A Javelin for Jonah mb-47

by Gladys Mitchell

  “She wouldn’t really commit actual bodily harm, though, would she? Girls don’t, you know.”

  “Don’t they? She’s talked pretty wildly, anyway. Still, I noticed this morning that her two invalids are among us again and looking none the worse, so perhaps she has cooled off by now.”

  “Here’s hoping,” said Hamish. “Well, I’d better leave you. I’ve promised some beginners a tutorial in the indoor pool, as I told you, and I don’t want them drowning one another before I get there.”

  “You’re too conscientious by half,” said Henry.

  “Look who’s talking!” said Hamish.

  He found his beginners skirmishing about in the shallow end, ordered them out of the water and gave them a short demonstration of free-style swimming which was sardonically applauded. As he swung himself up out of the water a girl came out of one of the cubicles.

  “I say, Jimmy,” she observed, “guess what!”

  “My guess is that you’re late for class, but think nothing of it. I’m paid a great deal of money for putting up with little slackers like you,” said Hamish. “Get in, all of you—jump! No crawling down the steps.”

  “No, but listen, Jimmy,” protested the girl.

  “No time,” said Hamish. “Get in, all of you, and take hold of those crawl-boards you see at the shallow end. Arms at full stretch. Free-style kick, and count One, Two, Three, One, Two, Three, until I tell you to stop. Like this.” He dived in again and demonstrated. There was more sardonic applause as he heaved himself out on to the side.

  “No, but, listen, Jamesy,” persisted the youngster, “it’s so peculiar. You must come. You must. It might be terribly important.”

  Hamish looked at her and decided that she was in earnest.

  “If you’re pulling my leg, young woman, ”he said, “you’ll be in trouble.”

  “No, really! You must come. I’ve found something horrid in my cubicle.”

  “Oh, Lord!” thought Hamish, following her along the warm tiles. “How big is it?” he asked, thinking of Jones. However, had it been Jones, she would probably have screamed the place down, he reflected.

  “Well, it’s not big, exactly,” said the girl. “More kind of long and thin, actually.”

  “Can you carry it?”

  “Oh, well, yes, but I don’t like the idea of touching it.”

  “Very well. Get into the water with the others.”

  “Oh, but it’s my find! I want to show it you.”

  “Get into the water, or I’ll throw you in at the deep end and leave you to drown.” He made a threatening gesture which sent her screaming away. Then he entered the cubicle, which was electrically lighted. The girl was right in two respects.

  The object which was standing in one corner of the tiny room was certainly portable. It was a javelin. It was also important, for the binding at the hand-grip was dark red and looked sticky.

  Hamish did not touch the javelin. He came out of the cubicle and went to the telephone in the instructor’s dressing-room. He asked for Henry.

  “Look,” he said, “can you come over to the indoor pool?” Having received Henry’s assurance, he went back to his squad of learners and worked them hard until Henry appeared.

  “What’s up?” Henry asked. “Drowned somebody?”

  “No. Come and see whether you see what I and that little horror Cynthia have seen. If you do, the matter may be very awkward.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I don’t mean anything. Does anybody in the College know a butcher?”

  “A butcher?”

  Hamish led him to the cubicle and showed him the javelin.

  “It struck me,” he said, “that one of our bright young lads might have amused himself by doing a bit of horror-faking, that’s all. What I’d like to know is how he got hold of the javelin.”

  “There are a dozen in the sports cupboard.”

  “None of them has an inscription, though, has it?” He indicated some chased lettering on a small silver plate affixed to a ring just below the binding of the grip on the javelin. “In my opinion, this belongs to Medlar. It must be the javelin which has disappeared from his collection. We both checked and it isn’t any longer among the trophies.”

  “We’d better have him over, then. He ought to be in on this.”

  While Hamish went back to the swimmers, Henry brought Gascoigne over and showed him the javelin. “And I wouldn’t touch it,” he said. “Fingerprints, you know.”

  “Poppycock!” said Gascoigne. “Fingerprints have no value unless they are on record at a police station. However, I have no intention of touching the messy object. My opinion is that some practical joker has been daubing my javelin with red paint.”

  “Oh, you recognize it as your javelin, do you? James has identified it, too, so I suppose it must be yours.”

  “Certainly. If you look, you can see the inscription I had put on it. All the museum objects are inscribed or numbered. I wish I knew who has managed to gain access to the museum, though. The key has never been out of my possession except those days, some weeks ago, when James had it to catalogue the collection. He seems certain that none of the students could have obtained possession of the key, but people are always certain about that kind of thing. I must speak to him again.”

  “Well, he’s here if you want him,” said Henry. “Incidentally, I’ve seen the students whom I set to searching the woods. There is no sign of Jonah.” He walked along the side of the bath to where Hamish was giving instruction. “Gassie craves a word,” he said.

  Hamish ordered his learners out of the water and waylaid the girl Cynthia.

  “Get your things out of your cubicle and find another one in which to dress,” he said. “I suppose it’s too much to ask you to keep quiet about what you’ve found?”

  “Don’t touch the javelin,” said Gascoigne, as the girl prepared to enter the cubicle. “Just pick up your things and run along. I hope you are not the culprit who took the javelin from my museum?”

  “I was sent here for running away from home, not for shoplifting, Gassie darling,” said the girl pertly.

  At the high table that evening Jones’s chair was empty again. Hamish caught Henry casting an anxious glance at it. The students, too, seemed to be eyeing it. There was a subdued air about the dining-hall and voices were kept low. Gascoigne ate his dinner in almost complete silence and did not favour the senior common room with his presence at coffee after the meal.

  “I’ve been on to him,” said Henry, when the Warden’s absence received comment from the others. “I’ve told him it’s more than time he called in the police to trace Jonah. Naturally he doesn’t want to, but now this javelin has been found, I don’t think he’s got any option. I don’t like this mysterious business. Jonah wasn’t popular, to say the least, and we’ve got more than one homicidal character on the premises. While Gassie is chewing things over, I want one of you to come with me to have a look round Jones’s quarters. I think I’d like a witness, in case he’s left any clue as to his whereabouts. I don’t care for the look of things at all, and I’m making no secret of the fact. I want an absolutely unbiased witness, so, James, I’d like you to accompany me.”

  “Wouldn’t Medlar… ?” began Hamish.

  “I’d sooner have you.”

  Together they went to Jones’s rooms. Unlike the rest of the staff, he had been given a sitting-room as well as a bedroom and both were beautifully furnished.

  “Plushy,” said Hamish. “All brother-in-lawly love, I take it.”

  “I suppose so. I’ll look through the bureau if you’ll turn out the cupboard.”

  They searched the sitting-room and then went into the bedroom. Apart from a good many empty bottles under the bed and some lively photographs under the clean shirts, there was little to indicate an individual taste or a positive personality. There were no letters and no unpaid bills, but neither did anything indicate that Jones might have packed up and taken an unceremonious departure. Henry and
Hamish gave up their search and went to Henry’s own room. He made coffee and produced a bottle of brandy.

  “I talked very seriously to Gassie this evening just before dinner,” he said.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him everything, beginning with the clues the students had given us and the interview we’d had with the committee— the Rag Committee, I suppose they’d call themselves. I told him of the search we’d made, and I impressed on him—or tried to—that the students themselves weren’t happy about Jonah’s disappearance.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  “Well, he admitted it was worrying. He also said that he’d been in contact with one or two of the local farmers to ask whether there had been any complaints of animals being killed, but he had rounded up no information.”

  “Rather a strange thing to have done, surely?”

  “Oh, no, not really. We have had complaints—few and far between, I must admit—but it’s not unknown for some of our bold spirits to raid a farm for sucking pigs. Then they have a barbecue, you know—that sort of thing. He was thinking of that messy javelin, of course. In spite of talking about red paint, he thinks there might be blood on it, you know.”

  “I gather, from what you said about pigs, that the farmers wouldn’t be altogether surprised to get his enquiry?”

  “Not at all surprised, and he’s well in with them because, if there ever have been complaints, he has provided very generous compensation.”

  “To keep the thing out of the hands of the police, I suppose.”

  “Yes, that’s it. It is one of his proudest boasts that none of the students has ever been in trouble with the law. That’s why the parents have so much confidence in him. As for Jonah’s disappearance, he said the chances were that he’d simply slung his hook, feeling that the students had had enough of him. I wish I still thought that was the case, but there’s something else—something I shall have to mention to Gassie. You remember we got paid on Wednesday morning? Well, in his bureau I found Jonah’s cheque, and a whacking big one it is. You see the point: it hasn’t been paid in. If he’d really slung his hook, he wouldn’t leave money behind. Well, I’ve told them to bring round my car. Could you spare time to accompany me to the pub? I tried it before, so I don’t think it will be the slightest bit of use, but Gassie suggested it, so I think perhaps…”

  It was half-past nine when they reached the village. The night was clouded over and the stars were hidden. From the pub bright lights shone out on to the road and there came the hum of many voices, sounds of laughter and, as Hamish and Henry entered the bar, the sharpish plop of darts and the clink of glasses. The pub was crowded and the landlord and his barmaid were at full pressure.

  Henry wormed his way through the crush to the bar counter and ordered. As he paid for the beers he said, “Jones been in tonight?”

  “Haven’t set eyes on him since Tuesday, sir.”

  “What time on Tuesday?”

  “About 6 p.m. (All right! All right! Be with you in a minute.)” The landlord moved further down the counter to attend to an impatient customer, and Henry carried the drinks to a table at which Hamish had managed to secure two seats.

  “Any luck?” asked Hamish.

  “Last seen for certain at around opening time on Tuesday evening. It doesn’t get us any further. We know he was out and about until after lunch on Wednesday.”

  A hanger-on, who voluntarily collected empty glasses during rush hours in return for a free drink, came along and began to mop up their table.

  “Hullo, Morgan,” said Hamish. “Mr. Jones been in tonight?”

  “Ain’t seen ’im, sir, not for some time, nor yet tonight. Us thought maybe he was took bad,” said the rheumy-eyed old man. “Not like ’im to miss us out, it ain’t.”

  “Quite,” agreed Henry. “Any special reason why you thought he might have been taken ill?”

  “No, only just as he don’t appear to be around, like. A rare one for his regular two or three doubles, is Mr. Jones. Not as nobody ’ceptin’ the till ever benefited.”

  “That shall never be said about me. Your reproachful tone touches my heart, Morgan.” A tenpenny piece changed hands. “And that is all you can tell us?”

  “Now, then, Morgan!” called the landlord. “Glasses wanted!”

  “Think ’e paid me, wouldn’t you?” grumbled the old man. “All right! All right! Comin’ over,” he savagely responded. He left Hamish and Henry and shambled to the bar counter with his thick fingers thrust inside half-a-dozen empty glasses which he dumped down in front of the landlord. At the same moment a second barmaid, in all her evening finery and with a tremendous corsage of artificial flowers pinned to the front of her dress, came out from behind the scenes and joined the landlord at the counter. With a word or two in her ear, the landlord left her and her companion to cope with the customers and came over to Hamish and Henry. He leaned over and spoke in low tones.

  “Mr. Jones owes me fifteen nicker,” he said. “Carted off a car-load of stuff and five hundred fags last Monday. Asked him to pay me when he come in here Tuesday evening, but he said I’d have to wait ’til next day, as he hadn’t got his cheque book with him. ‘You know as I don’t take cheques,’ I said. Well, he agrees about that. ‘I mean the bank,’ he says. ‘I can’t get your money ’til I’ve been to the bank, and I can’t go there tonight, of course. You’ll get your money all right,’ he says. ‘What’s more, I’ve never welshed on you yet. I’m a good customer,’ he says, ‘so I don’t think much of your attitood.’ Well, he has been a good customer. I don’t say nothing about that, but I likes my money on the dot. You can’t afford to run up a slate in a pub, not to the tune of fifteen quid at a time. ‘I let you have the stuff as a favour yesterday,’ I said, ‘and I expected the money this morning.’ Well, he promised it faithful, but, like I’m telling you, I’ve never seen no more of him, and now you gents comes along here enquiring after him. When am I going to see my fifteen quid? That’s what I want to know.”

  “Oh, you’ll get it all right,” said Henry. He turned to Hamish. “The College will pay it,” he said. “I’ll make myself personally responsible for bringing it here tomorrow,” he added, addressing the landlord.

  “God bless tomorrow, in case it ever comes,” said the landlord sardonically. “But what brings you gents here? Don’t tell me he’s done a bunk!”

  The next news of Jones’s whereabouts was dramatic and shocking. A white-faced student—a blameless type who had been expelled from his school for being in possession of pornographic literature which had been palmed off on him by some unknown addict who must have heard that fifth-form studies were to be searched for drugs—came bursting into Hamish’s room just as he was preparing to go down to breakfast on the morning following the visit to the inn.

  “James,” the boy said, “the dogs! They’re digging up the long-jump pit.”

  “Buried a bone there, I suppose,” said Hamish, but with a horrid premonition of the truth.

  “No!” said the boy. He made a retching sound. “We think they’re digging up Jonah.”

  chapter

  7

  Talk

  « ^ »

  The dogs lived in College, but actually belonged to Celia. They were a couple of lively, friendly, agreeable, wire-haired fox-terriers, great favourites with the students, who groomed and exercised them and who teased the plump, good-natured Celia about them, alleging that she kept them to protect her virginity from the Warden’s predatory advances. As the Warden was a pillar of monkish virtue where the women on his staff and the women students were concerned, this had continued down the years as a time-honoured jest.

  There was no jest attached to the present circumstances, however.

  “Jones?” said Hamish. “Are you sure?” There was no need for the question. He had realized that before he asked it. The boy put his hand over his mouth and tore for the nearest lavatory. Hamish, striding along the corridor to Henry’s room, encountered
Martin, who was just going down to breakfast. “Hold it!” he said. “I want you.”

  “What the hell!” exclaimed Martin to the empty air; but, being simple-minded and naturally obedient, he remained where he was until Hamish came back accompanied by Henry. They leapt down the stairs and, once out of doors, began to run. There was no doubt about what was going on at the long-jump pit. The terriers were sending the heavy, damp sand flying in all directions. Hamish stepped into the pit and collared one of them; Martin picked up the other. The dogs squirmed in their arms and fought to get free.

  “Take ’em away and lock ’em up somewhere,” said Henry. “It’s Jones all right. Get Gassie and then phone for a doctor. When you come back, we’d better get poor Jones to his quarters and clean him up a bit.”

  “Oh, no,” said Hamish quickly. “You’d better leave him just where he is. He can’t have died naturally, you know.”

  Henry straightened up and looked at him. “I see. Yes, of course,” he said simply. “Well, if you’ll get rid of the tykes and see to the rest of it, I’ll stay on guard here and keep the students away.”

  “When I’ve telephoned the doctor, I’ve two more calls to make,” said Hamish to Martin, as they bore away the yelling, excited dogs.

  “Yes, while you’ve got the phone to yourself, it’s as well to make all your private calls at once,” Martin agreed, “There’ll be such a hoo-ha later on, I’ll bet.” Only one of Hamish’s calls was personal. When he had rung up the College physician he telephoned the police, but then he put though a private call to the Stone House at Wandles Parva in Hampshire.

  “Could I speak to Dame Beatrice, please?”

  “Ah, it is Monsieur Jacques.” Not for worlds would Dame Beatrice’s elderly French housekeeper attempt to pronounce the word Hamish. “Please to ’old the line.”

  Dame Beatrice’s unmistakably beautiful voice came over the telephone.

  “Hamish, dear child?”