‘And the next thing that happened was that at the garden party he overheard Elspeth Murdoch tell me that she knew where to find Brenda Boyce. That by itself didn’t worry him, since like me he assumed that Brenda had been killed by Somers. But hard on the heels of it, at about six-thirty, Weems told me this morning, came the report of Stagge’s supposed comment on the case. It might be a trap, but on the other hand it might not. If – he reflected – Brenda were by any remote chance alive, she could uncover the invisible-ink hoax and blow his alibi sky-high; and on alibi, to judge from Stagge’s comment, his safety depended. He had to make sure, and so he followed Elspeth and myself to Melton Chart. Elspeth told me, when I was visiting Brenda earlier today, that while we were ploughing through the wood she had the impression that some third person was near us, but I can’t say I suspected anything of the kind myself.
‘You know what followed. Not realizing that we were aware of the invisible-ink alibi and that therefore his action was a confession of guilt, he attempted to silence Brenda. And failed. His state of nerves thereafter doesn’t bear imagining. When Stagge and I returned here from Brenda’s house, he listened outside the door, in a desperate effort to ascertain how much we knew. We chased him, and’ – Fen gestured expressively – ‘sic transit.’
There was a long silence. Fen was yawning away like a hen with the gapes. And presently the headmaster said, ‘I suppose that neither Somers nor Galbraith would have had any difficulty in disposing of the manuscript without the – ah – vendor’s identity becoming known?’
‘There are various ways in which it could have been done,’ Fen replied. ‘And probably both of them were intending to leave the country and live abroad under another name, since a sudden access of riches to anyone connected with the affair would obviously arouse suspicion. No doubt their alibis were only intended to last them till the end of the term – after which either of them could have imperceptibly vanished.’
He meditated. ‘But there’s one aspect of the case, you know, of which an alternative explanation is conceivable. Somers may not have killed Love; we may be maligning him. Though as he tried to throttle Brenda, I don’t think an additional stain on his memory need disturb our consciences very much.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, Somers clearly intended to kill Love. But he may have been killed himself before he could get on with it. In short, Galbraith may have been Love’s murderer, since we know that like Somers he had a motive. You can take your choice of the two possibilities. We shall never know for certain – but in most criminal cases you get a sediment of the ambiguous or inexplicable left over at the end.’
‘Did the search of Mrs Bly’s cottage have any results?’ the headmaster asked.
‘None at all. I really think she must have taken Taverner’s advice and burned those letters. Letters,’ Fen moaned. ‘Shakespeare letters used as firelighters…’ He became speechless with dismay.
‘Never mind,’ the headmaster consoled him. ‘There’s that one undamaged page of Love’s Labour’s Won left. Though how that managed to survive, with the rest of it a heap of ashes in the wreckage, I can’t imagine.’
‘I knew he’d have the manuscript with him,’ said Fen, uncomforted. ‘And all I could do was to stand there and watch it go up in smoke…Still, there is, as you say, that one page – badly scorched but still whole and legible. Stagge let me copy it this morning.’
‘Oh. May I see?’
Fen produced a sheet of paper and handed it to the headmaster, who donned horn-rimmed spectacles in order to read it.
LOVES LABORS WONNE
The cort of Navarres kinge
1st gent. And soe you say they are returned hither
2nd gent. Evn with the swiftnesse of a fledgling brood
that dazd with novice flite seeks out againe
the boughborne nest, oure gracious lord and
Kinge
fleering Berowne Dumain and Longaville
are soberd home to claim the inviolate pledge
taught to them by the lustie maids of Fraunce
this twelvemonth since. From out that
hermitage
sette in the gray Carpathian snowes where
Frosts
mew uppe the peasant in his lewd abode
and Phebus scarce dare ope his radiant face
To the fierce hails prickes: our noble
Majestie
is come againe more kindly to the kibes
of lesser men fors own endurance sake.
And that Berown which we were wont to say
a recklesse whipster void of nice restraint
is strangely alterd by the lazar house
and all those tetters he hath lookd upon
for Rosalindas love
1st gent. The ladies then are now within the cort
2nd gent. We attend them hourely:
But see where comes the fine fantastick foole
Armado and his subtle serving boy
1st gent. Lets stand apart to hear them?
(Enter Armado with Moth.)
Arm. Say, boy, say, sweete Socrates: thinke you that
tickling lust hath driven my Netta and her
wedlock
vowes quite out of charitie one with the other
Moth Why olde knight Id answer you more truly had I
the sprouting of a beard to commend me to the
ladie: for your beard is a sure password to a
ladies hart.
Arm. Her hart little sage: her hart
Moth Ay and her placket an it please your Innocence.
But imprimis the hart: for a womans hart…
‘H’m,’ said the headmaster as he returned the paper to Fen. ‘I think the Bard must have been a bit off colour when he wrote that. Apparently it’s a sequel to Love’s Labour’s Lost.’
‘Yes. Love’s Labour’s Lost demands a sequel, when you come to think of it, and there’s certainly material for a comedy in the second meeting of the lovers. But I’ve been wondering whether this isn’t a sequel to Shakespeare’s play written by someone else. The extreme poverty of style suggests it – though in view of Titus Andronicus that isn’t really a criterion. And besides, the play might have improved as it went on – might have enshrined a Bottom or at least a Dogberry.’
‘What about the writing?’
‘It does resemble that of the signatures, certainly.’
‘Do you think it was ever performed?’
‘Since Meres mentions it, I suppose so. Of course, it may have been a complete flop, not worth pirating or reviving; sequels often are flops. But there were no signs on the page I saw that it had been used as a prompt copy, if that’s what you’re getting at.’
‘How do you suppose it came to be in the cottage?’
‘I still postulate a young woman,’ said Fen, ‘who demanded from her lover a sample of his work, and was fobbed off with this. The letters might have told us – but now, God alone knows. You can read the squabbles on the subject in the academic journals, to which I shall doubtless be contributing. One of the most melancholy things in life is the fact that there’s not a single aspect of Shakespeare on which everybody agrees…I’ve always sympathized deeply with that critic who after years of labour on the problems presented by the sonnets, publicly expressed the wish that Shakespeare had never written them.’
There was a knock on the door, and Wells entered with a bundle of evening papers. The headmaster scanned the accounts of the case in them.
‘No mention of you,’ he remarked in surprise.
‘Certainly not. It doesn’t do,’ said Fen sanctimoniously, ‘for a man in my position to get mixed up with anything nasty.’
The headmaster looked at him severely. ‘I trust,’ he said, ‘that Stagge didn’t insist on taking the credit.’
‘Good heavens, no. He’s far too honest and amiable for such a notion to enter his head. It was I who insisted he should take the c
redit, what there is of it. And a devil of a job it was, too. I had to tell him I’d promised my wife never to touch another criminal case, and generally lie up hill and down dale, before I could persuade him to leave me out of it…But afterwards – afterwards, mark you, when it was all settled – he gave me this.’
From his pocket Fen took the miniature which had been found in Mrs Bly’s cottage, and regarded it affectionately.
‘Stagge said, “It’s a funny thing, sir, but there was no one in the room when I discovered this, and I haven’t spoken about it to anyone but you. It seems to me you’re a more proper person to have it than Mrs Bly’s son in Coventry or wherever it may be, and that page of manuscript, from what you tell me, will make him quite as rich as is good for him. So if you’re prepared to risk admitting you walked off with it, absent-mindedly so to speak, in case awkward questions are asked, you’re welcome to take it home with you.”’
The headmaster chuckled. ‘There’s nothing more cheering,’ he said, ‘than to hear of a policeman participating in some kindly illegality.’
Fen put the miniature away again and glanced at his watch. ‘Look here, I must be getting back to Oxford and the Honours School of English Literature. Your local garage men, by the way, have done a marvellous job with Lily Christine. After Plumstead’s efforts last night I didn’t think it would ever be possible to put her together again, but she’s running better than ever. A bit dented, of course,’ he conceded, ‘where Stagge knocked into her. But that can be remedied when I get home.’
‘You must have some tea before you go.’
‘I should like to.’ Something occurred to Fen, so that he brightened considerably. ‘And during tea I can finish telling you about the plot of my detective novel.’
The headmaster groaned. ‘Oh, Gervase,’ he said, ‘if you must write a detective story – and far too many dons write them as it is – why not use the events of this weekend?’ The headmaster warmed to his theme. ‘I see it as Simenonish, with lots of psychology, to please the highbrow critics…’
‘Galbraith?’ said Fen. ‘Somers? Love’s Labour’s Won?’ He waved the suggestion contemptuously away into limbo. ‘My dear fellow, no one could possibly make a detective story out of them…Now this girl in the Catskill Mountains, you see…’
Little remains to be told. The friendship between Mr Plumstead and Daphne Savage ripened into marriage, and Mr Plumstead, who, thanks to having received a garbled account of the affair, erroneously supposed Fen to have saved him from the hangman, invited Fen to the wedding. It took place during the summer vacation, and as Fen had to be in London in any case on the day concerned, he accepted the invitation gladly. On the morning of the ceremony he caught an early train from Oxford to Paddington.
‘Let’s hope I don’t meet an ancient mariner,’ he said.
About the Author
Robert Bruce Montgomery was born in Buckinghamshire in 1921. After graduating from St John’s College, Oxford in 1943 he was a member of a famous literary circle including Kingsley Amis and Philip Larkin. Under the pseudonym Edmund Crispin, he wrote nine detective novels and forty-two short stories. In addition to his reputation as a leader in the field of mystery genre, Montgomery was a successful concert pianist and composer, most notably penning the score for the well-known Carry On series.
Montgomery became a regular crime-fiction reviewer for the Sunday Times from 1967, contributing to many periodicals, newspapers and edited science-fiction anthologies. After the golden years of the 1950s he retired from the limelight to live in Totnes in Devonshire until his death in 1978.
Also in this series
The Moving Toyshop
Holy Disorders
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Love Lies Bleeding Page 23
