“So it’s murder, is it?” asked Laura.
“Well, that has not been stated, mamma,” said Hamish, “but it’s a fair assumption, I’m afraid.”
“Who are the suspects?”
“Oh, now, really, mamma!”
“Too many to name, I should imagine, judging from your letters.”
“Yes, Mr. Jones seems to have had enemies,” said Dame Beatrice. “We will come to them in due course. I should be more interested, at the moment, to contact one of his friends.”
“Well, the Warden would be the nearest, I suppose, although I have reason to believe that he had it in for Jones, too,” said Hamish.
“I thought you told me in your letters that Jones was favoured by the Warden because he was his brother-in-law,” said Laura.
“True enough, mamma. But there was a later development. One of the maids complained and her father came up to the College. None of it was very savoury, I believe, and I happened to be present when the Warden talked to Jones about it.”
“Oh, yes? What did he say?”
“Well, he didn’t get very far, I’m afraid. It seems that, at some time in the past, Jones had rendered him some service or other. I don’t know what it was, but Jones played it up for all it was worth and practically dared Medlar to dismiss him.”
“Sounds like blackmail,” said Laura.
“Well,” said Hamish, “it wouldn’t be like Jones to have done anybody a disinterested kindness.”
“Mr. Jones disappeared last Wednesday afternoon, I think,” said Dame Beatrice. “Could we have the whole story?”
Hamish told them all that he could. It did not, he thought, amount to very much. Almost as soon as he had finished, and before they could comment or ask questions, Laura and Dame Beatrice received an invitation to take tea with the Warden.
“And when you have finished your own tea, sir,” the servant added to Hamish, “Mr. Medlar would be glad if you would join him and the rest of the staff in his private apartment.”
“The police,” said Gascoigne, when his staff had been accommodated with chairs and everybody except Hamish and the Warden were politely but enquiringly regarding Dame Beatrice and Laura, who were seated side by side on a settee, “have gone now, as you no doubt are aware. There will have to be an inquest, of course. That is unavoidable. However, the police seem prepared to take the line that poor Davy’s death was brought about accidentally by one of the students. The police believe that a careless javelin-thrower mortally wounded him, then panicked and attempted to hide the body. This opinion I myself share.”
“Oh, no, it isn’t nearly good enough!” cried Henry.
“Why not?” asked Miss Yale sharply. “Lets everybody out nicely, I would have thought.” There was a murmur indicative of agreement with this opinion.
“I would not query it,” said Henry, “but for two things: first, there is no doubt that Jones was kidnapped and hidden away, so that, since Wednesday, nobody except those responsible for this so-called ‘rag’ has seen him alive, and, besides, there is something which invalidates the theory that he could have been killed on the field by somebody practising with a javelin on his own.”
“What?” demanded Barry.
“I lock the javelins away after every group coaching, so that nobody ever is at solitary javelin practice,” explained Henry. “I should hope we know better than that! If angry passions should arise—and they do, of course—you couldn’t trust some of the students with a javelin. We’ve a number of people here who have committed acts of violence in their time. Why, as you all know, even the cutlery is kept locked away when it’s not in use. Very irresponsible idiots we should be if we left things like javelins and the shot and the hammer lying about for any bloody-minded lunatic to pick up and use! The only people to have access to them are Gassie, Miss Yale and myself.”
“Oh, no. The rest of us have keys,” said Lesley.
“But the javelin found in the indoor bath-house wasn’t taken from stock,” said Jerry. “Didn’t you say it had Gassie’s inscription on it?”
“I have shown my javelin to the police, of course,” said Gascoigne, “but they are convinced that the stains on it are merely red paint put there by one of the students as a bizarre joke to frighten the woman diver who might use that particular cubicle. They will have the stains analyzed, of course, but, although the doctor has told them that poor Davy died as the result of a stab-wound—whether intentionally or accidentally inflicted—they are disinclined to believe that my javelin had anything to do with his untimely death. I sincerely hope and believe that they are right.”
“I too, sir, since, so far as I know, I was the last person to handle that particular javelin,” said Hamish.
“You? Oh, you mean at the swimming-bath? But that is not correct, James. Both Henry and I, I believe, handled it after that.”
“I was not referring to its presence at the covered pool, sir. I was thinking of the time when I catalogued your collection. I certainly handled it then and had every opportunity of abstracting it and bringing it away with me, had I wished to do so.”
“Are you telling us that you removed my javelin from the collection, James? You astound me!”
“I appreciate your feelings, sir, but allow me to assure you that I have never removed any object whatsoever from your collection. I thought it might avoid speculation, however, if I mentioned my connection with the javelin before it occurred to others to do so. Everybody knows that I catalogued the collection, so, to return to what I assume to be the point at issue, I am as hopeful as yourself that the stains on the javelin will prove to be red paint and not blood.”
“Well!” said the Warden. Before he could add to this exclamation a servant came to tell him that he was wanted on the telephone. Nobody spoke while he was gone. Barry took out a packet of cigarettes, looked at it and put it away again. Martin whistled a doleful little melody. Hamish looked across at his mother and raised his eyebrows. She grimaced and nodded. Dame Beatrice remained seated, straight-backed and inscrutable, an idol carved out of old ivory. Miss Yale got up suddenly and went out of the room. Time passed and the ticking of the clock could be heard like the pulse of a heart-beat.
Gascoigne returned before the silence became too oppressive.
“All is well, so far as my javelin is concerned,” he said. “I was right in assuming that the stains are nothing more than red paint. I must, of course, find out the identity of the mischievous person who purloined it from my collection, and I may have a clue to his identity when the inspector returns. The police found a piece of writing in the cubicle. It ran…” his smile became benevolent… “ ‘Gassie’s secret weapon.’ I doubt, though, whether I shall find it in my heart to be too hard on the culprit. It must be a great relief to us all to be able to write my javelin off as a misconceived jest. All the same, we are still faced with the fact of poor Davy’s death and of his most unseemly burial. The police, needless to say, are to come again to harass us. By the most fortunate chance, we have with us this afternoon someone of vast experience and, I am sure, of faultless tact”—he bowed to the settee—“who will consent, I hope, to assist us in finding the unfortunate youth who, I am sure, accidentally wounded poor Davy to death and then tried—and how uncouthly, poor boy!—to hide what he had done. Once we know his identity the inquest on Davy will be a mere formality, so I know you will all place any knowledge or suspicion you have of the culprit’s identity at the disposal of Dame Beatrice, so that she may clear the matter up for us and allow the College to resume what is popularly known as normal working.”
He beamed upon the assembled staff. Dame Beatrice put an end to his expectations.