I awoke next morning with what can only be described as an emotional hangover. My mouth felt dry and fuzzy, and I had the uneasy sensation of a thousand wrong things done. The outlook was overcast, meteorologically and spiritually. The only coherent thought in my head was that I must see the Profile today and help her if possible.
As I took a deep draught of tepid water from my ewer, a delicate “Ahem” came from my sitting room. It was Mrs. Bigger. She had been on the staircase last night. Perhaps she had heard or seen something. I must question her without arousing suspicion.
“Proceed, Sherlock,” I muttered, lighting a cigarette with a kind of haggard nonchalance.
One glance at my good bedmaker showed me that she was near to bursting point with suppressed ideas. How long she had been waiting for me to wake I cannot tell, but my room had never been so tidy before in its life. This was my first intimation that I had become a Personality.
“Mr. Fenton,” hemmed Mrs. Bigger, “I didn’t like to slop you up while you was a-sleepin’, sir, ’cos I reckoned you must be tired, seein’ as ’ow it was you what discovered ’im, sir”—here her voice dropped to a gruesome whisper—’’lyin’ stark and rude in nothin’ but ’is own blood, as I heard this mornin’ from that there gentleman as was asking for you, Mr. Fenton.”
I yawned ostentatiously.
“Has someone been looking for me, Mrs. Bigger?” I asked. The ostrich plumes nodded in affirmation.
“Yes, sir. A man with a big red moustache, and ’e said ’e’d be back again later and not to disturb you just now. Her tone implied that it might well be the last undisturbed sleep I should have for a very long white.
In answer to the implication of her words, therefore, I gave her a bowdlerized version of my last night’s excursion over the roof and the finding of my neighbour’s dead body. When I had finished, she pronounced gravely:
“It don’t do to speak hill of the dead, Mr. Fenton, but I ’ad told Mr. ’Ankin that Mr. Baumann didn’t ever hort to of been allowed to ’ave a pistol in ’is room, sir. I seed it there wiv me own eyes, Mr. Fenton, but—and this shows the meaness of ’im—he always kep’ it in ’is—ahem—biscuit tin there on the mantel shelf. And when Mr. ’Ankin told ’im I’d complained, Mr. Baumann said, ‘So Mrs. Bigger was after my biscuits, was she?’ So you see I didn’t have no legs to stand on. But I knew the pistol was there, sir, biscuits or no biscuits. And I wasn’t the only one as knew it either.”
“You’ll probably have to identify the gun at the inquest,” I remarked, and her eyes brightened. “Perhaps you can give some more evidence, too. You were working here pretty late, weren’t you? You didn’t hear the shot by any chance, I suppose, or—er—see anything out of the ordinary?”
For a moment I found myself hanging on Mrs. Bigger’s lips as though she were a young girl to whom I had just proposed. The reply, when it did come, was reassuring, if a trifle discursive.
“I didn’t ’ear nothing, Mr. Fenton, and as for seein’, well, with the lights out that way I couldn’t ’ave seen me ’and a hinch from me nose. I’d been ’elping over at the Master’s lodge till almost ten o’clock, sir, ’cos Mary Smith was alone and there was company to dinner. She’d never have got them things washed if it ’adn’t been for me and I’d asked ’er to come round to my ’ouse afterwards, Mr. Fenton, seein’ as Tuesday is ’er day out, sir.
“I was waitin’ for ’er in the pantry when the lights went out and I didn’t ’ear nor see nothin’ ’cept you when you called out good night and once a noise outside Mr. Somerville’s door, sir. And then, soon after the lights went on again, Mary was waitin’ for me and all I remember is that I said to ’er, jokin’ like, ‘Mary, ’as someone just kissed you? ’Cos you look blinkin’ ’appy,’ and she blushed and looked pretty, sir, ’cos there was Mr. Hankin standin’ there by her side and I thought how they two was a-courtin’, sir, and well—you know wot young people is in the dark, sir, when no one’s lookin’, as it were. And then Mrs. Fancher from ‘C’ joined us and Mr. ’Ankin let us all out the gates and we went round and ’ad a dog’s nose at Fancher’s, sir, ’e being a publican and we ’is wife’s friends—”
I cut her short. There was no shadow of doubt as to her movements on the previous evening.
“Mrs. Bigger,” I exclaimed, “What in heaven’s name is a dog’s nose? It sounds perfectly excellent. I feel I could do with one right now.”
“Well, Mr. Fenton, it’s a mixture of stout and gin. You mix—” But here Mrs. Bigger paused, her face suffused with a maidenly blush.
We were treading on dangerous ground, and skirting the fringes of a dreadful secret which my bedmaker had, in an expansive moment, confided to me some time previously. She had once been a barmaid. In fact that had been her occupation when the late-lamented Bigger had first spied her ample charms and finally transferred them to his undertaking establishment off Chesterton Road.
Mr. Bigger had joined his own coffins long since (“sarcophagus in the throat, Mr. Fenton, and crool ’e suffered”); but had Mrs. Bigger slid back into the perilous paths of bar-maidenhood? No, a thousand times no. Whenever she returned to the taps she kept on the customer’s side of the counter, just as when she made beds she kept on the right side of the blanket.
There was evidently nothing of real importance to be learned from Mrs. Bigger, and I was not altogether sorry when a deputation consisting of Lloyd Comstock, Michael Grayling, and Stuart Somerville caused her to beat a modest retreat. My three “stairmates,” with the possible exception of Comstock, all looked rather the worse for wear this morning. There was an expression on Michael’s face that amounted almost to antagonism and a film of reticence over Stuart’s usually frank blue eyes. I attributed this to the fact that both of them were likely to benefit through Baumann’s death and they would naturally feel some embarrassment about squeezing their feet into the shoes of one so recently dead.
Lloyd Comstock, however, pressed me for details in a perfectly normal and ingenuous manner. All three of them had already been interviewed by Horrocks and another detective that morning, and not one of them had, as far as I could ascertain, contributed any facts of new or startling interest. The words “murder” or “suicide” were not mentioned, and it was obvious that they looked to me for sensationalism, if there was any to be had. I intended to disappoint them, nursing my guilty secret like a mother with a sick baby.
So far, so good. My next visitor was Horrocks, who brought with him a long, cadaverous individual whom he introduced as Sergeant Rollings. Horrocks, smartly dressed, carried a small suitcase in his hand.
“Mr. Fenton,” he explained apologetically, “I’ve been called away to London on the North case. Last night all indications pointed to the fact that North was still somewhere in Cambridge. This morning he’s supposed to have been seen in London. It may be a false alarm, but I’ve got to go. Sergeant Rollings will take care of this Baumann business in my absence. I’m sure you will help him all you can.” We nodded gravely at each other. He continued:
“If all goes well—and I see no reason why it shouldn’t—they will hold the inquest on Thursday. You will have to appear, of course.” We nodded again and then Horrocks took his leave.
I accompanied Rollings into Baumann’s room and once again went through the performance of discovering the body for his benefit. His questions were, for the most part, neither intelligent nor pertinent. My only strong emotion in the whole business was a hope that he would not make me late for lunch with the Profile.
At twelve o’clock, however, he departed and I returned to my room to shave, change my tie, and make the best of my rather limited store of natural attractions. I regarded myself critically in the spotted mirror. A poor face, but mine own, and rather worse than usual, I reflected. Not that I am an Adonis at the best of times.
I can however, boast a set of decent teeth, curly hair, and not one single pimple. Let us be thankful for small mercies.
But I was not so thankful as I should have been that morning as I sallied forth to my optimistic lunch party. I wanted to be a superman to match a superprofile.
On the way to meet her at the “Whim” I reflected that, often as I had heard Baumann’s name mentioned, there had been no word of regret from anyone. It is possible that his tutor would miss him as “the only person in Cambridge capable of appreciating at once the spirit and the text of Pindar,” and the Varsity cricket captain would sigh for that famous cut past second slip which was to have played such havoc with the Oxford bowlers.
But other scholars would come up next term, and other batsmen would take his place on the team. Kindly is our fostering mother, kindly but fickle.
When I reached the “Whim,” a fine drizzle was moistening the pavements. Instinctively I looked around for the Profile’s mackintosh. There was no sign of it or her; only a sprinkling of elegantly dressed young men absorbing an excess of carbohydrates and all talking. Even as I entered I heard the words, “discovered by a chap called Fenton, an American.” Like Lord Byron I had awakened to find that I had become famous overnight.
In another corner of the room a girl sat by herself avidly reading a newspaper account of the accident. One glance showed me that her profile was anything but the one I was looking for. I must sit down and wait. I did so. Half an hour passed and no sign of her. I had had no breakfast. Even people in love must eat. I was torn between my desire for food and my longing to see her again—to hear her tell me that there was nothing—
“Excuse me, but are you by any chance Mr. Hilary Fenton?” The girl from the far corner had come across the room. In her hand she held a letter—my letter. Then she must be bringing me news of the Profile. A thousand awful possibilities flashed through my head. She had been killed—arrested—she had run away—she needed me—
“Yes, my name is Fenton,” I replied eagerly.
The girl simpered for a moment and then looked coyly downward.
“Well, I got your letter,” she giggled, “I’m Dorothy Dupuis!”
Hell, damnation and all the Furies—it was the prominent girl in spectacles who had been sitting next to the Profile at the lecture. Confound those attendance lists. Confound the Profile. Confound Lady Snorting Lusinger. Confound everyone.
“Oh—h, so nice of you to come,” I smiled weakly.
“Well,” she replied primly, “it was rather a sketchy invite. I ought not to have done it but Lady Lusinger is my aunt, so I suppose it was all right. And then I was curious—feminine, I suppose—to see in the flesh the person who discovered the body. I read about it in the papers this morning and called up my fiancé to ask if he minded my lunching with you. He’s an undergrad at Cats—reading theology, you know.”
I didn’t know, nor did I care. And I loathe the abbreviation undergrad.
“Well, what about some food,” I suggested hungrily. As we waited for our orders to be served, Dorothy Dupuis bombarded me with questions concerning Baumann, Lady Lusinger, the depression in America and my church membership. Even my appetite had left me by now. I felt cheated and furious with the Profile, but alas! more in love with her than ever. Great is the power of contrast.
When we got to the horrible English concoction known by the frivolous title of “Trifle,” I decided that I would combine the cunning of the serpent with the softness of the dove. This luncheon should not be wholly wasted.
“Who was that girl you were sitting next to at the Blake lecture?” I asked as casually as I could. “And have some more trifle, won’t you?”
“Yes, ta, you mean the one in the mac—” (the girl had a positive genius for odious abbreviations) “or Jean Higginbotham?”
“Oh, no, her name couldn’t possibly be Higginbotham,” I cried fervently.
The thick lenses were flashed on me suspiciously, but I parried her unspoken thought. “If you’re a friend of hers, why don’t you tell her to buy a new raincoat. The one she wears is the limit. Is she very poor or something?”
“Heavens, no! Camilla Lathrop is as rich as Croesus. But her father is in the clothes business, so I suppose she thinks it’s too much of an advertisement to dress well. You know Lathrop and Lathrop of Bristol. Besides Camilla affects to despise men, but I think she only does it to make herself more mysterious and intriguing.”
(Apparently the theological fiance was not the only? link which this young lady had with Cats!)
“But why are you so interested?”
“I thought I saw her last night,” I replied indifferently, “somewhere around ten o’clock.”
“It’s quite poss. We all went to a debate in Sidney on the subject of Woman in Politics.’ It ended at nine forty-five punc. Camilla didn’t speak though I’d asked her to second me. She is always so unpredictable. In fact she was down in the papers to be presented at Court this year, then flatly refused to meet their majesties. Just as if they weren’t good enough for her—” Here she gave a snort that was worthy of her august aunt. “Ridic, I call it. All this posing as a blue stocking and turning up one’s nose at society? and men and dances and other things. When all’s said and done a woman’s a woman and—”
At this juncture the complement of her womanhood appeared on the scene wearing a St. Catherine’s blazer and a rather vacuous smile which was meant to be jealous, ferocious and protective all at once.
“Oh, Perce, this is Mr. Fenton of Saints. A great friend of my aunt, Lady Lusinger.” Miss Dupuis removed what I am sure she would have called her “specs” and wiped them.
My hand was seized in a clammy, lifeless clasp. I murmured polite banalities and finally surrendered Lady Lusinger’s niece to her budding bishop. Then I went on my lonely celibate way, reflecting sadly that there are approximately four hundred women students in Cambridge to about five thousand males.
What chance was there for me with a girl like Camilla Lathrop, especially when she didn’t much care for my sex in general, and didn’t care enough for me in particular to rescue me from the ghastly mistake I had made through a foolish misinterpretation of the attendance list?
I was rather depressed. My lunch had got me nowhere at all, unless it was a place in the bad graces of Miss Dupuis. True, I knew the Profile’s name at last, but I did not know whether she had been on the staircase last night. Her feline friend had not established an alibi for her. I must do some detecting on my own account.
A brilliant idea struck me. I purchased a small handbag and unblushingly fitted it with lipstick, powder and a few coins of the realm. Armed with this feminine paraphernalia, I approached the Porter’s Lodge, where Hank and the porter were engaged in conversation on the all-engrossing subject of Baumann.
“I picked this up at the foot of ‘A’ last night, Porter,” I said casually. “Just after I had told you about the fuses. Has anyone been enquiring for it? I should say it belonged to a young lady, judging by its cosmetic contents.”
The porter took it in his hand and peered inside.
“You can’t tell these days,” the porter said gloomily.
“Well, were there any young ladies in the college last night who might have dropped it?”
The porter turned to Hank.
“No, Mr. Fenton,” replied the gyp, “there was no ladies went through the gate while I was on duty.”
“It must have been dropped around ten o’clock,” I insisted mildly. “Didn’t any women leave around that time?”
“No, sir,” replied Hank, “leastways there weren’t no ladies, sir. There was a bunch of bedmakers and the maid from the Master’s lodge—” here a faint blush tinged Hank’s countenance. “They left shortly after ten, sir. But that bag wouldn’t belong to none of them. That’s a real expensive bag, sir.”
“Then there was the Master’s lady guests,” continued the porter reminiscently, “but it couldn’t of been any of them. They left around eleven in a body, sir, and they didn’t go near ‘A’ staircase. I saw them walk across the lawn with me own eyes, Mr. Fenton. Right across the lawn they walked and them not fellows.”
“Oh, all right, keep the bag and see if anyone claims it,” I said airily. “And be discreet, Hankin. You’re a lady’s man yourself, you know—and—”
But Hankin was now blushing so violently that I did not finish my sentence. Instead I winked knowingly at the porter and departed to my own room.
Detective Fenton, I reflected, had established at least one fact by this little subterfuge. If the Profile was in All Saints last night she had managed to get out without being seen. There is one and only one exit to a Cambridge college at night time, and that is through the main gateway past the vigilant eye of the porter or his subsidiary.
It could safely be presumed that my dark and mysterious lady was not a cat burglar who could climb over spiked fences twenty feet high or slide down drain pipes like the members of the Cambridge Alpine Club.
But even for the Alpine Club this was a tough proposition. All Saints had this much in common with Heaven—it was almost impossible of entrance by unauthorized persons at unseasonable hours. And as for getting out—well, to keep up my simile, it was as difficult as Hell.
And I know, because I have tried both.