“As a schoolmaster? I have no idea. As a kindly husband, however, quite a number of people seem to have decided that he was wanting. His wife was drowned in the bath and there was a great deal of unpleasant talk. The wife left a good deal of money, you see, and all of it went to Gascoigne Medlar.”
“Did he ever come to trial?”
“No. The case went as far as to the magistrates and they dismissed it—or so Ferdinand told me. That was when he knew you were coming here. He thought Medlar was guilty.”
“He seems to have followed the proceedings pretty closely. How about you? Do you think, from what you were told, that Medlar was guilty?”
“Again, I have no idea. All I gathered was that Mr. Henry’s evidence may have turned the scale.”
“Henry? What on earth had he to do with it?”
“He affirmed in cross-examination by the defence—he was the prosecution’s witness—that Mrs Medlar’s mental health was such that she might have decided to end her own life. In fact, she was a dipsomaniac—I suppose nowadays it would be more fashionable to call her a confirmed alcoholic— and was subject to severe attacks of alcoholic depression. Mr. Henry, I am afraid, proved a thorn in the flesh of his (supposedly) own side.”
“But is Henry qualified to express that sort of opinion?”
“Oh, yes. Until he accepted a partnership at Joynings he was a well-known psychiatrist.”
“You knew him, then, before you came to see me?”
“That argues a degree of acquaintanceship to which I do not aspire. I have seen him at conferences occasionally. I do not remember that I ever spoke to him until I came here.”
“And he’s Medlar’s partner? Well, I’m hanged! I say, I suppose that doesn’t stink a bit, does it?” asked Laura.
“Mr. Henry—I know his surname, of course—has always been interested in young people. At one time he was psychiatric consultant to a county education authority, I believe. I should imagine that he finds his work here very interesting and rewarding.”
“And profitable, I imagine,” said Laura.
“Now, mamma, not a word against Henry,” said Hamish. “I like him very much.”
“What was the evidence on which Mr. Medlar was taken before the magistrates?” asked Laura.
“According to Ferdinand, who furnished me with such facts as I know, it was asserted that he was alone in the house with his wife when it happened.”
“Didn’t they live at the school, then?”
“Yes, but there was some sort of jamboree which involved all the boys and which the servants had leave to attend.”
“Why didn’t Medlar attend it?”
“He said that he dared not leave his wife in the house alone, and Henry concurred in this. Mrs Medlar, because of her disability, never attended school functions, so the police took the view that opportunity had knocked at Mr. Medlar’s door and that it was too much of a coincidence that his wife had been drowned under such circumstances.”
“And under such water,” said Laura. “Personally, I agree with the police. I think it was fishy in the extreme.”
“Your choice of metaphor, mamma, may be exact, but it is unfortunate, perhaps,” said Hamish. “Anyway, if Henry ever did have any doubts, I’m wondering whether the murder of Jonah hasn’t resolved them.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, there is such a thing as blackmail. Suppose some evidence was available which showed that Medlar was guilty and that Jones had come across it? After all, Medlar had never been brought to trial and acquitted. A case against him could still be made to stand up, couldn’t it? Don’t you think Jones could have been blackmailing Medlar for years and that Medlar got sick and tired of it? I really believe that if anybody blackmailed me I’d do my level best to lay him out. But if Henry’s evidence could save Medlar from being sent for trial, why did the prosecution call him? Naturally the defence wouldn’t, not at a preliminary hearing.”
“The police intended that he should assent to their lawyer’s submission that Mrs Medlar’s condition was as I have described it and that it was in Mr. Medlar’s interests, emotionally as well as financially, that he should be rid of her. The defence, however, cross-examined Mr. Henry with intent to show that she was quite capable of drowning herself, because she was either too drunk to know what she was doing, or too lacking in mental stability to reject the idea of suicide.”
“Didn’t the prosecution call any other witnesses? The police are usually cautious about prosecuting a man unless they’re pretty sure of their case.”
“There was also the question of the will. It was argued by the prosecution that Mrs Medlar was of sound mind when she made the will and that therefore it was valid and that Mr. Medlar knew this and had killed her in order to get hold of the money. Unfortunately for them, they then called Mr. Jones, the deceased wife’s brother and only surviving relative.”
“Pickled, I suppose,” said Hamish.
“I should hope not! All the same, there is no doubt that he appears to have told a garbled story and the magistrates decided that what they had heard was insufficient to justify a committal.”
“So, between them, Henry and Jones saved Medlar’s bacon,” commented Hamish.
“And both have been substantially rewarded,” said Laura. “Up to the time of Jones’s death, that is to say. And the will stood up all right, did it?”
“Oh, yes. Two doctors agreed that the poor woman was compos mentis when she made the will eight years earlier and this meant that Mr. Medlar inherited the money.”
“Why was Jones brought into it?”
“He was supposed to testify that he had heard Mr. Medlar utter threats against his wife. By the time his cross-examination was over, however, it seemed just as likely, on the face of it, that Mr. Jones had drowned his sister in exasperation because she was leaving nothing to him, as that Mr. Medlar had drowned his wife because she had left everything to him.”
“A sort of non-proven, in fact,” said Laura.
“But was Jones anywhere in the neighbourhood at the time?” asked Hamish.
“The question was not asked. The magistrates retired and conferred and I imagine that Mr. Medlar’s excellent reputation came up for discussion and that one of the justices who, as chairman of the school governors, had been obliged to declare an interest and retire from the bench while the case was being heard, may have put in some powerful pleading behind the scenes.”
“Yes, I suppose that can happen,” said Laura, “because, naturally, the school governors wouldn’t want their second master tried for murder. It was bad enough that he was even brought before the Bench. Enough to blot any school’s copybook.”
“Fortunately the governors and the headmaster were saved from further embarrassment,” said Dame Beatrice. “It appears that Mr. Medlar finished the school term, which had only a week to run, and then forfeited six months’ salary in lieu of giving the proper amount of notice and retired from his post at Isingtower.”
“And took on Joynings, whereby we now find ourselves in this mess,” said Hamish.
“Dame Beatrice was asking for you, sir, while you were engaged,” said the maid, when she took in Gascoigne’s night-cap of whisky and soda.
“Was she? Oh, well, I expect it is too late now, but perhaps you will go along and find out. If she has not retired, and is at liberty to receive me, let me know and I will go along.”
Laura and Hamish made themselves scarce when the maid brought the Warden’s message and, as soon as he received her invitation, Gascoigne went to talk with Dame Beatrice in what had been Jones’s sitting-room.
“I am glad to have the chance of talking with you,” he said. “One of the women students has been to me in great distress of mind. She appears to think that you have accused her and others of being responsible for poor Davy’s death.”
“She exaggerates, as no doubt you have decided,” said Dame Beatrice. “Please sit down, Mr. Medlar. To be plain with you, I think Kathleen and her friends do know more than they have told you, although I have accused them of nothing more than of withholding information.”
“What more do you think they know?” There was anxiety in Gascoigne’s voice.
“I think they know where Mr. Jones was killed and I think they buried the body. No, no,” she added, noticing that Gascoigne was about to speak. “I do not think for one single instant that they killed him. I think they buried the body merely out of panic, fearing that they would be blamed for the death if the body was discovered in the place where they found it.”
“Then that must have been in that cellar when they went to release him! But the police made a careful search. There was nothing to suggest that Davy died there. The inspector told me so.”
“It is rare for the police to make known all their findings in a case of this kind, is it not?”
“But what makes you think that those six students buried the body? I simply cannot believe it.”
“It is the only theory which seems to accord with the facts. Do you care for me to recapitulate them?”
“In the light of what you suspect, I should think it just as well.”
“Very well, then. I begin from what was my own point of departure. Having kidnapped Mr. Jones on the Wednesday afternoon, the six students, who were in a panic by the Friday morning, then went to Mr. Henry and confessed to what they had done.”
“Yes, I know, but that was because they had discovered that Davy was no longer where they had left him.”
“I hardly think that was the sole reason for their reaction. It is true that they had obtained possession of a key to the cellar, but it seems common knowledge that there was a second key and one which was readily available, not only to them, but to anybody who chose to filch it.”
“You mean the one which hung just inside Miss Yale’s door? I cannot think why, if they had decided upon this ridiculous and, as it has turned out, this fatal escapade, they did not take Miss Yale’s key in the first place.”
“One of two circumstances might account for that. Either the key was not there when they went to get it, or else they were afraid that Miss Yale would miss it and would institute enquiries. I incline to the first of these theories.”
“Well—granted. Pray continue.”
“Very late on the Thursday night, Mr. Henry and Hamish, concerned by some hints they had received from students who were not among the six chiefly involved, instituted a search for Mr. Jones.”
“Yes, but they found that Davy had already been removed from the cellar.”
“As I understood their account, that is uncertain. Having no key, and being unwilling, I imagine, to disturb either the janitor or Miss Yale at that time of night, they attempted to attract Mr. Jones’s attention by calling to him.”
“And received no reply.”
“For what I believe was a good and sufficient reason: Mr. Jones was already dead.”
“What!”
“And the students knew that. I think the girl Kathleen was probably the prime mover. I think she was anxious to let Mr. Jones go. Most girls (I do not say all) are notoriously more tender-hearted than boys, and I think she, having the janitor’s key still in her possession, made a journey to the door of the cellar and called out to know whether Mr. Jones was all right. Receiving no reply, she went in search of some, if not all, of the others, and reported that Mr. Jones might be in a state of collapse. As I imagine that he may not have given in to his kidnappers without a struggle, they may well have thought that they had gone too far, and that it would be well to release him forthwith. That is when they found his dead body and also the weapon with which he had been stabbed to death.”
“No, no! It couldn’t have been like that!” said Gascoigne. “They couldn’t have found him murdered!”
“I have not finished,” said Dame Beatrice. “Pull my story to pieces when you have heard the rest of it.”