If the day of Shirley’s funeral had appeared to me the longest day of my life, the two which immediately followed it seemed an eternity. And they seemed all the more wretched because, to my impatient mind, those most concerned gave the impression of doing little or nothing to elucidate the mystery. Like many a man of slightly infirm purpose – and of such in moments of introspection I sometimes allowed myself to be – I was prone in times of crisis to demand with fussy insistence that something should be done. Conscious of the truth of Lord Melbourne’s classic warning to such as myself I yet contrived at such times always to forget it. Unable to act myself I was tireless in urging others to action. So now with the passing of each leaden hour I felt that opportunities were being wasted, which would never return. Why was Brendel sitting idle while the scent grew cold? Why was not Cotter still rushing from one person to another, questioning, exploring, tracking down the culprit? I had an absurd feeling that the whole college was being lulled or even hypnotized into a state of acquiescence in failure. The official view, shared by most of my colleagues, had come to be that some person unknown, and as yet unsuspected, must have been the murderer, since no one within the college could, on reflexion, be seriously suspected. With that view I was inclined to agree – or had been until the time of my interview with Mottram – but whether it was right or wrong I fumed and fretted at the thought of leaving it unproved. Would Cotter really leave us, confessing that this mystery was as dark as when he was first consulted? And Brendel, who had said at the beginning that he was afraid of what he would find, would he go away having found out exactly nothing? His last lecture was to be delivered on the Wednesday, and I knew that he planned to return to Vienna at the end of the week. Did he propose to sit with hands folded until then, and take leave of us without contributing anything towards a solution? That would be deception indeed. I had trusted in him, and he was going to fail me, like everyone else. Why had he tamely agreed to Mottram’s request for delay, when action was imperatively called for? Was not the obvious explanation that he saw no possibility of success in his quest, and meant to leave us to our troubles with a minimum of annoyance to himself? My mood throughout these days did not remain constant. When I chanced to meet Brendel I felt almost at once the warm glow of trust which his presence and voice always produced in me; how could I have doubted him, so wise, so confident, so sure? Yet once more alone I would sink back into doubt and perplexity and self-pity. The revelation of my own weakness and incompetence reduced me to a pitiful state of nervous discomfort. So must many, I reflected, of those great historical figures have suffered about whom I had so often glibly lectured and whom I had often castigated for their indecisions – themselves too feeble, or events too great.
The slow torture of those days was on Wednesday afternoon made almost unbearable by an incident which was to me indescribably distressing, and which I was totally at a loss to explain. Ever since the funeral I had been screwing up my courage to call upon the Verekers, partly because I wanted to offer my sympathy to them, partly because I was pledged to Cotter to attempt to gain some more information. I had indeed decided to call on the Tuesday afternoon, but I had learned that the President had wisely enough taken both his daughters away for the whole day into the country to visit his sister, and so I had had perforce to wait – but on Wednesday I could evade my responsibilities no longer. About four o’clock I chanced to see Ruth and Mary enter the President’s Lodgings together, and so, about ten minutes later, I myself knocked on the door.
The President’s butler, whom I had known for thirty years, opened it, but, instead of greeting me with his usual smile of welcome, compounded of exactly the right amount of dignity and respect, and an intimation that the ladies were in the drawing-room, told me in an embarrassed manner that neither Mrs Shirley nor Miss Vereker could receive any visitors.
‘But, Hanbury,’ I said, ‘I’m not a visitor in the ordinary sense of the term. I feel quite certain that they would wish to see me. Just go back and tell Miss Vereker who is here, and I feel sure that she will be glad if I come in.’
Hanbury went away to do my bidding, though I could see that he felt uneasy. In a few moments he returned. Miss Vereker was very sorry, but she and her sister were unable to see anyone that afternoon.
I left the house feeling bitterly humiliated, and more miserable than ever before in my life. For thirty years that door had never been closed to me; I had watched Ruth and Mary grow up – I had been their friend and counsellor and confidant. From them I had received kindness and help unstintedly; they had prevented me from loneliness as I grew older, they had cheered me into good temper when I was bored or fretful. And in return I had given them both all that I had to give of sympathy and devotion. Yet now, when they must most need their friends, I found myself turned away and rejected. In what had I offended? Could Brendel’s untimely questions have so hurt them that I too, as his friend, was under a cloud? Had I fallen short of my duty to them in any way? I returned to my lonely rooms, a prey to the most harassing and depressing thoughts. That night I could not face the company of my colleagues. I dined alone in my rooms, and after dinner sat for some hours in my chair, pretending to read, but in fact turning the events of the last week over and over in my mind, as I sought desperately but vainly for some clue which should guide me to an explanation of the mystery of Shirley’s murder.
Events happen when they are least expected. I had resigned myself to another day of helpless misery, and was wondering how I should bring my mind to its task of the day’s teaching, as I idly turned over the leaves of The Times on Thursday morning. And then suddenly an announcement caught and held my astonished eyes. It ran as follows: ‘The marriage arranged between Maurice Hargreaves, Fellow and Dean of St Thomas’s College, Oxford, and Miss Mary Vereker will not take place.’
My first reaction was one of blazing anger and disgust. Unfavourably though I had sometimes estimated Maurice’s character I could never have credited him with an act of such callous cruelty as this. To break off his engagement at such a time, or even to allow Mary to break it! That, at a time when she was tortured by trouble and racked with the wretched details of a hateful tragedy, seemed to me inhuman. No explanation seemed reasonable, no excuse possible. I had always thought of Maurice as a gentleman, even when I had most disliked him, now I could only feel that he was a cad, for whom no words could be harsh enough. I sprang from my chair, and paced up and down the room, considering what could be done to protect Mary from this new disaster. So distraught was I that I did not hear Brendel’s knock, and only observed him when he stood before me.
‘Have you seen this – this damnable thing?’ I asked, pushing The Times into his hands.
‘Yes,’ he replied; ‘half an hour ago, and I’m not altogether surprised. Don’t be carried off your feet, Winn. There is more in this than appears on the surface, but I hope you’ll be patient for a little while, and not try to put things right in a hurry. Meantime I’ve a request to make.’
I was altogether surprised both by his manner and his remarks. The seeming lethargy of the day before had deserted him; he was all briskness and decision, but his face was unsmiling.
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to borrow your car for the whole day. The sun is shining almost for the first day since I came here, and I mean to spend the whole day out on the Berkshire Downs. Can I have it? I have just made Mottram promise to come with me.’
My surprise changed to astonishment, but I could only consent to what seemed to me a rather extraordinary request.
‘And the crime,’ I hazarded, ‘is there nothing to be done about that? Are we to go on sitting still and doing nothing?’
He patted me sympathetically on the shoulder.
‘You must let me go my own way, please. But tell me this: Are you dining out this evening?’
‘Indeed no. I should be poor company indeed. I’d intended to dine in Hall as usual, but I’m not sure that I can face even that if Maurice Hargreaves is going to be there.’
‘Then do dine in Hall to please me, and keep yourself free after dinner. I think that I shall have something, and perhaps a great deal, to tell you then. We are very near to the end of this trail.’
Before I could question him further he was gone, and I sat down more mystified than ever to continue my ruminations.
Thursday seemed indeed interminable. Men of infirm purpose always tend in my experience to comfort themselves with catchwords and quotations. There is a false sense of finality and decision about the ex cathedra statements of the great and the utterances of literary persons. I used often to feel in argument or discussion in Common Room that I had decided the question at issue when I had found some apposite citation which seemed to sum up my view. And yet, in reality, how useless and barren such things are! That day, I remember, Swinburne’s words went echoing and re-echoing through my head:
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.
Cold comfort at the best!
And yet for all that time did seem to stand still, and I thought that the evening would never come.
When at long last I made my way towards Common Room just before seven-thirty I found Brendel waiting for me. He drew me aside, and spoke with urgency.
‘Listen. I want you to stay in Common Room until ten o’clock. After that I have promised Mottram something. Don’t be surprised. You and I are to go up in your car to the laboratory to fetch him from there. Is that all right?’
‘But he’s got his own car, and it’s rather ridiculous to go out at that time for nothing.’
‘Never mind. I know it’s unusual, but that doesn’t matter. If anyone asks you, say that I am interested in Mottram’s work, or anything else you like. But at ten, o’clock we go up together to the laboratory. Sie müssen auf alle Fälle mitkommen.’
I knew that he was worried from the fact that he had dropped unconsciously into German, but I had no opportunity for further discussion, for the other diners were already collecting. I nodded acquiescence and we moved together up to Hall.
Conversation that evening was perfunctory and spasmodic. Everyone was ill at ease, and although Maurice Hargreaves was not with us no one, not even Doyne, seemed anxious to discuss the announcement which we had all seen in The Times. By half past nine nobody was left by the Common Room fire except Brendel and myself, and between us, for the first time since our acquaintance had begun, conversation halted. Brendel was palpably ill at ease. Though as a rule the most finished and appreciative of smokers he allowed an expensive cigar to go out half-smoked and then threw it almost petulantly into the fire. He interspersed lengthy periods of silence with feverish bursts of disconnected remarks; he paced the room as though some form of activity were a physical necessity to him. And yet, as ten o’clock approached, he showed no desire to leave.
‘A little longer; it will be difficult; give him a little longer,’ he muttered more to himself than to me, and it was not until about five minutes past ten that, after looking at his watch for the twentieth time, he suddenly seemed to make a decision.
‘We must go now,’ he said; ‘come and get the car. We put on our greatcoats and walked by way of the Fellows’ door to the open space behind the college where my car was parked. I opened the door to step into the driver’s seat, but Brendel laid a restraining hand on my arm.
‘I think I’ll drive, if you don’t mind,’ he said. I was surprised and no doubt my face showed it. I am by no means an expert driver, indeed it was a standing joke among my younger colleagues that I combined a maximum of risk with a minimum of speed, but still Brendel’s suggestion piqued me, for we had, after all, only a five-minute drive before us through almost empty streets.
He guessed what was passing in my mind, and hastened to correct the false impression which his remark had made.
‘It’s not that, Winn. I’m not so pusillanimous as you think me. But I’ve got something which must be told you as we drive up, and I want your whole attention.’
Nothing could have been more friendly than the words, but where was that smile which I had come to expect and to enjoy? Brendel’s face was hard and expressionless, as though he had forced it into a rigid mask. The disquiet which had been growing on me during the evening turned to something almost like panic, and I braced myself to meet some new and as yet unknown disaster.
Brendel started the car, and we moved off in the direction of the laboratory, but it was not until we were already half-way to our destination that he suddenly spoke.
‘Winn, I can’t let you go quite unprepared. I think – I’m not quite sure – but I think that when we arrive we shall … not find Mottram alive.’ I had expected bad news of some kind, but the words when they came were like a knock-out blow.
‘For God’s sake tell me what you mean. Is there some other horrible tragedy? What is it all about?’
Brendel bent his head lower over the wheel as he replied, and his voice was very grave.
‘I can’t tell you more till we get there, and after all I may be wrong, but I couldn’t let you enter that room without letting you know first what you might find. I believe that we shall find that Mottram has taken his life.’
Wild thoughts raced through my mind. Why, in Heaven’s name, if this was true, had we sat for the last two hours with hands folded in the Common Room? Had Brendel for some unfathomable reason wished as well as foreseen this second tragedy? And what bearing, if any, had it on Shirley’s death? Such were the questions which were on the tip of my tongue, but I could not ask them. I waited helplessly till I should know whether this new disaster was hard fact or idle fancy.
As we drew up by the door of the laboratory I noticed that the windows of the room where Mottram worked were alight, whilst the rest of the building was in darkness; apparently there were no other workers there that night. Brendel, I think, made the same observation, for he cast a rapid glance over the exterior of the building, and nodded his head as though satisfied. Then he produced a key from his pocket, and opened the main door. Like an automaton I followed him. I had a curious sensation as though I were acting in a play; my movements seemed to me to have been dictated to me, and I carried them out without conscious volition on my part. And all the while terror gripped me; a growing certainty that in the next minute I should once more be face to face with tragedy and death.
Brendel seemed to know his way well over the building. He switched on a light in the passage, and led me without hesitation to Mottram’s room. Then he knocked once, firmly, on the door.
There was no answer.
Brendel knocked again, but I knew, as he must have, that no reply would come. Then, after the briefest pause, he tried the handle of the door. It did not open, but he pulled another key from his pocket, and unlocked it.
I think that the worst horror of the evening was over before I crossed the threshold, for now I saw only what in my mind’s eye I had already seen – and flinched from. Mottram was in a chair, half lying, half sitting, and I knew long before I looked at his face that he was dead. In front of him on a shelf was an empty glass and two envelopes, one very bulky and the other of ordinary size. As I looked at these I noticed with surprise that the larger was addressed to me.
Brendel, meantime, had felt Mottram’s heart and satisfied himself that he was dead; then he bent over the empty glass and smelt it.
‘Prussic acid. I thought so,’ he muttered. He walked back to the door and carefully locked it.
‘I don’t think we shall be disturbed,’ he said; ‘but it’s as well to be certain. You’d better open that letter, and see what’s in it. Perhaps you might read it aloud.’
Of a sudden I felt rather faint, and sat down abruptly in a chair.
‘Oughtn’t we to send for the police first?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think so; there is nothing to be done for him now, and I believe that the letter should be read before we decide what to do.’
I opened the large envelope obediently and pulled out a dozen closely written sheets of manuscript. I had thought that Brendel had remained almost inhumanly calm, but I noticed, as he too pulled up a chair, that his hand trembled ever so little.
‘I think, Winn,’ he said very gently, ‘that you are going to read the life history of a man, whom you have lived with for eight years and never known.’