An Oxford Tragedy (10 page)

‘May I have a word with you, Sir?' he said.

‘Of course, come up to my rooms now.'

Brendel looked keenly at him, and then, rather to my surprise, walked with us to my rooms. We went in, and I told Callendar to tell me what he wanted.

‘If you please, Sir,' he said, ‘what I have to say is private.'

A quick nod from Brendel gave me my cue.

‘If it has to do with the murder, Callendar, I hope that you will not mind speaking in Professor Brendel's presence. The Professor is going to help us to investigate the affair.'

The butler looked at Brendel, and was apparently satisfied. I noticed once again the odd power which the latter had of inspiring confidence even in men whom he met for the first time.

‘Very well, Sir,' said Callendar, ‘if those are your wishes.'

He seemed to pull himself together as though for an effort, and then continued.

‘When you asked me just now, Sir, if I had told anyone that Mr Shirley had gone to the Dean's rooms last, night I said I hadn't. Well, Sir, it wasn't true. I had.'

‘Whom did you tell, Callendar?' I asked.

‘Mr Scarborough, Sir,' replied the butler.

I had had many shocks that evening, but in some ways this was the most unexpected and the most alarming of them all. When Callendar had begun to unburden himself I had been conscious of a sudden lightening of anxiety, a sense of impending freedom from fear. As he told us that after all another besides ourselves had known of Shirley's movements, the whole fabric of suspicion against the ‘suspects' had appeared to collapse. I had breathed for a moment freely again. And now one anxiety was replaced by a still graver one. Scarborough, for whose conduct and well-being I had some personal responsibility, was directly and dangerously under suspicion. I made an effort to appear at my ease, and steadied my voice to ask Callendar some further questions.

‘How did that happen, Callendar?'

‘It was like this, Sir. I'd just finished in Common Room, round about nine-fifteen as usual, and I came out of my pantry on my way to go home. And there was Mr Scarborough waiting in the Quad, and that there Mr Garnett with him. “Good evening, Callendar,” he says. He was always friendly to me, for I was scout, you know, Sir, to his father thirty years ago. “Good evening, Sir,” I said. “Has Mr Shirley gone up to his room yet, Callendar? I want to catch him as he comes out.” “No, Sir,” I said, “but he's gone up to the Dean's room to wait for Mr Hargreaves there.” “You can't chase him up there, Scar,” says Mr Garnett. “No, damn and blast him” (if you'll excuse me, Sir), says Mr Scarborough.'

‘Did they say anything else after that?'

‘Yes, Sir, they did. They used some language about Mr Shirley not at all suitable to repeat.'

‘What did they say?'

‘I can't repeat what they said, Sir, it wasn't suitable, especially about a gentleman that's dead.'

‘But you may have to at the inquest or later on,' I said rather injudiciously.

‘Begging your pardon, Sir, I'll do nothing of the sort. I know what's proper words to use and what aren't.'

I did not press the question; I was uncomfortably sure that Scarborough's language about his tutor had been even more violent than usual.

‘Was there anything more?' I said.

‘Yes, Sir, Mr Garnett said, “I suppose he'll be shown our revolver up there when the Dean goes up,” and Mr Scarborough said, vindictive like, “I only wish someone would shoot him with it.” And then they said “Good night,” and I went home. But I didn't like to say too much about it all when you asked me in Common Room, Sir, considering all that's happened.'

‘You did quite right, Callendar. Better not speak to anyone else about this, for the present anyhow.'

‘Not even to that Scotland Yard Inspector, Sir, that was asking me all those questions this afternoon?'

‘No,' I said, with a decision which is unusual to me. ‘You have told me and that is sufficient. Good night, Callendar, and thank you.'

As the door closed behind the butler I noticed that all the little wrinkles round Brendel's eyes were showing in a smile which he could not suppress.

‘You seem to have begun very early to conceal information from the police,' he observed; ‘that's quite according to the tradition of detective fiction.'

I had the grace to feel faintly ashamed of myself.

‘Perhaps I ought not to have done that,' I said, ‘but it's frightening me. Every hour some new possibility seems to appear, and it's always something worse than before. This boy's father regards me as more or less responsible for his son,
and it now seems that of everyone mixed up in this wretched affair he's in the most danger.'

Brendel saw that I was really alarmed, and he patted me on the shoulder, as though to restore my confidence.

‘Don't be alarmed, my friend,' he said. ‘We can build too much on a coincidence of this kind. We may find that your protégé, whose language is so fierce, wanted to speak to Shirley for some quite innocent purpose. I don't think, you know, he talks or acts like a murderer, this Scarborough. The young don't always mean just exactly what they say. Besides,' he added, and his smile reappeared again for a moment, ‘I have promised to help you, and if I am to do that you must answer some questions.'

We settled down in a couple of arm-chairs, and I wondered whether this amateur detective would ask me the same questions as the professional had put to me before dinner.

‘Forgive a foreigner's ignorance,' Brendel began, ‘but do you wear gloves much in Oxford?'

‘Why, no,' I replied. ‘I suppose we don't. We wear them sometimes on very cold days to keep warm, and we wear them if we go up to London.'

‘You wouldn't wear them to make a formal call – on the President or the Dean, for example?'

I laughed. ‘Good Heavens, no; what an odd idea!'

Brendel nodded as though satisfied.

‘Could you give me the names of the personal servants of everyone who dined last night? Scouts you call them, don't you? I learned that word yesterday.'

‘Not off-hand,' I replied, ‘but I will get a list for you to-morrow from the Bursar.'

‘Could I look through their masters' wardrobes and cupboards with them?'

‘It might seem a bit odd, but I suppose that if we said you were a detective it could be done. But they're a very trustworthy and loyal lot of men, and they won't much like it.'

Brendel nodded comprehendingly. ‘It's not important, except in certain eventualities, and perhaps in a couple of cases.' He seemed to be talking to himself rather than to me, and for a minute or two he remained plunged in thought. Then he continued.

‘There are four of your undergraduates that I must know more about. I have noted their names – yes – Scarborough, Garnett, Howe, Martin. Tell me something of them. Where they live, and what their fathers do, and any personal details you can think of.'

He noted the surprise in my face and laughed.

‘There's no mystery, Winn. But I must talk with these young men, and the young are shy. If I know about them I can talk without scaring them, and there are perhaps things which they can tell me.'

I gave him the information he wanted, and was rewarded by some congratulatory remarks, which I admit gave me satisfaction.

‘Excellent, excellent,' he said; ‘really, you draw characters to perfection. You ought to write books, Winn, and give your gifts scope. Now tell me about all our friends who dined at the
Henkersmahlzeit.'

Flattered by his praise I exerted myself to give a portrait of each of my colleagues in turn, whilst Brendel industriously made entries in his note-book.

‘Just two more questions,' he said, when I had finished. ‘First, do you own a car?'

‘Yes,' I said, somewhat mystified. ‘I don't use it much, but I've an old Standard in the garage behind the college.'

‘May I borrow it when I need it?'

‘Most certainly. I'll give you the garage key, and you can take it out when you wish.'

‘Thank you, and now the last question. How can I meet and talk to Mrs Shirley and her sister?'

I hesitated and then answered him.

‘With them we mustn't use any subterfuge. I couldn't be a party to that. The only way is to tell them straightforwardly that you are investigating this affair, and ask for their help. It will be painful, but I'll take you when you want to go.'

He thanked me, and shut up his note-book. I was surprised that he had asked me none of the questions about access to college and about the porters which had exercised Cotter's mind so much, and I mentioned my surprise to him.

He smiled. ‘Your Inspector Cotter is highly competent,' he answered. ‘He won't make any mistakes about that kind of thing. I've had already one little talk with him. He will do all that better than I could. And perhaps my method of approach is a little different from his. Good night.'

I saw little of him throughout Friday, though I knew from many stray remarks of others, and from my own observations, that he was busy throughout the day. I caught a glimpse of him driving in my car in the direction of Mottram's laboratory, I heard by chance from a friend in Balliol that he had called upon Tweddle, I heard that he had smoked and chatted in the rooms of Prendergast and Mitton and others, and that he had flattered Callendar by a request that the latter would show him our college silver and the Common Room cellar. For myself I was in a fever of disquiet over the thought of the inquest which was to take place on Saturday morning. I paced up and down my rooms, considering time after time how I should give my evidence. In vain I told myself that my own part in the proceedings was of very minor importance. My old nightmare thought that I should make a fool of myself, and appear ridiculous in public, gripped me once more. In imagination I saw myself stuttering or tongue-tied as the coroner posed his questions; I saw the expressions on the pale beautiful faces
of Ruth and Mary change from pity to surprise, even to contempt. I read too in advance the lurid accounts in the paper. Up to now the press had been admirably reticent, ‘Well-known don shot in mysterious circumstances at Oxford. Investigations proceeding' had been a summary of all that had appeared. But after the inquest it would, I knew, be impossible to prevent a spate of hateful detail. I seemed to see a front-page picture of myself. ‘F. W. Winn, Senior Tutor of St Thomas's, one of the first to see the murdered body', and above a miserable effigy of myself, old, feeble, and ineffective. In vain my reason told me that since I was neither corpse, nor murderer, nor even the first to discover the crime, I could not be starred as a protagonist by even the most unprincipled of journalists in search of copy. Instinct is stronger than reason, and no efforts could make me thrust myself into the decent obscurity of unimportance. My wretched habit of introspection and self-analysis tortured me. Again and again I went over in my mind my actions on that fatal evening. Should I not have prevented that ill-omened discussion on murder? Might I not, by a swift decision, have collected a band of eager helpers as soon as I saw Shirley's body, and with them have searched for and discovered the murderer before he could have escaped? Why had I not summoned the doctor before the police, and why had it taken me so long to fetch him? Half an hour earlier an experienced medical man might have been able to fix the time of the crime almost to a minute, and thus enabled us to trace the murderer. From nervous panic my mood changed to one of irritation. Why should the even tenor of my life be disturbed like this? For years I had lived the easy life of leisure and learning, hurting no one, content with my well-ordered, cultured, intellectual life. How easy it had always been over the port and coffee to discuss with enlightened and broad-minded calm the affairs of a troubled but
distant world! How liberal had been my views, how even and well-informed my judgement! And on the whole how well I had done it! That surely had been my
métier
.

Like Cato, give his little senate laws
,

And sit attentive to his own applause
.

That was how I had seen myself in the midst of my circle. Yes, Pope's words were curiously applicable, except that perhaps the applause had come from myself more than from my colleagues. And suddenly ugly facts had obtruded themselves and broken up my sheltered world. In a moment of insight I saw myself as perhaps I was; a weak, ineffective man too long protected from contact with realities, and now girding helplessly and bitterly against fate. And how would all this end? Could I hope to settle down again into the old groove? Should I float again serenely on the old sea of selfsatisfaction? For the first time for more than thirty years I began to contemplate the thought of leaving Oxford, for a time at least. Many of my colleagues had taken to travel, to visit America or Australia or to go round the world, and I had mildly scoffed at their restlessness. ‘Why,' I had once asked a returned and too voluble voyager with that gentle irony which I so much admired in myself, ‘should events uninteresting in themselves acquire a profound importance because they occur in Singapore?' I remember how delicate the implied reproof had seemed to me. Yet might flight not now be my only salvation? Up and down I paced, arguing with myself, growing more irritated, more fretful, more unsettled with every hour that passed.