Was It Murder Read Online

Roseveare.  Guthrie listened attentively.  At the end he offered no comment of his own, but asked Revell for his.

Revell hastened to oblige.  “Well, it seemed to me pretty obvious that Roseveare and Ellington had had a confidential chat together.  Roseveare never hinted at suicide yesterday when I talked to him, but he had it all very pat to-day.”

“It’s an ingenious theory, anyhow.  We mustn’t ignore it.”

“It looks to me as if it were made specially to fit in with the possibility that the police have discovered Ellington’s revolver.  I wish you’d tell me whether they really have or not.”

Guthrie half-smiled.  “I think once again I must plead the Official Secrets Acts,” he answered, jocularly.

“But why?  I’ve been pretty frank with you, and you said it was a

bargain between us—“

“All right,” Guthrie interrupted, with that imperturbable good humour that was perhaps his most annoying trait.  “Tell you what— if you really are devoured with curiosity, you can listen in to a couple of interviews I shall be having this evening.  It’ll be a bit stagey, but that can’t be helped.  I shall be in Ellington’s room in School House, and you can hide in the little room next door.  The partition’s only matchboard—you’ll be able to hear through it.  By Jove, yes, it’s an idea—and you might be really useful, too, apart from enjoying yourself.  Do you happen to know shorthand, by the way?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Pity.  I’ve never yet met an Oxford graduate who did, but I’ve met dozens who’d be twice as efficient IF they did.  Take my tip, Revell, and learn it as soon as ever you get back to town—join a class and work till you can do at least a hundred and fifty words a minute. . . .  Anyhow, if you can’t take shorthand notes, you can keep your ears wide open, I daresay.  It might be handy to have you as a witness afterwards.”

“I’ll do my best, I assure you.  Who are the two persons you intend to see?”

“You’ll know in good time.”

He was, Revell felt, being merely provoking, but there was nothing for it but to accept the situation as it stood.  They lunched at Easthampton and then, after the detective had settled his account at the hotel, drove back to Oakington and deposited his luggage at the police-sergeant’s cottage on the outskirts of the village.  The sergeant was on duty, but his buxom wife offered tea, which they took in a parlour which, in less strenuous days, Revell would have lauded as a masterpiece of Victorianism.  As it was, he allowed Guthrie to talk football and politics to his heart’s content (the detective was almost equally ardent as a Twickenham rugger “fan” and as a Liberal).  Not till the village clock struck five did Guthrie suggest a move, and then, with a sudden return to business, he gave instructions.  “I don’t want us to be seen together too much,” he said, “so you had better walk to the School from here and go straight up to Ellington’s room in School House.  I shall take the car—I’ll be ahead of you by ten minutes or so, I should reckon.  Anyhow, a minute or so either way won’t matter.”

Revell agreed, and within a quarter of an hour, after a warm walk over the meadows, was turning the handle of Ellington’s door.  Guthrie was there, reading a newspaper by the window, and gave him a nod and a signal to be quiet.  “Ah, that’s right, Revell, you’re in plenty of time.”  Following the detective’s further instructions, Revell settled himself in the small adjoining apartment, which had at one time been the bedroom of an unmarried master.  There were cracks here and there in the matchboard partition, and he arranged his chair so that he could see a good deal of what went on in the main room.  Guthrie cautiously approved.  “All right so long as you’re not seen yourself,” he whispered.  “I expect our first visitor along in a few minutes.  Just wait patiently, and for the Lord’s sake don’t want to sneeze.”

Revell waited, and after a few moments heard the School bell ringing for the end of afternoon school.  A few seconds later came the sound of heavy footsteps ascending the stairs and marching along the corridor; then the door was suddenly flung open and Ellington in cap and gown, and with books under his arm, strode into the room.

“Good evening, Mr. Ellington,” said Guthrie instantly.

Ellington stopped sharply as he heard his name spoken.  “Hullo!” he barked, seeing the trespasser.  Then he added:  “I don’t think I know you.  What the devil are you doing in my room, anyway?”

“Oh, merely waiting to have a little chat with you, Mr. Ellington.”

“Chat be damned!  What I want to know is what right you have to be here!”

“But surely, Mr. Ellington, you don’t object to people waiting in your room when they call on you and you happen to be out, do you?”

“It’s not that.  It’s—it’s—the circumstances.  I suppose you’re the detective that’s been prowling about here lately?”

“Yes, you’ve guessed it.”

Ellington raised his eyes to the ceiling as if in mute protest to the powers above.  “All I can say,” he retorted, at length, “is that if I were Head I wouldn’t put up with you interfering with the whole routine of the School in this infernal way!  It’s scandalous, and I’ve told the Head so!  There seems to be a conspiracy on the part of officialdom to ruin the School altogether!”

“Now that’s an interesting idea, Mr. Ellington,” said Guthrie, with exquisite blandness.  “I wonder if there could possibly be anything in it?  The Home Secretary, shall we say, murders a boy in order that the resulting hullabaloo shall make Oakington a less dangerous rival of Eton and Harrow!  By Jove, I don’t think the idea had ever struck me before!”

“It’s no joking matter, I should think.”

“You’re quite right.  It isn’t.”  Guthrie’s voice became suddenly serious.  “Look here, Mr. Ellington, I’m only the servant of authority—I have to do these things.  There’s been a murder committed—it’s my job to investigate it.  Don’t you see?”

“I don’t see, because in the first place I don’t agree that there

HAS been a murder committed,” retorted Ellington, but his manner

was certainly a shade less truculent.  He went on:  “Ever since

Robert’s accident last year there’s been a positive epidemic of

unpleasant rumours going about the School.  No proof, no evidence—

merely suspicion, insinuation, and scandal.  I’ve done my best to

trace it all to its source, but without success.  Now comes the

second affair, and I find the Home Office and police taking all

these ugly rumours for evidence and framing a murder theory quite

vaguely and off-hand, without the slightest foundation that would

stand up in a court of law—“

“I’m afraid the murder is a little more than a theory by now, Mr.  Ellington.  You know, of course, that a bullet was discovered in the boy’s head.”

“So I understand.  But I still say that to deduce murder from such evidence is the most fatuous thing I ever heard of!  Who would or could have shot the boy?  On the one hand you have absolutely no reason at all why the boy could have been murdered, and on the other hand you have a very likely reason why the boy could have taken his own life!”

“Really?”  Guthrie leaned forward with as much interest as if the idea were absolutely new to him.  “Yet another theory, Mr.  Ellington?  Come now, you must give us details.”

And Ellington proceeded, with a fluency rather unexpected in a man of his type, to outline the identical theory that Roseveare had previously outlined to Revell, and that the latter had recapitulated for Guthrie’s benefit.  Guthrie listened with every appearance of respectful attention and nodded gravely when Ellington had finished.  “A highly ingenious theory, Mr. Ellington,” he commented.  “Is it impertinent to ask if you thought of it yourself?”

Ellington looked for a moment on the edge of a complete explosion of temper.  Guthrie continued:  “I’m really not meaning to be offensive at all.  Only I happen to know that Dr. Roseveare has given his support to the same theory, and I should like to know whether he suggested it to you or you to him.  It doesn’t very much matter, of course.”

“It was his idea, first of all,” said Ellington gruffly, after a pause.  “I’m not the sort of person who could have thought of such a thing, and I won’t pretend I am.  But I do entirely endorse it— every word of it.”

“Quite,” agreed Guthrie.  “And thanks for being so confidential.  You really are helping me tremendously. . . .  By the way, I understand you missed a revolver of yours quite recently?”

“Yes.”  Ellington’s face went a little pale, though he had obviously been prepared for the question.

“I wish you’d tell me how it happened.”

“I missed it yesterday—I opened the drawer where it usually was and found it gone.  The drawer was unlocked—I’m afraid that must have been due to my own slackness some time or other, but I can’t remember when.”

“When did you last see your revolver?”

“Months ago—perhaps six months.  I keep it in the bottom drawer of an old bureau along with a lot of old examination papers.  I just happened to want to refer to them yesterday—otherwise I might not have missed the thing at all.  It’s no use here, of course.”

“Was it loaded?”

“No, but there were cartridges in the drawer along with it.”

“Were any of these missing?”

“I really couldn’t say.  I can’t remember exactly how many there were to begin with.”

Guthrie nodded as if in complete satisfaction and understanding.  After a pause he continued:  “Oh, by the way, Mr. Ellington, you don’t happen to have missed anything else lately, do you?  Not a weapon—but just—well, anything?”

Ellington seemed puzzled.  “No—at least, I don’t think I have.

Why?”

“Oh, I only wondered.  I thought perhaps you might have lost, say, a cricket-bat.”

“A cricket-bat?”  A curious look of astonishment came into his eyes.  “That’s really very extraordinary, you know.  For I believe I have lost one—now you come to remind me of it.  I was looking for it in the sports pavilion the other day, though of course I didn’t bother very much when I couldn’t find it—I had too many other things to think about.  And besides, I wasn’t sure if I hadn’t put it somewhere else.”

“You have a locker in the pavilion, I suppose?”

“Yes, but I’m afraid it’s a locker that doesn’t lock.”  A touch of his earlier and perhaps more normal truculence returned to him.  “People here borrow one’s possessions in a most disgraceful way— it’s quite possible that one of the boys took my bat and has it still.  I’ll make inquiries, if you like.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t bother.”

The truculence blazed up suddenly.  “Indeed I shall!  I have a right to investigate the loss of my own property, surely?  Ah, but I see . . . are you suggesting that the cricket-bat and the revolver are connected in any way?”

“My dear Mr. Ellington, I’m suggesting nothing at all.  But I really am most grateful to you for answering my questions, and before you go there’s only one other thing I want to say.  And that is, do you mind if I stay here for half an hour or so and talk to someone else whom I have asked to meet me here?”

“Stay here as long as you like,” said Ellington.  “I can’t stop you, can I?”  He took up his cap and gown and made towards the door.

“I’m afraid, if it comes to the point, you can’t,” Guthrie called after him through the already opening door.  “But I always like to be polite whenever I can, that’s all.”

Some seconds after Ellington’s footsteps had ceased to echo down the corridor and staircase, Revell cautiously peered round the edge of the partition.  Guthrie was relighting his pipe and grinning.  “What an unfortunate man, Revell!” he exclaimed.  “And still more, what an unfortunate manner!  Do you think I ought to have arrested him?”

“It depends whether you think him guilty.  Do you?”

“Well, there’s rather a good deal against him, you know.  Motive, of course, to begin with.  And then the missing revolver.”

“He gave us that information himself, remember.”

“Oh yes.  But not until Roseveare had told him that my men had found something.  He may have thought it good tactics to come forward with a voluntary statement.  As it happens, what my men found wasn’t the revolver, so our friend Ellington has thoughtfully made us a free gift of valuable evidence.”

“It wasn’t the revolver?”

“’Fraid not.”

“I suppose you’re waiting for me to ask again what it really was.”

“Not at all.  And in any case, I don’t propose to tell you—not yet, anyhow.  Perhaps it won’t be long before you find out, though.”

Conversation soon wilted under the strain of the detective’s irritatingly vague responses, and for the final ten minutes before the arrival of the second visitor Revell and Guthrie hardly spoke at all.  At last came the sound of slower, quieter footsteps along the outside corridor; the door opened cautiously; and Lambourne entered.

His face was exceedingly pale, Revell noticed; he was obviously very nervous.  “You wished to see me?” he began, approaching Guthrie.

“Yes, that’s right, Mr. Lambourne.  Please sit down.  I’m glad it wasn’t inconvenient for you to come at this hour.”

“Oh no, I managed it all right.”

“Good.  Smoke if you care to.”

Lambourne sat in the easy-chair facing Guthrie and quakingly lit a cigarette.  Guthrie did not speak for at least a minute; then, with a manner very much more direct than he had adopted with Ellington, he plunged straight into the midst of things.  “I would like you, Mr. Lambourne,” he said, quietly, “to tell me exactly where you were and what you were doing between the hours of eight-thirty P.M.  and two A.M. on the night of Wilbraham Marshall’s murder.  I choose eight-thirty as a beginning, because I know that until then you were taking preparation in the Hall.  Now tell me just what happened after that.”

Lambourne inhaled vigorously before replying, as if struggling for some sort of control over himself.  “I think,” he answered, at length, “I was in my study most of the time until midnight.  It was terribly hot—the hottest night of the year, I believe.  I knew I should have difficulty in sleeping, so about midnight or so I thought I would go for a walk outside—I have often found that a good way of bringing on drowsiness.  I therefore went out, took a stroll round the Ring, and came back.  I might have been out perhaps a quarter of an hour altogether.  Then I went to bed and fell asleep fairly quickly—probably long before two A.M.  That’s about all I can tell you, I think.”

“You met someone while you were out, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes.  I thought your inquiry concerned merely my own movements, or I would have mentioned it.  I met Ellington, as a matter of fact.”

“I see.  And that is really all you have to tell me?”

“Yes.  I think it is.”

“Would you like time to think a little more?”

Lambourne’s hands twitched nervously as he jerkily shook his head.  Guthrie, nevertheless, allowed considerable time to elapse before he spoke again; but he was watching the other continuously.  At last, and with a sharpness that was rather like the bark of a dog, he said:  “I’m sorry you should think it worth while to lie to me, Mr. Lambourne.”

“LIE?  But I’m—I’m not lying!”

“YOU ARE!”  Again the bark.  “You were seen entering the swimming-bath at half-past ten!”

The effect of this was not quite what Revell had expected.  Lambourne did not break down, but by a mighty effort he managed to appear amused.  He laughed, even—rather hysterically, it is true— and threw his half-smoked cigarette almost jauntily into the fireplace.  “The game’s up, I see,” he remarked, with an air of nonchalance.  “You’re a cleverer sleuth than I took you for, Mr.  Guthrie.  May I ask you how you found out?”

“No, you mayn’t.  You’re here to answer questions, not to ask them.

You admit that you were in the swimming-bath at ten-thirty?”

“I suppose I must.”

“Did you see Marshall?”

“Yes, I saw him.”  The note of hysteria almost dominated his voice.

“Then you were probably the last person to see him alive.  Do you know that?”

“Not at all.”  Lambourne’s voice rose to a high-pitched declamation.  “Oh no, not at all.  On the contrary, I was far more probably the second person—counting the murderer—to see him dead.  Don’t you believe me?  No, of course you don’t—I don’t expect you to—that’s why I never told you or anyone else.  And besides . . .  Oh God, what a muddle it all is!”  He dropped his head into his hands and began to sob.

“Calm yourself and let’s have the whole story.  You went to the swimming-bath.  Why?”

Lambourne, when he looked up, was again laughing hysterically.  “Why did I go?  Because, my dear Sherlock Holmes—oh, you’d never guess unless I told you.  I went because I wanted a swim!”  And his face worked with uncanny merriment.

Guthrie took no notice.  “Go on.  You went to the swimming-bath because you fancied a swim.  Did you meet anyone on the way?”

“No.”

“What happened when you got there?”

“First of all, I found the door unlocked.  That surprised me, to begin with.  Then I was surprised again to find that the switches wouldn’t work.  But it wasn’t quite dark, so I went through into the main building.  I saw then that the bath was empty.”

“So what did you do?”

“As I looked down into the empty bath I could see something at one end that showed faintly against the white tiles—some dark heap of something, it looked.  I—I climbed down the steps at the end to see what it was—I struck a match—and—and—“  He shuddered.  “I don’t want to have to describe it—don’t ask me—please don’t ask me!  But I’ll tell you this much—the blood was still warm!”

“Well, go on.  What did you do?”

Lambourne prepared himself for an obvious ordeal.  “I’ll tell you,” he cried, “though I know you won’t believe me.  I hardly believe myself, when I think of it.  I stood perfectly still by the side of the body for about a quarter of an hour and thought things out.  And by that time I had come to the conclusion that seems to be fairly generally accepted now—that the affair wasn’t an accident at all, but a murder.  More than that, I had made up my own mind as to who had done it.  I saw the whole diabolical plot—this second affair as the perfect counterpart of the first one—murder of an amazingly clever and subtle kind.  And I decided, at that same moment, to accept the murderer’s challenge, as it were, and do something that would bring his marvellous and intricate scheme to ruin!”

“Go on,” repeated Guthrie impatiently.  “Let’s have less of what you decided and more of what you did.”

“I’m coming to what I did.  My aim was to ruin the accident theory, and—more than that—to incriminate the murderer.  The murderer I knew to be Ellington.  So I thought out a scheme as neat as his own, and, having thought it out, I put it into operation immediately.  I left the swimming-bath and walked over to the sports pavilion.  In Ellington’s locker, as I had guessed, there was a cricket-bat.  I took it back with me to the bath; I smeared it in the blood that was lying about; and then I left the bath finally, closing, but not of course locking, the door behind me.  Last of all, I hid the bat in some bushes near the rifle-range, where I knew it would be found sooner or later.”

“You provided us, that is to say, with a faked clue?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t it occur to you to come straight to us and tell us the truth about it all?”

“Because I never thought you’d believe it was murder unless you had a clue of some kind.”

“Did you have any idea that the boy had been shot?”

“Not the slightest.  My theory was that he had been killed by bashing on the head—that was why I thought of the cricket-bat.”

“Did you tell anyone of your suspicions about Ellington?”

“There was—and is still—a young fellow here named Revell who took an interest in the case—I told him.”

“But no one else?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I—I didn’t want to be—personally—connected with the affair at all.  I—I hate inquests and law-courts and all that sort of thing.”

Guthrie’s face, already hard, appeared to harden.  Slowly his cross-examination was becoming keener and more hostile.  “Now let’s turn to another aspect of the matter.  What were your relations with the boy?”

“With Marshall?  I had hardly any at all.  I didn’t tutor him in anything.”

“I know enough of public-school life to know how little that may count.  You were both in School House—you must have been fairly often in contact.  How did you get on together?”

“Fairly well, I think.”

“Wasn’t there some kind of trouble at the beginning of this Term?”

“There was a bit of an incident—I should hardly call it ‘trouble’.”

“Never mind what you’d call it—we’re not here to split hairs.  Do you feel inclined to give us your version of the incident or the trouble or whatever name you think it ought to have?”

“It was really quite a trifling matter.  The boy had been speaking of me—rather openly—in a way that tended to undermine my discipline.”

“And you lost your temper with him?”

“I’m afraid I did.”

“You threatened him?”

“I—I may have done.  I lost my temper—and—and when I do that I—

I—probably—say things I don’t mean.”

“Now, Mr. Lambourne, will you tell me—“

But just then two things took place almost simultaneously.  Lambourne, his nerves strained to breaking-point, gave a little cry and plunged forward in a state of collapse, while, at the same moment, the door opened and Mrs. Ellington appeared, halted for a second on the threshold, and then rushed forward.

She took in the situation with her usual alertness; nor was she doubtful as to whose side she favoured.  “Oh, what a shame!” she exclaimed, turning on Guthrie sharply.  “I suppose this is what they call the third degree—to bully someone weaker than yourself!  You couldn’t try any of your games on my husband, so you thought you’d have better luck with a poor fellow who was shell-shocked in the War and has suffered from neurasthenia ever since!  You coward!”

In any other circumstances Revell would have been amused at such a gallant attack.  Yet Guthrie faced it stolidly enough.  “I’m sorry you think so hardly of me, Mrs. Ellington,” he said, quite calmly, “but I’m afraid it can’t be helped.  People have to be questioned, you know—especially if they have things to hide.  Anyhow, I suppose there’s nothing more can be done just now.  Have you any brandy you could get me for him?”

“If you’ll help him along to my house,” she answered with cold dignity, “I think I can manage all the rest myself.  I used to be a nurse, and I’ve helped Mr. Lambourne before when he’s been ill.”

Lambourne had by this time recovered somewhat, and with Guthrie and Mrs. Ellington on either side, he managed to stagger out of the room.

CHAPTER VII

THE THIRD OAKINGTON TRAGEDY

Revell did not see Guthrie again that evening.  After the detective had left with Mrs.