A Question of Proof (17 page)

‘… But I don’t suppose you’ve visited me just for a spot of light conversation.’

The superintendent took the hint and proceeded to ask Wrench about the Black Spot note which Sims had confiscated. Oh, yes, he remembered the occurrence and the contents of the note. Yes, Evans had also been present and suggested that no official notice should be taken of it. But what connection had this with the case? Armstrong explained Nigel’s theory; Wrench’s
eyes
widened and he whistled between his teeth. The superintendent then unmasked his heaviest battery. ‘Now, sir,’ he said, his voice grown suddenly harsh and unfriendly, ‘perhaps you will explain what you meant by giving me an entirely false account of your movements about the time of the murder?’

A spasm contorted Wrench’s face, but he said coolly enough, ‘So you’ve been third-degreeing Rosa, have you? Well, you can’t do that sort of thing to me. I shall consult a solicitor. Do I have to remind you of the judge’s rules?’

‘Don’t talk to me like that, young man! If you don’t come out with your new story pretty quick I shall hold you on a charge of obstructing the police.’ Armstrong’s emphasis of the ‘new’ was not lost on Wrench. ‘Oh, very well,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t bear to obstruct you any longer. What
did
Rosa say?’

‘Now, now, now, Mr. Wrench; don’t try and put that stuff across on me.
I’m
asking
you
for your movements between one-thirty and two-thirty on the day of the sports.’

‘As I originally told you, except that I was in Rosa’s room from two till two-thirty. Shocking, isn’t it?’ Wrench’s tone rasped on Nigel’s nerves.

‘Two-thirty? You were on the field for the first race, were you?’

Wrench’s eyes narrowed. After a pause he said, ‘Not exactly. The pistol went off when I was in her room. I ran downstairs at once and was on the field by the end of the race.’

‘And what was the point of your story about talking to a parent. Why not have said that you were reading in your room till two-thirty?’

‘I had intended to, but during the sports a boy – Smithers–told me that he’d gone up to my room a minute or two before the sports began to bring me an import, and hadn’t found me there, so I thought it safer to invent the man in a brown suit.’

‘And you expect us to believe all this?’ said Armstrong heavily.

‘Well, of course; hasn’t Rosa told you the same? You couldn’t expect me to admit what I’d really been doing. It’s the end of me, as it is – look here, superintendent, you don’t need to come out with all this to the headmaster, do you?’

‘You mistake me, sir. I’m asking how you expect us to believe this new story when your original one was just a pack of lies. How do I know that you and Rosa have not made it up between you?’

‘Why on earth should we make it up? Do you think I want to ruin my career?’

‘Under some circumstances, you might.’

‘What is the man driving at now?’ said Wrench, turning with a nervous smile to Nigel. The latter was getting rather tired of Armstrong’s delayed action tactics and spoke abruptly, not looking at Wrench: ‘He wants just to be sure you weren’t compassing the sheer doom of young Wemyss, that’s all.’

Wrench started; his next words sounded indignant and alarmed. But Nigel felt that the start, the
indignation
and the alarm were forced; Wrench knew all along what the conversation was leading up to. Armstrong let him cool down and then asked him what confirmation he had of Rosa’s story. None, he said at first. But by judicious questioning the superintendent elicited the details already given by Rosa about his clothing and the photograph on the mantelpiece. They left him, still retaining his assumed jauntiness, but looking decidedly the worse for wear. The superintendent was obviously put out by Nigel’s intervention and pointedly refrained from asking his company on his next visit, which was to Sims. Nigel, too, had had enough of Armstrong’s company; he was impatient to have a talk with Michael. That notion which Armstrong had put into his head – it all fitted in – yes, he must verify it at once.

Michael looked up at his friend with unconcealed eagerness as he entered the room. ‘And where have
you
been all the day?’ he asked, ‘riding about chalking pornograms on the roads?’

‘Worse. I have been making myself eligible for the Black Spot.’

‘The Black Spot? Oh, yes; the Black Spot; that’s still going, is it? I’m glad. Stevens II is a natural leader. You get one every ten years or so in a school, and every hundred years in a country, if you’re lucky. What happens to all the others I don’t know. Go into an office, or get ruined at their public school, I suppose. But, I say, what are you doing in that gallery?’

‘We of the Black Spot do not betray our secrets.
But
I’ve been mopping up information today. Today, in fact, may be described as the beginning of the end, the thin end of the wedge, or what you will.’

‘You mean, you’re on to the criminal?’ said Michael excitedly; ‘do we cease to be under suspicion?’

‘You never were, as far as I’m concerned. But I’m afraid the superintendent is still unconvinced. Of course, he’s felt different towards you since that joyride after the late James Urquhart – one can’t share that sort of experience with a person without it affecting one’s attitude towards him, but what facts Armstrong has point to you and Hero; it’s only because they’ve so few of them that he doesn’t arrest you.’

The strained look that had been in Michael’s eyes for several days returned to them. ‘Well, I did think the worst was over. It seems I’ve just been creating a sort of fool’s paradise,’ he said bitterly. ‘I’m sorry. That sounds ungrateful. Tell me what you’ve found out today.’

‘Can I have some tea first?’

‘Haven’t you had it yet?’

‘Yes. I want some more.’

‘Oh, God, I wish you’d take to a hypodermic syringe instead. It would save a lot of trouble.’

While his friend boiled water and got out the tea, Nigel gave a series of extracts from the information he had collected, omitting the conversation in the wood. Michael was amazed that he had not seen before the connection between Wemyss’ disappearance and the confiscated Black Spot instructions.

‘And now to business,’ said Nigel, peering anxiously into the depleted pot. ‘I want to ask you some questions. We’ll get over the most embarrassing ones first.’

‘Shoot, mister. We are never embarrassed.’

‘How did you and Hero arrange your meetings? Word of mouth?’

‘Sometimes. But lately she took to putting notes behind a loose brick in the garden wall. Romantic.’

‘Did you ever miss any of them?’

‘No – not as far as I know.’

‘Mm. You probably wouldn’t. Where did you two meet? I mean, wasn’t it frightfully dangerous?’

‘Frightfully. But, you see, one gets so reckless. It was because we really half wanted to be found out and bring things to a crisis, I suppose. We met once or twice in the thicket early this term – the affair only started then – but that was going it a bit too much even for Hero; after that, it was generally somewhere out in the country. We never went to each other’s rooms.’

‘And as far as you know, you were never seen?’

‘We couldn’t have been. The balloon would have gone up long ago, otherwise. Every one in the country round about knows Hero by sight; and nearer home, well – schoolmasters are about on a level with parsons where scandal is concerned. You can’t conceive what the gossip of a common room is like. I suppose it’s because we were so reckless that we never were found out – like chaps in the war who wanted to be killed and never got a scratch.’

‘This meeting in the haystack – how was it arranged?’

‘A note in the garden wall. Hero put it there after dinner the night before, actually, and I fetched it in the morning. I had the second period off.’

‘You destroyed it, presumably.’

‘Oh, yes. What is the point of all this, by the way?’

‘I can’t tell you yet. But it’s very satisfactory so far. You know, what worried me all along is why the murderer chose such an odd place to stage his act.’ Nigel cocked an inquisitive eye at his friend. Michael looked puzzled.

‘Well?’

‘Well to you,’ said Nigel. ‘You have all the facts. It’ll give you something to think about.’

‘The mantle of Holmes sits very ill upon you, I may say,’ remarked Michael acidly.

‘And now,’ said Nigel, waving off this unseemly petulance, ‘we come to our second head. I want you to try to remember everything that was done or said in your presence by any of the masters on the day of the sports. We’ll take the rest of the week later.’

‘Look here. What do you think I am? A dictaphone?’

‘Not so accurate, unfortunately. But we’ll have to make the best of it.’

It turned out to be a less superhuman task than Michael had feared. Stimulated by his friend’s skilful questioning, he reconstructed that ill-starred day
piece
by piece. The conversations at breakfast, during recess, after lunch on the field, and later, in the common room; the remarks of Sims and Wrench beside the haystack – practically nothing was missed, however irrelevant it seemed. From this, Nigel led him through the succeeding days; he seemed particularly interested in the atmosphere that had prevailed in the common room, and took the greatest pains to get clear the details of the scene between Gadsby and Wrench. When it was all finished, he leaned back for a moment with his eyes closed. Then, ‘Tiverton seems to have brains,’ he said, half to himself; ‘spotted the key point of the problem at once. That pencil of yours – I wonder.’ Then he opened his eyes; Michael was astonished to see something very like fear in them. ‘You know, I don’t like this at all. This murderer of yours is worse than clever; he’s – oh, well –’

‘Do you mean – you know who the murderer is?’ asked Michael, feeling a flutter of apprehension in his heart.

‘Yes,’ said Nigel gravely. ‘I think I know who the murderer is. But I doubt if I can ever prove it. A question of proof – that’s a good title á for a detective story, if you ever write one – and I’ve not got enough proof to fill an acorn. One wouldn’t mind so much if there wasn’t the danger that he –’ Nigel broke off and shook himself. ‘Your Mr. Gadsby seems an efficient broadcaster. Would you mind telling him – at once, and in strict confidence – that you are under the gravest suspicion of this crime.’

‘Gadsby is far from accustomed to being the recipient of my maiden confidences.’

‘Never mind. He’s not nearly critical enough to notice that. Run along, old boy, and pull your stuff. It will be safer for you to be published abroad as a prime suspect, just at present.’

‘ “Safer”?’

‘ “Safer” was the word.’

It is five minutes to eight – five minutes before that rather grisly cold supper which is the sole social contact between the Rev. Mr. Vale and his staff. Michael has spilled the beans to Gadsby, who is even now distributing them (in the strictest confidence) to his colleagues. Michael hastens into the drawing room, hoping to have Hero alone for a few minutes before the others come in.

She was there, waiting for him; her body, in its black dress, moved subtly as the wind; the incredible fairy gold of her hair glimmered through the twilight, and her living arms stretched out to him. The sun, hurrying to its rest, stood still while they kissed.

‘Hero, my sweet love. You are so beautiful. You are the spring of water and the blossom in the wilderness. My dear, I can’t live without you any longer.’

She bent her head back from him, her body sweetly curving. The electric storms of love passed through them and they kissed again. Her mouth was lovely from his kiss; she gazed at him, her eyes bewildered
with
love. Then she caught her breath – a little sob like a wind dying among pine-tops, and her mouth drooped like a bough when the wind has died. ‘Oh, Michael, I can’t,’ she sighed. ‘I love you so much. I would give all my mind and body to save you from a minute’s pain or sadness. Yet I can’t. They’re not all mine to give. Michael, you must try to understand me. And don’t be angry with me now – afterwards, if you like; but not now. I think I should die if you were. Promise not to be angry with me.’

‘I promise.’ Michael heard his voice coming as it were from a great distance, a great height or depth of tenderness.

‘Michael, you are so good. Listen. These things that have happened have made me different. I love you infinitely more than I did before, but – I would have left Percy then with scarcely a thought, and now I cannot. Oh, my sweet, don’t look as if I’d hit you. I feel towards you now as I never felt before, and that’s why I have begun to feel the ties between myself and Percy too. You see – I just can’t help myself – a part of me is bound to him and I can’t get it away.’

‘You want me not to tell him, then?’

‘Not yet. While he’s in trouble I am not free – not all of me. And when I come to you, it must be for ever and it must be all of me.’

There was a deep arid melancholy acquiescence in Michael’s words. ‘Yes, Hero, you are right. And will you ever be really free, now, all of you, till – he is dead?’

‘Oh, my heart’s darling, I don’t know – I don’t know.’ The wild despair of her voice made Michael forget his own pain. He was going to kiss her, for the last time perhaps, when they heard voices in the passage.

‘Hullo, superintendent, you still here? Hard at it? Nose down to the trail?’ came Gadsby’s hearty tones.

‘Poking about, sir, just poking about.’

Mr. and Mrs. Vale, Nigel Strangeways and the staff are sitting round the supper table. Gadsby, on a glass of insipid Graves plus something a good deal more potent laid in beforehand, is fancying himself the life and soul of the party. Nigel glances at Hero and almost cries out in amazement. There is an unearthly brooding light in her face, an expression of final sorrow almost intolerable to behold. He looks towards Michael; his face, too, bears the same unutterable sadness; it seems cut from rock, Nigel thinks, a rock at the edge of the world with the sunlight of the world’s last evening dying upon it. His winged fancy was brought down stone dead by a particularly uproarious explosion of laughter from Gadsby, heralding the conclusion of one of his own jokes, ‘… and she said, “but that’s not my ticket – it’s my sister’s,” ha! ha! ha! It was her sister’s, you see.’ A faint echo of Gadsby’s hilarity went round the table. He showed his teeth all round, like a prima donna acknowledging an ovation; then, tuning his voice to a suitable minor key, remarked:
‘Well
, headmaster, I suppose we shall have to give the parents’ match a miss this year – er – after what has happened.’ Vale took a sip of water – the gesture was a dignified rebuke in itself – before replying.