Death at the President's Lodging (14 page)

“Indeed I have. Lots. Light comes flooding in from every angle – far too much light, from far too many angles. And I’m quite sure you’ve brought another surplus of it yourself…”

“I’ve got something,” responded Dodd. “But in a general way I’d like to be hearing what has happened. If you’ve got time, that is.” And he glanced with a sort of humorous severity at his watch and at the notice on the bedroom door. His admiration for Appleby was increasing rapidly. If he himself had lost that key he could never have contrived this air about it all. And Appleby, he felt, was doing something more than simply carrying the matter off: he was showing a quite natural and unforced faith in himself. He could be hit on the head and still remain in control of the situation – or so it seemed. If Dodd were hit on the head he would be hot and angry for days afterwards.

“Very well,” Appleby was saying. “Here is an abstract of what has turned up.

“First, your friend the Honourable and Reverend Tracy is in a stew. But whether he’s simply worried about the reputation of the college, or whether he’s worried somehow on his own account, I don’t know. St Anthony’s is due to come into the limelight in the near future, and he seems to have got his worries mixed up with that.

“Secondly, I know where the bones come from–”

Dodd sat up straight. “Where?”

“Australia, my dear Dodd. Earth’s last-found jewel.
Terris magna Australis incognita
.”

Dodd looked bewildered. “You’re sure they don’t come from Athens or Sparta?” he asked sarcastically, “same as the
Deipno
-what-was-its in Umpleby’s library?”

“The bones were abstracted from Australia – by no irrational ferrety, as Sir Thomas says. They were snatched from the pious care of an aboriginal posterity to gratify the scientific proclivities of one Johnnie Haveland.”

“Haveland! They’re his?”

“They’re his. And he was suitably apologetic about refraining from explanations when you were making inquiries yesterday. Apparently Johnnie kept the skulls and what-not in his own little toy-cupboard – and now they’re in Umpleby’s study. He invites us to consider two possibilities about the murder. One, that he did it himself and left the bones as a sort of signature; two, that somebody has tried to frame him. And he as good as invited his learned friends to explain to me that there had been a time some years ago when he wasn’t quite sound in the head. He seemed to think that would fit in with either possibility… Oh! and he wasn’t very nice about Empson.

“Thirdly, in the matter of keys, submarines and scaling ladders. St Anthony’s turns out to harbour a man who is likely to make the summit of Mount Everest one day – and who has already made the summit of St Baldred’s tower in this city. That’s Campbell – and I hope you have a little information about him in your pocket at this moment.

“Fourthly, President Umpleby was not beloved. Johnnie Haveland alleges that Umpleby stole from him in a learned way. And that, when you consider it, is more excessively unlikely than any number of murders – nevertheless, it undoubtedly struck some chord in the assembled confraternity.

“Fifthly, Umpleby’s safe, as I’ve told you, has been opened by one X – who incidentally knew the combination. X had the tenth key. He came either from Little Fellows’ or through the wicket from outside. X is erratic but brilliant. He left the west gate open behind him, apparently because it squeaked – an error of judgment. He left the key in the lock – a piece of colossal carelessness.”

“But,” Dodd interrupted, “why should he come through the gate into the main body of the college at all?”

Appleby shook his head. “After his successful burglary perhaps he wanted a little chat with somebody in the other courts. As I say, he is erratic – and brilliant. He found himself trapped when he came to get back – and he got out of the trap ruthlessly, effectively and without losing his head and hitting too hard.” And Appleby stroked his own skull tenderly.

“Sixthly, under the prosaically named Giles Gott, at this time Junior Proctor in the university, is shadowed no less a person than Gilbert Pentreith.”

Dodd fairly leaped. “And I never knew that!”

“Yes. He sits over there in Surrey giving his spare time to imagining just such pretty affairs as this. I told you there was a great deal of light flooding in.

“Seventh, Mr Raymond Pownall, an eminent ancient historian, spends his nights crawling about the floor of his room in a panic.

“Eighth – and, for the moment, lastly – Samuel Still Titlow lures honest policemen into his apartments, bemuses them with large and convincing talk of the end of the world, and just thinks better of concluding that the times are so out of joint that St Anthony’s may well be a hot-bed of murder. And he counsels a little reading in the minor English classics. And he drops dark hints about being in at the death.”

“Would you say,” put in Dodd with his sudden shrewdness, “that Titlow, like X, is erratic but brilliant?”

Appleby nodded thoughtfully. “Yes,” he responded, “he is. But it’s just one of his points, I imagine, that that is a habit here. And I rather agree. I hope my next case is in Hull.”

Dodd smiled a slow smile. “You just love this,” he said. And then a sudden thought struck him. “What about traces of the burglar in that study? What about his slipping back to obliterate any later?”

Appleby shook his head. “Your man’s been sitting there all night since I recovered from my knock – I expect he’ll have rung through for a relief by now. There was an interval, of course, after X got back from Orchard Ground, in which he could have gone to the study and cleared up. But I expect he’d pretty well obliterated himself already – even if he is erratic. I had a shot at the cigarette ends and whatnot earlier – and nothing doing. And I don’t much look to find the damning thumbprint on the tenth key either.” The two men were silent for a moment and then Dodd took his papers from his pocket. It was characteristic of Dodd that he always had something on paper ready to produce; he moved in an atmosphere of neat dockets and conscientious documentations. Appleby at the same time produced the notes and statements that had been made over to him the day before. As yet, his study of them had been superficial; direct contact with the personalities they dealt with had been taking up his time.

“Constable Sheepwash,” Dodd began in the peculiarly wooden manner he adopted when cautiously savouring the absurdities and ironies of his profession – “Constable Sheepwash had a bite of supper last night with the Lambricks’ cook. Earlier in the evening the lighting installation failed at the Chalmers-Patons’. Sergeant Potter represented the Electricity Department and after prolonged operations, mostly in the servants’ quarters, the lights went on again. Constable Babbitt, as a Press reporter, failed to make an impression on the Campbell establishment yesterday, but he has done better as a milkman this morning. Station-Sergeant Kellett undertook to trace the movements of the Junior Proctor, Mr Gott, round the places of refreshment and amusement in the city for the material times. Kellett was unable to avoid the purchase of considerable quantities of liquor, but his report is nevertheless substantially coherent.” And Dodd, having had his little joke, became business-like. “How would it be,” he asked, “if you read out the statements as made yesterday and I followed each with my check-up here? That would begin to get us clear, I think, on these four people who were out of college on the night of the murder.”

Appleby nodded his agreement. “We’ll begin with Campbell,” he said. “I see these are not
verbatim
statements in evidence?”

“No, they’re simply abstracts of preliminary statements got out of these folk in a hurry. I don’t think they could be evidence. I think you will have to take formal statements today. Anyway, we must have some before the coroner fixes the inquest.”

Appleby nodded and began to read:

“Campbell, Ian Auldearn (29). Became a Fellow of the college six years ago; has been married for four years; lives in a flat at 99 Schools Street; has never possessed a key to the St Anthony’s gates. Declares that he has no knowledge whatever likely to elucidate mystery of Umpleby’s death. Was associated with Umpleby in scientific investigation but was never in any sense a personal friend of the President’s.

“9.30. Left college and went home to flat. About half an hour later went out again to the Chillingworth Club in Stonegate.

“11.50. (approx.) Left club for home, but remembered that he had certain business matters to discuss with Sir Theodore Peek, who lives at a house called Berwick Lodge up the Luton Road. Knowing that Sir Theodore keeps late hours he walked out there and arrived just at midnight. He had a brief conversation with Sir Theodore and then walked back to Schools Street, arriving home a few minutes before half-past twelve.”

Appleby had no sooner finished reading than Dodd took up Constable Babbitt’s report as a sort of antiphonal chant:

“Acting on instructions received entered into conversation with Mary Surname Unknown at 99 Schools Street 7.25 a.m. Subsequent to general remarks not necessary to record Informant declared (1) her employers kept fine hours, (2) Mr Campbell came home night before last shortly after 9.30 but went out again about three-quarters of an hour later, (3) she believes she heard him returning long after midnight, (4) he remarked to Mrs Campbell at breakfast next morning that he had looked in on that old gargoyle Peek at midnight and found him in a sleepy, growly state (? a sick dog). No further information elicited.”

Appleby nodded and made a note. “Questions at the club,” he said, “and questions at Sir Theodore’s – the sick dog! The material time was at the club, and it seems to hang together.” And without more ado he turned to his next note.

“Chalmers-Paton, Denis (40). Lecturer at St Anthony’s – also at two other colleges. Married and lives at 12 Angas Avenue. Can make no suggestion on President’s death.

“9.30. Left college and went home. Read
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
aloud to Mrs Chalmers-Paton. Mrs C-P then went to bed. C-P retired to his study and continued to read D & F of R E until shortly before midnight. He then went to bed too.”

Again Dodd followed with his subordinate’s report. Chalmers-Paton had indeed come home, had read to his wife and had then retired to his study “a little before eleven.” But after that the servants knew nothing, and Sergeant Potter had not been authorized to approach Mrs Chalmers-Paton in any way. He had, however, timed the walk from Angas Avenue to St Anthony’s and made it just twenty minutes. Chalmers-Paton had no car.

“Almost satisfactory,” said Appleby, “and yet not quite. The man disappears into his study just too soon. If he was home at ten to ten and reading by ten, then ‘a little before eleven’
might
be twenty to eleven. And with the possibility of some emergency sort of conveyance that is just not good enough. And we don’t
know
that he hadn’t got the tenth key.”

“Just not a good enough alibi. And Campbell’s at that club looks an uncommonly good one. Always sound to suspect the good alibi.”

Appleby smiled. This was the storybook Dodd speaking. But he did not altogether disagree. He turned to his next note.

“Lambrick, Arthur Basset (54). Fellow of the college for twenty-four years. Married and lives next door to Chalmers-Paton. Has had a key to the gates for a long time. Said to Inspector D.: ‘I cannot persuade myself that it was I who murdered our poor President.’”

“9.30. Went home and stayed at home, ‘not knowing there was anything on.’”

“Our humorous friend,” murmured Appleby. And he listened to Dodd’s reading of Constable Sheepwash’s researches. There seemed no doubt here. Lambrick had got home shortly before ten, played shove-halfpenny with his eldest son till eleven and danced to the wireless with his eldest daughter for half an hour after that. A housemaid who had still been up thought both proceedings immoral and consequently had them firmly fixed in her head.

“Not much good suspecting
that
good alibi,” admitted Dodd. “But he might always have lent his key, you know.”

“And danced, so to speak, while Umpleby was cooling? It is possible. He might have lent his key, for instance, to Chalmers-Paton next door.” Appleby’s tone was absent and it was a moment before he came back to his sheaf of papers.

“Gott, Giles (32). Came to St Anthony’s six years ago. Has had key to gates since becoming Junior Proctor this year. Can give no information about Umpleby’s death.

“9.15. Left St Anthony’s by the wicket gate and proceeded to the Proctors’ office. Transacted university business there until 11.15. During this time he was quite alone.

“11.15. The Senior Proctor returned from his rounds, accompanied by the four university officers on duty. Gott then took over, proctorizing various parts of the city in turn. He was later than usual, only dismissing the officers outside St Anthony’s at about twenty past twelve.”

Appleby finished this recital with a shake of his head. “No alibi there,” he said, “nor the shadow of one. He was alone in his office until fifteen minutes after the shot and the discovery of Umpleby’s body. And by way of the wicket that office is not more than seven or eight minutes from Orchard Ground.” Appleby’s topography was remarkably sure. “I don’t see that your sleuth can have done anything useful about Gott?”

“Kellett has simply been round the town inquiring about the movements of the Proctors the night before last. It all squares so far. Between nine-thirty and eleven the Senior Proctor was patrolling about here and there. And after that Gott did apparently take on, going to various places until well past midnight. He wasn’t seen before about eleven-thirty, but he might have slipped down from the office to St Anthony’s and back easily enough without being recognized. It was a pretty dark night. Kellett, incidentally, hasn’t made any inquiries direct at the Proctors’ office, or seen the four officers. That would have to be done formally and openly, I think. As you say, there’s no alibi – or rather any alibi there is is for the wrong time: it begins too late. Kellett has followed it all up, but it seems irrelevant.”