As for Gascoigne, there was no doubt that he was a businessman first and a philanthropist second, but he had spent on the College a great deal of the money he had inherited from his wife and had added one amenity after another until it was doubtful whether the students could have enjoyed better living-conditions anywhere else. Jones, his wife’s brother, had been left nothing under her will, but by giving him a place on the staff of the College and by turning a deaf ear to all the complaints against him, Gascoigne argued that he had done what he could.
What Gascoigne really thought of his brother-in-law not even Henry could say. The accident to Colin was never publicly referred to by the Warden. Jones’s first appearance at the high table after the accident was hissed by the long-jump squad, but there was no concerted demonstration against him. However, he soon brought himself again into prominence over another and a different matter.
The first indication of the trouble which was to ensue came in the form of a red-faced, thick-set man in a pin-striped suit and a bowler hat—clearly his Sunday rig-out—who approached Jerry on the running-track one afternoon and asked where he could find Jones.
“You can’t,” Jerry replied. “All visitors have to see the Warden.”
“I want Jones.”
“Well, you’ll have to see the Warden first. What do you want with Jones, anyway? You’re not a parent, are you?”
“None of your business, mister. Which way do I go?”
“I should try the front door.”
The man strode off. Jerry turned back to his squad of runners and thought no more about him until he saw the man returning an hour later. He was carrying a cheap suitcase and was accompanied by a girl whom Jerry recognized as one of the maids who waited at the high table.
“Good-bye, sir,” she said, as she passed him.
“Not leaving us, Bertha?” he asked. She gave something between a sniff and a sob and did not answer. The man tugged her sleeve with his free hand.
“Come on, come on,” he said. “The sooner you’re out of this hell’s kitchen the better, my gal.”
Exactly what had brought about Bertha’s abrupt departure from Joynings was revealed a little later. The story came from Miss Yale, who confided it to Henry, Hamish and Lesley when they were taking tea with her in her quarters a fortnight after Barry had gone on leave.
“Well, Jonah has done it this time,” she said. “I’ve talked turkey to Gassie about it and I’ve given it to him straight. If Bertha is pregnant, Jonah will have to go. We can’t afford that sort of thing here.”
“Her father came up,” said Henry. “Gassie told me about it. Gassie is in no end of a taking. He’s made up his mind to speak to Jones, so I think, Miss Yale, your words got home to him. The father threatened to make enough stink to get the College closed. He couldn’t do that, of course, but he could make things very awkward. He says he’s going to write to the local paper and blacken us with all sorts of accusations. It seems that Bertha has made up wild tales about goings-on between the men and the women students, and her father has swallowed them. Useless to point out to a man of that type that he could lay himself open to prosecution. Even if he were convicted, the damage would have been done.”
“Yes, everybody would be saying there’s no smoke without fire,” said Lesley. “Well, nobody would be more thankful than I if Jones were kicked out, but do you think Gassie would do it? He seems strangely attached to that gosh-awful misfit.”
“I think he feels he owes him something,” said Henry. “He’s his brother-in-law and, apart from his salary, Jonah is absolutely penniless.”
“That’s all the more reason why Jonah should behave himself,” said Miss Yale.
The story had an embarrassing aftermath for Hamish. Taken, at an early stage in his sojourn at Joynings, to see the Warden’s collection of trophies, he had shown so much interest in the various items that Gascoigne had asked him whether, during his leisure time (of which he had plenty, for his duties were not onerous), he would be willing to re-arrange and re-catalogue the treasures.
They were kept in an ante-room which opened out of the Warden’s study, and Hamish had been given a key to the locked chamber. He always tried to arrange matters so that he could go in when he knew that Gascoigne was elsewhere engaged. One morning, therefore, having no lectures and no other commitments, he let himself into the ante-room, leaving the door ajar, and soon was so much absorbed in a task which interested him and satisfied his curiosity, that it was some time before he realized that a conversation was going on between Gascoigne and Jones, and that the subject of it was Bertha, the servant whom Jones had seduced.
When this dawned upon Hamish he found himself in the unenviable position occupied by most involuntary eavesdroppers. He could emerge from his lair and excuse himself by reminding Gascoigne of his commission to review the trophies, thus risking embarrassment to all concerned, himself included, or he could remain where he was (and this, under the circumstances, seemed the tactful course) and expunge from his mind everything which he could not help overhearing. At the point when Hamish first realized what the conversation was about, it was running thus:
“And I can’t put up with it,” Gascoigne was saying. “The girl’s father has been here, and it was with the greatest difficulty that I prevented a confrontation between him and yourself, Davy. He was in a mood which I can only describe as dangerous. If what this man has told me turns out to be true, I shall have no option but to ask you to leave. I don’t want to demand your resignation…”
“You would never be willing to part with your dead wife’s brother, dear boy! Surely you could not bring yourself to do anything so unkind?” said Jones, in a most unpleasant tone.
“I should have no option, Davy, and so I warn you.”
“Hardly for you to warn me, is it?”
“There is a limit, you know, and if this wretched girl has a child…”
“My dear chap!”
“Well, her father seemed to think…”
“What a suspicious mind he must have! My dear Gassie, I assure you that there is no possibility…”
“I must hope that you are right. But you know what these girls are. If she has a child, whether it is yours or not, you will have laid yourself open to the most unpleasant consequences.”
“And you will have laid yourself open to paying compensation, of course, as you are my banker, dear boy; so, if the girl and her father attempt to put the screw on—well, you’ll know what to do about it, won’t you? You owe me already more than you’ll ever be able to pay.”
“Now, look here, Davy—.”
“Oh, be your age, my dear chap! Forget it! You can always square those sort of people, and you have plenty of my sister’s money for a hand-out.”
There was an angry exclamation from Gascoigne and then Hamish heard a door slam. He peered out through the crack of his own inner door. Jones had gone. Gascoigne Medlar sat down at his desk, pulled some papers towards him, fidgeted with them for a minute or two and then thrust them into a drawer and followed his brother-in-law out of the room. Hamish made his own escape and went in search of Martin, wishing that he could confide in him, for the conversation he had overheard hinted unpleasantly of blackmail. “There’s a film-show this afternoon instead of field and track practices,” said Martin. “Jerry will come for a run if you’ll join us. Henry doesn’t need any help in the hall.”