It was an hour or more after any normal lunch-time that Olivia Jory, in her turn, knocked on Clout’s door. As she got no reply, she waited for a few seconds and then knocked again. This time a voice called to her to enter. It was a girl’s voice. Olivia opened the door and walked in.
Sadie Sackett was the only person in the room. She was sitting on the table in the middle, with an oddly obtrusive air of doing nothing at all. This struck Olivia so powerfully, indeed, that she at once suspected the room’s owner of having bolted into hiding. Probably she had interrupted a disgusting petting-party. She pointed at the only other door she could see. ‘I suppose Colin’s in there?’ she asked coldly.
‘In there? Colin?’ Miss Sackett was certainly startled. At the same time, she looked rather threatening. For a moment Olivia couldn’t decide quite why. Then she saw that it was because the girl was casually swinging what might be called a blunt instrument. It was, in fact, a crowbar. ‘Colin?’ Sadie repeated. ‘No, he’s not here. He’s gone to lunch with that American professor – Milder.’ And she added: ‘I’ve been doing a bit of cleaning up for him. The old women on the job are no good.’
‘Somebody might do a bit of cleaning up for you.’ Olivia had now noticed that Sadie was quite fantastically begrimed. ‘You look like somebody going to a fancy-dress ball as a cobweb.’
Sadie laughed at this as if she heard nothing offensive in it. ‘I’ll bet I do. I’ve been having a go at that cupboard. It’s full of junk.’ She tossed the crowbar carelessly into a corner, where it fell with a bang that made Olivia jump. ‘Did you want Colin? I don’t know when he’ll be back. By the way, you look scared.’
‘Scared?’ Olivia was indignant.
‘Well, agitated.’
‘I’m not agitated. But something’s happened, and I do want Colin. Why should that Professor Milder invite him to lunch?’
Sadie grinned. ‘That’, she said, ‘turns out to be a very great puzzle. What do you think of Milder?’
‘I don’t think of him all.’ Olivia spoke impatiently. ‘He’s somebody one would positively try not to think of, I’d say.’
‘Exactly.’
Olivia frowned. ‘I don’t think Professor Milder’s of any importance, anyway. But Professor Gingrass is.’ She hesitated. ‘Look here – we’re on different sides, I know. But I’d better tell you what I came to tell Colin. Gingrass has got ahead of us. He’s doing a tremendous dig.’
‘For the Caucasian treasure?’
‘Yes, of course. He’s got together a big party of your scruffy students–’
Sadie Sackett got off the table. ‘ Your manners are awful,’ she said.
Olivia flushed. ‘All right – I apologize. But it’s objectively true, you know. They wear their hair too long, and have spotty complexions, and ridiculous ties. I don’t say they’re not very decent chaps.’
‘But a great gulf yawns?’ Sadie laughed. ‘Still, I don’t suppose they’re planning to make off with valuable property on the quiet.’
For a moment Olivia Jory seemed at a loss. ‘Look here,’ she said. ‘There’s no point, is there, in our starting a slanging match? Gingrass has mobilized some sort of archaeological society, and is digging away behind the old coach-house. Come to think of it, that’s quite an intelligent guess. That’s what would have happened when those horses ran away. The sots would have buried the stuff there and then.’
Sadie shook her head. ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘As a matter of fact, it hasn’t been, with Gingrass, just an intelligent guess. Somebody’s spun him a yarn. There’s something mysterious about it.’
‘Well, the yarn must have made him pretty confident. He’s blowing great guns. Turned out the guard. You positively feel the absence of a great brass band. It’s infuriating.’
‘Is it?’ Sadie, on the contrary, seemed to find amusement in Gingrass’ proceedings. ‘There’s a crowd?’
‘Everybody.’ Olivia made a gesture round the attic of the Shufflebotham Student. ‘Every Tom, Dick, and Harry belonging to this venerable place of learning is on the spot. From your Vice-Chancellor downwards.’
‘The V-C?’ Sadie was delighted. ‘Let’s go and look.’
Olivia nodded. ‘Very well – we’ll go and look. But, considering that you and George Lumb have been all out to get this stuff for Sir John, I think you take it very lightly. Why were those miserable professors allowed to come to New Hall, anyway? They had no business there at all.’
‘Displaced persons, you feel?’ Sadie moved to the door. ‘Well, your great-great-grandfather’s Grecian girl-friend was that. Not to speak of Sir Joscelyn’s mummy. In fact, there’s a lot that’s got displaced in this affair. But come along.’
Gingrass’ dig was already a spectacular event, and everybody was delighted with it. Or everybody except the young ladies and gentlemen of the Riding Club. These – they were the hard core of the University’s smart set – had been granted the use of the old coach-house, and of part of a range of stabling beyond. On turning up after luncheon, nicely dressed, for an afternoon’s equitation under the admiring eyes of their simpler fellows, they were naturally annoyed at finding the greater part of the stable-yard a chaos of pits and trenches. They mounted and rode away, but nobody attended to them. This had the effect of bringing most of them back, from time to time, to the fringes of the crowd. Their opinion of the Junior Archaeological Society was, in any case, low; and they watched these grubbing and grovelling proceedings with disdain. Nevertheless their presence suggested a mounted escort called out to lend consequence to Gingrass’ endeavours. And these could scarcely have conducted themselves amid a more dazzling publicity. The Vice-Chancellor was presiding as if over some formal academic occasion; grouped around him, the greater part of the Staff lent amiable and instructed countenance to these learned proceedings in their midst; and, in a wide ring beyond these, virtually the entire student body speculated, gossiped, and wondered – with now and then a little skylarking thrown in to help pass the time.
Gingrass was directing operations with a great appearance of science – or might have been described as doing this had any of the members of the Junior Archaeological Society been paying any attention to him. But these young people were only aware that they were engaged in some species of treasure hunt; many obscurely supposed that it was being conducted upon competitive principles; and all were convinced that the deeper and farther they got with pick and shovel the better.
All this laudable zeal had already yielded striking results. One vigorously wielded implement had pierced a water-main, and as a consequence a substantial corner of the yard was now occupied by an elaborate jet d’eau. Just as Olivia and Sadie came upon the scene it was blindingly lit for a second by a lurid green flash; the air in the yard seemed to snap and crackle; girls screamed, horses reared, the Vice-Chancellor with discernible difficulty maintained a philosopher’s proper calm, Gingrass bawled commands, prohibitions, and exhortations, and old Professor Harlock was heard to declare in her high, clear voice that, to her certain knowledge, ants or beetles would put up a better show even after the majority of their reflexes had been carefully destroyed in a laboratory. Meantime somebody ran to turn off the electric current which had been so rashly tapped; two dazed young men who had been chiefly involved were haled away forcibly to undergo the horrors of First Aid; and the dig went on.
It went on for a long time. Large excavations were achieved more or less in terms of some plan which Gingrass had devised. As these, however, yielded absolutely no result, the plan had to be modified and extended impromptu. This involved digging in sundry places where the surface had unfortunately been piled high with the earth from previous trenches and chasms. The junior archaeologists, conscious that the eyes of the whole University were upon them, laboured mindlessly and heroically on. Occasionally from one or another of them there would come an excited shout; Gingrass – like a referee in some lunatic game – would blow a whistle; all the diggers would pause in their labour; and amid a breathless hush the possible significance of some ambiguous find would be investigated. Tiles and bricks and sundry scraps of rusty iron or rotted timber were solemnly pronounced upon. And then the digging would go on more frantically than ever.
‘It doesn’t make sense.’ Olivia, pausing with Sadie at a little remove, viewed the confusion with disgust. ‘You realize that, as soon as you actually see them at it. They’ve dug up nearly the whole of this yard. But Joscelyn and his friends may just as well have buried the stuff in front of the building as at the back.’
Sadie shook her head. ‘You forget that Gingrass has received a tip straight from the horse’s mouth – or believes he has. That’s why he’s backed himself so heavily. And now he’s worried. He sees he’s going to look an awful ass if nothing turns up.’
Olivia looked round the crowd. ‘I think people are getting a bit restless already. Some of your young friends are drifting off. And the Vice-Chancellor is tapping with his foot in an irritated way.’
‘And you can see that the Staff are edging towards an attitude of sceptical amusement. That’s so as to save themselves from feeling asses too, if nothing does turn up. Hullo!’ – Sadie broke off as Gingrass’ whistle sounded. ‘There he goes again.’
This time there was a longer pause. A small group of diggers had gathered round Gingrass, but it was possible to see that he was stooping to examine several small objects – dull yellow and dirty grey – that had just been turned up and were now placed before him. Suddenly his voice was heard, sharp with excitement. He was calling for a stretcher-like contrivance, constructed of wood, which was waiting on the fringe of the excavations. This was brought forward in what was now a tense silence, and the newly discovered objects were set upon it. The Vice-Chancellor called out something in a tone of majestic calm; this apparently was a summons, since the discoveries were now borne solemnly towards him by two sweating students. Everybody stood on tiptoe or craned their necks. It was a highly dramatic moment.
Olivia gave an exclamation of horror and dismay. ‘It’s bones!’
Sadie nodded. ‘A macabre scene – but funny, all the same.’
‘Funny?’ Olivia was indignant. ‘It must be the Caucasian queen, or whatever she was – Joscelyn’s mummy! It means they’ll be on to the treasure in no time.’
‘That’s what Gingrass thinks. He’s expounding it all to the V-C now. And the Staff’s making haste to look impressed and serious again. And reverent. A respectful bearing in the presence of the dead – particularly royal dead.’ Sadie appeared quite unsuitably amused. ‘Now Professor Harlock’s having a look. She’s the elderly woman with the white hair. I wonder–’
Sadie had lowered her voice, because of the complete hush in the stable-yard. Now she broke off. Miss Harlock had been examining the bones with care. She turned to Gingrass – and her clear tones had never carried to the back of a lecture theatre with more deadly effect. ‘Equine,’ she said.
Gingrass gaped at her. ‘What do you mean – equine?’
‘My dear man, I see no occasion to goggle. What is more natural than to find a few horse’s bones buried behind a coach-house?’ Miss Harlock looked round the silent crowd with withering scorn. ‘I’m going to get some tea,’ she announced; and moved off.
A few other people began to move off too. But most stayed behind. The Vice-Chancellor appeared to be reasoning or expostulating with Gingrass. This in itself was an entertaining spectacle. But better was to follow.
Gingrass was annoyed. Partly because of this – and partly, perhaps, because of his efforts with the whistle – his usually pallid face was flushed a deep red. As he was now, for some reason, revolving slowly on his axis, the effect was rather as of some small lighthouse that a careless keeper had forgotten to switch off at dawn. Presently this beam suddenly paused, transformed into a searchlight. It had come to rest upon a solitary figure, at present advancing through an archway on the farther side of the yard. ‘Hi – you!’ Gingrass shouted rudely. ‘Come here at once.’
The figure halted for a moment. It was that of the Shufflebotham Student – returning, presumably, from his luncheon with Professor Milder at the Metropole. Clout was already staring in astonishment at the scene before him; now he halted and regarded his discourteous chief with amazement and disfavour. As a consequence, the succeeding exchange took place across a considerable empty space. And this lent it a theatrical flavour highly to the taste of the audience. ‘Where have you been?’ bawled Gingrass. ‘Where the devil have you been?’
Thus assaulted in the presence of the entire University, Clout allowed his own indignation to mount. Gingrass was impossible, and this must be the end of him. ‘I’ve been lunching with Professor Milder,’ he replied with dignity. ‘And I’m resigning the Shufflebotham. I’ve accepted a Fellowship in Creative Literature in America.’
‘Oh, you have – have you?’ Gingrass spoke with difficulty. ‘And perhaps you’ve been doing a little in a creative way already – eh?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Perhaps you’ll deny telling Professor Milder you have found an important document – a letter from Sir Joscelyn Jory to his solicitor, never posted, saying that he had been obliged to bury some extremely valuable property in this yard?’
‘Milder says I said that?’ Clout now spoke in consternation. He was aware that the Vice-Chancellor was regarding him with distinct disfavour. And somewhere in the crowd an idiotic girl had begun to titter. ‘It’s entirely untrue. He must have gone off his rocker. Or perhaps’ – and Clout glanced rather wildly round the chaos of the stable-yard – ‘perhaps he goes in for jokes…practical jokes.’ Clout paused, aware that this was both a feeble and a tactless line to take.
‘If he does, his joking extends to offering non-existent Fellowships in Creative Twaddle to imbecile students.’ Gingrass looked about him. The circle of gaping faces apparently brought home to him more vividly the fiasco in which he had involved himself. He uttered a surprising noise that might have been categorized, roughly, as a howl of humiliation and rage. ‘To unemployed students, I should add,’ he bawled across the yard. ‘Now, go away!’
‘But he couldn’t!’ To Clout too the full realization of a horrid position was coming with force. ‘An American professor! It’s not possible.’
‘Listen, Colin – it’s no good.’ Clout turned and found that Sadie Sackett had come up beside him. ‘Gingrass has been had, and you’ve been had too. Milder may be an American. But he’s certainly not a professor.’
‘Not a professor!’
Sadie looked at his dismayed expression and laughed. But her laughter held a contrite note which somehow comforted him. ‘It’s only dawned on me today. It never entered my head before. But – don’t you see? – as soon as the suspicion comes to you, you know it’s true. No real American professor could be quite like that – not outside the Light Programme.’
Clout felt that he ought to make the sort of gesture conventionally described as dazed – perhaps clutch his hair, or pass his hand slowly across his forehead. But all he managed was to stand quite still. For the first time, he spied Olivia, standing rather aloof in the crowd. It was all getting worse and worse. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said feebly. ‘Why did he ask me out to lunch?’
‘To get you out of the way – so that you wouldn’t blow the gaff on all this nonsense.’ Sadie pointed to the dig.
‘And all this?’
‘Just a distraction, I think. He wanted the whole University out of the way.’
It was at this point this the Vice-Chancellor moved augustly forward. He ignored the unfortunate Clout. ‘Out of the way, Miss Sackett?’ he asked. ‘Pray, out of the way of what?’
Sadie shook her head. She seemed genuinely puzzled. ‘I’m afraid I just don’t know, sir. But out of the way of some operation of his own.’
‘It’s astounding…incredible!’ The Vice-Chancellor was outraged. ‘A perfectly well-accredited man. He lunched with me. Thoroughly scholarly, to judge from his conversation. Although a little on the dry side. In fact, a bore.’
‘That’s his technique, I think.’ Sadie offered this explanation with confidence. ‘He puts on such a turn as a bore that the mind simply revolts from him. And so nobody gets curious and questioning.’
‘I see.’ The Vice-Chancellor looked at Sadie with respect. He might have been acknowledging that, contrary to reasonable expectation, this large gathering contained one other individual with some claim to intellectual competence. ‘Do you suppose, Miss Sackett, that this Mr Milder’s aim had been to possess himself of the treasure which has led Professor Gingrass to – to such fantastic courses?’
But before Sadie could answer this question, or Gingrass protest against the terms in which it had been framed, a further diversion occurred. Through the same archway by which Clout had made his hapless appearance on the scene, there advanced, in hurried dignity behind his large brass buttons, the head porter, Gedge.