Was It Murder Read Online

Ellington and Lambourne, Revell followed the party at a discreet distance and saw them enter Ellington’s house.  He rather expected Guthrie would seek him out afterwards, but as time passed he grew tired of pacing about the quadrangle in anticipation.  Then, while the school were in evening chapel, he suddenly saw Mrs. Ellington and Lambourne walking over to School House.  He could only conclude that Guthrie had gone back to his lodgings in the village—perhaps by the side-door that communicated directly with the lane.

On the whole, he was not too pleased with Guthrie.  He rather inclined to agree with Mrs. Ellington that the cross-examination of Lambourne had been harsh, if not positively cruel.  He had to admit, however, that Lambourne’s story in some sense justified it; the man, on his own confession, had lied, suppressed evidence, manufactured false clues—committed almost every crime to rouse the ire of a detective.

Presumably, of course, it was the cricket-bat that Guthrie’s men had discovered, though Guthrie had not definitely said so.  Lambourne’s story exculpated Ellington to that extent, but in other ways it seemed only to strengthen the probability of the housemaster’s guilt.  The motive, combined with the missing revolver, certainly made strong evidence.  But what had been the make and calibre of Ellington’s revolver, and did it tally with the bullet found in the body?  Surely Guthrie must already have pursued such obvious lines of inquiry.  The trouble was that the detective, after his first confidential outburst, had seemed to disclose less and less of his routine procedure.

It was another hot night, and Revell slept badly.  Soon after dawn the twittering of the birds awoke him—a sound which ought to have been soothing, but somehow on this occasion missed being so.  On the contrary, after a few minutes of it, he was so restless that he got up, had a cold bath, dressed, and went downstairs.  Till about seven o’clock he idly read the previous day’s evening papers; then, as the servants began to be heard, he let himself out at the front door into the cool, sunny air of early morning.  For several minutes he walked about with aimless vigour, wondering why he didn’t get up as early every morning of his life (though it was quite obvious why not).  Soon, however, his meditations were interrupted by the realisation that someone was running towards him and trying to attract his attention.  It was Daggat.  With hair unkempt and a dressing-gown wrapped round his fat little body, he looked more like a cherub than ever.  (Though a cherub would not, Revell decided as the man came nearer, have smelt so aggressively of soap and bath salts.)

“Thank God somebody’s awake and up!” he cried, panting with

excitement.  “Revell, the most frightful thing has happened—oh,

the most frightful—“

Here his breath gave way and he leaned limply on Revell’s arm till he recovered.  Revell was almost equally astonished and excited.  “Good heavens, Daggat—what’s the matter?  What on earth’s happened?”

“It’s—it’s another of these frightful tragedies.  There’s a curse

laid on the School—I’ve heard people say it before—and I’m

beginning to believe it.  I was having my morning tub when Brownley

came for me.  He’d been to Lambourne’s room to call him and

couldn’t get an answer.  Then when he went in he found—oh, it’s

terrible—on top of all these other affairs—“

“Come on, man, get it out!  You mean that Lambourne’s DEAD?”

“Yes.  Died in his sleep apparently.  I’ve already sent for Murchiston.  I told Brownley to send for the Head, too.  No need for anyone else to know just yet.  But I’m dashed glad to find you about the place—one feels the need of a pal in an affair like this.  Come back with me now to his room, will you?”

If only Daggat wouldn’t be so provokingly sentimental, Revell thought; but he allowed the man to cling to his arm affectionately during the hurried walk.  “It’s pretty awful, Daggat, but you must keep calm about it,” he said.  “I wonder—“  He was wondering what Guthrie would think about it, but he checked himself in time and merely added:  “I wonder how soon the papers will get hold of it.  Tremendous sensation, of course.  Third tragedy at Oakington—can’t you just picture it all?”

When they reached the familiar room at the end of the ground-floor corridor, they found Dr. Roseveare already there, partially dressed, and talked in a hushed voice to Brownley, the School House butler.  “A terrible business, gentlemen,” he said, in a voice that seemed to Revell the most perfect example of correct and appropriate feeling in the circumstances.  Not that he imagined Roseveare to be at all insincere.  On the contrary, the bitter anxiety in his face and eyes was only too visible.  But it was all done with such perfect technique, and Revell admired technique.

He moved a little forward and looked at the bed.  Lambourne was lying on it quite normally; but for a little extra pallor and curious rigidity of feature, it would not have been hard to think him merely asleep.  There was no sign of a struggle or of any suffering before the end.  Roseveare seemed to be reading Revell’s thoughts, for he remarked:  “A peaceful finish, don’t you think?  Poor fellow—one can almost feel glad, in a way.  Few people ever knew how much he suffered.”  He half-glanced at Brownley, as if he might have said more had not the servant been present.

But the arrival of Murchiston put an end to such observations.  The seventy-year-old doctor, whose house lay just across the road from the School main entrance, had evidently made no delay in answering the summons.  Yet even at such short notice he had attired himself in the conventional frock-coat and striped trousers of an earlier generation of practitioners.  Carrying his tall hat and gloves, he looked rather grotesque by the side of Daggat and the Head.  “Dear me, this is very sad!” he murmured, almost mechanically, as he shuffled into the centre of the little group.  Revell felt that Murchiston had arrived at an age when nothing could or would very much surprise him.  Nevertheless, he approached the bedside with a briskness rather startling in such an obvious antique, and for several moments gazed steadfastly and without speaking at the dead man.  Perhaps he was thinking, Revell speculated; or perhaps he was merely wondering what to think.  At length he pulled down the bedclothes and gave the body a businesslike though necessarily perfunctory examination.  When he turned round he addressed Roseveare.  “Sudden heart attack, I should imagine,” he said.  “But I’d better not give it you as a certainty.  Have a look yourself if you like.”

“I had already come to the same opinion, doctor,” replied Roseveare, without moving.  “In fact, I should hardly think myself there is any doubt about it.  I always understood that the poor fellow was liable to drop dead at any moment.”

“Yes, but I haven’t been attending him for several months and— and—“  Murchiston coughed gruffly and added:  “In the ordinary course of things I would have given a certificate, but after recent affairs—with all these damnable insinuations going about—one can’t be overcautious.”

“Yes, of course.  I quite appreciate your position.  So you think there will have to be a post-mortem?”

“If anybody wants to do it.  I won’t.”

Revell could not but feel a certain grudging sympathy with the downright old fellow.  The newspapers had been none too kind to him about his evidence at the Marshall inquests, and their innuendoes had evidently stung him pretty deeply.  And, after all, as Revell had to admit, who could have expected him to probe the boy’s shattered head in search of a bullet?  Anyhow, he was clearly determined not to make any more blunders, and Revell did not blame him for his attitude.

While Roseveare was discussing with Murchiston and Brownley the arrangements to be made about the body, Revell, struck with a sudden idea, slipped away from them and hastened to the Head’s house.  There, at the study telephone, he rang up the local police-station and asked if a message could be sent to Detective Guthrie.  There had been an important development at the School, was all he said, and could the detective come over as quickly as possible?  The voice at the other end gave a promise that such a message should be delivered immediately; after which Revell put down the instrument and hurried away to breakfast.  Roseveare did not make an appearance, and from the butler’s face Revell knew that the news had already spread.

A quarter of an hour later he saw the detective’s car entering the drive.  He rushed out and in a few short sentences told him what had happened.  Guthrie nodded.  “All right—thanks for sending for me.  Let’s go and see things.”  They hastened together into School House.

Brownley, on guard outside the locked door of Lambourne’s room, barred their admission.  “I’m sorry, sir, but I have orders from the Headmaster not to—“ he began, but Guthrie cut him short.  “You’ll open that door, my man, or you’ll find yourself under arrest,” he snapped, with outrageous exaggeration of his own powers.  “I’m a detective and I don’t intend to waste any time over you.”  He whipped out his official card with a gesture that Revell had seen before, but only at the cinema.  Brownley caved in and admitted them.

In the little room where Lambourne’s body still lay, Guthrie continued to behave more like a stage or screen detective than Revell would ever have imagined.  He pranced about the room, examining books, papers, crockery—anything, it seemed, that came under his roving notice.  Revell half-expected him to produce at any moment an insufflator or a magnifying-glass or some other implement of the more sensational modern Sherlock.  He did seize a small bottle with evident triumph and put it in his pocket, but Revell, having glanced at it before, had noticed that it contained only aspirin tablets.

The examination was still proceeding when the door opened and Dr.  Roseveare entered.  (Revell guessed that the faithful Brownley had been to tell him of the invasion.)  At any rate, Roseveare betrayed no great surprise at what was in progress; Guthrie’s at seeing him appeared far greater.  “Dr. Roseveare?” he queried, unnecessarily, and the other bowed slightly.

The two men faced each other in silence for several seconds, as if sizing each other up.  They were certainly well-matched, both physically and intellectually.  Guthrie, with a shrug of the shoulders, began at last:  “You must forgive my taking the law into my own hands, Dr. Roseveare.”

The Headmaster of Oakington was at his suavest.

“Most certainly, Mr. Guthrie, since the law already IS in your hands.  In fact everything is in your hands entirely—including, I fear, our own personal rights and liberties.  But of course it has to be endured.”

“I can assure you that my only aim is to get at the truth.  Perhaps you can tell me something about this tragic affair?”

“I am perfectly ready, as I always have been, to tell you anything

that is in my power.  Mr. Lambourne, as perhaps you know, had very

bad health—his heart was weak—“

“Thanks, but as there will be an autopsy, we need not argue about that.  Tell me—when did you last see Mr. Lambourne?”  (As an obvious crib from the famous question addressed to Dr. Crippen, Revell thought this distinctly second-rate.)

“Last night.  About nine o’clock, I should think.  I had been dining out, and visited him immediately on my return.”

“Alone?”

“He WAS alone, when I arrived here.  I stayed for about an hour or so, talking and trying to cheer the fellow up a little.  I gathered that you, sir, were to a large extent responsible for his condition.”

“Never mind that.  Who told you, in the first place, that he was ill?”

“He missed taking his lessons, and the fact was reported to me in the usual way.”

“Did you visit him at all before the evening?”

“No.  I caused inquiries to be made, but I had not time for a personal visit until after dinner.”

“You were on good terms with him?”

“I am on good terms, I am glad to say, with every member of my staff.”

“Were you satisfied with his work?”

“Is that question really necessary?”

“If you don’t answer it, I shall draw my own conclusions.”

“Perhaps I had better say, then, that while Mr. Lambourne was not the best or most successful of teachers, I knew that he worked hard and I was very willing for him to remain at the School.”

“All right. . . .  Now you said he was alone when you arrived here— in this room—last evening.  What about when you left?”

“Mrs. Ellington arrived about ten o’clock with some invalid food that she had prepared for Mr. Lambourne.  I thought I should perhaps be somewhat in the way if I remained, so I left them almost immediately.”

“Mrs. Ellington, I believe, was formerly a nurse.  Do you know if she was in the habit of looking after Mr. Lambourne when he has been ill?”

“Very likely.  She had—and I had also—a very deep sympathy with Mr. Lambourne.”

“Have you any idea about what time she left him last night?”

“Not the slightest.  Why not ask her yourself?”

Guthrie allowed the questioning to cease.  He had been, if not exactly worsted, at any rate met on equal ground by one of his own mettle.  “All in good time,” he said, with a return to his usual imperturbability.  “I think we’ll leave things here just as they are for the present, if you don’t mind.”  He manoeuvred Roseveare out of the room and locked the door on the outside.  “Of course you’ll have to give evidence at the inquest,” he added, putting the key in his pocket.

“I had imagined so.”

The two men gave each other a final stare, half-hostile, half-respectful; after which Roseveare strode away with immense dignity.

Guthrie turned to Revell.  “Can’t help rather liking the fellow, can you?  Such dignity—such pride—such a marvellous way of quibbling all round the question.  What a K.C. he’d have made!”

“You seemed pretty doubtful about him?”

“Did I?  Oh, I think it was all fairly plausible.  But we must have a little chat with the Lady with the Lamp, of course.  And by Jove— here she is!”  This final exclamation was whispered, for Mrs.  Ellington was hastening towards them along the corridor.  She was ashen pale, and her eyes showed signs of recent weeping, but there was a calm eagerness in her voice as she addressed Guthrie.  “I’ve been looking for you,” she began, abruptly.  “I want to see you—to speak to you.  It is most important.  Will you—both of you—come up to my husband’s room just above?”

“Certainly, Mrs. Ellington, if you wish.”

No more was said till they were all three of them seated in the room next to the dormitory in which the first of the tragedies had occurred.  Revell was glad to note that Guthrie’s attitude towards Mrs. Ellington was both courteous and kindly.  He seemed to have entirely forgiven her for her outburst of the previous day.  (And no wonder, Revell thought, since by his death Lambourne had given the most convincing proof of his unfitness to stand the ordeal of a detective’s hostile cross-examination.)  “There now,” Guthrie said, as he settled himself in the easy-chair opposite hers.  “We shan’t be disturbed here and you can tell me anything you like.  Do you mind if I smoke?”

She signified impatient permission.  “I feel I MUST tell you,” she went on, agitatedly.  “I hate doing so—more perhaps than I have ever hated anything—but I think it is only fair to so many others.  And—I suppose—really, I owe you an apology.”

“I can’t think what for,” replied Guthrie, gallantly.  “And anyhow, don’t let that bother you at all.”

“It’s because of my attitude yesterday,” she insisted.  “I hated to see you bullying Mr. Lambourne—if you WERE bullying him, that is.  And yet I can see now how right you were—from your own point of view.”

“What makes you think so, Mrs. Ellington?”

She paused before answering, and when she did answer, it was hardly to the point.  “I wouldn’t like to be a detective, Mr. Guthrie.  It must be so terrible to find people guilty.”

“Ah, but there are compensations.  You often find people innocent as well.”

Her face brightened.  “Yes—and that is why—one reason why—I must tell you.  It has all been so frightful for everybody here lately— so much doubt and suspicion. . . .”  She nearly broke down, but managed to save herself by a last effort.  “Do you know, when I heard that Mr. Lambourne had died during the night, I was glad?”

“You were?”

“Yes—glad.  Can’t you guess why?  Shall I have to put it all into words for you?”

“Well, I daresay I CAN make a guess.  I suppose it was because you think Lambourne’s guilty?”

Revell started in astonishment, but a slight glance from Guthrie quelled him.  Mrs.