The next day was Sunday and a memorial service was held in the college chapel for Baumann and Hankin. All Saints attended in a body, from the youngest pantry boy to the Master himself, who sat through the service like a figure hewed from the granite of another era.
The Dean preached a moving sermon and when, after the benediction, we all remained standing for Chopin’s Funeral March, I am sure that there was not a soul in the chapel who was not mindful of his mortality and grateful for the gift of life which had been snatched so suddenly and so tragically from these two.
I say that the whole college had assembled to pay a last tribute to its dead. Fellows, agnostic and atheist—servants, male and female—undergraduates, Jew and Gentile—all were there. And when I looked round at that sea of faces, I felt a sudden clutching at my throat as I reflected that someone in that vast congregation must be harboring within his breast a terrible and guilty secret.
That someone had knelt in the sight of God with a lie on his lips. He had stood with bowed head in mock reverence towards those whose death he had caused. And no thunderbolt from heaven had descended upon him. But I did not envy him his conscience.
When I came out of chapel, I found that even the weather seemed to reflect the general atmosphere of gloom and depression. It was a cold, dreary day. A thick Scotch mist hung tenaciously over Cambridge and it showed no sign of clearing when I presented myself at the front door of the Master’s lodge at four-thirty in the afternoon.
To my surprise it was Mary Smith who answered my ring. Though her face now bore the mask-like composure of the perfect English servant, the traces of yesterday’s ordeal were still apparent. I muttered a few conventional words of sympathy as she ushered me into the Master’s study. Dr. Warren, Michael, Comstock, Somerville and one or two other undergraduates were already seated stiffly around in a semicircle.
Dr. Hyssop greeted me in his usual affectionate manner, asked after my father and started to chatter so amusingly that his gaiety soon infected his guests and made them forget themselves and the dreary weather. He had evidently decided that the watchword of the college should be “Business as usual during the crisis.”
But while we were waiting for tea to be brought in, Dr. Hyssop managed to create a few minor crises in his own inimitable manner, doubtless with a view to diverting our minds from the major one which occupied us all. He began by warmly congratulating Somerville on his success in winning the Lenox Scholarship.
When the slight flutter caused by this remark had subsided, he turned to Michael and said that he had heard of his wonderful performance against the M. C. C. on Thursday. He went on to remark that he considered All Saints to be singularly blest in its blues and brains.
Though he did not mention the fact, it was also singularly blest in having the most original Master in Cambridge. For, during the past eighty or ninety years Dr. Martineau Hyssop had had abundant opportunity to perfect the art of saying the right things to the wrong people.
His little mistakes had made him almost as famous as the much misquoted Dr. Spooner of New College, Oxford. It amounted almost to genius. But he dropped his little bricks so charmingly that they seldom, if ever, fell on sensitive corns. A great deal is forgiven a man who has lived through four or five generations and retained his interest in the things that go on in the world around him.
Still more must be forgiven a man who has always been careful never to say the wrong thing to the right person, which, when all’s said and done, is a very different kettle of fish. Whatever his eccentricities, the Master of All Saints will always be my ideal of the perfect type of perfect English gentleman.
The ball of conversation had started to roll smoothly along when Mary appeared bearing a stand of cakes, some hot buttered toast and the diminutive sandwiches which grace the British tea-table more as an ornament than to satisfy hunger. These she placed in front of the fire. The Master was now busy talking to two very young freshmen, one of whom I recognized as the son of the Governor of Senegambia. Both of these youths were hugging the fire in their jejeune shyness and embarrassment.
“A fire is pleasant on a day like this,” remarked our host genially. “But it has been so warm recently I didn’t think that even my old bones would need any more artificial heat this term.”
“It has been very warm,” shivered the son of the tropics.
“But not so warm as where your father is,” said the Master turning politely to the other youth, whose father had been dead for years.
At this juncture Mary appeared again, bearing a large silver teapot which she set reverently on a side cable. There was the sound of a distant bell ringing.
The Master rose from his seat and started to busy himself over the tea for which he was so famous among the connoisseurs and which he never allowed anyone but himself to pour. He had barely filled one cup when Mary entered again, this time from the direction of the front door. She announced in clear, matter-of-fact tones:
“Miss Camilla Lathrop.”
Dr. Hyssop put down the cup which he had just poured and turned towards the door. I looked round in amazement, hardly able to believe my ears or my eyes. Camilla, dressed in soft, dove-gray, was moving hesitatingly across the room towards her venerable host.
In her left hand she held an engraved invitation card like the one I had received yesterday. Her expression showed that she was not to be damped by the fact that she was the only woman present, but I could tell that beneath this outward poise and assurance she was as nervous as a girl of sixteen.
The Master had bustled over to greet her.
“Delighted, delighted, Miss—Miss—?”
“Lathrop,” supplemented Camilla.
“Of course, of course. So nice of you to come, Miss Haytop. Won’t you sit here?”
The rest of us, who had been strolling round the room and examining the Master’s interesting souvenirs, were then called over and introduced by perfectly good names. The only thing wrong with them was that they did not happen to be our own. After the introductions our host resumed his interrupted occupation of pouring out tea, leaving Dr. Warren to entertain Camilla.
As I watched these two together and noticed the warm, cordial way in which the tutor talked to her, I could not resist a sudden stab of unreasonable jealousy. Though old enough to be her father, he was still a very attractive man. It was obvious that she liked him and also obvious that they were not meeting for the first time.
The glorious profile was glowing with animation and response as she listened and replied. The dark blue eyes were full of intelligent, almost affectionate understanding as they met the serious gaze of Dr. Warren. I was curious and perturbed.
It was a relief when the teacups began to circulate and the Master went back to his place on the couch by Camilla’s side. The senior tutor took a cup of tea from Mary’s hand and gave it to his neighbour. The nicest looking of the freshmen passed the toast with over-ostentatious alacrity.
Camilla was the pivot around which everyone’s solicitude revolved. So far she had not given me so much as a fleeting smile. My nose was completely out of joint, but not to such an extent that I could not appreciate the calm dexterity with which she was handling what would have seemed an exceedingly difficult situation to nine girls out of ten.
Why on earth had the Master elected to invite her to an entirely male tea party? It was obvious that he had never met her before. He did not even know her name! Such a thing must be unique in the annals of an anti-feminist university. It was as fantastic as Alice’s sojourn in Wonderland—as improbable as her tea party with the Mad Hatter!
Suddenly the tutor looked up and caught my eye fixed jealously upon him and his neighbour. An extraordinaiy expression passed over his face. “Mr. Fenton,” he said, with his nearest approach to a smile, “we old men must not monopolize the only lady present. Perhaps—”
I glared at him sulkily without moving. But Stuart Somerville had caught the remark and quickly rushed forward to fill the place where at least one angel had feared to tread.
“You are not drinking your tea, Miss Claythorn,” I heard the Master say. “You must appreciate my tea, you know. John Masefield told me the other day that I am the only man in England besides himself who really understands the finer points of tea. He got this for me on one of his cruises!”
Camilla raised her cup to her lips. “It has a remarkable bouquet,” she said, smiling, “like—er—almond blossoms. I love China tea.”
As she spoke, the Master leant forward so suddenly that he almost upset her cup. Very gently he laid one of his wrinkled old hands on Camilla’s wrist. A look of pain and bewilderment had come into his mild blue eyes.
“My dear young lady,” he said earnestly, “you mustn’t, you really must not talk about China tea to me. No self-respecting fellow of a Cambridge college ever serves China tea to his guests. To a real tea lover the Chinese product is nothing more or less than decadent dishwater. Now this comes to me specially from Ceylon. It is the finest hand-picked leaf, packed in lead boxes.”
Poor Camilla blushed furiously. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.
Everyone had stopped talking and was staring at her with a mixture of sympathy and pity. Dr. Warren, evidently suspecting an uncomfortable situation, started a loud conversation in another corner of the room. No one paid much attention to him.
The Master had now taken the cup from her hand and was shaking a finger at her playfully.
“Don’t be distressed,” he said. “It’s quite natural that you—” Here he sniffed delicately at her cup with the flair of a connoisseur. “Why,” he cried suddenly, “you are quite right! They must have made some mistake in the kitchen because it is China tea! God bless my soul!
“Warren, here is a young lady who knows more about tea than I do. She is that rara avis, a woman with a palate—a discriminating sense.” He looked at her almost affectionately. “You never learnt anything as useful as this at Giiton, my dear. It is a gift—a heaven-sent gift!”
The unfortunate Camilla looked more uncomfortable than ever. Her eyes sought mine in mute appeal but I had no help to offer. Surely the old man must be in his dotage. The atmosphere of the room was stiff with nervous embarrassment. Dr. Hyssop, however, seemed carried away with enthusiasm for his subject.
“Will you please ring the bell, Mr. Somerville. Thank you.” The maid appeared.
“Mary,” said the Master with mock severity, “through some unfortunate error, China tea has been served today. I thought the household knew that I never use it myself or offer it to my guests. Will you please take the pot away and bring in some of my best Ceylon.”
“It is the same as what you always have Sundays,” said the girl, blushing apologetically.
“Please do as I say. Cook must have made a mistake. You can take away the cups, too.”
Mary took the teapot and collected the cups on a tray. I noticed, however, that the Master retained his own and Camilla’s. I also managed to take a hurried sip before my cup was removed.
Now, I am only an American and, as such, cannot be expected to understand the finer points of so essentially British a beverage as tea. But I had been in England almost a year and I did know China tea when I tasted it. As a matter of fact I prefer it, though nothing would have induced me to admit my Philistinism at this moment.
At any rate, I was certain that this was no more China tea than it was bathtub gin. Whether from India or Ceylon I was not prepared to swear, but it was not from China—no, definitely no! Again I asked myself what had come over the Master. Was he just making a beautiful gesture to cover Camilla’s mistake and his own subsequent lack of tact?
Was he deliberately putting himself in the wrong for some obscure reason of his own? Or was he merely dropping a few more of his characteristic bricks, oblivious of the fact that he was causing a most unpleasant social contretemps?
He had now risen from his seat to place Camilla’s cup on the mantelpiece. “Now you shall have some real tea, Miss Dunlop,” he said smiling and bowing slightly in her direction. “It will be a great privilege to hear the opinion of an expert on my own particular brew.” He turned toward me: “And while we are waiting, Hilary, there is something I want to show you. A letter from your father—over here.”
I followed him to his desk in the far corner of the room, noting, as I did so, that Stuart lost no time in switching on Camilla the full battery of his charms.
The Master started to fumble among some papers in his desk. He beckoned me closer. “Listen to me very carefully,” he whispered. “Can you hear me, Hilary?” I nodded my head. “Well, in a few minutes I am going to clear the room. I am going to be rather impolite and get rid of my guests. I have a reason. Go when the others go, but stay with the young lady. Ask her to return here immediately and come with her. Is that clear?” I nodded again. He handed me a blank sheet of paper. I looked at it with assumed interest. “Here is the letter,” he said out loud.
“Very, very amusing,” I replied, staring unseeingly at its blankness.
We then rejoined the group by the fireplace, where the Master started to talk as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
“I am sorry about this little mistake,” he said brightly, “but we must stick by the British Empire. We must uphold the great industry of which your father is such a worthy pillar.”
This remark was doubtless intended for the son of the Governor of Senegambia. It was addressed to Lloyd who is the only son and heir of a notorious industry known to the public as Comstock’s “Comfy-Knicks.” The idea of the Master’s trying to support this particular article of merchandise was too much for our sense of gravity. A little ripple of merriment ran round the room.
Dr. Martineau Hyssop looked from one to the other. His face had puckered up into a thousand wrinkles like that of a child who is about to cry.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I’ve—I’ve—” here he sank into a chair and his white beard fell forward on his chest. “One of my attacks,” he murmured. “Warren, Warren—” His voice died away and we all sprang forward. The smiles faded from our faces. Dr. Warren was the first to reach his side.
“Stand back, please,” cried the tutor firmly.
The Master raised a valedictory hand. “I think perhaps—”
Dr. Warren nodded towards the door. We were quick to take the hint and left the room one by one to collect in the court outside.
“Poor old Master,” said Somerville to Camilla, but I caught her arm and pulled her gently away before she had time to reply. She looked at me in bewilderment.
“Hilary Fenton,” she said, “I believe everyone in All Saints is completely dotty. I have never in all my life—”
“Listen, for God’s sake listen to me, Camilla,” I whispered earnestly. “Something happened in there just now. I don’t know what, but there was a crisis of some sort. You and I have got to go back. That attack of the Master’s was a put-up job. We must shake the others somehow. Get me?”
“How about finishing this jolly little tea party in my room?” said Stuart with a collective look round him. “I don’t serve decadent dishwater.” His cornflower eyes rested questioningly on Camilla.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I have got to get back to Newnham. Mr. Fenton is going with me. Thank you all the same.”
We moved off in the direction of the Backs and waited until the little group had dispersed from the vicinity of the Master’s lodge. Then we snatched our opportunity and returned.
We found the Master and Dr. Warren in the study where we had left them. Dr. Hyssop had completely recovered from his “attack,” but his face was exceedingly grave. A cup of tea was on the table in front of him. Dr. Warren picked it up and passed it to me.
“Mr. Fenton,” he said seriously, “you are not a scientist, I know. But perhaps you can tell me what this cup smells of. It is the one which was given to Miss Lathrop a short while ago.”
I took the cup from his hand and sniffed at it wonderingly. I have already said that I am peculiarily sensitive to odours. There was no mistake about this one.
“Peaches and almonds,” I said unhesitatingly.
The senior tutor nodded. “And do you happen to know what chemical smells like bitter almonds or the kernel of peach stones?”
I searched back in my memory to the early scientific groundings of my prep-school days. A sudden hazy recollection made cold beads of perspiration stand out on my forehead.
“Prussic acid. Oh, my God!”
“Potassium cyanide. Exactly. That is my guess, too, though we cannot be certain until we have made an analysis.” Dr. Warren’s voice was calm and level. “Unless I am very much mistaken, someone has deliberately tried to kill Miss Lathrop with one of the most deadly and virulent poisons known to man. And that someone would have succeeded had it not been for the extraordinary dexterity of the Master.”
Camilla had subsided into a chair and was staring at the two men in horror.
“Poison me? she gasped.
A warm expression of sympathy spread over Dr. Warren’s usually impassive face as he looked at her. Once again I had the feeling that there was something between these two—some secret which they shared against the world.
“I’m afraid so, my dear,” said the Master gently. “We can come to no other conclusion. Here is my own cup. It is harmless. Hilary, I saw, drank some of his, and the others—well, they are still alive, I presume.”
“Good God!” I cried, “this is the most ghastly, the most awful—” I was shaking with rage and excitement.
“Please, Mr. Fenton, keep control of yourself,” cut in the cool incisive voice of the tutor. “I have telephoned to Inspector Horrocks. He will be here immediately.”
“And I owe you a profound apology,” said the Master to Camilla. “Throughout the whole course of my life I have never deliberately caused embarrassment or distress to a lady. I regret to say that my manners this afternoon were execrable.
“But there was nothing else to be done. I knew there was something the matter with your tea as soon as you spoke of almond blossoms. I did not wish to make a scene in front of the young men. I confess I acted clumsily but it was for the best.”
“I don’t know how to thank you, Master,” said Camilla simply. “But you must forgive me for asking you just one question. Why did you invite me here today? When your card came this morning—”
The Master had risen from his seat and was looking closely into her eyes. “My dear young lady,” he said at length, “it has been a pleasure—a great pleasure and privilege to meet you. I know I am old and absent-minded, so I am sure you will forgive me when I tell you that I did not invite you here today.
“The invitation which you received was sent without my knowledge. Indeed, before this afternoon, I had never heard of you in my life. But I sincerely hope that this is only the beginning of a long and pleasant friendship.”