Death on the Cherwell (British Library Crime Classics)

by Mavis Doriel Hay

  “I’m sorry about this,” she announced, “but I didn’t realize that you wanted to see me.”

  “Quite in the best tradition,” Braydon assured her. “Sherlock Holmes favoured a dressing-gown. I was just trying to reconstruct Friday afternoon, before we go on to later events. What were you doing before four o’clock, Miss Pane?”

  “As a matter of fact I was trying to crochet a tam-o’-shanter and it didn’t turn out very well; in my room.”

  “I’m sorry about that; very tricky things, I believe. Can any of you think of anything further? Do you happen to have heard whether Miss Denning took a rug with her in the canoe?”

  They were startled.

  “No—she didn’t take a rug; we are almost sure,” Sally declared. “But do you want to know about a rug?” Perhaps this was her moment of triumph.

  “I confess I am rather interested in a rug, probably a brown rug,” said Braydon.

  “Have you found it?” asked Sally cautiously.

  “I should like to,” he admitted, watching her closely.

  “You probably can if you look between the bushes and the wall at the bottom of Ferry House garden.” Sally described her discovery.

  “I’m glad to know it’s there, but I’m sorry you’ve been crashing about in those bushes.”

  “I didn’t crash!” declared Sally indignantly. “I was awfully careful; I didn’t want to make a noise.”

  “What shoes were you wearing?” he inquired.

  Sally held out a foot. “Walking shoes, but not these; I changed them because they were so muddy. Size 5.”

  Braydon surveyed them and nodded. “Are there any further discoveries you can entrust me with?”

  “Yes,” said Sally. “Two. Here’s the first.” She held out the penknife, still wrapped in a handkerchief. “I suppose I’d better tell you,” she continued, as he took it carefully, “that we didn’t think of fingerprints till rather late and you’ll probably find both Nina’s and mine on it.”

  “Where did this come from?”

  Sally and Nina told their story. He looked grave.

  “I’m glad you’ve handed this over, and because you’ve handed it over and have told me about the rug, I won’t say much, except that you may have wasted valuable time and you may have obliterated valuable evidence. Any idea whom it belongs to?”

  “We couldn’t possibly have recognized the man, even if he were someone we know,” said Sally. She shot a glance of inquiry at Daphne, who looked deliberately blank.

  “The only thing is,” announced Gwyneth, suddenly sitting bolt upright, “that I heard Draga Czernak telephoning to someone in Serbian about Burse on Friday evening and the person she generally telephones to in Serbian is a man called Matthew Coniston at Sim’s.”

  “But you mustn’t take too much notice of anything that Draga says nor of how excited she gets,” added Sally hastily, with a sidelong scowl at Gwyneth. “The Yugo-Slavs seem to have very excitable natures.”

  “I can well believe it,” Braydon agreed. “But how did you know, Miss Pane, what was said in this language? Do you understand it?”

  “Oh, no! But Draga said bursar once or twice very plainly in English and she seemed to be frightfully worked up about something.”

  “Did Miss Czernak know that you had found the knife?” asked Braydon.

  “Oh no! It was much earlier that she was telephoning; before dinner,” Gwyneth explained.

  “And this man Matthew Coniston is a great friend of Draga’s,” Sally explained further. “And because she can speak her own language to him—he was out in Belgrad—she probably feels she can talk to him more easily than anyone else, and she easily gets wrought up, so it isn’t very peculiar that she should telephone to him to tell him that Miss Denning had been drowned. After all, it was rather shattering.”

  “We really don’t know a thing about that knife, or what it means,” Nina confirmed.

  “I quite understand,” Braydon told them.

  “But as we seem to be coming clean,” Daphne remarked; “as they do at the miscalled Oxford Group meetings, I’d better tell you that Draga Czernak did go to Sim’s on Friday afternoon. That’s only hearsay, but I’m pretty sure it’s true. I’d rather not tell you how I heard about it. Sally thinks I’m giving Draga away, but you can easily find this out for yourself—people saw her—and you may as well know sooner as later. Perhaps you can sort things out and explain it.”

  “I think you’re right to tell me,” Braydon said. “If it should be important it’s the sort of thing that I’m bound to hear of. Now what was the second discovery you mentioned, Miss Watson? That, presumably, was made this evening?”

  “I suppose it was you who shone a light on us?” Nina asked.

  “You didn’t mention to Miss Cordell that you saw us running down the lane?” Sally tried to sound unconcerned.

  “I really came here to collect information, rather than to impart it,” Braydon pointed out.

  “It was really because I felt sure you’d been rather decent about that, that I decided to tell you all that we’ve found out, such as it is,” Sally confessed.

  “That’s really handsome,” Braydon acknowledged. “And now will you tell me what you did find out in the garden of Ferry House to-night?”

  Sally began the tale but generously gave Nina the honour of describing exactly what they saw through the window.

  “That seems a strange procedure,” Braydon commented. “Have you any theory to account for it?”

  “Not a vestige. You see, when we went we didn’t know what we were going to find.”

  “I suppose none of you has ever been inside the house?”

  They all shook their heads. “Nor even looked through the windows?”

  “We don’t really use the path very much,” Daphne explained. “We generally have bicycles. It was the bursar who used it most, because she thought we had a right to use it and wanted to rub it in. And no one’s very keen to meet old Lond, or even the Beetle.”

  “You don’t happen to know of anyone who has been inside that house?” Braydon asked.

  “You mean someone who would know what was carved above the fireplace, where old Lond was chipping?” Sally asked bluntly.

  Braydon nodded. “I don’t really think Ezekiel Lond is in the picture at all, but I’d like to know why he was defacing his fireplace. Probably some of these elderly donnish people can enlighten me. It’s an historic old house, I understand.”

  “I looked through the guide books when I came up and first heard stories about Ferry House,” Nina volunteered; “but they didn’t say much and certainly didn’t give the words of any inscription—if it was an inscription.”

  “To return to Friday afternoon,” said Braydon. “You all met on the roof of your boathouse, I understand, at four o’clock, by appointment?”

  “We did,” Sally agreed. “We’ve done it before. It’s rather a—well, an impressive place for a private conversation. But we were not expecting the bursar to come down the river. We didn’t even know she was out in her canoe.”

  “I did actually know,” Daphne put in. “Someone had mentioned it, but I hadn’t remembered it specially, until we heard the canoe coming, scratching past the bushes, and then I thought it might be hers.”

  “The canoe came down on this side of the river?” questioned Braydon. “Not as if it had been pushed off from the Parks bank, or anything of that sort?”

  “It seemed to come round the bend close under the bushes,” said Sally. “I haven’t really thought of it before, but we heard it before we saw it.”

  “And you are quite sure there were no other boats to be seen on the river?”

  All agreed that no other craft had passed the boathouse, or come within sight of it, after about four that afternoon, until the body was found.

  “Now listen,” said Braydon earnestly. “You have given me some interesting information, which may be very useful. If you hear of anything else that you think I should know, you can a
lways get in touch with me through the police station here. But I must put a strict ban on further expeditions into Ferry House grounds. Up to the present, our men have only had orders to report on who went in and came out. I don’t suppose you realized that you were bringing suspicion to bear on yourselves and on your college by these skirmishing parties? In future, Ferry House will be strictly guarded, the right-of-way must be waived for the present, and unauthorized persons found wandering in those grounds are liable to arrest. As a matter of fact, I particularly did not want Ezekiel Lond disturbed. As I have told you, I think he can be ruled out as a possible criminal. But the man’s half crazy and he may know something even if he has done nothing. I want to leave him alone, merely watching him. At the same time you’ve got to bear it in mind that if he should be guilty of something criminal he may be a desperate man and he might well have done worse than curse you. If our regulations are not respected I shall have to ask Miss Cordell to put very severe restrictions on the comings and goings of all the students in this college—and that would be a confounded nuisance for everyone!”

  “We’ll keep clear of the place,” Sally promised, and the others echoed her promise. “As a matter of fact, I’m not very keen on going there again.”

  “And you know,” Braydon continued, “you might bring your reasoning power to bear on Ezekiel Lond’s behaviour. I notice your expressions of polite incredulity when I remark that he is not the criminal! But if he were, would he continue to hang about on the scene of the crime, especially when he has a lodging elsewhere? And granted that he did, then wouldn’t he have been more upset when he heard you smashing flower-pots under his window? Wouldn’t he either have pursued you, or else have bolted from the house?”

  “But then what is he hanging about for?” Sally insisted. “He’s not usually there for two or three days running.”

  “That’s one of the things I’m hoping to find out—as well as the explanation of Miss Denning’s death.”

  “Haven’t you any idea who did it?” asked Gwyneth, stifling a large yawn.

  “Have you considered this,” he replied. “Some undergraduate rag, which ends unexpectedly in tragedy? Picture to yourselves the position of two or three young men who have somehow, as a joke, upset the canoe. Miss Denning hits her head against something and doesn’t come up; after some minutes they realize that this is serious; then they recover the body; they find she is dead. What are they to do? Enough to make anyone lose their nerve and their judgment!”

  “And do you think that’s what really happened?” Sally asked.

  “How awful for whoever it was!” Gwyneth reflected.

  Braydon was watching them closely. “Exactly. I don’t know if that is what happened, but it’s a possibility. A case of manslaughter rather than of murder. By the way, I’m afraid you’ll all have to give evidence at the inquest on Monday, but if we are still not in a position to ask for a definite verdict, it is probable that we shall only outline the main points, so far as they are known. I understand, Miss Watson, that your sister is kidnapping one of the possible witnesses?”

  “Oh, you mean the bursar’s niece, Pamela Exe? There’s something rather mysterious about her—I suppose you know? The bursar would never let her have anything to do with anyone connected with Oxford. My sister and her husband, Basil Pongleton, have gone to Cambridge to-day to fetch her, and are bringing her back to-morrow.”

  “Inspector Wythe has seen her,” Braydon told them. “I don’t suppose she knows anything that will throw any light on this business, and I don’t want to badger the poor girl. But I am about to commit one of the rashest acts of my career.” He paused impressively and looked round at their startled faces. “I am going to confide in four ladies and trust that this will go no further. You may be able to help me in two directions. I don’t want you to spy on Miss Exe, or anything of that sort, but she may talk to you about this curious ban which Miss Denning put upon any communication with Oxford. If you learn anything which seems to explain it, you might let me know. The other point is the inscription in Ferry House. Perhaps in the course of your academic researches you may light on some information. If so, again let me know.”

  “We will,” they assured him.

  “And now, one lady, at any rate, ought not to be kept any longer from her bed. Good night, and thank you all!”

  The four girls trooped upstairs in a subdued manner, making their way by common consent, to Sally’s room. Gwyneth gave way to yawn after yawn.

  “I’ve had to stifle so many,” she complained. “It always makes them worse. If I can get a few good ones off my chest I shall feel better.”

  “He’s quite decent,” Nina observed.

  “I wish I knew what he knows and what he thinks,” Sally remarked. “We must get to work on this inscription business. I think a little research in the Rad is indicated.”

  “How would you start?” asked Nina.

  “Old histories of Oxford, or books about the architecture or the old houses, or something of that sort,” Sally suggested vaguely. “You’d better get a line on it, Nina; you admired the house so much.”

  “All right; but I don’t suppose I can do it before Monday.”

  “Didn’t you say something, Nina, about Mary Wentworth’s aunt?” inquired Gwyneth sleepily.

  “Yes, but I don’t think she ever went inside the house herself. Probably old Lond has kept himself and his house so much to himself that nobody knows what was carved there.”

  “Look here!” said Sally suddenly. “Have you ever thought of this? Perhaps Burse was drowned in the New Lode; it’s an awfully narrow, dark tunnel there between old Lond’s wall and our hedge and trees; even from our bridge you can hardly see any way at all, because it bends. No one goes round that way in boats, because it’s so shallow and muddy. The rug had something to do with it, and was thrown over the wall. Then the canoe with the body in it was towed up to the fork, just below Lond’s boathouse, and sent drifting down the other side of our island.”

  “And why did they leave the paddles afloat at the fork?” Daphne asked. “If they weren’t left on the scene of the accident, why not put them in the canoe?”

  “Just to confuse the trail, perhaps. I don’t know,” Sally admitted wearily. “I think I’ll go to bed.”

  Meanwhile Detective-Inspector Braydon was conferring with Inspector Wythe, who had met him in the lane.

  “Those girls are all right,” Braydon assured the local man. “If there was a rag and an accident, they know nothing of it. All this routing about in which they have been indulging is simply the natural curiosity of the young and their sublime confidence that they are the only people with good ideas. But they have found something. Also, they’re certain that no other craft passed their boathouse on Friday between four and about half-past.”

  “All the same, sir,” Wythe insisted, “you’ve got to bear in mind the fact that a boat could have got away from the scene, without going upstream, by taking the New Lode, the narrow channel on this side of Perse Island. It’s usually deserted, but it’s navigable.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Braydon with some impatience. “Has Mr. Mort, a don of St. Simeon’s College, I understand, given you any information about having been near the river on Friday afternoon?”

  “No, no information of any kind from dons, beyond the ladies,” Wythe replied.

  “He seems to have come through the Parks and over the footbridge rather earlier than that man Bayes. He might help to fix Bayes’s time, but of course, his not coming forward looks as if he didn’t see anything of Miss Denning. I’ll look him up. Any news of our pair of loonies?”

  “The gardener has hobbled off in the direction of home, and old Lond himself set off at a good pace towards his lodgings, with one of my men trailing him. The old chap’s not so decrepit as you might think!”

  CHAPTER XII

  JIM LIDGETT

  ON Sunday morning Inspector Wythe paid an early call on Braydon in the old-fashioned commercial hotel wher
e the latter had chosen to lodge. Sabbath calm hung over the empty coffee room, and in a far corner Braydon sat at a table near the fire, a large-scale plan of the city of Oxford spread before him and walled along its further edge with an array of pots and jugs.

  “Had visitors to breakfast, sir?” inquired Wythe, counting the coffee pots.

  “Morning, Super! Count the cup before you form any theory,” Braydon advised. “I like lashings of coffee. The pot at the end is still hot; shall I ring for another cup?”

  Wythe waved away the suggestion. “How much do you believe of that man Bayes’ story, sir?” he asked abruptly.

  “Bayes is all right. He’s not consciously making up anything, though it’s unfortunate that he told the story to his pals before he told us. He saw a canoe go up the river and down again; other evidence, or lack of evidence, indicates that it was the canoe. I’m inclined to accept his time for the return journey—soon after three.”

  “Then you wash out what the doctors say about the time of death, and the evidence of the watch?”

  “The doctors, you remember, are not prepared to swear to anything. If we tell them the evidence indicates that she was alive at three, I don’t think they’ll dispute it. The watch is more difficult. It hardly seems likely that a business-like woman would keep her watch half an hour slow. But we mustn’t pay too much attention to that watch if it goes dead against all other evidence. When you paddle a canoe rapidly, a good deal of water may run down your arm, and that may have done the damage.”

  “If that was likely, you wouldn’t expect her to be wearing it,” Wythe pointed out. “She wasn’t a novice in a canoe.”

  “True. But there’s the possibility that she was in the habit of taking it off and forgot to do so on this one occasion, perhaps because it was a very important occasion, about which she was sufficiently anxious to make her omit a piece of routine. There’s another point. The watch may have been altered, deliberately, by the murderer. Suppose someone had an alibi for two-thirty-seven, but not for—let us say—three-thirty-seven.”

  “And banked on no one seeing her after two-thirty-seven?” Wythe considered the problem. “Yes, I see. And what do you think, sir, about Bayes’s statement that there was a rug, and something under the rug, in the bottom of the canoe when she came down?”