“I gather from Daphne that Draga wasn’t fond of the bursar?”
“She came to tell me that the bursar had insulted her—called her a pig, which is pretty bad among the Yugo-Slavs. Draga was very bitter about it and thought she couldn’t remain any longer under the same roof with the woman. I had to soothe her and tell her we never mean what we say in English. She departed fairly calm.”
Owen had taken out a pencil with which he was making violent strokes on the back of an envelope.
“What’s that?” Coniston inquired. “A new poem, expressed in geometrical figures?”
“Blast!” exclaimed Owen. “Got a penknife? I’m trying to draw a map of the scene of the crime and I’ve broken my pencil point.”
Coniston put his hand to his pocket, but withdrew it almost at once. “No, I haven’t. Why not use a pen?”
“Can’t draw with a pen. Haven’t you really got a knife? You generally have.”
“Probably lent it to some swine at a lekker,” replied Coniston irritably. “Here’s another pencil, but you’ll break that if you stab at the envelope as you did before.”
Owen took the pencil and continued to draw, more gently.
“If that bursar started from Persephone at one forty-five, as she seems to have done, and paddled strongly up the river and was seen by Bayes returning under the Parks bridge soon after three, how far up do you suppose she would have got?”
“Is this higher mathematics? That’s just over half an hour each way, and of course she’d go down more quickly. There’s quite a strong current now. I should say she’d get up beyond Timms’s boathouse.”
“That doesn’t seem to help much. Anyhow, it isn’t what happened to her above the Parks bridge, but what happened below, that’s important.”
“Exactly—and I’m a bit sick of these idle speculations. You haven’t heard from Daphne of any sensational discoveries, I suppose?” Coniston shot out this last question suddenly and raised himself a little from the depths of his chair. Owen was startled.
“Er—no, I don’t think so,” he stammered. “What sort of discoveries?”
“You know what I mean.” Coniston’s eyes seemed to bore into him. “Owen, you may be a good poet—mind you, I’m not giving a positive opinion—but you’re a rotten detective, and now that Scotland Yard is on this job, as you probably don’t know, but as I’ve seen in the latest edition of the Oxford Mail, you may find it better to leave the inquiries to them. If I have any information to give, I’ll give it to the police, if it’s likely to be relevant, but I shan’t blurt it out to the world in general, or even to you. If I have lost my penknife that’s my affair. Even if someone has found it, it’s hardly your affair. I expect Daphne has put you up to this, but you’d better tell her not to mix herself in criminal investigation. And if they’re hounding Draga, because she disliked the bursar—as most of them did—and has been indiscreet, there’ll be the devil and all to pay.”
“Sorry, Con. I’ve been an ass. I did tell Daphne to keep clear of it. But as a matter of fact what they are trying to do is to protect Draga from the possible consequences of her own rashness.”
“They needn’t bother. Draga’s in no danger and I can do any protecting that may be necessary. I don’t want to discuss this business, but I’ll tell you one thing and that is that neither Draga nor I know a thing that is likely to throw the smallest ray of light on the problem of who killed the bursar.”
“I don’t know whether it’s of any interest to you,” said Owen slowly, “but Daphne told me that they had carted away the bursar’s canoe, to be exhibit 1 at the inquest, I suppose.”
“Oh!” commented Coniston, non-committally. “Inquest’s on Monday, isn’t it? I suppose the police must have something to gloat on, as there are no blood-stained handkerchiefs nor blunt instruments in this case so far.”
“I’ve been a clumsy ass and I apologize,” said Owen shamefacedly, and drifted out of the room.
“What the hell did I want to mix myself up in it for?” he muttered to himself. “Damn Daphne!”
On thinking it over in his own room, however, he decided that it was a pity to damn Daphne outright. She was an amusing girl and he would quite enjoy giving her lunch on Sunday. After all, he could tell her Bayes’s story and say that penknives and the rest of it must be left to Scotland Yard.
He sat down and wrote:
“THE BURSAR SPEAKS
“From bursal greed
Catastrophe
Has set my spirit free.
“There is no need
For heartless youth
To seek the muddy truth.
“It is decreed
Since I’ve been Charred1
To call in Scotland Yard.”
“But I can tell you something if you will meet me
at the George to-morrow at one, for lunch.”
“O.”
He addressed this to Miss D. Loveridge, Persephone College, and hurried down to put it in the box for the college messenger to collect.
1 N.B.—Joke.
CHAPTER X
THE MYSTERY OF FERRY HOUSE
GWYNETH’S room, at the opposite end of the college building from Sally’s and on the top floor, commanded the best possible view of Ferry House, and here Sally organized what she called the “Lond Patrol.” One member of the League was always to be on duty at Gwyneth’s window, keeping a watchful eye on the two or three windows of Ferry House, and the stretch of moss-grown terrace at the back, that were visible. This system was instituted after tea on Saturday, with protests from Gwyneth that she didn’t see why her room should be turned into a sentry box and some grumbling from Daphne that there wasn’t anything to see, and if there was, what of it? Sally could not answer that question. She had no clear idea of what she was looking out for, nor of what she would do if the patrol saw anything unusual. But she felt that the Lode League must continue to justify its existence and for the moment she could not think of any other steps to take. The others fell in with the plan partly because Sally was the dominating personality of the League and partly because, after all, queer things had happened in the last two days and more queer things might be going to happen, and the house and garden belonging to old Lond, who was definitely queer, seemed the most likely setting for unusual events.
Sally herself put her name down for early dinner—an arrangement devised for the convenience of earnest students, who were thus saved from the waste of time involved in dressing for the regular dinner. They wolfed a hasty meal half an hour earlier and hurried back to their rooms to work in peace. Sally hurried up to Gwyneth’s room to take up her post at the window.
“Anything to report?” she inquired of Gwyneth, the last watcher.
“Well, of course I had to get dressed somehow,” Gwyneth explained, “but I did think I saw a light in a downstairs window—in fact, perhaps in two windows. It wasn’t a steady light, and not very bright; rather as if someone was striking matches here and there.”
“But that’s definitely vital!” cried Sally excitedly. “Gwyneth, you are a juggins! Why didn’t you keep a proper watch—you can dress for dinner any day, but something positively crucial may be going on in that house.”
“I can’t dress any day for to-night’s dinner,” Gwyneth pointed out. She was particular about her clothes. “I did put on my easiest frock, and whatever may be going on, I couldn’t really have seen more than I did see. Try for yourself!” She whisked out, switching off the light, and left Sally on guard.
Sally disdained the arm-chair which Daphne had placed by the window earlier in the evening, to ease her spell of stern duty. She sat with her eyes so fixedly focused on the darkness that hid old Lond’s property that even the distinction between the intenser gloom which was the house and shrubbery, and the paler shadow which was the open terrace at the back of the house, became blurred. She blinked and shook her head to restore the clarity of her vision and, even as she did so, became aware of a faint ray of light striking out from
the house over the terrace. Definitely she saw the edge of a low stone wall and the twigs of a bush jump into visibility. Then all was dark again.
Someone was in the house—but what was the use of knowing that, except that it gave her a feeling of importance, of being in possession of secret knowledge. It might be only those blasted police. Though if they wanted to inspect the house, surely they would do it in daylight. Whilst, if old Lond wanted to hide some incriminating evidence, he would certainly do it at night. She might creep out and investigate—but she was definitely afraid. Betty would be mad with her, of course, if she came to know of it, and in spite of Sally’s air of independence, she greatly valued her elder sister’s good opinion and had considerable respect for her judgment. It was possible, of course, to ring up the police and tell them what she had seen—but then, suppose they went clumping around and found nothing and no one; they would think she was all strung up and had imagined the light and would doubtless be awfully superior. No, she couldn’t tell the police about this—unless she could first make sure that there was really something to tell them.
She was still chewing on this problem when the others came up from dinner.
“What luck?” inquired Nina.
“There’s someone in that house, moving about with a light; I’m trying to decide what we ought to do,” Sally told them.
“I told you there was a light,” Gwyneth reminded her.
“And now I’ve seen it myself, and I’m sure it’s old Lond.”
“Well, if he’s really there—and you said yourself that he was there this morning—he would naturally have a light,” Nina pointed out. “I don’t believe there are any curtains or blinds, so you’d naturally see the light. He’s probably going to bed.”
“But he doesn’t live there; there’s no furniture; I think he has lodgings somewhere. Therefore he’s there for some nefarious purpose,” Sally insisted.
They discussed the problem for some time and the more the others opposed Sally’s suggestion to investigate and counselled leaving the whole thing alone, or else telling the police and letting them get on with it, so Sally’s determination hardened and her courage grew.
“Look here, I’m going,” she declared at last. “We’re simply wasting valuable time in all this palaver. I’d like someone to come with me; it may be useful to have a witness; but if no one will come, I’ll go alone.”
“I’m definitely out of this,” Daphne announced. “I think it’s lunacy.”
“What about you, Nina?” asked Sally.
“If you must go, I’ll go,” Nina agreed reluctantly. “I think you’re loopy, and anyway I’m not going to follow you into that house. If you go in I shall yell loudly—or else go and try to find some police; I believe there are some hanging about our lane. But I’ll go with you if you’ll be reasonable.”
“If you’re going to yell, I’m not sure that I want you.”
“I’ll come, if you like,” Gwyneth offered without much enthusiasm. “But I’m sure I should yell; I hate noises in the dark.”
“It’s nearly nine,” Daphne pointed out. “You haven’t got late leave, I suppose, and there’ll be questions asked. How will you explain it if you come back at the double, with old Lond at your heels?”
“There’s not going to be any need of explanation,” Sally replied. “We’ll come back by the window we used before, and you and Gwyneth must keep an eye on it, to make sure it’s open for us. If the gate is locked we can climb it. Come on, Nina; you must change. Rubber shoes again and dark clothes.”
A few minutes later they set forth, after Gwyneth had done some preliminary scouting for them, to make sure they would leave the house unobserved.
“We won’t go over the stile,” said Sally. “The police may be watching there. There’s a gap in the fence before you get to the stile, just stopped up with some branches.”
It was very dark and the lane seemed deserted. They found the gap and Sally shoved herself through with some violence and a good deal of noise. Nina followed, accompanied by rending sounds.
“Blast! I’ve torn my skirt on that branch.”
“Sh! Stand here; quiet! If anyone has heard and comes to see what’s up, we mustn’t make a sound,” whispered Sally.
They stood for some minutes, half crouching amongst wet bushes against the fence. There seemed to be tiny noises all around them. Dropping water, scufflings, creakings; but no steps on the other side of the fence.
“We’re all right. There are no human noises,” Sally said at last.
“Wish there were! This is a beastly place. Let’s get out of these wet bushes.”
“Now, I want to creep round the house, as near to it as we can get. If we think Lond suspects anything, we must just melt into the bushes and freeze. If he should come out after us, we must separate and run for the lane; he couldn’t catch us possibly.”
“What about the old Beetle?”
“He couldn’t catch us either. And he isn’t there at night. Anyway, if we separate that’ll confuse them and we’ll get away all right. But it won’t come to that if you keep calm and quiet.”
“I’m terrified of old Lond, for all his feebleness. I feel he might creep round behind us somehow and bash us on the head or something.”
“Keep a look-out behind you then, but don’t get the horrors. Come on!”
Sally led the way, pulling her feet out of the sticky earth in which they had been standing and pushing through the bushes as quietly as possible until they emerged on to a path. They made their way cautiously up to the house. The end nearest to them was quite dark, but as they stepped gingerly over the old, firmly set flags of the terrace round the corner of the house, Sally breathed: “Look!”
A glimmer of light showed through a wedge-shaped slit between the side of a window and the curtain or rug which had been hung over it inside.
They crept along the wall until they reached the window and tried to peer in. They could hear slight sounds from the room, little tapping and scraping noises, but the crack through which the light shone was high up and they could see nothing.
Sally motioned to Nina to withdraw and they crept back along the wall and discussed the situation in breathless whispers.
“We must see somehow,” Sally declared. “We must find something to stand on. Surely there’s something about—flower-pots, perhaps.”
“That shed,” Nina suggested.
The two girls retraced their steps and rounded the corner of the house, following a path towards a shed which stood near the disputed right of way, and in which they had occasionally seen the old gardener pottering about. The door was only fastened with a hook and, safely inside, Nina produced her torch and swept the beam of light over a jumble of gardening tools, dry bulbs and other litter.
“There!”
A stack of flower-pots in one corner was fenced in behind rakes and hoes. The larger pots were full of smaller ones, piled in lop-sided towers. Sally sighed despairingly.
“I’ll have to move all those things, frightfully carefully, one by one, while you hold the torch. Just a mo’; let’s make sure it’s safe. It would be awkward if he caught us here.”
She ventured outside. The garden was silent except for the intermittent drip of water from wet branches. She returned to the shed and closed the door.
Trembling with anxiety and excitement she began to remove the rakes and hoes, one by one. Then, with the utmost care, she started on what seemed the least topply pile of flower-pots.
“Don’t waver that torch about so! You must be all of a dither.”
“I’m all right,” Nina declared stoutly. “I’m just trying to point it where you want it.”
As Sally lifted one pot a piece fell out of it and tinkled upon the others.
Nina flicked off the torch and they both held their breath for some moments in terror. But there was no sound from outside.
“It was only a tiny tinkle,” said Nina, reassuringly.
Sally resumed her work, lifting e
ach pot with the greatest care. At last, one very large one was free from obstructions.
“I should think it’s nearly midnight,” Sally groaned. “There’s not much skin left on my knuckles and we might have done several murders in here for all the police care!”
“Not quite so quietly as this.”
“You never know. I think it’s your turn for manual labour. Give me the torch. I’ll go ahead and warn you of any pitfalls and you follow close behind with the pot. And for Heaven’s sake don’t let the thing crash!”
Nina obeyed instructions. When she had a firm hold of the pot and a clear route to the door, Sally switched off the torch, opened the door and stepped aside to let Nina out first. A half-stifled shriek horrified Nina so that she nearly dropped the flower-pot.
“Are you all right?” she inquired anxiously.
After the light of the torch the blackness of the shed was impenetrable. A little scuffling sound from Sally; then a low voice, full of apology.
“All right! Frightfully sorry! I thought it was a clammy hand, but it’s only a cobweb.”
“Sure it was nothing else?”
“Quite sure. All serene. Lead on! I’ll shut the door.”
The door safely hooked, Sally took the lead, feeling her way carefully, and so at last they regained the back wall of the house and with infinite care lowered the flower-pot on to a level flagstone below the screened window. Sally stepped on to it, gripped the window-sill, and gradually brought her eyes up to the level of the gap through which the light showed.
She looked into a long, panelled room, low-ceilinged, empty of furniture. In the opposite wall, but some way along to the right, she could see an open fireplace with a good deal of heavily carved dark oak above the chimney arch. A few feet from the fireplace, with his back to Sally, stood the old gardener in his earth-coloured clothes, with his legs straddled apart, his knees bent and his body leaning uncouthly forward. He held aloft a lantern in a trembling hand, so that its light flicked unsteadily about the fine old room and sometimes on to his wrinkled, weather-darkened features which might well have been the work of the Elizabethan sculptor. But the lantern light was chiefly directed on to the point where a chisel and hammer, gripped in the knotted hands of old Lond himself, were at work. Lond was standing on a box in the hearth. The lantern light showed his long, grey hair straggling over his coat collar, and Sally had a glimpse now and then of his rather fine face with the beaky nose and eyes deep-sunk under bristling brows. But mostly he bent forward, intent on his work, tapping and chiselling with unhurried concentration.
Death on the Cherwell (British Library Crime Classics) Page 11
