An Oxford Tragedy (17 page)

It was a dismal home-coming. I paced up and down my room in a state of acute depression, and a prey as usual to wretched indecision. Should I, or should I not, go to the Verekers' that evening? I longed to lend them what help and sympathy I could, and I felt sure that a visit from me would never be considered in that house as an intrusion; but I could not make up my mind to go. Might I not do more harm than good, if I tried to find words of sympathy and comfort?

About half-past five I could bear my own company and my own thoughts no longer. There are times when human society of some kind is an absolute necessity. I had decided that I would not go to the Verekers', but with some human being I must converse. Almost by chance I decided to go to see if Mottram was in his rooms. What guided me there I cannot say, for he was a man whom I seldom visited; probably it was the fact that I had a mental picture of him standing opposite to me at the graveside. Be that how it may, I found myself walking across to the back Quad, and mounting his staircase.

As I approached I heard voices, but I paid no special attention to them, for my mind was full of its own thoughts. I knocked and entered, without waiting for a reply. It happened, therefore, that I was actually in the room before its occupants were aware of my presence, so absorbed were they in their conversation. The scene which met my eyes has imprinted itself indelibly upon my memory. Mottram
stood upright on one side of the fireplace, his whole body quivering with emotion, his mouth grimly set, his eyes fixed with an almost savage intensity upon his companion. So, as it seemed to me, must an ancient prophet have looked as he cursed his country's enemies. But if his appearance startled me, still more did that of his companion, for on the other side of the fireplace sat Maurice Hargreaves – not the Maurice Hargreaves whom I knew, not the confident, self-assertive, dominating man of action and decision, but a person who seemed to me somehow to be exploded – shrunken and contemptible like a man who has been found out and exposed to public shame. The attitudes of the two men, the expressions on their faces, the atmosphere of the room, which I sensed at the very moment that I entered it, all told the same story. There had been a quarrel and Mottram had been the aggressor; a struggle and Mottram had prevailed. Hargreaves, who always had his way, had, for some inexplicable reason, been worsted and humiliated. He was trying now, but not very successfully, to control his feelings and minimize the extent of his defeat. As they became suddenly aware of my presence there was a swift, uncomfortable, unreal silence, and then Maurice appeared to pull himself together. He got up from his chair, muttered, ‘That's all, I think – good night, Mottram,' nodded to me, and walked out of the room.

I made a desperate effort to pass things off lightly. ‘By Jove, Mottram,' I said, ‘you do look excited. Really I might have thought just now that you knew some dreadful secret about Maurice and had just told him so.'

He gave me a queer, almost savage look.

‘Perhaps I do,' he said.

His answer gave me a new and even more alarming shock, and for a moment I could hardly grasp his meaning. As its implications dawned on me I felt a little faint, and I steadied myself against the table.

‘For pity's sake be careful, Mottram, as to what you say. At a time when the whole place is under the shadow of a crime a remark like that is a terrible accusation. You say that you know some dreadful secret – or at least you don't deny that you know it – about Maurice. Are you really telling me that he is a murderer? You've gone so far that you must tell me all you know, but I implore you not to say anything that you can't substantiate.'

He gave a curious grating laugh.

‘No, Winn, I didn't say that Hargreaves was a murderer; of course he's not; but … I can't and won't tell you anything more now.'

Suddenly he gripped me by the arm, and looked straight into my eyes.

‘I've said too much already; I ought never to have done that, but you surprised me. But promise me one thing; wait three days; forget what I said till then. I beg you to do that; I give you my word that no harm will be done to any human being if you wait so long. After that inquire what you will. But promise me to wait till then.'

There was an intensity of emotion in his voice that I could hardly resist, but I shook my head. ‘I can't promise that,' I said; ‘I must have time to think. But I will go this far; I promise to tell what you have said to one other person only, and to be guided by his advice. If he agrees I will do as you wish.'

Mottram shrugged his shoulders; his excitement seemed to have deserted him suddenly, and left him limp and nerveless.

‘Thank you,' he said, ‘but I believe that you may regret it all your life if you don't wait and keep your counsel.'

From Mottram's rooms I hurried to Brendel's, and found to my intense relief that he was in and alone.

‘What am I to do?' I asked when I had put him in possession of the facts. ‘Mottram tells me in a momentary
burst of confidence that he is in possession of some secret about Hargreaves; the whole appearance and demeanour of Hargreaves suggest that that secret is indeed a shameful if not a dangerous one; it stands to reason that it must have some close connexion with the murder. Yet almost in the same breath Mottram begs me not to attempt to follow up this inquiry for three days. That must be madness, but what am I to do?'

Brendel thought for a considerable time before he answered, and when he did he spoke with unusual care, and very seriously.

‘I cannot pretend to control your actions, my dear Winn, in any way whatever. You are a free agent, and must decide this for yourself. But if you ask me as a friend what I should do in your place I will reply quite candidly. I should do precisely what Mottram asked you to do. Yes, I believe that you would regret it if you took any course but that.'

It was not the advice which I had expected, and I did not for a moment feel satisfied, yet I knew that I should follow it. For Brendel seemed to assume responsibility, and I, for my part, was only too glad to feel that he had done so.

If the day of Shirley's funeral had appeared to me the longest day of my life, the two which immediately followed it seemed an eternity. And they seemed all the more wretched because, to my impatient mind, those most concerned gave the impression of doing little or nothing to elucidate the mystery. Like many a man of slightly infirm purpose – and of such in moments of introspection I sometimes allowed myself to be – I was prone in times of crisis to demand with fussy insistence that something should be done. Conscious of the truth of Lord Melbourne's classic warning to such as myself I yet contrived at such times always to forget it. Unable to act myself I was tireless in urging others to action. So now with the passing of each leaden hour I felt that opportunities were being wasted, which would never return. Why was Brendel sitting idle while the scent grew cold? Why was not Cotter still rushing from one person to another, questioning, exploring, tracking down the culprit? I had an absurd feeling that the whole college was being lulled or even hypnotized into a state of acquiescence in failure. The official view, shared by most of my colleagues, had come to be that some person unknown, and as yet unsuspected,
must
have been the murderer, since no one within the college could, on reflexion, be seriously suspected. With that view I was inclined to agree – or had been until the time of my interview with Mottram – but whether it was right or wrong I fumed and fretted at the thought of leaving it unproved. Would Cotter really leave us, confessing that this mystery was as dark as when he was first consulted? And Brendel, who had said at the beginning that he was afraid of what he would find, would he go away having found out exactly nothing? His last lecture was to be delivered on the
Wednesday, and I knew that he planned to return to Vienna at the end of the week. Did he propose to sit with hands folded until then, and take leave of us without contributing anything towards a solution? That would be deception indeed. I had trusted in him, and he was going to fail me, like everyone else. Why had he tamely agreed to Mottram's request for delay, when action was imperatively called for? Was not the obvious explanation that he saw no possibility of success in his quest, and meant to leave us to our troubles with a minimum of annoyance to himself? My mood throughout these days did not remain constant. When I chanced to meet Brendel I felt almost at once the warm glow of trust which his presence and voice always produced in me; how could I have doubted him, so wise, so confident, so sure? Yet once more alone I would sink back into doubt and perplexity and self-pity. The revelation of my own weakness and incompetence reduced me to a pitiful state of nervous discomfort. So must many, I reflected, of those great historical figures have suffered about whom I had so often glibly lectured and whom I had often castigated for their indecisions – themselves too feeble, or events too great.

The slow torture of those days was on Wednesday afternoon made almost unbearable by an incident which was to me indescribably distressing, and which I was totally at a loss to explain. Ever since the funeral I had been screwing up my courage to call upon the Verekers, partly because I wanted to offer my sympathy to them, partly because I was pledged to Cotter to attempt to gain some more information. I had indeed decided to call on the Tuesday afternoon, but I had learned that the President had wisely enough taken both his daughters away for the whole day into the country to visit his sister, and so I had had perforce to wait – but on Wednesday I could evade my responsibilities no longer. About four o'clock I chanced to see
Ruth and Mary enter the President's Lodgings together, and so, about ten minutes later, I myself knocked on the door.

The President's butler, whom I had known for thirty years, opened it, but, instead of greeting me with his usual smile of welcome, compounded of exactly the right amount of dignity and respect, and an intimation that the ladies were in the drawing-room, told me in an embarrassed manner that neither Mrs Shirley nor Miss Vereker could receive any visitors.

‘But, Hanbury,' I said, ‘I'm not a visitor in the ordinary sense of the term. I feel quite certain that they would wish to see
me
. Just go back and tell Miss Vereker who is here, and I feel sure that she will be glad if I come in.'

Hanbury went away to do my bidding, though I could see that he felt uneasy. In a few moments he returned. Miss Vereker was very sorry, but she and her sister were unable to see anyone that afternoon.

I left the house feeling bitterly humiliated, and more miserable than ever before in my life. For thirty years that door had never been closed to me; I had watched Ruth and Mary grow up – I had been their friend and counsellor and confidant. From them I had received kindness and help unstintedly; they had prevented me from loneliness as I grew older, they had cheered me into good temper when I was bored or fretful. And in return I had given them both all that I had to give of sympathy and devotion. Yet now, when they must most need their friends, I found myself turned away and rejected. In what had I offended? Could Brendel's untimely questions have so hurt them that I too, as his friend, was under a cloud? Had I fallen short of my duty to them in any way? I returned to my lonely rooms, a prey to the most harassing and depressing thoughts. That night I could not face the company of my colleagues. I dined alone in my rooms, and after dinner sat for some
hours in my chair, pretending to read, but in fact turning the events of the last week over and over in my mind, as I sought desperately but vainly for some clue which should guide me to an explanation of the mystery of Shirley's murder.

Events happen when they are least expected. I had resigned myself to another day of helpless misery, and was wondering how I should bring my mind to its task of the day's teaching, as I idly turned over the leaves of
The Times
on Thursday morning. And then suddenly an announcement caught and held my astonished eyes. It ran as follows: ‘The marriage arranged between Maurice Hargreaves, Fellow and Dean of St Thomas's College, Oxford, and Miss Mary Vereker will not take place.'

My first reaction was one of blazing anger and disgust. Unfavourably though I had sometimes estimated Maurice's character I could never have credited him with an act of such callous cruelty as this. To break off his engagement at such a time, or even to allow Mary to break it! That, at a time when she was tortured by trouble and racked with the wretched details of a hateful tragedy, seemed to me inhuman. No explanation seemed reasonable, no excuse possible. I had always thought of Maurice as a gentleman, even when I had most disliked him, now I could only feel that he was a cad, for whom no words could be harsh enough. I sprang from my chair, and paced up and down the room, considering what could be done to protect Mary from this new disaster. So distraught was I that I did not hear Brendel's knock, and only observed him when he stood before me.