From the days of my earliest adolescence I have set my face against the profession in which my father has become such a distinguished luminary. That is to say, I have opposed it as a career for myself, preferring to believe that I was headed in a vague way towards the diplomatic or consular service. And yet, of necessity I have acquired some smattering of law in the home circle and occasionally my father pops out in me when least expected. My actions are seldom judicious, but I flatter myself that sometimes my mind takes a turn that is surprisingly judicial.
That evening, after Hall, was one of the times in question. I had received the Aristotelian purgation through pity and terror; I had run through the whole gamut of emotions during the day. Now that the night was coming, I felt Olympian and aloof; I was ready to weigh, with sublime impartiality, the pros and cons of the Baumann case.
I went to my room, rolled up my sleeves and proceeded, literally and metaphorically, to sharpen my pencil. And very sharp I made it. Would I could have sharpened my wits to that same fine point.
First of all I decided to draw up the facts of the case, going on the assumption that the South African was—as Horrocks implicity believed, and as my own reason told me must be the truth—deliberately and cold-bloodedly murdered. This being assumed, I went on, in a somewhat haphazard manner, to write as follows:
1. Baumann was killed between 9:45 and 10:05 P. M. with, perhaps, a variation of five minutes each way.
2. The lights went out at approximately 9:54 P. M. It is possible that the murderer was in the room at this time, but by no means certain. He could have got out just before the stampede from my room or even earlier. I was not inclined to attach too much importance to the fact that I thought I had heard a match strike when I knocked at Baumann’s door to ask for a candle.
3. My neighbour’s door was wide open when I went down with Somerville to fetch the whisky earlier in the evening. Unless he shut it later on, the murderer could have entered the room without trouble.
4. If Baumann had sported his oak, Hank was the only person who could have got in through the door since he alone had a key to the outer door.
5. Anyone, however, could have got into the room through the window in exactly the same manner as I had done when I discovered the body.
6. Obviously the murderer knew that Baumann kept his revolver in the biscuit box on the mantelpiece. Although Mrs. Bigger had been anything but reticent about the hiding place, it did point to the fact that the field was limited to an inside agency—if not to the “A” staircase itself.
7. The murderer was undoubtedly a remarkably intelligent person. Indeed, if he worked in the dark, as was more than possible, his care—or his luck—was almost superhuman.
8. And as a corollary to number seven: If he worked in the dark, even with the aid of a flashlight, he must have been intimate with the geography of the room.
9. Another indication that it was an inside job was the fact that no stranger was seen to leave or enter the college just before or just after the closing of the gates.
10. Baumann obviously expected trouble of some sort. Though, if Camilla was to be believed, the trouble in question would have no bearing on his death. His open door also pointed to the fact that he neither anticipated nor feared any kind of personal violence.
This brought me up with a jerk. There are almost 5,000 undergraduates at the University, any one of whom might have borne the South African some sort of grudge. There are about 59,262 regular inhabitants of Cambridge and some 39,067,000 people in England and Wales, any one of whom might … No, the complexity of the situation made my brain reel.
I must stick to the possibilities of which I knew something. I must confine myself to the people who could reasonably and logically have committed the murder. In short, I must go on the assumption that it really was an inside job, otherwise I might just as well break the point of my pencil, tear up my notes and go jump in the Trinity Fountain.
I proceeded with my wholesale prosecution as follows:
The Case against Hankin
Hank was the only person who could have got into Baumann’s room if the oak had been sported since he alone had the keys to the outer doors of each room on “A” staircase. There was no doubt as to his presence at the time of Baumann’s death since I myself saw him when I went down to report the fusing of the lights.
That brought up another point which had not yet been established one way or the other. Had the fuses been destroyed by the electricity of the storm, or had someone deliberately plunged the staircase into darkness in order to consummate the murder without being recognized?
In the latter instance no one (except possibly the porter) could have tampered with the electric system more easily than Hank. On the other hand, Hank above all others was the one person to whom darkness would not be an asset, since his presence in any room on “A” staircase would at no time be suspicious.
Another point against our gyp was the fact that he was the only person, to my knowledge, with whom Baumann had ever achieved anything that approached intimacy. Indeed, he was the only person who might be supposed to know anything at all about the enigmatic South African. Hank also came from South Africa and a glance at the atlas showed me that his native town of Kroonstad was not far from Bloemfontein where the Baumann farm was situated. Perhaps there was some dark secret in my neighbour’s South African past to which Hank alone held the key.
And this brought up another point. Hank had been very nervous and jumpy since Baumann’s death. Usually he was rather a phlegmatic young man who took his job seriously and minded his own business. Lately, however, I had noticed that a flush came into his cheeks at any mention of Monday night. On two occasions he had neglected to empty my ashtrays—a terrible oversight on the part of a college servant.
But if he had borne a grudge against Baumann, it was only logical to suppose that the latter had been unaware of it, since he had asked the gyp to witness his signature on the document which I had posted for him.
Then again, Hankin cleaned Baumann’s room every day with or without the aid of Mrs. Bigger. He would be able to find his way about in the darkness as easily as by daylight. He knew exactly where the revolver was kept. Indeed, he had not reported its presence in the biscuit box even though he must have known that it was there against regulations.
In short, Hankin had the means and he had the opportunity. Perhaps the motive was to be found somewhere in the dark continent—somewhere in the obscure mist of their heterogeneous pasts. At the present time, at least, it was not visible on “A” staircase.
The Case against Dr. Warren
As far as I knew, Dr. Warren had been in his room on “A” staircase all Monday evening. He could at any time have gone to Baumann’s room and gained immediate entry in his official capacity as senior tutor. His scientific knowledge would have helped him to conceal the traces of his guilt. His eagerness for the “accident” theory was all too transparent and it might even be classed as suspicious that he summoned to investigate the case the one man who was under a deep obligation to him. His manner, too, had been strange on Monday night—more cold and harsh than usual—and the misplaced monocle certainly argued some sort of emotional upset within himself.
In short, there was a fairly convincing case against the tutor until it came to a question of motive. There one was forced to draw on the imagination. Could his zeal for the college have carried him away to such an extent that he would wish to exterminate a morose, antisocial person like Baumann—a man who took everything he could get from Cambridge and gave nothing in return? Could he perhaps have known of Baumann’s antipicated “trouble” and killed him to save possible disgrace to All Saints?
It was remotely possible; but I should not have cared to have to convince a jury.
The Case against Michael Grayling
Much as I liked Michael and although I would willingly have given him several pints of my own blood at any time that a transfusion might be required, I could not ignore the fact that there was a certain amount of superficial evidence against him.
In the first place, Baumann’s death would probably solve his most urgent problem, by enabling him to win the Lenox Scholarship and thus stay up and take his degree at Cambridge. But that he would resort to a deliberate murder in order to achieve this end was absolutely and utterly unthinkable.
Michael was a gentle soul, kindly and courteous to almost everyone and hard or intolerant only towards any kind of sham or pretentiousness. He abhorred cruelty and avoided it as he avoided all the less pleasant aspects of life.
And in this connection I recalled the fact that nothing had surprised me more than the cruel and postively ghoulish nature of the story which he had told me on Monday night. It had seemed so foreign to his placid, contemplative nature, so far removed from his normal philosophy. For Michael’s happiness and his deeper emotions came from within. Few people suspected that his feelings went very deep. How he would act under some violent, external stimulus, even I, his closest friend, would find it difficult to say.
If he did kill Baumann, however, I felt sure that his reason for doing so would have been neither selfish nor personal. There would of necessity have been some factor which had not yet come to light. True, he could easily have done it as far as actual times and places were concerned.
After the lights went out he could have gained admission to Baumann’s room either through the door or by the window. He would have had plenty of time to go down to his own room, find his electric flashlight, collect a tin of Brasso and some cleaning rags and do the job before I came back to my room or the lights went on again. His only difficulty would have been to avoid Somerville and Comstock on the stairs.
And then, I had noticed that Michael showed a marked aversion to discussing the crime in any of its aspects. Since Monday he had been more of a recluse than ever. For some unknown reason he had been especially anxious to avoid me. Of course he was working very hard, but there was something wrong somewhere. That much was obvious.
The Case against Camilla Lathrop
Much as I disliked to tabulate my suspicions against Michael, I felt even less inclination to raise my sharpened pencil against the girl whom I now loved more than ever. And yet—unless one believed implicity in her protestations of innocence—all of her actions on Monday were highly suspect.
In her defense, however, there was the undeniable fact that she had not been seen to leave or enter the college that night. Also she must have known that she was running the risk of instant dismissal from Newnham if she had come to “A” staircase at ten o’clock at night even on a perfectly innocent errand.
Apart from these facts in her favour there was little that could be said. She had never established any real alibi for herself. Innocent people do not faint at the word “murder” unless they are in some degree implicated; nor do nice English girls call on unknown undergraduates in their rooms unless they want to find something out pretty badly. On her own admission she knew Baumann well enough for him to give her some of his perfume. Might he not also have mentioned the place where he kept his revolver?
Again, she seemed more than anxious not to have it known that she had ever been on our staircase during Baumann’s lifetime. Furthermore, she had been frank with me up to a certain point and then relapsed into complete mystery. Were these the actions of an entirely innocent person?
Perhaps, and perhaps not. Once again I should not have cared to try to convince a jury. Nevertheless, I would not have liked even so kindly a person as Horrocks to know as much as I knew about Camilla Lathrop. I was glad for her sake that it was I who was the repository of her little secrets.
The Case against Lloyd Comstock and Stuart Somerville
These two had both had the same amount of time and opportunity to kill Baumann. So far as I knew, both of them had flashlights in their rooms (kept there for use on their “push-bikes”), both of them knew where the revolver was kept and both of them were naturally quite at home on their own staircase.
With Comstock there was no visible motive for murder except a pronounced and often-proclaimed dislike. With Somerville there was the rather tenuous reason that the South African kept him out of his place on the Cambridge cricket team. Tenuous? Well, I was not so sure. Having lived for almost a year among young Englishmen, I had realized the sad truth that distinction in athletics seemed to supersede all other worldly and spiritual considerations. To be a “blood” at Cambridge meant more to the average undergraduate than the hopes of a ringside seat in heaven.
But surely Somerville, even if he remained only twelfth man on the Varsity eleven, was “bloody” enough? Perhaps—but an unathletic person like myself could be no possible judge of how much importance Stuart might attach to a cricket blue.
And yet, from the point of view of character and temperament, I would have said that Comstock was more capable than Somerville of committing a sudden act of violence. Lloyd was nervous, highly-strung and impulsive; Stuart was easy-going, good-natured and mentally lazy. Comstock would certainly have had enough intelligence to think the thing out carefully and methodically, but he would probably have ruined all at the last minute by some rash action.
If Somerville ever committed anything approaching the perfect crime, it would undoubtedly be the wildest freak of luck or accident! But, being of the “ridin’, shootin’ and huntin’’’ type of young Englishman, he should at least have known that guns and revolvers are not cleaned with Brasso!
And, although Comstock was more temperamentally fitted for murder than Somerville, I was bound to confess that he had acted far more normally since Monday than had Stuart. Once or twice I had detected a lack of frankness in Somerville’s manner when we were discussing our various movements after the lights went out.
Perhaps it was only my vivid imagination, but I could not help thinking that it was to him that the inspector referred when he made his cryptic remarks about my not being the only person on the staircase who might know more than he was telling. But I also thought that there were several people to whom this remark might have applied. Almost everyone, it seemed, had something that he was anxious to hide.
The Case against Mrs. Bigger, Mrs. Fancher or Mary Smith
It was clear that these three women were in the college on Monday night and that any one of them (with the exception of Mary Smith) could have had easy access to “A” staircase if not to Baumann’s actual rooms. Mrs. Bigger usually left the college at about 7 o’clock and it was presumably a mere coincidence that she should have stayed late on the fatal night.
She disliked Baumann. She knew where he kept his pistol and she probably knew where Hankin kept the keys to the outer doors or “oaks.” But the idea of Mrs. Bigger’s doing anything more murderous than to flick a fly with her duster was absolutely unthinkable. True, she showed an unhallowed interest in disease, death and morbid pathology, but her interest was, so it seemed, strictly objective, if not actually professional. (Was she not the worthy relict of an undertaker?)
As for Mrs. Fancher, bedder on “C” staircase, and Mary Smith, housemaid at the Master’s Lodge, I knew them by sight only. Mrs. Fancher was a broad, phlegmatic woman of uncertain age. Mary was young, pretty and had what is usually described as a “wealth” of Titian red hair.
It would have cost her her job and her reputation to speak to any undergraduate, let alone go to his rooms at night. The thing was unheard of. On the rare occasions when she was obliged to cross the court, she walked hurriedly, her eyes downcast.
She was notoriously Hank’s property, his inamorata, the girl with whom he was “walking out,” “keeping company” or what have you. It is indeed more than possible that she lingered at the foot of “A” staircase for a word or two with her taciturn Corydon on Monday night.
Mrs. Fancher, too, doubtless paused to give valediction before escorting her two friends round to the convivial atmosphere of dog’s noses at her husband’s public. But there was nothing sinister in that—surely?
And yet, the Brasso? The cleaning materials? Who could have obtained them more easily than a college servant who uses such things every day in the performance of household duties? And the ignorance of firearms displayed by the choice of the cleaning materials in question? Might not the subtle analyst argue that they betrayed a female agency?
But which male of this day and generation knows exactly what implements are used in the care of firearms? I know I don’t—or rather didn’t. And I would wager that few of my intimate friends at Cambridge did either. No one, in fact, except the military-minded Horrocks or the sporting Somerville. No, the tin of Brasso, if it proved anything, merely proved that the murderer was not familiar with firearms or, at least, wished to have it believed that he was more of an amateur than he really was.
All of which amounted to precisely—nothing!
After I had dealt with Mrs. Bigger, Mrs. Fancher and Mary Smith, my imagination began to run completely amok. I worked out in elaborate detail, the case against the master, the case against any one of the Masters’ guests and the case against Dr. Warren’s unknown visitor who played Chopin so delicately. Then I turned whimsical and constructed an exquisite case against Hilary Fenton.
This was interesting in that it showed me the complete futility of my previous paper work. Where all the others had but slight opportunity to do this deed of darkness, I had abundant chances. Where they had but one motive, I had several. I alone could—and did—destroy the evidence of guilt. I was a foreigner, a stranger, an unknown quantity.
In short, I must (on paper) be the murderer. I was one of those dreadful people who write a mystery story in the first person and (after nineteen chapters of carefully laid false trails) calmly announce that the only point omitted was the simple fact that “I” did it all along!
My deductions, if carried to their logical conclusion would put a noose around my neck. They must be destroyed.
But, although the case against me was very strong, I am going to state quite frankly and straightforwardly that I did not kill Julius Baumann. I might add that, in writing this chronicle of his death, I have kept nothing back. I have faithfully recorded all the events as they happened and all my ideas as they occurred to me.
Never for one single moment have I deliberately caused the lame to stumble or the blind to go out of his way. I have kept faith with my readers by listing all suspects without personal prejudice and by working out the case against them with a calm and unbiased pencil. If I have merely succeeded in proving that I, Hilary Fenton, must have been the guilty party, then I sadly confess that my pencil was sharpened—to no point.