‘There are bicycles,’ Fen remarked rather obviously.
‘Agreed, sir. But time isn’t the only difficulty. We’re bound to assume that those two knew about his habit of taking coffee with his wife at 10.45 every evening. And you don’t, for preference, go and kill a man when his wife’s in the same room with him.’
‘You might reconnoitre and observe that she wasn’t.’
‘On the other hand, sir, you wouldn’t just amble round to your victim’s house, with a gun in your pocket, on the off chance that something might have gone wrong with his arrangements on that particular evening.’
‘All right, I agree about that. But on the other hand, both Mathieson and Philpotts could comfortably have killed Somers.’
‘Yes, sir. And this is how it works out, as I see it.’ Stagge clasped his large hands together and bumped them on his knee to emphasize each point as he made it. ‘The murder of Somers: Mathieson or Philpotts or Etherege or Wells could have done it. The murder of Love: Galbraith or Etherege or Wells could have done it. The murder of Mrs Bly: we can’t be sure yet, but Etherege couldn’t have done it. Add it up, and it leaves Etherege and Wells in the trickiest position. And if Wells hasn’t got an alibi for the death of Mrs Bly, then it looks as if he must be our man…There’s only one difficulty about reasoning in that particular way: we can’t be sure that all three murders were committed by the same person.’
‘They weren’t,’ said Fen. ‘At least two murderers are involved. And it’s four murders, superintendent – not three.’
‘Four, sir?’
‘The fourth victim being Brenda Boyce.’
‘Oh, come now, sir,’ Stagge began, but Fen interrupted him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said with deliberation, ‘but it’s quite inconceivable to me that that girl is alive.’
There was a long silence. From the cricket pitch they heard another scattered round of applause, and someone quite close by was whistling the ‘Merry Widow’ waltz. Stagge was visualizing Etherege’s urbanity, Mathieson’s heavily built clumsiness, Philpotts’ acid vehemence. And he was not happy. Though normally a placid man, he was by no means insensitive, and he was well aware that Fen had gone a good deal deeper into the case than he had. He could, had he chosen, have officially demanded to hear Fen’s theories, but he did not like working in that way, and moreover he was far from certain that it would get results from a man of Fen’s temperament.
There’s no doubt, he thought, that I’ve fallen down on the job. Too complicated. Too complicated by half.
Fen sensed something of all this, and his conscience was stirred.
‘Look here, superintendent,’ he said, ‘it must be clear to you by now that I have some fairly definite notions about all this. And you’re sensible enough, I think, not to take it amiss if I say that as far as I can see, you haven’t.’
‘I admit it, sir,’ said Stagge with a certain dignity. ‘It’s all a bit beyond me at present, and I see no point in concealing the fact. I’m entirely in your hands.’
He waited. Fen frowned and examined his nails.
‘The point is this,’ he said slowly, ‘that I’m morally certain of the answer to all the questions confronting us, but I haven’t got absolute proof. There’s a case of sorts, but it might very well collapse in court, and that’s the last thing we want to happen. As you’re aware, no one can be tried twice for the same offence. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do: give me till midnight to find my proof, and if I haven’t got it by then, you’re welcome to anything I can tell you.’
‘That’s fair enough, sir. And I wish you luck with it.’
‘What will you be doing for the rest of the day? Where can I get in touch with you?’
‘Well, sir, I’m going back to Castrevenford now to get some search warrants – for Wells’ house, and Philpotts’, and Mathieson’s, and Etherege’s. The manuscript, you understand, and possibly the gun. Not that whoever is guilty won’t be prepared for that, but one must do what one can. Anyway, I’ll leave instructions at the station that you’re to be told where I am if you telephone.’
Fen got briskly to his feet, brushing fragments of laurel leaf from his lap. ‘Marchons alors. The suspects will no doubt be swarming at the headmaster’s garden party, so I shall go there. I’ll let you know what happens.’
Stagge smiled. ‘Good hunting, sir,’ he said.
Fen strode across the school site to the gates, and out into the suburb of Snagshill. It was a prosperous residential area of quiet streets, large, well-built houses, and colourful gardens, redolent of moneyed respectability and inhabited chiefly by elderly folk. But today it was more animated than usual. Parents and boys strolling to or from the headmaster’s house greeted Fen respectfully, and in the case of those who had been at the speeches with positive warmth. In the normal way this would have flattered his self-esteem – for he had a good deal of self-esteem, though he habitually regarded it with a detached and mocking eye, but on this occasion his response was no more than automatic. He was too busy making plans.
He had been right, he thought, to tell Stagge that there was not enough proof as yet for the case to go to the public prosecutor. The common-sense demonstration, in the matter of the manuscripts, could be demolished by an able KC in a few minutes. There were alternative explanations for both Somers’ wristwatch and Love’s unfinished statement. Yet the solution remained obvious; it could hardly be anything else.
The murderer had made two particularly glaring mistakes; it was not impossible that he could be induced to make another, the more so as he would have no idea how far the investigation had gone. Fen set himself to work out in detail an idea which had been revolving vaguely in his mind since Stagge had told him of the alibi reports. It was not, he reflected gloomily, a particularly plausible trap, but it was the best thing he could think of at the moment, and a nervous, overhasty person might be taken in by it. If it failed, it failed, and that was that; they would not be worse off than they were already, and the murderer must at all costs be prevented from doing nothing.
The only trouble with the scheme was that it required an agent; someone capable of acting, someone with a subtle command of histrionics…
He came in sight of the headmaster’s house. It stood apart from the other buildings of Snagshill, in fairly extensive grounds – a mellow Queen Anne dwelling place with a bold roof hipped back at all the corners, plain chimney stacks and a noble front doorway. He could see a uniformed constable standing at the gate to ward off gatecrashers. And walking towards him, away from the garden party, was Weems, the music master.
Weems…
Fen had taken note of Weems when he was accompanying the school song, and had thought at the time that he looked exactly like a Renaissance intriguer. He was a youngish man, suave, dark and graceful, with a cold eye, a Machiavellian air and unimpeachable clothes. His left eyelid drooped slightly, giving him, disconcertingly, the appearance of one about to impart a lewd confidence. Looks were deceptive, Fen knew; but if Weems’ acting ability matched his smooth self-confidence he could be very useful.
Fen looked about him. For the moment no one, except for the constable, was in sight. He accosted Weems, and for five minutes they talked.
Undeniably Weems lived up to his looks. He showed no surprise at what was requested of him, and asked no questions; Fen had the impression that he would willingly have poisoned the headmaster if only the plan proposed had been tortuous, subtle and complex enough.
All he said when Fen had explained matters was, ‘And when do you want me to do this?’
‘Before dinner, in any case. As soon as you plausibly can.’
‘Very well. Do I take it that that person is the murderer?’
‘That person,’ Fen agreed, ‘is the murderer. But please keep the fact to yourself until you hear from me again.’
Weems raised his eyebrows. ‘My dear sir…’ he murmured deprecatorily.
Fen went on towards the house satisfied that Weems was absolutely
to be trusted.
The headmaster had omitted to supply Fen with a ticket for the party, and he was arguing acrimoniously with the constable, who did not know him, when Mathieson appeared on his way out. Fen said, ‘For heaven’s sake, Mathieson, vouch for me.’
‘It’s all right, constable,’ said Mathieson. ‘This is Professor Fen.’
The constable, defeated but still suspicious – he had had no one so far to repel, and the lack irked him – stood aside. Fen said, ‘How’s the play going?’
‘All right,’ Mathieson replied. ‘The new girl isn’t a patch on Brenda Boyce – her French is of the Stratford-atte-Bow variety – but she’ll get through. Will you be there?’
‘I hope so,’ said Fen. ‘Good luck to it.’ He went on into the garden.
The second relay of tea was in progress. On a broad, close-clipped lawn, bounded on one side by rose beds, on another by tall, shady beeches, and on a third by the house, stood groups of old boys and parents, perilously balancing cups and plates. Boys wandered about in a condition of unnatural civility, offering biscuits, sandwiches and cakes. Long trestle tables were laden with crockery, food, silver tea urns, and presided over by matronly women in white coats. The headmaster, still gowned, was chatting affably to a small group of parents, who listened with the strained and reverent attention of applicants to the Cumæan Sybil. Mr Merrythought was eating pansies with a self-righteous air. Small rain clouds assembling against the sapphire sky were apprehensively examined, but they came too late to throw a blight on the day. Fen, contemplating the cheerful, crowded, untroubled scene, reflected that the staff and the police had kept their melancholy secret remarkably well.
Unsolicited, several boys rushed to fetch him tea and cakes, and for some time he talked amiably to them about ghost stories, in which respect he was sorry to find their education deficient. He was earnestly recommending Mr de la Mare, Mr Hartley and Dr M. R. James to their attention when he caught sight of Galbraith and remembered that there was a question he had to ask. So he excused himself courteously and took the secretary aside.
‘I believe,’ he said, ‘that you’re an expert on old manuscripts.’
Galbraith smiled. He was a quiet, unobtrusive man with one of those complexions which even an hour’s sunlight will turn brown.
‘Hardly an expert,’ he said. ‘But it’s a recreation of mine, yes. Forgeries – that kind of thing.’
‘Just so. The point is that something to do with old manuscripts has cropped up in connection with the business last night, and I was wondering if Somers had spoken to you on the subject any time recently.’
‘Yes, he did. Quite recently – I think it was Wednesday last. He gave me a detailed description of what he thought might be an Elizabethan manuscript, and asked me if I could tell him whether it was genuine or not.’ Galbraith hesitated. ‘I never mentioned it to the police because I’d no idea it was important.’
‘Nor had we,’ said Fen, ‘until this afternoon. But anyway, were you able to reassure Somers?’
Galbraith shrugged. ‘Good heavens, no. Not without seeing the thing, and making a good many tests. Forgery’s a highly skilled business nowadays.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘You see,’ said Galbraith, mounting his hobby horse with celerity, ‘you often get, for example, genuine bits combined with imitated bits by photographic engraving. And then another device is to—’
‘Yes,’ said Fen. ‘Yes.’ He was not really in the mood for a lecture. ‘Was Somers disappointed?’
‘He seemed to be. I advised him to be exceedingly careful if he was proposing to buy anything of the sort.’
‘And he didn’t reopen the subject?’
‘Not that I remember.’
Fen thanked him, and thereafter gave himself up to exercising sociability. Twenty minutes later, while explaining the plot of his detective story to a bemused father who had not been at the speeches and who evidently took him for one of the staff, he was interrupted by a light tap on the arm, and, turning, saw a plump, pretty young woman of about sixteen whose dress and complexion betrayed an invincible determination to look older than her years.
‘You’re Professor Fen, aren’t you?’ she said. At which the bemused father, seeing his chance, mumbled something inaudible and edged surreptitiously away. Fen agreed to the identification.
‘I’ve seen your photo in the papers,’ the young woman proceeded, ‘and I’ve followed all your cases.’
‘Ha!’ Fen exclaimed, much pleased. ‘That’s more than Crispin’s readers manage to do. Can I help you in any way?’
‘I’m Elspeth Murdoch,’ the young woman explained, ‘and I’m at Castrevenford High School.’ She paused, dramatically. ‘I don’t know if you can help me, but I think I can help you…I can tell you how to find Brenda Boyce.’
12
A Green Thought in a Green Shade
Fen stared. Then he took Elspeth by the arm and drew her away from the conversing groups which surrounded them. She followed him obediently to the shade of a beech tree sufficiently isolated to prevent their being overheard, where she sat down and arranged herself demurely on the grassy bank. In spite of puppy fat, Elspeth was attractive, and aware of the fact; she had dark-blue eyes, brown hair with a hint of bronze in it, a slightly snub nose, rather full lips, and a figure which in a year or two would be perfect. Fen settled down cautiously beside her, plucked a long grass, and put the clean, plump lower extremity of it into his mouth.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘My brother’s at the school here,’ said Elspeth, who apparently felt the need to account for herself. ‘So of course I came to the speeches. Or rather, I didn’t come to the speeches. Too hot. The High School has a whole holiday on speech day, you know. Partly because of the play, but also there are a good many girls like me who have brothers here.’
‘Yes, no doubt,’ Fen responded patiently. ‘But about Brenda Boyce…’
‘I oughtn’t to have been quite so definite,’ said Elspeth, ‘because I don’t actually know where she is, and I don’t actually know that I know where to find her. Only I’ve been thinking, and there’s a possibility, you see.’
‘Indeed?’ Fen was a little dazed by so much qualification; in manner it reminded him of articles in learned journals. ‘Well, perhaps you’d better explain.’
Elspeth drew a deep breath. ‘In the first place, I’m sure Brenda hasn’t eloped with anyone.’
Fen had produced his cigarette case. He offered it to her, but she shook her head regretfully.
‘I can’t while Mummy and Daddy are around. They have a silly prejudice against me smoking. Of course, I smoke a lot when I’m on my own,’ she added quickly, ‘only I don’t let them know about it because – well, you know how parents are. They like to go on treating you as a kid years after you’ve grown up.’
Fen lamented, in suitable phrases, this disadvantage of the parental instinct, in the meantime lighting a cigarette for himself. ‘What makes you so certain,’ he asked, ‘that Brenda hasn’t eloped?’
‘Well, I know her pretty intimately, you see, and she just isn’t the sort of person who would. She’d never be swept off her feet by an affair, because she’s quite hard-headed. I sometimes wonder if she has any deep emotions at all.’
‘Miaouw,’ said Fen gently.
Elspeth grinned. ‘All right, I am being catty. But you mustn’t think she’s not a friend of mine; I really do like her…Men, of course,’ said Elspeth with a worldliness which Madame de Pompadour might have envied, ‘she liked men all right. But she’d never go off with one. That letter to the Parry is a fake.’
All of which, Fen reflected, confirmed the Parry’s opinion, and springing from such divergent viewpoints it was almost certainly the truth. It occurred to him to ask how Elspeth had come to know of the letter.
‘Oh, these things filter through,’ she answered airily. ‘As a matter of fact, I got it from Jean Carvel, who got it from Gillian Pauncey, w
ho got it from—’
‘Yes,’ Fen interrupted swiftly. ‘All right. Never mind about that now. What else?’
‘If the letter’s a fake,’ Elspeth proceeded, frowning with concentration, ‘that means one of two things: either Brenda’s gone off on her own, for some different reason – and I believe she’d have told me or Judith Lindsay if she was going to, because she could have trusted us, you see, and she was never secretive about anything – or she’s been kidnapped. That’s logical, isn’t it?’
‘Impeccably,’ said Fen. ‘But I’d like to digress for just a moment, if you don’t mind. You say she would have told you or this other girl if she were going off on her own – running away from home or what not – and that she wasn’t secretive. That being so, didn’t she mention anything about what upset her at the rehearsal of Henry V the evening before last? Something did, you know. Quite seriously.’
‘It’s funny about that.’ Elspeth clasped her hands round her knees and looked earnest. ‘It just happened that I didn’t get a chance to talk to her at all during school yesterday. She does history, you see, and I do English, and at lunch we sat at different tables, and after lunch she was talking to Miss Parry, and after school she went off quickly and I had to stay behind for a meeting. But Judith noticed there was something the matter with her, and asked her what it was, and she said she dared not tell. And Judith said she was crying a little,’ Elspeth concluded soberly, ‘and we’ve none of us ever seen her cry before, not even when she broke her wrist at hockey.’
‘Unpleasant,’ said Fen sympathetically. ‘Anyway, go on with what you were telling me.’
‘OK,’ said Elspeth more cheerfully. ‘I was saying she’d either gone off on her own or been kidnapped; and I think she’s been kidnapped – ransom, you see, because her father’s pretty well-off.’
‘But in that case, why the fake letter?’
Love Lies Bleeding Page 15
