pretty sure you’d look again, so he arranged it that an expert search would find it, but a casual glance shouldn’t.’

  ‘Umm. You’ve got a brain-box all right, Mr. Strangeways. Well, handle or no handle, I must be getting on with the job. See you later.’

  As Armstrong left the room, Nigel was muttering to himself, ‘The handle; the handle; why? There’s more to it than that, I’m certain.’

  He went out and found Griffin. He told him about the false alarm of fire that was scheduled for twelve fifty-five. ‘Now, first, I want every one out of the school, boys and masters. If necessary, you must start a panic in the common room yourself. And second, when every one’s been outside for about five minutes, you’ve got to catch Stevens II – he’ll try to skulk out unnoticed – and make a great fuss about a practical joke. Get him to confess publicly, before all the masters.’

  ‘I’ll see to all that.’

  ‘Good man. I’m hoping that that five minutes will give me the key to everything.’

  Nevertheless, sitting again with the superintendent at twelve-fifty, Nigel felt as nervous as a dramatist on the first night of his first play. It is one thing to make psychological deductions, and quite another to follow them blindfolded into the minefield of fact. He stirred uneasily and looked at his watch, and became aware that Armstrong was speaking.

  ‘… Like a cat on hot bricks, as you might say. I don’t believe you’ve been listening at all, Mr. Strangeways. Is the murderer late for his appointment, or what is it?’

  ‘Listening? Oh yes, I’ve been listening – “the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell that summons thee to heaven or to hell”; or shall we say, “me to heaven and thee to hell.” You were saying –’

  ‘An inch or two further. They were all at the sports. Can’t swear to each other’s presence for every minute of the time, of course. You can call it a perfect alibi or no alibi at all. But what does it signify? Who’s going to commit a murder with all those people walking around?’

  ‘He couldn’t be seen in the haystack.’

  ‘He had to get to it, didn’t he? And
back? No, the only hope is tea time. I’ve had another talk with that Mould. He’s a poor sort of witness, but he admits that he may not have had Griffin under his eye the whole time they were tidying up the field. I know four o’clock was fixed as the final limit, but I’ve just had a talk with Dr. Maddox on the phone and he says that rigor is often delayed by sudden death. Now supposing Wemyss –’

  Armstrong’s disquisition was cut short by a terrific clangour overhead. Stevens II was certainly doing himself proud. The tongue of the great fire bell hammered and yammered as though London Town was burning, filling their ears with harsh waves of sound. Armstrong looked startled for a moment, then he winked slyly at Nigel. ‘You mentioned a knell, didn’t you, sir?’

  ‘Yes. This is zero-hour. Just go and stimulate the panic, will you? I want the school to myself for a few minutes.’

  Nigel went and peeped through the door that divided the private side from the school. The pot seemed to be boiling admirably. Boys were scurrying out by the two main exits. A hum of wild surmise and several half-repressed female shrieks came from the kitchen and dining hall on his left. Masters began to emerge from the common room; Gadsby trying not to hurry; Sims almost scuttling at his side; Tiverton walking calmly to one of the doors and rebuking in sub-acid tones four boys who were trying to get through it simultaneously. Last came Griffin and Wrench. Griffin had a firm grip of the other’s elbow. Nigel heard Wrench saying, ‘… fantastic! Who the hell would arrange a fire practice for today?’ ‘Some ass probably set fire to the dinner. Come along, we’re supposed to go outside.’

  Nigel waited till the sounds in the school had died down and he could hear Tiverton calling the roll on the field. Then he dashed into the common room, went up to one of the lockers, rummaged in it, withdrew something, studied it for half a minute, and ran out through the private side on to the field. It had been so much easier than he expected: and yet, no; it was all of a piece.

  ‘What was all that din?’ he said to the group of masters. ‘Sounded like the end of the world.’

  ‘Some ass rung the fire-alarm. Griffin’s gone to investigate. Stevens II didn’t answer his name, so I expect he’s the culprit,’ said Tiverton.

  ‘A queer day to choose for a practical joke,’ grumbled Wrench. ‘Oh, here he comes.’

  Griffin rolled on to the field, leading Stevens urgently by the ear. Tiverton stepped forward.

  ‘Was it you who rang that bell?’ His voice snapped like a whip.

  Stevens II wriggled and cast a doubtful glance at Nigel, who did not return it.

  ‘You don’t deny it? You needn’t look so proud of yourself.’ Stevens didn’t, as a matter of fact, but Tiverton was ‘in a fair bate,’ as the boys put it, quite pale with anger. ‘It was a stupid, baby trick. Get inside and I’ll deal with you after lunch.’

  The school trailed in again. Nigel and Armstrong remained behind for a moment.

  ‘Well, are you happy now, sir?’

  ‘Mm.So, so.’ Nigel looked, in point of fact, abstracted and rather melancholy. He fingered something that reposed in his capacious inside pocket. ‘And what are you going to do this afternoon, Armstrong?’

  ‘Just keep on at it, sir, until the oracle sees fit to speak; just keep pegging away, that’s how mysteries are solved, you know, sir.’

  ‘Yes. Pegging away. I wonder what the source of that metaphor is. Clothes-pegs, whisky-pegs, tent-pegs –’ his eyes blazed up like a heath on fire. ‘Oh! oh, my holy heavens! What abysmal fools we are! Tent-pegs. Quick!’ And he dragged the superintendent towards the place where Vale’s body had died and fallen.

  XIII

  ‘Give Me Some Light: Away!’

  THE MARQUEE HAD been taken away early that morning. But it was not, apparently, in the marquee that Nigel was interested. He went down on his knees, close to the spot where the body had lain, the superintendent watching him indulgently, like a bear the antics of its cub, and prodded a long stick into a hole in the ground; then he moved along a yard or two and prodded again; then he got on to his feet and beckoned to the superintendent.

  ‘Look on this puncture and on this.’ Armstrong bent and peered into the second cavity. He shook his head, bewildered. He moved over to the first, peered, stiffened and pounced.

  ‘Good Lord, Mr. Strangeways, you’ve got it! This hole goes down much deeper. It’s – well, I’ll be damned for a –’ The superintendent made a number of discreditable reflections on his ancestry.

  ‘I doubt if it’s as bad as all that,’ Nigel said soothingly, ‘it would have taken in anyone. This murderer is infinitely subtle, but his nerve is greater even than his subtlety. It takes brains to think of how to hide the vital clues right under our noses, but it takes even more nerve to go and do it. The courage of despair,’ he went on, half to himself, ‘no, not quite “despair”; call it –’

  Armstrong interrupted, ‘That’s all very well, sir, but I can’t let myself off so easily. To think that that blasted dagger was sticking in the ground the whole time while we were turning every one and everything inside out. I swear I’ll be glad to get the fellow hung,’ he said vindictively.

  ‘It’s an example of safety in numbers. One tent-peg would have attracted attention; but a dozen of ’em, all sitting round quietly, and pulling their weight and looking thoroughly respectable. No, you might as well have gone tearing up the bushes expecting to find a blade instead of a root.’

  ‘How do you figure out the details, Mr. Strangeways?’

  ‘I imagine the murderer got hold of an ordinary tent-peg, sawed off the end and fitted that chisel thing into the top. Then he waited for his opportunity and substituted the contraption for one of the pegs that were already in the ground after the tent had been put up. The arrangements for these school functions are apt to be pretty identical from year to year, so he’d know exactly where Vale was likely to sit – the contiguity of the position to the tent probably gave him the idea to start off with – and chose the peg that would be nearest to his seat. Or he may have done it after the seats were arranged. You can ask Tiverton for times; he superintended the seating.’

  ‘Yes, by Gad,’ broke in Armstrong eagerly, ‘he had only to stand unobtrusively near Mr. Vale, wait till a crucial moment of the game, pull the tent-peg dagger out of the ground, stab him, and put it back. I dunno, it sounds so easy. It was easy, mechanically, as you might say. But, just think, sir, would you or I ever bring ourselves to do it? I mean, even at the most critical point of a game, you can’t be certain that every one will have his eyes fastened on it.’

  ‘You or I, or most people, would certainly not bring ourselves to do it. But we are normal people. The murderer is abnormal or, shall we say, every one is abnormal when he commits murder. He is either blinded by the heat of the moment, or he has screwed himself slowly up to the state of mind in which one is automatically compelled, as it were, to take advantage of the occasion and one’s own preparations. He was quite safe up till that point, too. You see, if no occasion had offered, he’d just have left the weapon in the ground and removed it at the first opportunity. That is another point of similarity between the murder and –’ he broke off suddenly. But the superintendent was following out a private train of thought.

  ‘That business of the seating, you know, sir, the murderer couldn’t rely on Mr. Vale being near enough to that particular tent-peg to make it safe. And he doesn’t seem the sort of cove who leaves much to chance. It was Mr. Tiverton, you say, who arranged the seating?’ he continued after a pause, ‘and Mr. Tiverton stopped umpiring at the tea interval, and Mr. Tiverton was the first to be seen bending over the body. Mm.’

  Nigel eyed him speculatively. ‘Tiverton and Sims were the first, to be strictly accurate. By the way, did you find out anything about the weapon itself?’

  ‘It comes from the school workshop all right – at least, Gadsby says there’s an identical one missing; he’s in charge of the workshop, you know. But all the masters had access to it.’

  ‘And your ca
se against Evans and Mrs. Vale?’

  ‘Well, that’s about as it was, sir. She could easily have reached the tent-peg from where she was sitting. They could have done it, of course. But if they did, why leave the weapon in his room for us to find? The trouble in this case is the difficulty of establishing motive. Evans and Mrs. Vale have a pretty clear one for the second murder and a conceivable one for the first. Wrench might have killed Wemyss because the boy had found out about him and Rosa, but why should he kill Mr. Vale?’

  ‘His career. Vale might also have discovered his relations with the girl. He’d never get taken on at any school if that became public.’

  ‘You may be right, sir. I must have another go at Rosa. Then there’s Sims. He had a grudge against Wemyss all right. But again, why Vale?’

  ‘He had a first-class row with the headmaster the other day.’ Nigel gave the details.

  ‘Did he just? Excuse me, sir, but I thought we were to share all information,’ said Armstrong, looking rather aggrieved.

  ‘I’ve not been double-crossing you. That fact could not be of any significance till Vale was murdered. It told us nothing about the Wemyss affair.’

  ‘That’s true enough, I suppose. Though it might have helped us to prevent the second murder. Still, motive again. We don’t go killing our superior officers because they put us on the mat. Now take Tiverton. He might have killed Wemyss, and he’s still more suspect in the case of Vale. But why should he?’

  Nigel related some of the conversation at breakfast that morning. ‘So, you see, he would have the good will of the masters and a fair number of the parents at least. With Vale out of the way he stood a good chance of being headmaster, supposing the school continued.’

  ‘But he’d no earthly reason, as far as we know, for murdering Wemyss. Then there’s Griffin. He looks more promising for the first murder, but there’s no motive; and he couldn’t possibly have done the second. I suppose the two murders were committed by the same person.’ Armstrong fingered his chin doubtfully.