Was It Murder? (10 page)

Revell was too startled to answer.  The other continued:  “Come now, why don’t you be frank about it?  You came up here because you remembered that a boy named Marshall had been killed last September by a gas-pipe falling on top of him in the dormitory immediately below.  Isn’t that correct?  No need to mind admitting it—I’m up here for the same reason, as a matter of fact.”

“Perhaps you’ll tell me who exactly you are,” said Revell, guardedly.

“Certainly.  My name’s Guthrie.  Yours is Revell, I believe?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.  Well, Mr. Revell, you don’t seem inclined to trust me very much.  Just tell me this, though—have you definitely formed the opinion that the first of the Marshall boys was murdered?  Because I can tell you absolutely that the second boy was.  That’s quite settled.”

“WHAT!  What do you mean?”

“Steady—don’t get excited—we don’t want people to hear us talking.  I’m prepared to be frank with you if you’ll be the same with me.  Can we call it a bargain?”

Revell slowly nodded.  “You were saying about the second Marshall—“

“Oh yes.  He was murdered all right.  We dug up his body last night and found a bullet in his brain.”

“GOOD GOD!”

The other made a sign that they should both be as quiet as possible.  “In fact,” he whispered, “I think we’d better finish this conversation in a more convenient spot.  Can I trust you to go down ahead of me, to walk out of the School gates, and meet me in five minutes’ time at the corner of the Patchmere lane?  And, of course, on no account to mention a word about this to anyone you happen to meet?  Go along then—I’ll follow discreetly and lock up—

I’ve got a key.”

Five minutes later the two met again in the bright sunshine of the country cross-roads.  Revell by that time had managed to conquer his amazement; he greeted the other with a slight smile.  “First of all, Mr. Guthrie, I really would like to know WHAT you are and how you come into all this,” he began.

“Soon, Mr. Revell—all in good time.  Are you busy just at present?”

“I was thinking of catching the eleven o’clock train back to town.”

“Were you?  Could you possibly make it a later one?”

“Oh yes.  What do you want me to do?”

“Well, you might lunch with me at Easthampton, to begin with.  My car’s at the pub along the lane here—we can be at Easthampton in half an hour.”

Easthampton, the busy market town fifteen miles away, had several pretty good hotels, and at one of them, the Greyhound, Guthrie appeared to be staying.  “There’s too much gossip in a little place like Oakington,” he said, as he left his car in the hotel-yard.  “Come on—there’s not a great crowd here, so we shall be able to talk.”

He chatted about unimportant matters till the waitress had left them alone after their meal; then, offering Revell a cigarette from his case, he went on, as if there had hardly been any interruption since the conversation in the Oakington sick-rooms:  “Yes, it was a bullet all right—found it in the first five minutes.  That old darling Murchiston’s too old for his job—don’t believe he’d have found a cannon-ball even.  Still, we mustn’t blame him, since he served our purpose pretty well.”

“The Coroner seemed just as big a fool.”

“Oh, the Coroner?  Mustn’t blame him, either, I’m afraid—he only did as he was told.  Privately he suspected something was wrong, but we suggested to him that a verdict of Accidental Death would be a good thing if it could be managed.  And it was.  Oh, he’s smart enough—make no mistake about it.”

“YOU suggested to him about the verdict?”

“WE, yes—Scotland Yard, I mean, though perhaps I oughtn’t to tell you.  Oh yes, we’re not so blind as people often suppose.  What
I
want to know now is how YOU came to have suspicions?”

“It’s rather a complicated story, I’m afraid.”

“Never mind, I’ll listen.  I’ve been pretty frank with you—now it’s your turn.  Go ahead.”

Revell, after a doubtful pause, began at the beginning and told the whole history of his connexion with the Marshall affair.  Guthrie did not question him during the narration, but when he had finished, the good-humoured, rather nondescript face took on a sudden look of alertness.  “So you’re what might be termed an amateur detective, eh, Mr. Revell?”

“I don’t claim the title, I assure you.  I came in, at the beginning, because of Roseveare’s invitation, and when the second affair happened I think it was rather natural that I should take an interest in it.”

“Oh, quite.  And for an amateur you really haven’t done so very badly.  The point is that we professionals have all the cards in our hands.  Inevitable, isn’t it?  You’ve no credentials—no police force to back you up.  The only thing an amateur can do—and that, very often, quite easily—is to scare the criminal and give him a good chance of getting away.”

“I don’t think I’ve done that.”

“Did I say so?  Personally I think the Oakington murderer is very far from being scared.  The inquest verdict must, as we intended, have reassured him considerably.”

“There have been all sorts of rumours about, though.”

“Oh, I daresay.  Most likely some of my plain-clothes fellows have been seen—I put them on to keep an eye on things at night.”

“Do you mean that you’ve been searching the place already?”

“Hardly that—though by pure luck my men DID find something—but this weather’s the very devil—gives everybody such a reasonable excuse for taking a stroll in the middle of the night. . . .  However, most of that’s by the bye.  What I was just going to tell you was that a few days ago a man named Graham arrived in town.  He also had noticed the rather remarkable accidents that had happened to two boys at a public school.  He was the boys’ guardian, in fact, so he had every right to be interested.  But instead of trying to solve the mystery, if any, on his own, he very wisely— yes, VERY wisely, if I may say so, Mr. Revell—came to us at the Yard for a little talk about it.”

Revell accepted the implied rebuke with a faint smile.

“Not that he had definite evidence, of course,” continued the other.  “One very often hasn’t, at the beginning of a case.  But he told us enough for the Yard to send me to Oakington—just for a little unofficial look around.  I hope I didn’t make myself too conspicuous, though I did have a chat with the local Coroner and police.  Like you, Mr. Revell, I very soon came to the tentative conclusion that the second boy, and possibly the first as well, had been murdered.  Then, quite by chance, one of the constables on patrol duty found something that definitely gave us a clue.  On the strength of it we were able to approach the Home Office with a request for the exhumation of the body.  That’s how it all happened. . . .  Now don’t ask me what it was that my men found, for a detective has to keep a few secrets to himself.  Tell me now, if it doesn’t happen to be one of YOUR secrets, whom do you suspect?”

“The obvious person seems to be Ellington—the housemaster of School House.”

“Yes, yes, I daresay.  And what are the reasons that make you think he is so very obvious?”

“Well, to begin with . . . but, as a matter of fact, I tabled them all in my notebook—perhaps you’d care to have a look?”

“Yes, I certainly should.”

Revell produced his notebook, opened it at the proper page, and handed it across to the other.  Guthrie studied it intently for a moment or two.  “I suppose you took a First in Greats at Oxford, eh?” he remarked, as he handed it back.

“Well yes, I did, as it happens, but—“

“So did I, too—but I’ve had twenty years of hard experience since, which make up for it.  You’ve made some clever and quite valuable points, but you should beware of theorising too much.  However, there’s one little minor mystery that we ought to be able to clear up within the next few hours.  And that is the very queer attitude of the celebrated Dr. Roseveare.  Will you undertake that little job for me?”

“I’ll try, of course.  But how do you suggest I should set about it?”

“In the directest manner possible.  Tell him that the boy’s body has been exhumed and that Scotland Yard is investigating the murder— watch the fellow’s face and don’t give him time to make up a yarn.  Ask him for a full explanation of all that puzzles you.  I’m giving you the job because it occurs to me that he might be franker with you than he would be with me—that’s the sort of sly fellow I am.  Anyhow, we shall see if it works.”  And he added:  “By the way, I wouldn’t chatter too much about all this to Lambourne.  You may perhaps have been a shade too free with that young man.”

Guthrie motored Revell back to Oakington towards tea-time, and arranged to meet him again later on in the evening.  When or how Revell was to get back to town afterwards was not even discussed.

He felt rather bewildered when he was left alone.  So much seemed to have happened during those few hours since the morning.  He had been caught up, as it were, in the swift maelstrom of great events, and though it was just the sort of thing he had always longed to have happen to him, he was not altogether sure that it was as pleasant as he had expected.  Now that he knew beyond all doubt that the affair in the swimming-bath HAD been murder, he felt, more than he had ever felt before, a certain overlying horror in the atmosphere of Oakington.  Strolling round the Ring on that lovely midsummer afternoon, with the song of birds and the plick-plock of cricket in his ears, he felt with awe that somewhere thereabouts, perhaps in one of the rooms whose windows glittered in the sunlight, or perhaps even on the pavilion-roof watching the game, was someone who had carefully and callously schemed the deaths of one and perhaps of two persons.  Over the entire School there seemed to hang the dark and spectral shadow of such a deed, and all the more terribly because it was still invisible to so many.

He thought of Guthrie with grudging admiration mingled with astonishment that any Oxford man could contrive to look as he did at the age of forty or so.  There was a queer forcefulness about the fellow—a personality, undoubtedly, that hid behind the deliberately average manner.  Guthrie, too, had been very confidential, and Revell felt more than a little proud to think that his own deductions, even without much background of evidence, had proved so largely correct.  Theory, even with the recent stamp of Oxford upon it, had its place if it could so intelligently anticipate the findings of practical research.

Towards six o’clock he walked up the drive leading to the Head’s house.  He was perhaps just the least bit nervous, but apart from that it was a relief, after so much speculating and theorising, to know that at last he was about to tackle something straightforwardly.

Roseveare, busy with correspondence in his study, was naturally astonished to see him again.  “Missed your train, eh?  There’s another good one at seven, I think—you can verify it from my time-table here. . . .”

Revell flushed under the scarcely veiled hint.  “I came back, sir,” he began, slowly, “because I wanted to have a few words with you— confidentially.”

“Confidentially?  Dear me, that sounds very interesting.  Please sit down—these letters, I hope, will not keep me very long.”

Revell would have quickly resented such treatment in more normal circumstances; as it was, he merely interposed:  “I think, sir, you would rather I gave you my message without delay.  I really came to tell you that yesterday the body of Wilbraham Marshall was exhumed, and it was found that he had been shot.”

The effect upon Roseveare was electric; he looked up with suddenly piercing eyes that were like the gleaming tips of a pair of foils.  But after the first bewildered second there came to him, as from immense reserves of hidden strength, a sort of defensive blandness which might have concealed anything or everything behind its ramparts.  Revell, who had expected a good deal from the suddenness of his announcement, was not altogether satisfied with its results.

“But, my dear boy, you’re not serious, are you?  All sorts of

rumours, I know, are still in circulation—“

“This isn’t a rumour,” Revell cut in.  “I heard it from a Scotland Yardman who has been in Oakington to-day and who attended the exhumation yesterday.”

“Scotland Yard?  And in Oakington?  But surely—surely—if that were so—he would come to me with his information?”

“Apparently not.”

“And you say it was discovered that the boy had been shot?”

“Yes.  They found the bullet in his head.”

“That is dreadful—very dreadful.”  A look of horror entered his eyes for a moment, before giving way to renewed astonishment.  “But really, you must tell me more about this.  It was good of you to miss your train and bring me the terrible news.  Yes, very good of you—and—I thank you sincerely.”  There was an ample graciousness in his voice.  “Now tell me—how did you come into possession of this appalling information?  Where did you meet your informant?  Why did he tell you?”

Revell, who had come to cross-examine rather than to be cross-examined, was somewhat taken aback by this string of inquiries.  Nevertheless, he answered:  “I met him—er—quite accidentally.  As for why he told me, I don’t know, unless he thought I might be able to help him.  Anyhow, it’s established now that the boy was murdered and that the accident was a mere fake.  And naturally, sir, I’m a little puzzled over one or two small matters that concern you and me in this affair.”

“Such as?”

“Well, in the first place, why did you REALLY send for me here to begin with?  I daresay you can quite understand that this recent affair rather opens up the earlier one.  You obviously had suspicions of some kind when you sent for me originally, and the reason you gave was—if you don’t mind my being perfectly frank about it—paltry.  I put it down to the state of your nerves at the time—but I really can’t understand how and why your nerves have been so totally unaffected by this second affair.  This was far more suspicious, on the face of it; yet you didn’t seem to have any suspicions; you didn’t send for me; and when I did come, you gave me the impression that nothing was or could be wrong and that I was altogether wasting my time.  Rather a puzzling change of front, sir, it seems to me.”

“Yes, I’m sure it must have been puzzling.”