Love Lies Bleeding

by Edmund Crispin

  Stagge said, ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mrs Love,’ and his face reddened slightly at this harmless demonstration of hypocrisy. ‘We’ll leave you now, and you must get some rest.’

  ‘Are you going – are you going to take him away?’

  ‘With your permission, yes.’ Stagge hesitated. ‘I don’t know if you’ve any friend you’d like to have with you for the night…’

  ‘Oh, no.’ She spoke with curious emphasis. ‘I shall be all right. This will be the first time I’ve been on my own for nearly forty years. I shall be all right.’

  At the gate they met the sergeant, the constable and the doctor.

  ‘I’ve got him inside,’ said the latter, nodding towards a louring black shape interpretable as the ambulance. ‘And if you ask me, it’s about time we all went to bed.’

  Stagge was absently flashing his torch on and off. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘I think it is. Well, I don’t know if I’ve done everything I should have done. As I said earlier, this sort of thing’s new to me.’

  ‘In my opinion,’ Fen remarked, ‘you’ve handled the case admirably. And in very unusual and trying circumstances, too.’

  Stagge was plainly cheered by this testimonial. ‘Well,’ he said more briskly, ‘what do you think about it all?’

  ‘Love may have been shot while his wife was out of the house, but if a silencer was used…’

  ‘It’s likely, isn’t it,’ Stagge said, ‘that he was killed before a quarter to eleven, the time when she regularly took him his coffee. That’s to say, it’s likely if the murderer knew of that particular habit. There were two cups on the tray, so I take it she had hers with him in the study…Well, I’ll sleep on it, sir, and see you in the morning.’

  They said goodnight and, after Fen had obtained directions for reaching the headmaster’s house, parted, silent and tired. And Fen shivered a little as he climbed into his car, for the turn of the night was approaching; the time, he reflected, when sick men most often die. He was very thoughtful as he drove home through the darkness.

  7

  Saturnalia

  Speech day dawned bright and clear – an uncommon eventuality for which the headmaster was devoutly thankful; at least he would be spared the nuisance of hurriedly substituting an indoor programme for an outdoor one. Over breakfast, in the sunny morning room, Fen narrated the circumstances of Love’s demise, and the headmaster listened gloomily.

  ‘What with tiredness and worry,’ he said, ‘I was quite light-headed last night. Now I feel like a drunkard on the morning after – only too conscious of the sordidness of it all. I must remember to write to Gabbitas this morning for a couple of substitutes.’ He poured out more coffee. ‘Heavens, how I detest change! I sometimes think that change, and change alone, is the source of all misery. No doubt Eden was quite static and lethargic.’

  ‘All progress involves change,’ Fen remarked rather tediously. He was never at his best at breakfast.

  ‘Then all change is evil,’ said the headmaster dogmatically. ‘On the material plane, anyway. Nature demands – for some inscrutable reason – an equilibrium. Destroy one equilibrium, and you’re in misery during the transition to another. A man owns a bicycle, and feels content. Then he begins to want a car, and is miserable – the old equilibrium between himself and his possessions being destroyed – until he gets it. So it goes on.’

  ‘I’m inclined to think,’ said Fen, ‘that neither opposing nor advocating change makes much difference to the sum total of human misery. History suggests that it stays constant in quantity, if not in kind. Science rids us of plague but endows us with the atom bomb. Humanitarianism rids us of sweated labour but offers us the horrors of political agitation in its place. There’s a choice of evils, but that’s all.’

  ‘Pessimist,’ said the headmaster. ‘Ah, well, this is scarcely the time for philosophies of history. Have you any ideas about these murders?’

  ‘Some strong suspicions. But we haven’t collected all the necessary data yet.’

  ‘I see.’ The headmaster finished his coffee and thrust an aged cherrywood pipe into his mouth. ‘Well, I shall go and robe myself now. Are you going to wear your ceremonial trappings all day?’

  ‘Good God, no. It’ll be far too hot. I’ll wear them for the actual speeches, and that’s all…By the way, have you a school list I could borrow?’

  ‘There’s one on the hall table,’ said the headmaster as he made for the door. ‘You can keep that.’

  He departed upstairs, and Fen, having found the list, settled down on the terrace in the sunlight to examine it, while the birds sang lustily in the high beeches and the last wisps of early mist vanished from beneath the hedges. The list was in the form of a small booklet bound in yellow paper. The bulk of it consisted of catalogues of boys, but to these he paid scant attention, concentrating instead on the first three pages, which contained a roster of the names, addresses and telephone numbers of the masters, followed by a similar catalogue of the other employees of the school; to be specific, the adjutant of the JTC, his assistant, the bursar, the librarian, the headmaster’s secretary, the matron of the sanatorium, the medical officer, the proprietor of the school shop, the head groundsman, the porter, the carpenter. Fen noted that domestic staff were not included, but that, fortunately, was not important. He took out a pencil and traced runic signs in the margin.

  Presently the headmaster reappeared, resplendent in the crimson and scarlet robe of an Oxford Doctor of Civil Law, and they drove to the school site and the study in Davenant’s. On the way, the headmaster explained the day’s programme.

  ‘The chapel service, at ten, is quite a short one. Then at a quarter to eleven there’s a mass gymnastic display in the playing fields accompanied by the Corps band. Nothing after that till the afternoon; the boys lunch with their parents, mostly, and the staff tends to drift down to the Boar in Castrevenford and drink gin. Speeches and prize-giving at two thirty – and since we can never get everyone into the hall, the cricket match between the First Eleven and the Old Boys begins at the same time, to give the outcasts something to look at. At four, or as near as possible, there’s a gigantic garden party at my house, with tea in relays. After dinner there’s a play – or there will be if Mathieson can manage it without Brenda Boyce. And tomorrow – God be praised – a whole holiday.’

  The site was still more or less deserted under the sun as they drove up the oak-lined drive; for on this morning the boys breakfasted late. One or two, however, were already strolling about, wearing dark-blue suits and carnations or roses in their button holes – this last a traditional ostentation permitted to even the smallest and most insignificant newcomer on speech day. They saluted the headmaster as he passed, and in gazing earnestly at the sky with a view to prophesying the weather he narrowly missed immolating one of them. Wells was visible, hurrying distantly on some obscure administrative errand. Mr Merrythought, inscrutably misanthropic, was scratching himself tentatively beneath a tree. And from the windows of Davenant’s, as they arrived there, came a sanguine uproar of shouting and whistling.

  The headmaster at once plunged into conference with Galbraith, with a view to assembling the staff in one of the classrooms before chapel, and soon Galbraith retired to his room for a prolonged bout of telephoning. At a quarter past nine Stagge arrived. Dark rings round his eyes suggested that he had slept little, but he spoke with an attempt at animation.

  He said, ‘I’ve posted a plain-clothes constable outside the masters’ common room, sir. He’s got the key, so if anyone wants anything out of there they’ve only got to ask. I needn’t add that an eye will be kept on them while they’re getting it. Perhaps you’d inform the masters about the arrangement when you see them.’

  ‘By all means, superintendent. I hope they’ll all be there.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Stagge rather grimly. ‘And that’s another way in which you can help me. I should like to know whether they are all there – and if not, why not. Is anyone likely to be absent?
’

  ‘Not if my secretary can get in touch with them all. There’s no one ill, and it’s an unwritten law that all masters shall be present on speech day. Before I came here they tended to sneak off to London in order to avoid the parents, but I’ve stopped that.’ Stagge nodded his satisfaction. ‘And have there been any – ah – further developments?’ the headmaster enquired.

  ‘Very few, sir. I’ve examined the two bullets, and although they’ll have to go to a ballistics expert for a further check, I’ve no doubt, myself, that they came from the same gun. What we have to do now is to find out where that gun came from, and where it’s gone.’

  ‘The river,’ Fen suggested.

  ‘I’m afraid it may be that, sir. Still…’

  ‘What are your plans for the day, then?’ the headmaster asked.

  ‘We’ve a good deal to get through, sir. There are the two post-mortems – of course, we can’t do more than wait for the results of them. Then Mr Somers’ rooms, and the common room, will have to be thoroughly searched. We shall have to look into the provenance of the weapon – that is,’ Stagge charitably interpreted, ‘where it came from. We shall have to find out how long Somers took writing those reports. And – heaviest job of all – we’ve got to discover where everyone was between ten and eleven last evening. I’m putting three men on to that, and it might be as well, sir, if you were to inform the masters that they’re likely to be interrogated discreetly during the day. Anyone who has anything to hide will be prepared for that, so it gives nothing away and can’t do any harm.’

  ‘My dear superintendent, I very much appreciate your unobtrusive methods.’

  ‘Provided unobtrusiveness doesn’t interfere with our efficiency, sir, you shall have it. And now, if you’ve a moment to spare, you may be able to help me.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I believe, sir, that you were here in your study last evening up to the time I arrived.’

  ‘That’s so. From eight thirty onwards.’

  ‘Did you leave the room at any time, sir?’

  ‘No. Not even for a moment.’

  ‘And you heard nothing unusual?’

  ‘Again, no.’

  ‘Did you at any time hear a car or a motorcycle moving about the site?’ Fen asked.

  The headmaster reflected for a moment. ‘That’s more difficult, but I don’t think so…Wait, though,’ he added resipiscently, ‘I’m not sure whether Galbraith came in his car…No, he didn’t. I remember now. And all the people at the Fasti meeting were on foot, I’m certain.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Stagge. ‘Now, this Fasti meeting: at what time did it begin?’

  ‘Nine thirty. Whenever housemasters are concerned we have to have our meetings rather late, as in the evenings they have things to look after in their houses.’

  ‘And the meeting ended when?’

  ‘Just before ten forty-five. People were leaving when Galbraith arrived.’

  ‘I see.’ Stagge produced his notebook. ‘Now, sir, can you give me a list of the people who were at the meeting? Just the names.’

  The headmaster frowned as he lit his pipe. ‘Philpotts, for cricket. Weems, for music. Saltmarsh, for the Corps. Mathieson, for the cinema club. Du Cann, for outside lecturers. Peterkin, for examinations. Stout – the chaplain – for religious services. Morton, for swimming. Lumb, for rowing…I think that’s the lot.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Was anyone missing who ought to have been there?’

  ‘No one. A full attendance.’

  ‘And they all left together?’

  ‘In a bunch, superintendent. Of course, they probably separated when they got outside. But I was too pleased at being rid of them to notice.’

  ‘And after that, you were alone with your secretary until you received the news?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Were there any other official functions going on at this time?’

  ‘No. A good many unofficial ones, though. The evening before speech day is always an evening of parties.’

  ‘Ah.’ Stagge shut his notebook and returned it to his pocket. ‘That may help us a good deal. We shall try, you see, to get a list of all those who have no alibi for any part of the relevant period – ten to eleven. And when we’ve discovered how long Mr Somers worked at his reports, we shall be able to narrow the list down still further.’

  The headmaster said, ‘Are you, then, assuming that these murders cannot have been an – ah – outside job?’

  ‘We’re assuming nothing, sir,’ Stagge answered, so stiffly and officially as to forbid further enquiry, ‘until we have more facts to go on. Oh, one other thing: I should like your personal opinion as to the reliability, or otherwise, of your school porter, Wells, and of Mr Etherege.’

  The headmaster was surprised. ‘They’re both quite trustworthy, I should say. Wells has been with the school for over twenty years; he’s a fussy man, but the soul of honesty. As to Etherege, he’s a more complex case. He takes a devouring interest in his fellow beings, and I’ve never known his scandal to be inaccurate. I trust him, I think, on the rather vague grounds that he enjoys thinking and reading and talking too much to indulge in any action which isn’t essential to keeping him alive and clothed and fed. I don’t know if I make myself clear…’

  But he was not destined to be enlightened on the matter, for at this moment: ‘The clans are gathering,’ Fen announced from his post at the window. They went to join him.

  A group of masters was assembled outside Hubbard’s Building, and more were arriving at every moment. The white hoods of the Bachelors, the red of the Masters, the button holes – pinpoints of colour at this distance – and the more exotic gaudiness of one or two Doctors were splashed vividly against the liver-coloured brick and green ivy. They seemed reluctant to leave the sunlight. And the rest of the site was crescently animated. Cars were being parked on an exiguous gravel half-moon, or along the sides of the avenue. Boys were emerging in increasing numbers to greet, guide and control their apprehensive kin. Mr Philpotts was running across the First Eleven pitch, his gown flying behind him like a banner. And everywhere there were parents – parents mouse-like, parents aggressive, parents ostentatious, parents modest, parents subdued, parents animated: a growing rout lured together under the radiant porcelain sky – and for what? the headmaster wondered. It was improbable that they enjoyed themselves. It was improbable, even, that their offspring enjoyed themselves. And yet there was a glamour about it all which stirred the blood, and the headmaster himself, as he contemplated the spectacle, was not immune.

  ‘It’s nearly a quarter to,’ he said cheerfully, ‘so I must go. Are you coming with me, superintendent?’

  ‘No, sir, I don’t think so. It’s hardly necessary for me to be there.’

  ‘Very well. But from now on, remember, I shall be up to my ears in it.’ He spoke almost with gusto.

  ‘I’ll get on quietly with my job, sir,’ Stagge assured him, ‘and if anything important should happen I’ll find a way of letting you know.’

  ‘What about you, Gervase? Are you coming?’

  ‘I might as well,’ said Fen. ‘See you in ten minutes,’ he added to Stagge.

  ‘Galbraith!’ the headmaster called. The secretary appeared enquiringly in his doorway. ‘Come with me and take a tally of the devils, so that we can be sure they’re all there.’

  ‘I got in touch with everyone, sir.’

  ‘Good. But come just the same.’ The headmaster went to a bowl of roses, selected a fine bud, broke off the stalk, and pressed it upon Stagge. ‘Protective colouring,’ he told him. ‘Now you can pretend to be a parent.’ He picked up his mortarboard and clapped it rakishly on to his head. ‘Are we ready? Then let’s go.’

  He strode energetically across the site towards Hubbard’s Building, with Fen and Galbraith on either side of him like pilot fish escorting a shark. Boys saluted, fathers lifted their hats, mothers nodded and smiled. The headmaster responded to them all with a discreet affability.
Fen, though he had been persuaded to abandon his tie with the mermaids, still presented a distinguished and festive appearance. ‘They’ll think you’re Lord Washburton,’ the headmaster remarked.

  ‘So I ought to be,’ said Fen. The staff, observing their employer’s approach, moved inside the building. And the three men followed them as the clock in its copper-roofed tower struck the three quarters.

  They were assembled in the room where Fen had made a pretence of pedagogy on the previous day – some thirty men of all ages, seated on the tops of desks or on the window sills, interested, curious, argumentative. Fen lounged in the doorway with Galbraith. The headmaster, subduing his ferial spirits to the exigencies of his announcement, made his way to the dais.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, and they fell silent. ‘I’m sorry to have been obliged to call this brief emergency meeting, but there is, as you will hear, good reason for it. You will have noticed that neither Love nor Somers is amongst us. It is my painful duty to tell you that – that they are dead, and in circumstances which point to murder.’

  There was a movement of astonishment and dismay, but no one spoke. The headmaster, glancing quickly at their faces, went on: ‘Somers met his end last evening in the masters’ common room. For that reason the room is at present locked, but a plain-clothes constable is on duty there who will admit you if you require anything urgently. I feel sure you will appreciate the necessity of this temporary inconvenience and will cooperate with the police in the matter.’

  He paused. A dead stillness held the room in trance. The only movement came from Galbraith, who, being a small man, was obliged to stand on tiptoe to count those present.

  ‘The police have also asked me,’ the headmaster proceeded, ‘to warn you that you may be interrogated during the day. They are being kind enough to act discreetly, and in view of this I must ask you to speak of this matter, for the time being, to no one and among yourselves as little as possible. You will easily see how ruinous any rumour of these events would be to our day’s programme. We must safeguard the interests of the school, and there can be no callousness in avoiding conversation and conjecture on the subject during the few hours before the news breaks. Please behave during the day as if nothing had happened, whatever your personal feelings may be.