Death at the President's Lodging (23 page)

“When I remembered,” Appleby responded quietly, “how a proctorizing procession moves, it became quite simple. The proctor doesn’t go along with his marshals in a bunch; they follow him a good twenty yards behind. And when he enters a building they don’t follow unless they are signed to: they remain outside.”

“You seem,” interjected Gott dryly, “familiar with the process. Please go on.”

“You and Campbell had eleven forty-five as a sort of zero hour. From eleven-fifteen to eleven forty-five both your alibis were genuine. I mean that you were each where you appeared to be: Campbell in his club, you proctorizing about the town. But at eleven forty-five you came up Stonegate and at the same moment Campbell emerged from the alleyway to the Chillingworth. The marshals saw him – actually recognized him, as it happened – but there was no harm in that. You greeted each other and Campbell made as if to draw you back into the alley and into the club. Nothing odd in that, during such a visit the marshals would simply wait outside. But once in the alley you slipped off your proctor’s gown and handed it over to Campbell. You then simply lay low while Campbell, with the gown bundled up, passed through the club and, slipping the gown on himself, passed out into Stonegate again by the entrance further north. And so there was the Junior Proctor striding ahead of his marshals once more. If anybody recognized him in the street it would never occur to them that Campbell was not acting as a proproctor in a perfectly regular way.”

“It would read well,” Gott murmured.

“And so to the Green Horse – and Sir Theodore’s. The marshals as usual wait outside. Campbell goes into the inn-yard and noses about for a minute in his gown. And anybody that’s about knows that the proctor has been at the Green Horse. Not that that is important, because the marshals know – or think they know. Then Campbell offs with the gown again, passes out of the other end of the yard, and within a couple of minutes it is established that Campbell – the real Campbell – paid a fleeting visit to Sir Theodore at midnight. Two good alibis: one faked, and one, so to speak, faked-genuine.”

“And the get-away?” asked Gott softly.

“Campbell as proctor again just shows himself under the arch of the yard, signals to the marshals, turns round and is off the back way – past Sir Theodore’s, in fact. And so the marshals follow right to St Anthony’s. And here’s the last point. You usually return to college on these occasions, you know, by way of the wicket on Schools Street. But on this occasion you returned to St Anthony’s by the main gate on St Ernulphus Lane, knocking for the porter quite in a regular way to let you in. … Oh, yes, it
was
you. Campbell made the turn off Schools Street to the Lane, and there you were in a doorway. A quick change of the gown again and Campbell is sauntering home to his flat. And you, I say, walk down to the main gate, wait for the marshals, turn round and cap them gravely. Off come their little bowlers. Goodnight, Mr Gott. And you knock for the porter. Again, Goodnight, Mr Gott
… Actually, you had had from about eleven-fifty to twelve-twenty to do what you liked, and a nice alibi manufacturing for you all the time
. It was rather a shame to squander (fruitlessly, as you see) on crude actuality what would have done so nicely for a book!” And Appleby looked with a rather dangerous mockery at the celebrated novelist.

Gott puffed thoughtfully. “It is very ingenious,” he said, “but surely a little wanton?
You
might have made it all up surely, rather than Campbell and I? Until you collect a little evidence – someone who saw me where I oughtn’t to have been, or who saw that it was Campbell in the proctor’s gown – it hangs a trifle in the air, does it not? And have you thought of a motive for all these surprising proceedings? Were we going to murder Umpleby at midnight, and were we forestalled?”

“Perhaps,” replied Appleby, “it all had nothing to do with St Anthony’s. My colleague Dodd here is grappling with the problem of a series of burglaries in the suburbs. Perhaps, Mr Gott, you are the master mind behind the gang?”

Gott laughed – a little shortly. “You think it’s a burglar I am?”

“Yes, I do.”

“In the suburbs?”

“No.” There was a moment’s silence and then Appleby added, “And now, am I to have
your
story?”

“If there were a story, you know, it mightn’t be mine to spin.”

There was another silence while Appleby debated how to take this charming, cool and unhelpful person. To Pownall he had been almost rude – a horrid technique. And he doubted if much could be extracted from Gott by bullying… His thoughts had only arrived at this stage when there came an interruption. From outside the door of the sitting-room there suddenly arose a succession of bumping and creaking noises, followed by a loud thud and the sound of a number of rapidly retreating feet. Appleby sprang over to the door and threw it open. In a little lobby stood a large-sized wicker laundry basket.

Gott too had risen and come over to the door and for a moment the two men regarded the problematical object in silence. And in the silence they became aware of equally problematical sounds. “I think,” said Appleby, “we may open up.” And he proceeded to remove the sizeable iron bar which kept the hamper fast shut.

There is something eminently absurd in the spectacle of a human being confounded with a laundry basket – a fact known to Shakespeare when he fudged up
The Merry Wives of Windsor
. And it was a somewhat Falstaffian apparition that emerged now – a Falstaff in distinctly damaged theatrical disguise. For some species of paint was dripping down the apparition’s face, and from one pink and angry ear hung the remains of a false, fluffy-white beard.

Appleby was quick on his bearings. His extended arm was helpful; his voice was bland. “
Mr Ransome, I presume
?”

Mr Ransome had gone off for a bath and a raid on the buttery. As he darkly remarked, he had
not
dined… And Mr Gott was left to explain.

“Our whole story,” said Gott, “may now, I suppose, emerge. You have no doubt heard of the business of Ransome’s papers – those Umpleby was holding on to? Well, Ransome came back to England a month ago, furious that Umpleby hadn’t sent the stuff on to him. And instead of coming openly up to college he stayed in town and sent for Campbell. He and Campbell were always pretty thick, and Campbell was all for taking drastic measures against Umpleby. Presently they decided to take the law into their own hands. And when they had decided on that, they decided, too, to call me in as – an authority.”

Gott’s pipe was going again. He was telling his story with disarming simple pleasure.

“I came in on it – very foolishly, you will say – and I half turned it, I suppose, into a species of game. We could simply have raided Umpleby and forced the stuff out of him – he wouldn’t have cared for public scandal. But we decided instead to plan a sort of perfect burglary and I worked it out. There were the three of us – Campbell, Ransome and I – and it was the alibi idea that interested me. I had to be in at the actual burglary, and so had Ransome–”

“Why the two of you?” Appleby interrupted crisply.

For a moment Gott seemed to see the question as almost awkward. Then he grinned amiably. “I had to be there,” he responded, “because the circumstances of the burglary required – well, rather a special sort of brain – you’ll understand presently. And Ransome had to be there simply because I wasn’t going to carry out this rather risky and indubitably foolish proceeding for him while he lay safe in bed… It was the alibi notion that interested me. First, I reckoned that Ransome himself was all right; for all that anybody but our three selves knew he was thousands of miles away. But there must be an alibi for me and, if Campbell were implicated, for Campbell. As I say, it was little more than a game. I didn’t expect Umpleby to call in the police over the burglary and – forgive me – I didn’t expect the police to dream of testing our alibis even if he did. Nevertheless, I tried to work it out thoroughly.”

“The experimental approach to popular fiction,” murmured Appleby.

“Perhaps so; perhaps I had it in my head in terms of a book. Anyway, you know how I worked the idea out. At eleven forty-five Campbell, as you guessed, was to slip into my shoes. I was then to go straight to St Anthony’s and join Ransome, who would already have reconnoitred the ground. We reckoned to be through with the burglary by twelve-ten. I was then going to slip out and round to St Ernulphus Lane, where Campbell was due to arrive at exactly twelve-twenty, and at the same time Ransome was to make his own get-away. But we were going to make sufficient row on leaving the President’s Lodging to rouse the household; in that way the burglary would be discovered at once and
timed
– timed at a moment when the supposed I, followed by the marshals, was yet some way off St Anthony’s, and when equally, of course, Campbell could not have made the college on foot from Sir Theodore’s. Campbell and I were to change places again while hidden from the marshals by the corner of the Lane; he would be back in his flat in two or three minutes and I would simply walk down to the main gate of the college (I could hardly seem to turn back out of the Lane again, you see, for the wicket) and be let in by the porter, a comfortable ten minutes after the burglary was discovered.”

Appleby had been following closely. And now he asked a question. “You say that Ransome was to have reconnoitred the ground before you joined him. Do you mean he was to have reconnoitred inside the college?”

Gott nodded. “You are thinking of the business of the new keys? Of course they nearly caused some alteration of the scheme. They would have done so, but for luck. Ransome has always had a key to the gates and although we knew that fresh keys were making we didn’t think they would be forthcoming so soon. It wouldn’t have mattered very much, of course; one key was enough. But one for Ransome and one for me was better and it was a nuisance when, on Tuesday morning, Umpleby suddenly appeared in my rooms to say the locks were changed and to hand me my new key. Even if he had had one made for Ransome he would of course hold on to it.”

“Do you think,” Appleby interrupted, “that the business of having new keys made had anything to do with keeping Ransome out of one – that Umpleby felt apprehensive in any way?”

Gott looked startled. “I never thought of such a thing. I think the keys were changed for the reason given; I don’t think Umpleby had Ransome on his mind in that way at all.”

Appleby nodded. “You can imagine a prosecuting counsel, Mr Gott, making a good deal of the point.” The words were spoken dryly.

“I see the prospects of awkwardness well enough,” Gott responded, “otherwise I should not (as my fictitious crooks are fond of saying) be coming clean. There is obviously awkwardness in the fact that I got hold of the tenth new key – Ransome’s key.”

“
You
got it, did you,” said Appleby tartly – and his hand passed reflectively over the still-tender crown of his head.

“Ah, I don’t mean that time; I mean in the first place. I got it through luck and a simple trick. Umpleby came to me last, with two keys left in his hand. I took mine, and put down my old one on the table. Then I handed Umpleby a good fat folio I had been working on and asked his opinion on some point or other. He grabbed it nicely with both fists: he had a brain that could get the hang of anyone’s trade in three minutes, had Umpleby – and he liked showing it. And, quite automatically, down went that last key on the table. I got him into a good hot dispute – to break any thread of connection in his mind – meanwhile palming the tenth key. Then presently I poked the old key with my finger: ‘Whose is this?’ I asked casually, and he growled ‘Ransome’s, if he comes back’ – and off he went. Result: Ransome got his key.”

“Result,” Appleby amplified tersely, “one step nearer a crime… And now, what actually happened on this unfortunate night?”

“Nothing. Ransome slipped into college by the wicket at eleven-thirty to have a preliminary look round, and the first thing he was aware of was a mild hullabaloo and people tramping through the orchard. And then he heard Deighton-Clerk’s voice shouting something about examining the wicket. So he took it matters were badly amiss, cut out of college and came to meet me after Campbell and I had done our first swap. Of course I kept my date for swapping again in the Lane – and that was all.”

There was a momentary pause.

“Except that when you got back to college you heard that Umpleby had been murdered?”

“Yes.”

“You none of you came forward with your story?”

“We left all that to you.” The feeble repartee was absently made; Gott was plainly considering what yet lay ahead.

“Before you go on,” Appleby pursued, “there is one particular question. Did any of you in this precious diversion actually succeed in entering Umpleby’s study on Tuesday night?”

“Definitely not.”

“You were not there, for instance, earlier – when you purported to be in the proctors’ office? You were not in the study, conducting any preliminary search?”

“Definitely not.”

“Nor Ransome, nor Campbell?”

“Campbell definitely not; Ransome – not if he’s not lying.”

“You were not there, looking for a safe?”

Gott shook his head. “I had done that much looking long before,” he replied.

“You were not there, messing about with a –
candle
?” The word was shot out.