A Javelin for Jonah mb-47

by Gladys Mitchell

“I can’t stop, darling, but could you possibly come over? We’ve got trouble here. I think it might be murder.”

  “Your mother and I will pay you a visit this afternoon as though it were merely a passing call, if that will do.”

  Hamish came out of the alcove which housed the telephone and almost cannoned into the Warden.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, stepping aside.

  “The police!” said Gascoigne. “We must have the police!”

  “They are on their way, sir. We assumed that you would wish them to take over as soon as possible.”

  “This is a dreadful business, James, quite, quite dreadful. I cannot imagine how the students who are responsible will feel about such a terrible ending to their prank.”

  “You really think it was a prank, sir?”

  “Poor Jones! Poor Davy! With all his faults, I never wished him dead.”

  “I have to inform you, sir, that my mother proposes to visit me this afternoon.”

  “To visit you? Oh, dear! I think you must put her off. I don’t see how we can possibly entertain callers at a time like this.”

  “I am very sorry, sir. I’m afraid she will be on her way. There is one thing, though. She will be accompanied by Dame Beatrice Lestrange Bradley, who is my godmother.”

  “Dame Beatrice?”

  “The psychiatrist, sir.”

  “A rope in the house of the hanged, eh?”

  “With great respect, sir, I think it might be helpful to allow her to take a look at one or two of our doubtful cases. We don’t want any mistakes, and she won’t make any.”

  “How do you mean—doubtful cases?”

  “Well, sir, not to put too fine a point on it, we do have some rather neurotic types here, don’t you think? It would not take Dame Beatrice very long to sort out the sheep from the goats.”

  “How would that help us?”

  “It would not help us, sir, but it might help innocent parties.”

  “I fail to understand you, James. She would hardly be in a position to find out who was responsible for the heartless prank which has culminated in this terrible tragedy. If it is known—nay, once it is known—that poor Davy may have been accidentally killed as the result of a College practical joke, every one of the students is going to close his lips and harden his heart, you may be sure. I have known of other incidents— not that they ended as seriously as this one…”

  Henry came round the corner of the corridor.

  “Oh, there you are, Gassie,” he said. “The doctor is here. I am sure you will wish to speak to him. I have placed Martin, Jerry, Barry and Miss Yale on guard and have had the gardeners rope in an enclosure around the pit. The sooner the doctor has seen the body, the sooner we can get poor Jones removed to a more seemly environment.”

  “Not until the police have been here,” said Hamish, looking at the Warden for confirmation. “They’ve got to see the body exactly as it is, you know.”

  Dame Beatrice and Laura Gavin lunched on the way to Joynings and reached the College at just after three. Sports practices had been suspended and both swimming pools were closed. This was only partly out of proper feeling. The police, in any case, wanted the sports field to themselves while they made their preliminary investigation and took measurements, isolated footprints, and put their photographers to work, and they also wanted to make a detailed inspection of the covered bath, especially of the cubicle in which the javelin, of which they took possession, had been found on the previous day.

  They had scarcely taken their departure when Hamish, who had been hovering between his room and the open front door, met Dame Beatrice’s car and, postponing the necessary greetings to and by the Warden, took his mother and Dame Beatrice to his quarters.

  “So it’s murder, is it?” asked Laura.

  “Well, that has not been stated, mamma,” said Hamish, “but it’s a fair assumption, I’m afraid.”

  “Who are the suspects?”

  “Oh, now, really, mamma!”

  “Too many to name, I should imagine, judging from your letters.”

  “Yes, Mr. Jones seems to have had enemies,” said Dame Beatrice. “We will come to them in due course. I should be more interested, at the moment, to contact one of his friends.”

  “Well, the Warden would be the nearest, I suppose, although I have reason to believe that he had it in for Jones, too,” said Hamish.

  “I thought you told me in your letters that Jones was favoured by the Warden because he was his brother-in-law,” said Laura.

  “True enough, mamma. But there was a later development. One of the maids complained and her father came up to the College. None of it was very savoury, I believe, and I happened to be present when the Warden talked to Jones about it.”

  “Oh, yes? What did he say?”

  “Well, he didn’t get very far, I’m afraid. It seems that, at some time in the past, Jones had rendered him some service or other. I don’t know what it was, but Jones played it up for all it was worth and practically dared Medlar to dismiss him.”

  “Sounds like blackmail,” said Laura.

  “Well,” said Hamish, “it wouldn’t be like Jones to have done anybody a disinterested kindness.”

  “Mr. Jones disappeared last Wednesday afternoon, I think,” said Dame Beatrice. “Could we have the whole story?”

  Hamish told them all that he could. It did not, he thought, amount to very much. Almost as soon as he had finished, and before they could comment or ask questions, Laura and Dame Beatrice received an invitation to take tea with the Warden.

  “And when you have finished your own tea, sir,” the servant added to Hamish, “Mr. Medlar would be glad if you would join him and the rest of the staff in his private apartment.”

  “The police,” said Gascoigne, when his staff had been accommodated with chairs and everybody except Hamish and the Warden were politely but enquiringly regarding Dame Beatrice and Laura, who were seated side by side on a settee, “have gone now, as you no doubt are aware. There will have to be an inquest, of course. That is unavoidable. However, the police seem prepared to take the line that poor Davy’s death was brought about accidentally by one of the students. The police believe that a careless javelin-thrower mortally wounded him, then panicked and attempted to hide the body. This opinion I myself share.”

  “Oh, no, it isn’t nearly good enough!” cried Henry.

  “Why not?” asked Miss Yale sharply. “Lets everybody out nicely, I would have thought.” There was a murmur indicative of agreement with this opinion.

  “I would not query it,” said Henry, “but for two things: first, there is no doubt that Jones was kidnapped and hidden away, so that, since Wednesday, nobody except those responsible for this so-called ‘rag’ has seen him alive, and, besides, there is something which invalidates the theory that he could have been killed on the field by somebody practising with a javelin on his own.”

  “What?” demanded Barry.

  “I lock the javelins away after every group coaching, so that nobody ever is at solitary javelin practice,” explained Henry. “I should hope we know better than that! If angry passions should arise—and they do, of course—you couldn’t trust some of the students with a javelin. We’ve a number of people here who have committed acts of violence in their time. Why, as you all know, even the cutlery is kept locked away when it’s not in use. Very irresponsible idiots we should be if we left things like javelins and the shot and the hammer lying about for any bloody-minded lunatic to pick up and use! The only people to have access to them are Gassie, Miss Yale and myself.”

  “Oh, no. The rest of us have keys,” said Lesley.

  “But the javelin found in the indoor bath-house wasn’t taken from stock,” said Jerry. “Didn’t you say it had Gassie’s inscription on it?”

  “I have shown my javelin to the police, of course,” said Gascoigne, “but they are convinced that the stains on it are merely red paint put there by one of the students as a bizarre joke to frigh
ten the woman diver who might use that particular cubicle. They will have the stains analyzed, of course, but, although the doctor has told them that poor Davy died as the result of a stab-wound—whether intentionally or accidentally inflicted—they are disinclined to believe that my javelin had anything to do with his untimely death. I sincerely hope and believe that they are right.”

  “I too, sir, since, so far as I know, I was the last person to handle that particular javelin,” said Hamish.

  “You? Oh, you mean at the swimming-bath? But that is not correct, James. Both Henry and I, I believe, handled it after that.”

  “I was not referring to its presence at the covered pool, sir. I was thinking of the time when I catalogued your collection. I certainly handled it then and had every opportunity of abstracting it and bringing it away with me, had I wished to do so.”

  “Are you telling us that you removed my javelin from the collection, James? You astound me!”

  “I appreciate your feelings, sir, but allow me to assure you that I have never removed any object whatsoever from your collection. I thought it might avoid speculation, however, if I mentioned my connection with the javelin before it occurred to others to do so. Everybody knows that I catalogued the collection, so, to return to what I assume to be the point at issue, I am as hopeful as yourself that the stains on the javelin will prove to be red paint and not blood.”

  “Well!” said the Warden. Before he could add to this exclamation a servant came to tell him that he was wanted on the telephone. Nobody spoke while he was gone. Barry took out a packet of cigarettes, looked at it and put it away again. Martin whistled a doleful little melody. Hamish looked across at his mother and raised his eyebrows. She grimaced and nodded. Dame Beatrice remained seated, straight-backed and inscrutable, an idol carved out of old ivory. Miss Yale got up suddenly and went out of the room. Time passed and the ticking of the clock could be heard like the pulse of a heart-beat.

  Gascoigne returned before the silence became too oppressive.

  “All is well, so far as my javelin is concerned,” he said. “I was right in assuming that the stains are nothing more than red paint. I must, of course, find out the identity of the mischievous person who purloined it from my collection, and I may have a clue to his identity when the inspector returns. The police found a piece of writing in the cubicle. It ran…” his smile became benevolent… “ ‘Gassie’s secret weapon.’ I doubt, though, whether I shall find it in my heart to be too hard on the culprit. It must be a great relief to us all to be able to write my javelin off as a misconceived jest. All the same, we are still faced with the fact of poor Davy’s death and of his most unseemly burial. The police, needless to say, are to come again to harass us. By the most fortunate chance, we have with us this afternoon someone of vast experience and, I am sure, of faultless tact”—he bowed to the settee—“who will consent, I hope, to assist us in finding the unfortunate youth who, I am sure, accidentally wounded poor Davy to death and then tried—and how uncouthly, poor boy!—to hide what he had done. Once we know his identity the inquest on Davy will be a mere formality, so I know you will all place any knowledge or suspicion you have of the culprit’s identity at the disposal of Dame Beatrice, so that she may clear the matter up for us and allow the College to resume what is popularly known as normal working.”

  He beamed upon the assembled staff. Dame Beatrice put an end to his expectations.

  “I cannot undertake to find the criminal,” she said, emphasizing a word which nobody, so far, had used, “before the inquest is over and the verdict has been given, unless, of course, the proceedings should be adjourned.”

  “You will not attempt to find the culprit until after the inquest?” asked Gascoigne, mingling incredulity with the disappointment in his tone.

  “It is doubtful whether I can find him or her in so short a time, and that would settle our argument,” Dame Beatrice stated calmly. “All the same, I shall be glad to accept your invitation to have a word with your staff.”

  “Anything, anything! Anything which will help to clear up this dreadful matter.”

  “I wonder, then, since you are so good, whether I might begin with you yourself.” She glanced around the assembly. “You would prefer to answer my questions in private, I think.”

  “No, no, not at all. I should prefer my staff to hear anything I have to say, although I fear there is little I can tell you.”

  “I believe that Mr. Jones was a relative of your own.”

  “Oh, yes, yes, indeed. Only by marriage, of course, but in that way we were related. He was my deceased wife’s brother.”

  “When did he join your staff?”

  “Four years ago last March.”

  “Did he obtain the post by merit or because of the relationship?”

  Gascoigne displayed horrified disapproval of this question, but decided to answer it in the same dispassionate tone as that of his inquisitor.

  “Both,” he said. “He was a competent instructor, but I must admit that he was preferred to other candidates for the post because—well, for my dear wife’s sake—I felt that I owed him a living.”

  “Very naturally, I suppose. Did the appointment cause any surprise or ill-feeling?”

  “Well, it is strange that you should ask that. I had intended the gymnastics post to go to one of our old students. In fact I had half-promised it to him, and I know he was bitterly disappointed when I gave it to Davy. Fortunately another post, that of swimming coach, fell vacant, so I gave this fellow the job. Unfortunately he turned out to be something of a sadist. The students resented his methods and in the end they beat him up so severely that he had to go to hospital. James now holds the post and I wish he could be persuaded to stay with us. Now, Dame Beatrice, is there any way in which I can further assist you?”

  “If I am to talk to some of the students, it would be helpful if you could suggest which of them you would like me to examine.”

  “Ah, yes, of course.” He went over to a filing-cabinet. “I keep a reasonably detailed note of the reasons for students coming here and my own reasons for accepting them. If you would care to glance through these,” he handed her a fat folder, “I think you will get some idea of which cases would most interest you.”

  Miss Yale, who had returned while this conversation was going on, now remarked, in a most emphatic tone, “I’ve got something important to say, I’ve been checking the equipment. That’s to say, I’ve been inspecting the cupboard where the javelins are kept. There’s one I think you’d better look at, Gassie.”

  “Not blood-stained?” asked Gascoigne, alarmed.

  “No, but you had better come and see it. Henry, you, too.”

  Without being invited, Dame Beatrice and Laura added themselves to the party and the five of them crossed the field to the changing-rooms. Miss Yale unlocked the door, led the way past the cupboards and lockers, through an arch and so into a room where the apparatus was kept. Here she unlocked a cupboard whose doors were of steel. There were a dozen javelins neatly stacked on grooved shelves, four javelins to each shelf. Miss Yale waved a large hand and stood back.

  “Take a look, Gassie,” she said.

  “You know the stock and I do not,” said Gascoigne to Henry. “What is Miss Yale telling us?” Henry cast an eye over the javelins and took up one of the implements by the cord-bound grip. He weighted it with bent elbow and shook it a little, then he held its point towards Miss Yale.

  “This the one you mean?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course. You can see why, can’t you? As soon as Gassie mentioned red paint I thought of red herrings.”

  “Red herrings?” repeated Gascoigne blankly.

  “So you dashed across here,” said Henry, “just like that.”

  “Certainly I did.”

  “Why?” asked Dame Beatrice.

  “Because, if Henry can’t count, I can,” replied Miss Yale firmly. “The last time I checked the javelins, my four were there, but Henry’s tally was seven, not ei
ght.”

  “There are eight here now,” said Laura.

  “I confess I didn’t realise one of mine was missing until now,” said Henry. “I only count them at stock-taking. I unlock the cupboard and stand by while the chaps help themselves.”

  “Why did you suddenly decide to check?” repeated Dame Beatrice.

  “Why?” said Miss Yale, in a tone which indicated that she was unused to being asked to explain her actions. “Oh, I don’t really know. Javelins having entered into the business, I thought it might be as well to look at the College collection of them, that’s all. And it’s just as well, perhaps, that I did.”

  “I don’t really see why,” said Gascoigne testily, because he was alarmed. “After all, now that the stains on my javelin are found to be red paint, we still have to question whether the fatal wound inflicted on Davy was caused by a javelin at all. It does not follow automatically, does it?” he went on. “The doctor only mentions a stab-wound.”

  “Put your finger on the point of the javelin which Henry is holding, and don’t press too hard,” said Miss Yale grimly. “If that bit of steel was ever issued by a highly respectable manufacturer of sports equipment, I’ll swallow it.”

  “Well, yes,” said Gascoigne, gingerly touching the dagger-sharp point which Henry obligingly advanced towards him. “Somebody has tampered with this. Again, though, it may have been meant as a joke, don’t you think? The point, although murderously sharp, is perfectly clean.”

  “I think the sooner it’s handed over to the police the better, anyway,” said Henry. “I will take it over to College, Gassie, and perhaps you will ring up the inspector.”

  They returned to the Warden’s sitting-room, where the rest of the staff were awaiting them. Gascoigne rang up the police immediately he had taken the javelin from Henry and had locked it up in the ante-room. While he was telephoning, the staff heard the story of Miss Yale’s discovery of the altered javelin. She and Henry told it between them. Gascoigne returned while they were being questioned by their audience.

  “When was the last stock-taking done?” asked Jerry, ignoring Gascoigne’s entrance.