Death at the President's Lodging (5 page)

A little questioning substantiated the fact that the new locks and keys had been prepared under completely thief-proof conditions. Appleby’s problem of “provenance” was proving very simple indeed. He turned to the point in Tapp’s statement which had particularly arrested his interest. “You say that Dr Umpleby appeared anxious about the keys and gave you a reason – something about an undergraduate? Just how anxious was he? Would you describe him as agitated – really worried about the matter?”

Tapp answered at once. “Hagitated, sir, I wouldn’t nor couldn’t rightly say. But he was in a nurry and a flurry – and that I
do
say.”

Appleby was patient. “Not really agitated, but flurried. I wonder if you can make that a little clearer? Agitation and flurry seem to me very much the same thing. Perhaps you can give me a clearer idea of what you mean by flurry?”

Tapp reflected for a moment. “Well, you see, sir,” he said at length, “by flurry I wouldn’t quite mean scurry, and by scurry I
would
mean hagitation. I ’ope that’s clear. And certainly Dr Humpleby was in a
nurry
.”

This was as much information as was to be obtained from the locksmith and, after he had signed a correctly aspirated version of it prepared by the lugubrious sergeant he was dismissed.

“Just how odd is it,” asked Appleby, “that Umpleby should give the excellent Tapp
reasons
for changing the locks and keys? I don’t see that, Dodd, do you? It strikes me as just a shade queer. It’s a queerness that may be nothing more than a minute queerness of character. I may be noticing only a minute way in which Umpleby’s behaviour has differed from the dead normal behaviour of a dead average Head of a House – or I may be noticing something much more significant. And the same thing applies to the other interesting point – that Umpleby was in what our friend called a flurry about the business; that he was within some recognizable distance, measured by flurries and scurries, of being agitated.”

“There’s something strikes me as more significant than that.” Dodd was very stolid.
“There
was an extra key.”

Appleby gave his second whistle of the afternoon. “Your point again! The Dean, Empson, Gott, Haveland, Lambrick, Pownall, Titlow, one for the head porter… Hullo! That’s only eight. Surely there were two extra keys?”

Dodd shook his head. “The head porter got one for his ring and another went as a spare in the safe in his lodge. But one key does remain to be accounted for. And an awkward complication it makes.”

“Umpleby himself perhaps kept a key?”

Dodd again made a negative gesture. “I don’t think so. At least he never, according to the Dean, used to. He had no need of one. He could walk out of his own Lodging into either Orchard Ground or the main courts. And similarly his own back-door let him out on the street. And, of course, we’ve found no key in his belongings.”

“A missing key,” murmured Appleby. “Do you know, I’m rather pleased about the missing key. It represents a screw loose somewhere – and so far your submarine has been screwed down uncomfortably tight.” But he was speaking absently, and pacing about as he spoke. Then, with a sudden gesture of impatience, he led the way back to the study.

The black gown which had been found swathed round the President’s head, and which had been replaced there, following police routine, after the police-surgeon had certified life to be extinct, Appleby now carefully removed. It was caked with blood, but only slightly, and Appleby laid it on a chair. He gazed with some curiosity at the dead President. Umpleby’s was a massive and, for the spare-bodied man that he was, a surprisingly heavy head, with bone structure prominent about the brow and commanding nose – fleshy and heavy-jowled below. The mouth, sagging in death, had been rigid in life; firm to the point perhaps of some suggestion of cruelty; ruthless certainly rather than sensual. The eyes were open, and they were cold and grey; the features were composed – oddly at variance with the tiny but startling hallmark of violence in the centre of the forehead. And death had brushed away a load of years from the pallid face: it was some moments before Appleby saw clearly that Umpleby had been an old man. At the moment he made no examination but picked up the gown again to do the office of a temporary shroud. As he did so something about it held his attention. “I take it this is not Umpleby’s gown?” he asked Dodd.

“No, it’s not. And it has no name on it. I haven’t, as a matter of fact, questioned people about it so far.”

“You needn’t, I think, expend much effort on that. It’s Dr Barocho’s gown.”

A second thought and Dodd had taken the point neatly. “You mean it’s some sort of foreign gown, not an English one?”

“Exactly so, and Barocho follows as a good guess. But I doubt if it will be a case for bringing out the handcuffs. And now what about the movements of all these people? How far, to get back to where we were, have you traced their movements after the break-up of the common-room last night?”

Appleby was prowling round the study again. Dodd rustled among his papers as he answered. “In the course of the day I’ve taken preliminary statements from everybody who seems concerned – or everybody who seemed concerned until this infernal tenth key started up. Some are apparently checkable as alibi-statements for the time of the shooting; others not. I’m checking up as fast as the three capable men I’ve got can work – incidentally they’re
your
men now for the purposes of the case. Meantime here are the carbons of the different statements. You’d better hold on to them.” As he spoke, Dodd put the little pile of flimsies down in front of his colleague with an air that suggested plainly enough the symbolic shifting of responsibility latent in the act. Appleby turned to the first sheet.

Slotwiner, George Frederick (54). Entered the college service as buttery-boy at sixteen. Personal servant to Dr Umpleby on the latter’s becoming Dean of the college in 1910. Has acted as butler since Dr Umpleby became President in 1921.

10.30 p.m. Took in drinks to study, finding President working at his desk and alone. Thereafter had a full view of the study door from his pantry.

11 p.m. Crossed hall and admitted Mr Titlow at front door. Titlow still speaking to him when shot heard. Entered study along with Titlow and discovered body. Returned to hall and telephoned doctor, porter and police. Rejoined Titlow in study and kept guard until arrival of porters.

11.10 p.m. Took message from Titlow to Dean.

Corroboration:Titlow.

Titlow, Samuel Still (51)…

At this moment there came an interruption in the form of a heavy knocking at the door, and the melancholy sergeant thrust in his head and announced lugubriously: “The valley has a message!”

The valley of the shadow
… For a moment in the darkening room with its litter of dead men’s bones, the effect of the words was almost startling; a second later they were explained by the appearance of a discreet black-coated figure in the background. A discreet voice remonstrated, “
Butler
, if you please,
constable!
” and added, to the accompaniment of a ghost of a bow to Dodd, “The Dean’s compliments, sir, and if the gentleman from London has arrived he would be glad to see him in his rooms at his convenience.”

Appleby regarded George Frederick Slotwiner with all the interest due to the first intimate actor in the recent drama to present himself. Slotwiner bore little trace of any period he might have spent in the Army. Slight and sallow, he moved and held himself like a typical upper servant. Apparently somewhat short-sighted, he looked out upon the world through a pair of pince-nez glasses with an effect at once impressive and disconcerting – impressive because they contrived to elevate the mind from butlers to house-stewards, and from house-stewards to majordomos and grooms of the chamber; disconcerting because of a sudden doubt that their owner’s stiff bearing was less the expression of professional dignity than the result of some chronic balancing feat on his nose. As this thought crossed Appleby’s mind Slotwiner, who appeared to have been inwardly debating whether propriety permitted him any direct awareness of the gentleman from London’s presence, made the ghost of a bow to him as well and, having effected this judicious compromise, waited impassively for a reply.

Appleby solved Slotwiner’s difficulty. “My compliments to the Dean,” he said, “and I will be with him in half an hour. When Inspector Dodd rings the bell perhaps you will be good enough to take me across.” And as the butler turned to withdraw he suddenly added: “One moment. When did the President last use candles in this room?”

The effect of this question was remarkable. Slotwiner swung round with a most unbutler-like rapidity and stared at Appleby. He was plainly startled and confused – more so even than the odd and abrupt question, pitched at his back across the shrouded body of his employer, could warrant. But in a moment his look gave way to one of bewilderment; a moment more and he was wholly composed.

“The President never used candles, sir. As you will see, the room is very adequately lighted.” The man’s hand went swiftly out as he spoke and flicked down a switch by the door: the single standard lamp which had been burning was reinforced by half a dozen further lamps set high up on the walls and throwing out a brilliant light over the ceiling. Appleby continued his questions. “How did the President usually sit when he was here in the evenings? Did he use all the lights or merely the standard lamp?”

The butler answered now without hesitation. When at his desk, or when sitting in his armchair near the fire, Dr Umpleby had been accustomed to use only the standard lamp. But if he had to move about among his books, or if he had visitors, he would turn on the other lights as well. They worked on a dual control and could be turned on from the fireplace as well as by the door.

“Last night at ten-thirty,” Appleby next asked, “how were the lights then?”

“All the lights were on, sir. The President was selecting books from the far corner there while I was in the room.”

“And afterwards, when you broke in with Mr Titlow?”

“Only the standard lamp was burning.”

“Dr Umpleby would have turned off the others on returning to his desk?”

“I could not say, sir. It is possible.”

“Tell me what happened about the lights then.”

“Sir?”

“I mean did you, or did Mr Titlow, at once turn on the other lights when you found the body?”

Slotwiner hesitated. “I can’t say, sir,” he replied at length. “Not, I mean, with any certainty. I believe I turned them on almost at once myself, but at such a moment the action would be mechanical. I do not positively recollect it. Later certainly all the lights were on.”

Slotwiner, feeling now that he was being interrogated in form, was speaking with caution and every appearance of conscientious precision. But Appleby broke off. “I shall want your whole story later,” he said. “Only one more question now.” He had half turned away, as if what was significant in the interview was over. Suddenly he turned round and looked at the butler searchingly. “I wonder why you were so startled by my question about the candles?”

But this time Slotwiner was perfectly composed. “I’m sure I hardly know, sir,” he answered. “If I may say so, the question –
any
question, sir – was a trifle unexpected. But I am unable to account for my reaction – you must have seen that I was quite perturbed. If I may attempt to express my feeling when you spoke, it was one of puzzlement. And I was puzzled as to why I was puzzled.” Slotwiner paused to consider. “It was not over the overt content of your question, for I am quite clear that candles are never used in the Lodging. Dr Umpleby did not care for them, and with so much old panelling around I would certainly not sanction their use among the servants. To be as clear as I can, sir, I would speak a trifle technically and say that your question had a
latent
content. The feeling-tone evoked was decidedly peculiar.” And with this triumph of academic statement Slotwiner gave one more ghost of a bow to Appleby and glided – levitated almost, to speak technically – out of the room.

Dodd gave a chuckle which would have been boisterous had his eye not fallen on the object stretched before the fire. “You can see that you’ve landed among the dons,” he said. “If you get that sort of cackle from the butler, what are you likely to get from the Dean, eh?”

But Appleby’s smile in reply was thoughtful rather than merry. “The feeling-tone evoked was decidedly peculiar,” he quoted. “You know, Dodd, that’s an interesting man and he said an interesting thing. By the way” – Appleby glanced innocently at his colleague – “what do you make of the candle business?”

Dodd looked bewildered. “What candle business?” he said; “I had no idea what you were getting at.”

Appleby took his colleague’s arm for answer and led him to the far side of the room round which he had earlier made what had appeared to be a casual tour. Here the bookcases not only clothed the walls but projected into the room in the form of shallow bays. Islanded in one was a revolving bookcase containing the
Dictionary of National Biography
; in a second similarly was the
New English Dictionary
– the two sets of heavy volumes uniformly bound. But it was to the third of the four bays that Appleby led Dodd. Here was yet a third revolving bookcase – and Dodd found himself confronted by the fourteen bulky volumes of the Argentorati Athenaeus.