Saturday morning at Cambridge is a moment of respite. It is the death of each week’s life, intended by God and undergraduate as a period for sleep and for forgetting. And after my hectic Friday I had hoped to slumber on until it was time for that hybrid meal technically known as “brunch”—a movable feast midway between breakfast and lunch. But Fate had decreed otherwise; for, at the premature hour of 7:30am, I was brought back to life and all its grim realities with a very decided jerk.
“Hilary, Hilary, wake up, man!”
Someone was tugging at my bedclothes and shaking me none too gently by the shoulders. Through one half-opened eye I took in a hazy impression of Lloyd Comstock in pyjamas and dressing-gown with his dark hair sticking out in all directions. He looked like a disgruntled golliwog.
“Listen, man, you must listen,” he urged. “If I don’t have someone to talk to I shall go stark, staring mad. I’ve just had the most horrible experience….”
I turned toward the wall. “Let me dream again,” I murmured, pulling the covers over my ears. “It’s too early for horrors.”
“But, my God, man. I’ve just—I’ve just discovered a dead body—a corpse. Here in the college.” His voice was shrill with excitement.
I sat up, not quite certain whether I was asleep or awake.
“What?” I asked, bewildered.
“About an hour ago, in the court. The police are there now. They told me not to talk, but everyone must have seen it by this time. When I came away, there was a crowd of servants and four policemen, and oh, it was too utterly—beastly.”
He paused and looked around, wildly. I jumped out of bed, ran to my cupboard and poured a stiff tot of brandy.
“Here, take this,” I said, half choking him in my efforts to get it down his throat, “and that is what comes of getting up at such ungodly hours as you do!”
But he did not smile. The neat brandy had made him blink and splutter. Presently he gasped out:
“I got up about six. It was such a ripping morning for a stroll. I just couldn’t stay in bed. Besides—” he added, running a hand through his hair, “I’ve been sleeping rottenly since—since Monday.”
“Yes, but—”
“Well, I was going across the court to the baths when I suddenly noticed a top hat lying on the ground under the white lilac bush just by the front door of the Master’s Lodge. You know?”
I nodded.
He gulped again.
“Well, I thought some of the fellows had probably been having a rag last night—celebrating the cricket match or something—so I stopped to pick it up. As I did so, I saw a man’s boot sticking out from under the bush.
“Of course, I thought it must be some sort of dummy—a wax figure that some bright boy had pinched from a tailor’s shop. I went up closer to have a look and—and then I saw that it wasn’t part of a rag at all—that it was grim earnest—”
He paused for a moment and then continued more slowly:
“It was Hank lying there—our Hank, all covered with blood and dressed up in his black clothes like an—undertaker. He was stone dead and there was a silly smile on his face, you know, the sort you see on the effigies of Guy Fawkes.”
His teeth were chattering so I threw something ’round his shoulders and poured some more brandy. “Buck up, Lloyd,” I exhorted him, though I felt anything but bucked up myself.
“Well, I’ve no idea what I did next. I imagine I must have called the porter because all at once there seemed to be a crowd of people round me. Dr. Warren was there and he looked so funny with his monocle on top of green striped pyjamas—and the Dean had put on his surplice obviously in mistake for his dressing gown. Oh, it was bloody, bloody funny.”
Comstock was dangerously near the point of hysteria. I looked at him helplessly. Presently he continued in a slightly more normal tone:
“And then the inspector came—what’s his name—Horrocks. I heard Dr. Warren say that Hank must have died shortly after midnight. And that he had been stabbed in four places. There was some talk about a knife. Then the policemen began to turn everyone away. They told me to wait in my room until I was sent for. And now—”
“And now you are going to have some good strong coffee,” I said with decision. “My God, poor old Hankin! You just lie down, Lloyd, while I get some breakfast. You look all in, man.”
I tumbled into some clothes and made a brew of coffee. Comstock’s hand trembled as he took the cup but he appeared eager to discuss the matter. In fact, his state of mind improved visibly as he unburdened himself. We talked for about an hour and then a policeman appeared and told us laconically that we were both wanted. We followed him down to Dr. Warren’s rooms where an animated scene was in progress.
Half-wrapped in a white napkin, on the table lay a small knife of primitive design. It seemed to be the centrepiece of the room and focussed everyone’s attention. The senior tutor was standing near the bay window, staring at it gloomily through his monocle. Horrocks was seated at the table, and was in the act of dismissing Mrs. Bigger, who stood, poised for flight, near the door as we entered.
“Well, sir,” she was crying with the righteous indignation of one who suspects that her word has been doubted, “if it’s the last thing I say when they come to screw me down in me corfin, I shall sit up and tell them that that there knife belonged to Mr. Baumann, that I shall. And it ’ung above ’is mantel and cluttered up my cleaning every morning until Monday last—and as soon as I kleps me eyes on it, I sez …”
“All right, Mrs. Bigger. Thank you.” Horrocks’ voice cut through her monologue.
The bedmaker stalked majestically from the room. Then the inspector turned toward me and pointed at the knife on the table. “Now, Mr. Fenton, have you ever seen this knife before?”
I replied that to the best of my knowledge and belief, it had been the property of my South African neighbour; that it had been in his room last Monday morning but I had not seen it since. No, I could not be positive that it had not been there on Monday night when I discovered the body.
I recognized it by the primitive design on the handle. I knew it was a Kaffir knife—probably one of the crude weapons used by the African savages. Baumann had had a number of similar native trophies in his room. Dr. Warren nodded as if to signify that he agreed with me.
Horrocks then asked Lloyd Comstock to go through the details of his finding Hankin’s body. My stairmate had now completely recovered his composure and went through the recital in a calm, even voice. He added nothing to what he had told me earlier that morning.
The college porter was next sent for and questioned. He told the inspector that Hankin had come in from his duties as bulldog at about five minutes past twelve on the previous night. He had then gone straight over to the Master’s Lodge in the hopes (so he said) of catching a glimpse of his girl. Dr. Warren had come in shortly afterwards.
Hank slept in a little room just above the porter’s lodge and next to that occupied by the porter himself. He had never heard him come back to his room, but he had paid no attention to this fact since Hankin, who was anything but talkative, often went straight upstairs without speaking or even saying good night.
The porter expressed himself as quite certain he had seen no strangers or suspicious looking characters hanging about the court. He would have sent them about their business at once. No one had come in after Dr. Warren with the exception of Mr. Somerville, who had rung the bell at 12:16am according to the records.
The young gentleman, he added, had a paper cap on his head and seemed to be in a slightly tipsy condition; he was not wearing academic dress and—here the porter coughed slightly and cleared his throat—he had appeared to be amused by the fact that he had just been “progged” and by his own gyp at that!
“That is quite correct,” said the tutor. “Hankin was one of my bulldogs last night. We caught Somerville shortly before midnight without a gown.”
At this point Horrocks recalled one of the policemen, who left the room and returned in a few minutes. He was followed by Mary Smith, the housemaid at the Master’s lodge.
She was dressed in a black alpaca dress and the spotless white apron which makes English domestic servants so picturesque. A small cotton cap was perched on the top of her magnificent red hair. The poor girl was snivelling into a handkerchief as she entered, and her usually pretty face was swollen and distorted with grief.
The inspector rose from his chair as though she had been a duchess and patted her into a seat. For a few moments she cried noiselessly without speaking. At length she looked up and made a helpless little gesture which seemed to signify that she was ready to answer any questions.
“Your name?” asked the inspector gently.
“Mary Smith, sir,” she replied into her handkerchief.
“And you live—”
“At Trumpington, sir, alone with my mother—that is when I’m not at the lodge, sir.”
“Yes, yes. You were engaged to many Thomas Hankin, I believe?”
“Oh, yes, sir.” Here she looked across at Dr. Warren. “And I didn’t mean no ’arm meeting him like that outside the lodge door, sir. I know as ’ow I didn’t ought to of, not reely, sir, but Tom he worked so ’ard and it wasn’t often we had a chance to see each other. He was saving up his money, sir, to buy us a ’ome in South Africa and—oh, oh—” She burst into tears.
Horrocks looked at her sympathetically. “And you were the last person to see him alive?” he asked softly.
The girl looked at him sharply and her tears seemed to dry up as if by magic.
“Oh, no, sir,” she said almost eagerly. “The gentleman who spoke to Hankin when we were by the front door. He was the last, sir.”
Everyone was staring at Mary Smith with interest. There was a long pause.
“Suppose you tell us exactly what happened,” said the inspector. “In your own words.”
With another apprehensive glance in the direction of Dr. Warren, the maid replied in a low voice: “Well, sir, I knew as ’ow Tom—that’s Hankin, sir—would be finished bull-dogging soon after twelve, so I waited for him by the front door of the lodge. The master and the mistress had gone to bed long since. I didn’t see no ’arm and there wasn’t any of the young gentlemen about.”
“No, no, quite natural,” said Horrocks hurriedly. “Don’t distress yourself.”
“Well, Hankin came at about ten minutes past twelve and we—er—talked a minute or two, sir, and then I heard footsteps coming—a man’s footsteps. I went back inside the front door cos I didn’t want no one to see me there, sir, and I closed it a tiny crack and waited a minute.
“And then I heard Tom say, ‘Certainly, sir, I’ll come at once,’ and when I opened the door the two of them had moved off together and that—that was the last I seen of him, sir, the very last. No good night, no good-bye, sir.” The handkerchief was again produced.
“Did you recognize the voice of this individual who spoke to Hankin?” interposed Dr. Warren.
The maid looked at him timidly. “No, sir,” she said, dabbing at her eyes.
“Would you say, from the manner in which Hankin replied, that it was one of the tutors who spoke to him or one of the gentlemen?” asked Horrocks with unconscious humor.
The ghost of a smile flitted for a moment around Dr. Warren’s grim mouth.
“I didn’t catch what he said, sir, but Hankin answered very respectful like. But then, he was always respectful even to the young gentlemen, sir.”
“I see. But it wasn’t a fellow servant?” The girl shook her head. Horrocks turned to Dr. Warren. “Have you any idea who it could have been, Colonel?” he asked deferentially.
“I have nothing to add to the evidence I have already given,” replied the tutor coldly.
“You two young gentlemen have no idea?” He turned towards Comstock and me. We both shook our heads. There was another long moment of silence.
“I hate to say such a thing,” suddenly interjected Dr. Warren, “but I should say that it was probably Hankin’s murderer.” (There was a gasp from Mary Smith.) “When all’s said and done, he must have died between twelve and twelve-thirty. It is a great pity that this young woman cannot have been more precise. Was the man tall or short, for example? Did he wear a gown? Was his voice loud or soft?” He looked at the housemaid quizzically through his monocle.
“I didn’t see him, sir, and I couldn’t hear what he said,” she answered humbly. “There was only a crack of the door open and Hankin was standing in front of him. But if I’d only known,” she added with some spirit, “as how it might have been his murderer, sir …”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Horrocks, who appeared anxious to avoid anything in the nature of an emotional outburst. “And now, I wonder if you could tell us whether Hankin had any enemies, whether there was anyone who might have had a grudge against him?”
The girl raised her head and, for the first time, I noticed what good, intelligent eyes she had. In the general way one had only a vague impression of a pretty face topped by abundant auburn hair; but now it was obvious to me that she was no fool.
“Enemies? Oh, no, sir. Hankin didn’t have no enemies, least not as I knew of. He always worked very hard and was the saving, quiet sort, sir. He didn’t have no time to make friends or enemies.”
“Did he ever mention Mr. Baumann to you—the young gentleman who died, last Monday night?”
“No, sir, not particular. I think he did say once as how he come from South Africa, too, and how he was homesick like.”
“He never hinted that he knew anything about Mr. Baumann’s—er—accident, I suppose? Or anything about Mr. Baumann’s past life that might account for his death?”
“No, sir.”
The inspector looked at her fixedly for a moment and then said very slowly and distinctly: “But several people have told me that Hankin had been rather strange and—er—different since Monday night. He seemed to have something on his mind—to be worried. Now, you were closer to him than anyone else. Did you notice anything of the sort?”
The girl looked nervously towards Dr. Warren. His presence seemed to fascinate and frighten her at the same time. The tutor, evidently feeling that he was the cause of her embarrassment, rose and went into another room. A look of relief passed over Mary’s face.
“Well, since you mention it, sir,” she stammered, “Hankin had been sort of, well, different since last Monday. Once or twice he seemed like he was going to tell me something and then—he was not one to talk much, sir. But only last night, just before that man came up and spoke to him, he was saying as how there’d been funny things going on on ‘A’ staircase and funny visitors coming and going—”
(Was it my guilty conscience, or had she turned her eyes deliberately towards me?)
“Was that all?”
“Yes, sir, and then the man came up and spoke to him and I closed the door.”
“So you think that perhaps Hankin knew something about Mr. Baumann’s death—something that he hadn’t told?”
The maid rose from her chair with simple dignity. “I only know what I have already told you, sir.”
It was obvious to the inspector and, indeed, to all of us, that nothing further could be gained by additional cross-questioning. The thing was too recent, everyone was too much upset by the tragedy to be able to give testimony that was either valuable or constructive. We all needed time to elapse before we could get a proper sense of perspective.
The hearing was adjourned and I strolled out into the court with Lloyd Comstock. The college looked more like a Hollywood attempt to represent Cambridge than an actual corner of the great university itself.
A motion picture cameraman was busily photographing various corners of the old building and a group of undergraduates were making theatrical gestures to each other in animated conversation. Newspaper reporters were buttonholing recalcitrant policemen, whilst college servants stood around with empty trays like so many errand boys.
The whole thing gave the impression of a badly arranged set in an indifferently produced amateur performance. The shock seemed temporarily to have upset even the immemorial dignity of Cambridge.
While Comstock and I stood by the foot of our staircase, Michael came down with a book under his arm.
“You’ve heard about it?” I asked.
He nodded, looking with disgust at the garish crowd at the far end of the court. “Can’t they clear up that mess?” he murmured. “It’s a disgrace.” And without another word he strode off through the main gateway.
No sooner had he disappeared than Stuart Somerville’s door opened and the blond young cricketer emerged. He was wearing a bathrobe and his hair was dishevelled. I noticed that his usually candid eyes were slightly bloodshot and his cheeks were pale beneath their light coat of tan. The roses and raptures of a heroic yesterday had been replaced by the lilies and languors of this tragic morning.
“Tough luck on Hank,” he said, anticipating our question. “He was a good egg, too, even if he did prog me last night. Mrs. Bigger has just been expounding on his virtues though I must confess that she has discovered them rather late in the day. Cripes, but my head is splitting! I need a cold tub.”
He moved off towards the bathrooms and Comstock, who was still in his dressing gown, started to follow him. For a moment I stood alone, engrossed with my own thoughts.
“Well, Mr. Fenton,” said a voice at my elbow, “there are certain aspects of this case which will no doubt be a source of great personal satisfaction to you.”
I wheeled round to find myself looking into Horrocks’ paternal countenance.
“How come?” I asked, puzzled.
“Well, sir, if Hankin was killed after midnight, that certainly eliminates some people who couldn’t possibly have been in the college at that time, like as you might say sir. And if they weren’t guilty in this case, they probably didn’t have anything to do with Baumann’s death either. My guess is that one person was responsible for both.”
“It certainly lets poor old North out,” I said guardedly. “If ever anyone had a cast iron alibi for his movements last night—a police inspector, a keeper and an irreproachable undergraduate.”
“Come, come, Mr. Fenton,” he smiled genially, “you know I wasn’t referring to Bill North.”
With this cryptic utterance he left me and started to disperse the newspaper and cameramen who clustered round the Master’s lodge like vultures hovering over a piece of carrion.
It was a few moments before the full implication of his remarks began to dawn upon me. Now how the deuce did the old fox know that I had just been feeling relieved that Camilla was now cleared at last? For at 12:30 last night she was undoubtedly safe in her bed at Newnham.
And if he knew that I was relieved, he must have guessed that I had been worried about her previously. Well, the only explanation was that Herbert Horrocks had missed his vocation; he ought to have been on the halls in a thought-reading act. Sometimes the man was decidedly uncanny.