I am rather ashamed to admit it, but during this whole week I was happier than I had ever been in my life before. I should be an unmitigated humbug if I pretended that Baumann’s death had been a matter of personal sorrow to me. True, it had been a great shock, but it had coincided with something which had proved an even greater shock to my nervous system and metabolic processes. I refer, of course, to the fact that I had fallen in love for the first time in my life.
This devastating occurrence had driven the unpleasant and gruesome aspects of the case to the background of my mind. I could enjoy the agreeable stimulation of an abstract problem. I could enjoy cutting lectures without a qualm of conscience; and my unofficial peeps behind the scenes at the stage properties of a great university made me feel pleasantly important. Then, there was the warm weather to add to my happiness. The roses were beginning to bloom in the fellows’ gardens. The college lawns were unbelievably green, while the fields around Cambridge were dotted with moon-daisies, buttercups and purple vetch.
Even the old gray buildings had a jaunty, rejuvenated air; and on the undergraduates’ cheeks I noticed a healthy, brownish tinge—the first promises of a deeper summer tan. And one evening, as I strolled along the banks of the Cam, I heard a nightingale, late in its wooing, expressing all the love and tragedy in life—all the emotions which I myself had been experiencing that week.
There were some signs that the much maligned English summer was actually on its way. This was part of the miracle which I was sharing with the great ghosts of Chaucer, Milton, Wordsworth and Tennyson.
For they too had lived in Cambridge; they too had (who knows?) loved their respective Camillas here, had seen the dog-roses whitening the lanes in Madingley or Grantchester and watched the fleecy clouds sail high above Great Trinity Court and King’s meadow. In sharing thus their secret, the fringes of their mantle seemed to rustle constantly around me. No wonder I was happy and uplifted.
But there was one thing which slightly clouded my happiness at this period. I was worried about Michael and unhappy about our relationship which, for the past few days, had been strained and totally lacking in spontaneity. I liked Michael better than any man I had ever known.
His quiet humour, his steadiness of purpose and his English sincerity were the complement of my somewhat flamboyant flippancy and American ebullience. He seemed to possess all the characteristics which I most admired—all the qualities which were outside my own very limited reach. He had always been a real person and a real friend.
But since Monday night Michael had been unaccountably reserved, cold and unsympathetic. True, he was very busy with his work for the Lenox Scholarship. There were other competitors besides Baumann—less formidable, perhaps, but competitors none the less. I knew that he was obliged to work hard, but one is never too busy for a smile, a cheerio or a hastily snatched cigarette with a friend. But the trouble was that Michael acted almost as though he no longer regarded me as a friend.
Friday was the day of his examination. Before going off to join Camilla at Fenners, I decided to try to catch Michael and wish him luck with his afternoon papers. I found him munching a piece of bread and marmalade over a battered copy of Homer’s Iliad. He looked tired and despondent.
“How d’you make out this morning?” I asked with the fatuous cheerfulness one adopts with people who are going through any kind of ordeal.
He gave a noncommittal grunt.
“What is it this afternoon?”
“Greek and Latin Unseen,” he replied shortly.
“Well, keep smiling, old man. Remember how Browning says that we should ‘greet the unseen with a cheer.’”
“There’s nothing very cheerful about it,” he replied with a slow, unwilling smile.
“Bosh, Mike, don’t be a chump. You know you are a snip for the schol.”
Instead of laughing, as he usually did, at my exhibition of English public school colloquialism, Michael turned towards his desk and started to collect some pens and pencils. When he faced me again there was a strange expression on his countenance.
“Perhaps I am,” he said slowly, “since, as you were obliging enough to tell me yourself, my chief competitor has been eliminated. And, some time when neither of us is quite so busy, I imagine you are going to tell me exactly how you knew the fact at least ten minutes before it—er—became a fact!”
With these words he picked up his gown and strode out of the room.
“Michael, you ass!” I called after him, but he did not stop or look around. Then, suddenly, an amazing truth began to dawn upon me. Michael must think that I killed Julius Baumann, or, at least, that I knew who did.
And what was more natural? I tell him that one of his competitors is going to be eliminated. Within a few moments his dead body is discovered. Why should I blame Michael for suspecting me? Had not I, on the previous night, made out a case against him—mine own familiar friend? Had I not?
But here another, even more terrible thought struck me. Might not the strange expression which I had just seen on Michael’s face have been nothing more or less than—fear? What if he himself had killed Julius Baumann just before I returned to my room on Monday night?
Would not my innocent remark about elimination have been fraught with a terrifying significance—an indication that I either knew or suspected his guilt? He had heard nothing about Baumann’s letter or the fact that the South African had planned to leave Cambridge. Nor could I tell him—at least, not yet. It was all a ghastly muddle.
And there were plenty of other muddles for me to think about as I walked along the narrow, winding streets of Cambridge on my way towards Fenners. But the problem which absorbed all the people I passed was the outcome of the cricket match. From stray remarks I gathered that the prognosis was none too favourable for the Varsity.
“Five wickets down for ninety,” was one comment I heard. “That leaves three hundred for the last five men—and no Baumann. If only Somerville—”
But at that moment, I caught sight of a familiar figure mounted—horrors!—on a bicycle. It was Camilla Lathrop. Camilla on a “push-bike.” The ways of the English female are indeed strange and past all seeking out!
I advanced towards her through the milling traffic and seized the handlebars rather in the manner of Dick Turpin.
“Please,” I cried in anguish. “Please let me take this—er—vehicle. On the whole I’d rather have had the mackintosh.”
She dismounted meekly and said with a seraphic smile:
“I like your cheek, Hilary Fenton.”
“I’m afraid you do,” I replied, rubbing it reminiscently.
After which unsentimental greeting we joined the brightly dressed throng of young men and maidens who were busily pushing their way into the playing field. I parked the offending bicycle and joined Camilla who had found a delightfully secluded spot under some elm trees.
She was wearing a light grayish-green costume which made me think (though I had never seen them) of the olive groves of Greece and the gray-eyed Pallas Athene. The cricket had just started again after the lunch interval.
As viewed from a train or any other safe distance, cricket is undoubtedly the most effective and picturesque game ever devised by men. The immaculate white flannels against the green of the English meadow—the long-legged, sturdy young giants, the grace of their seemingly casual movements—the scent of clover and the droning of bees—all these go to make up a charming picture in vivid contrast to the dusty, noisy, peanut and coca-cola atmosphere of a baseball game.
But when watched in a concentrated manner through field-glasses, or with each of its intricate points carefully explained—even when the explanations are made by the girl of the moment—cricket is, to my mind, still beautiful, perhaps, but dumb, hopelessly dumb. It lacks the virility and élan of baseball. It has no speed, no vigor, no vitamins. It is altogether too polite.
“Oh, well hit, Somerville,” murmured Camilla, as a ball sped over the ground in our direction.
“Somerville?”
“Yes, he’s batting now and he’s nicely set, too. Looks like making fifty at least, if not his century.”
“What on earth are they doing now? I asked presently, as the players began to move in an apparently aimless manner about the field.
“Oh, you poor American,” sighed Camilla good-naturedly. “It’s over. That means one of the bowlers has bowled six balls. Then the umpire—he’s the man in the long white coat—calls over and another bowler starts at the other end. See, there he goes.”
The bowler was taking a long run behind the wickets preparatory to hurling the ball at my handsome stairmate.
“Why doesn’t he chuck the ball if he wants it to be really fast?” I asked.
“It’s against the rules to bend the arm at the elbow. Well hit, sir!” Somerville had run forward and smacked the ball in a manner worthy of Babe Ruth. There was a mild burst of conservative English applause.
“But why don’t they run?” I asked, pleased at my friend’s success.
“Boundary,” replied my mentor. “No need to run. It counts four anyhow. Six if it lands outside full pitch. Things are beginning to look up. One hundred and fifty for five wickets. Oh, damn, the captain is I. b. w.”
The captain of the Varsity team, having stopped a ball on his pad, was now walking slowly towards the pavilion. Tragic voices were raised on all sides.
“But the ball didn’t knock those funny little sticks down and he wasn’t caught out,” I exclaimed mystified. “What on earth is I. b. w.?
“Leg before wicket,” sighed Camilla. “Oh, damn that umpire.”
“But I distinctly saw the ball hit Somerville’s pad just before in exactly the same way. Why wasn’t he put out too?”
“Well, that ball either wasn’t straight or it had a break on, probably. The umpire has to decide. Here’s Malden. He’s a stone waller. Now if only he can keep his wicket up and let Somerville do the scoring….”
I was completely bewildered. One point alone was clear to me. Great things were expected of Stuart and so far his filling of a dead man’s shoes had been more than competent. He now had a chance to rescue his side. In the meantime I was happy under the elm trees—more or less alone with Camilla.
But our solitude was destined to be short-lived. A couple was approaching with purposeful strides—a large purple female in spectacles with an etiolated male bringing up the rear. A well known voice started to quack:
“Why, Millie, here you are again. Put your mac down here, Perce.”
I winced at the abbreviation of Camilla’s name, but she hid any annoyance she may have felt with admirable fortitude.
“Why, Dorothy, how nice!” She jumped up to make a place beside her, then added with a mischievous smile, “By the way, let me introduce Mr. Hilary Fenton.”
“Ah, Mr. Fenton and I are old pals, but I didn’t know that you two were.” Dorothy Dupuis looked at us for a moment with myopic suspicion.
“I do think Somerville is a nib!” she breathed, gazing rapturously towards the cricket pitch. “A real nib! He’s going to save the match. And he’s in your coll., isn’t he, Mr. Fenton?”
“Yes, and he’s on my staircase.”
“Well, you must give me an intro, some time,” she said archly. “Now don’t be jel., darling.” She turned towards her fiancé who was fingering a pimple on his chin and gazing abstractedly at the scoring board.
“He’s made his fifty,” muttered the prelate presumptive. “That’s two hundred for six wickets and Malden is blocking like Ely Cathedral. There’s one chance in a thousand—”
For awhile I let the cricket take care of itself and gradually dropped off into a pleasant state of day-dreaming. Suddenly there began to creep over me that uneasy sensation that someone was staring at me. A man standing a few yards away seemed vaguely familiar. Could it be—? Yes, it was—Inspector Horrocks.
Now, what on earth was he doing at a cricket match when he was supposed to be occupied on two important cases? And why was he scrutinizing Camilla and me so persistently? Fully awake, I jumped up and went over to him.
“Hello, Inspector,” I said, approaching from the rear. “So you are not too busy to enjoy the sport of men?”
Horrocks put one colossal forefinger up to his nose and murmured with a cryptic smile, “Baumann wasn’t the only person in this business who liked cricket, Mr. Fenton.”
“Hot on the trail, are you?” I asked with interest, “or just playing hookey?”
“I don’t care for hookey, Mr. Fenton. Oh, well hit, sir,” he cried with admiration, as a ball from Somerville’s bat soared over our heads for a boundary (six runs—vive Camilla!) “Your friend will make his century today or I’m a Dutchman. He’s up to eighty-six now. It’s a great chance for him, Mr. Fenton, a great chance.”
But whether or not there was a sinister inflection in his voice I did not have time to consider, for at this moment a pleasant-looking man came up to him, touched his elbow and passed him an orange envelope. Horrocks opened the telegram and read it through slowly. As he did so, his florid face almost rivaled the purple of Dorothy Dupuis’ dress. The two men conferred in whispers. At length the inspector turned towards me and handed me the telegram.
“You might as well read this, Mr. Fenton, seeing as how we are old friends and have no secrets from each other, like you might say, sir.”
It came from a town called Oakham (Rutland) and it stated that the authorities there were holding a man who answered to the broadcasted description of William North.
“Matter of fifty or sixty miles,” I heard the pleasant-looking man say. “The car’s waiting outside.”
“Can’t I come, too?” I cried. “Rutland is the smallest county in England, isn’t it? So Oakham must be the smallest county town.”
Horrocks smiled broadly. “Plenty of room for a friend,” he said casually.
“Oh, but—” for the first time since Monday I had forgotten Camilla’s existence. As I looked towards her, I saw that she was surrounded by a noisy group of undergraduates. “Just let me park my obligations,” I murmured.
I went over to the little cluster of boys and girls beneath the elms and whispered an explanation to Camilla. At the word “North” she seemed to start and the colour rushed to her cheeks.
“Yes, Hilary, go—please go,” she cried eagerly. “And be nice to him, poor man, and make them be nice to him, too. Remember that—”
“—there but for the grace of God goes Hilary Fenton,” I finished, kissing my fingertips.
But she paid no attention to me for her head was turned away as if to hide tears of pity.
I rejoined the two men and we all three piled into the front seat of the waiting Morris. Johnson, the pleasant-looking man, was a good driver and we were soon making fast time along the Huntington road.
“What direction are we going?” I asked.
“North by northwest,” replied Johnson. “We hit the Great North Road very soon.”
“Very suitable,” I murmured.
We passed through Huntington, famous as the birthplace of Oliver Cromwell, and continued towards Stilton, even more famous as the birthplace of the eponymous cheese. Here a signpost bearing the word “Peterborough” caught my eye.
“Are we going through Peterborough?” I asked excitedly. “I’d give my back teeth to see that Cathedral.”
Horrocks cocked an eye good-humoredly at Johnson.
“It’s not really out of our way,” said the driver smiling, “and Bill North is a good sort. He wouldn’t mind waiting.”
“I’ll give you exactly five minutes,” said the inspector as we drew up outside the cathedral close. He produced an enormous watch from his pocket and smiled in a paternal manner.
Five minutes to see one of England’s grandest cathedrals! And me without a Baedeker! Another American tragedy.
I did have time, however, to admire the clerestory and triforium and to crick my neck in looking up at the perfect Norman woodwork of the ceiling. I stood for a few seconds by the tomb of Henry VIII’s first and most unfortunate wife. Then I came out and bought a picture postcard to send to my father.
We jumped in the car and continued on our interrupted journey through the fast-receding fenland. Some deep, primeval instinct made me love this flat unpromising landscape even better than the more prtentiously picturesque sections of England. Was not my own name Fenton—undoubtedly a corruption of Fentown—and was it not possible that in this very neighbourhood my ancestors first saw the light of day and had their peaceful beings?
After leaving the fen district behind us, we passed through Stamford, the Oxford of the Middle Ages, with its magnificent churches, almshouses and its atmosphere of ancient learning and intellectual aspiration. Within twenty minutes we were entering Oakham and all other considerations went out of my mind at the prospect of seeing one of the most famous figures in English criminal history.
The car finally drew up in front of the small brick police station and we all entered the building together. A bobby took us into a back room where a slight, bearded man sat quietly reading an old, musty volume.
He looked up as we entered and I noticed that he had a broad, intellectual forehead, thinning gray hair and sad eyes whose expression seemed vaguely familiar. A smile spread over his face as Johnson advanced, holding out his hand.
So this was the famous William North whose moment of madness had set England talking for twenty years. This quiet, scholarly figure was the desperate criminal lunatic whose face had, for the past week been on the front page of every newspaper in the country. And I had expected him to look like a cross between Charlie Peace and Tarzan of the Apes! It was unbelievable.
“Why, Bill,” Johnson was saying, “here you are at last. We’ve been missing you up at the home. You shouldn’t have gone off that way.” His tone was that of an indulgent mother whose child has been caught in the larder.
William North smiled again—a sad, dreamy smile. “I’m sorry if I’ve inconvenienced you,” he said gently, “but I’m quite ready to come back now. I had to get into a decent library somehow or other. I had to get hold of this book.”
Johnson scratched his head in good-humoured bewilderment. “What’s that?” he asked.
“Ravisius Textor’s Officina. I had a theory that Rabelais used it to compile his famous lists. I believe I’m right.”
“Well, you can bring it along with you—and we’ve had the piano tuned while you were away,” said the warden cheerfully. “The superintendent is looking forward to hearing some more Chopin.”
But I could stand no more. The kindness, the incredible kindness of these two officials moved me more than any display of coarseness or brutality would have done. Truly England is a wonderful country for concealing the iron hand beneath the suède glove of gentleness. No wonder it has a lower criminal record than any other country!
I strolled about Oakham in the twilight and gazed idly at the old butter market and stocks—grim relics of the days when police authorities were not so kind as Inspector Horrocks—its fine old church and school where I could hear the happy laughter of the boys as they came out of “prep.” It was a charming, peaceful town.
When I returned to the police station, the formalities had apparently been concluded and North was sitting in the front seat of the car next to Johnson. I was introduced as a young American who had come because he wanted to see Peterborough Cathedral.
“A beautiful place,” commented North with a reminiscent light in his eyes, “but it’s a pity that they moved the body of Mary, Queen of Scots.” Involuntarily he spoke of this event (which occurred in the reign of James I) as though it had happened last week. His mind, apparently, no longer belonged in this century. The present did not exist for him. He showed no disinclination whatsoever to being taken back to the “home.”
“You’re very fond of Chopin, aren’t you, Mr. North?” I asked suddenly.
“Why, yes,” he replied with his sad, faraway smile, “Chopin is the only composer whose works I care to play now. There is another world quality about his music which seems to be especially written for those who are—er—barred from this world and all its activities.” He turned towards Johnson. “I’m glad you had the piano tuned,” he said simply.
We reached the outskirts of Cambridge at about half past eleven. After bidding my companions good night, I beckoned Horrocks aside and whispered into his ear.
“Did you notice that suit which North is wearing? No? Well, examine the buttonholes and you will see something interesting. The person to whom it originally belonged was obviously in the habit of wearing a monocle.”
Horrocks solemnly placed one forefinger along the side of his nose and closed one eye. “It doesn’t always pay to see everything, Mr. Fenton. Good night, sir.”
Apparently I was not the only person who had guessed the identity of Dr. Warren’s visitor on Monday night.
I strolled leisurely towards All Saints, thinking about the extraordinary events of this extraordinary day. Everything had been so contradictory. Everybody had insisted upon acting in the way that one would least expect. The staid Dr. Warren had entertained in his rooms a desperate, hunted criminal.
The criminal had turned out to be a scholar and a gentleman who played Chopin and talked like the Dons at high table. His relentless hunters had behaved like angels of peace and mercy instead of hard-boiled sleuths. They had even halted their chase to allow a young American dilettante to look at a cathedral. And the other dramatis personae were no less topsy turvy.
Camilla, the mysterious midnight vision of my dreams, was a nice flesh and blood girl who liked to watch cricket matches and rode a bicycle. There was nothing sinister about Dorothy Dupuis except her abbreviations. The invariable Michael was sulking like a schoolboy while Somerville—
“Hello, Fenton on Torts.” I heard my name called from across the street. “Come on, chaps, lets de-bag Hilarious Hilary from Phila., Pa., the son of Fenton on Legal Theory … the son and only heir … oh, come let us de-bag him!”
Four youths were advancing towards me. It was obvious from their gait that they had been entertaining themselves well, but not too wisely. I stood my ground.
“What was the result of the cricket match?” I asked nervously, feeling that something was expected of me.
Stuart groaned. “Listen, you chaps, he doesn’t even know that we licked the M. C. C. He doesn’t even know that his own blue-eyed boy friend made one hundred and sixty-eight, not out. If that isn’t a case for de-bagging …”
“De-bag him … de-bag him!” cried the others.
I shall never know whether or not they really intended to commit violence on my nether garments, for at this moment some one called out:
“Look out, chaps! The Progs.”
There was a general scurrying in all directions as the proctor turned the corner, followed by his two attendant bulldogs in their top hats and black coats. These are the University police and all gownless or inebriated undergraduates flee before them like leaves before the winds of winter.
Above the white band round the proctor’s neck I saw the stern, pale face of Dr. Warren. Beneath the old-fashioned top hat of the younger of the two bulldogs I caught a glimpse of Thomas Hankin. They advanced towards us in perfect phalanx. Somerville was seized.
“The proctor would like to speak to you, please, sir,” said the deferential voice of our staircase gyp.
“Damn your eyes, Hank!”
But I waited to hear no more for the other “buller” was moving menacingly towards me. I fled to the sanctuary of my college. Once within its precincts I knew that I was safe.
As I entered the gates, I noticed that the hands of the clock pointed to five minutes before midnight. A few moments later and my escapade would have cost me thirteen and four pence. As it was, I had come in without my cap and gowm, which would set me back to the tune of six and eight pence.
Well, the day had been worth it!