Jones smiled faintly at nothing. Then he replaced his spectacles and seemed to come back to life. “You are wondering why he did not send his own son there? Because of the asthma. Fallow is closer to home than Eton. Or are you wondering why our chairman is not an Old Fallovian? That's a matter of politics—money and influence, Inspector. And if you are wondering whether young Bodgley was of better family than most of our boys, the answer to that is yes. The blood runs blue in the Bodgley veins. His future in the Empire, if any, will be at the level of British resident, far above the district officerships to which Exeter might aspire. Foreign Office and corps diplomatique would be more his field. He's a bit spoiled, pampered and oversheltered, and inclined to feel sorry for himself. I might just be persuaded that he had been led into wrongdoing by an older, stronger character—which I would not believe of Exeter—but basically he's a fine young man, and I am convinced that whatever you suspect these two of, your information is incorrect."
He tried to smile, but the result was grotesque. “There! I have been completely frank, have I not? Now will you inform me of the trouble they appear to be in? Less than a week ago I saw my young friends walk out into a world that looked ready to throw itself at their feet. I asked Exeter to sacrifice a glass of retsina to Poseidon in my name. Now you tell me he is back in this country and under suspicion of wrongdoing."
"I can tell you a little.” Leatherdale did not close his notebook. “The preliminaries you already know. When Smedley's parents called him back from Paris, Exeter returned also. He apparently found himself with nowhere to go, but he had a standing invitation to visit Greyfriars Grange.... Where did he normally spend his holidays, when his parents were alive?"
"Here,” Jones said quietly. “He has lived at Fallow since he was twelve, except for a few odd breaks, such as OTC camp or school outings or visiting his friends. Many of our boys are children of parents living overseas. Other parents will often take pity on their sons’ chums in such case—invite them to stay over Christmas, for example."
"Never with his uncle?"
"Rarely. I gathered that the experience was always mutually unpleasant."
Leatherdale made a note. “And as an old boy, he could not just return to Fallow?"
Jones shook his head sadly. “Inspector! He had just left school! Don't you remember how huge that milestone loomed in your own life? Even if the alternative was his friend's charity ... The raven had been released from the ark!"
Interesting point, Leatherdale thought. The youth must have been in an agitated state of mind. His uncle had been surprised to learn he was back in England.
"Exeter telegraphed to the Bodgleys from Paris and was accepted. He arrived yesterday.” Watching carefully, he continued. “I can outline the statement released to the newspapers. General Bodgley's household at Greyfriars Grange was awakened shortly after midnight this morning by the sound of an altercation in the kitchen quarters. Investigation revealed Mr. Edward George Exeter injured and unconscious, and the mortal remains of Mr. Timothy Fitzjohn Bodgley. Foul play is suspected."
"Good God!” All the color drained from Jones's face, leaving a parchment marred by brown age spots. He licked his lips and even his tongue seemed pale. “Dead! How?"
"The nature of his injuries is not being released, sir."
"Inspector! I have known these boys for years. They are my friends and my life's work and until last week they were my wards!"
Leatherdale decided to trust him. It might prove to be an indiscretion, but he was in charge of the investigation. He had the right to make his own mistakes. “In strict confidence, then, sir? I do not wish the press to get its hands on this."
Jones licked his lips. “I may tell Dr. Gibbs when he returns?"
"That would be in order. Exeter fell or was thrown down the cellar steps. He sustained the injuries I mentioned. Bodgley had been stabbed to death with a carving knife."
Jones's mouth moved for a while before he croaked, “Just the two of them there?"
"That is implied in the official statement. I cannot say any more, sir."
"But why in Heaven?..."
"Motive? A good question. Why should two young men raid a kitchen at that time of night? Since the cellar is used to store the general's wine, we might speculate that they were after more than a cup of tea."
"I suppose some such prank is not impossible,” Jones admitted hoarsely.
"If it was a prank, it rapidly became something else.” Leatherdale waited hopefully, but if Jones guessed what he wanted to hear, he did not oblige. Pity. Leatherdale was curious to know which one of the two had started the hanky-panky and which had resisted. In spite of his considerable advantage in height and weight, Exeter's only possible defense was self-defense. It would not get him off or even reduce the charge to manslaughter, but it might wring a recommendation of mercy out of a sympathetic jury.
He closed his notebook. He had an open-and-shut case. He had failed to uncover a motive, but the Crown was not obliged to establish motive. At the next assizes, learned counsel would explain to the jury how Exeter had stabbed his friend and then, in a panicky attempt to flee from the scene of the crime, had fallen down the cellar steps.
The defense would drag in the vague reports of a woman screaming—they would not be able to explain her disappearance through doors bolted on the inside. They were welcome to propose that Bodgley had thrown his guest into the cellar and subsequently thrust a steel carving knife in his own back so hard that he had nailed himself to a teak draining board.
The jury would deliberate and then the judge would don the black cap to order Edward George Exeter hanged by the neck.
Suddenly Leatherdale was seized by a frightful desire to yawn. It was time to go. He could do no more good at Fallow, if indeed he had done any good at all. He should be grateful for a rare opportunity—the thrill of a murder investigation without the tedious follow-up, for it would all be taken out of his hands by tomorrow at the latest. He had everything he needed to brief Scotland Yard when the Old Man came to his senses. Even if the Old Man didn't, Robinson should be back by then, if he could find his way through Bank Holiday traffic.
A telephone rang somewhere in the distance.
"That is probably the press already,” he said wearily. “I advise you not to say anything at all.” He levered himself out of the chair. “If you will look out for those notes you mentioned, sir?"
Jones stayed where he was, staring up at his visitor as if felled by shock. When he spoke, though, it was obvious that he had been thinking hard. “The general's son was murdered in his own house and yet he, as chief constable, is titular head of the investigation? Is he not placed in an impossible situation, Inspector?"
"Awkward, sir. I expect he will call in Scotland Yard in due course."
When he came to his senses, he would—or when he was allowed to, for Leatherdale had a strong suspicion that the formidable Mrs. Bodgley was meddling in police business.
"The Home Secretary may have something to say when he hears of it, I shouldn't wonder,” Jones said drily. His eyes were invisible behind white reflections again. The instant Leatherdale left the building, David Jones would be on the phone to some senior members of the board of governors.
"Not up to me to question orders, sir."
The two men stared at each other.
"I don't envy you, Inspector,” the schoolmaster said softly.
Leatherdale sensed the offer of the Old Boys’ Network. “We all do our duty as best we can, sir."