Burridge had shown signs of being a fanatic. And fanatics are always dangerous. His adherence to tradition and hatred of progress were clearly deep-rooted. But strong enough to force him to kill, not once but four times in as many days? He had been in London when Sir Basil and Stanton Wakeforth died, an easier place in which to set up an alibi than Cambridge. What had he been doing that morning and afternoon and could it be checked out? The Saint made a mental memo to give that an early priority.
And then there was Nyall. He appeared to have no axe worth grinding. But there was something about him which still didn’t quite fit. What was it Darslow had said? “Physician, heal thyself... Like a racing tipster.” An interesting comparison. The Saint added another mental note to ask Darslow for clarification.
“But there’s still something I must have overlooked, something so obvious that it’s blinding,” he told himself as he slipped into sleep.
He repeated the thought to Chantek the following midday over sausages and mash at the Crown. The press corps camped in the hotel lobby had become an increasing irritant, and even before the manager tactfully suggested that he might be more comfortable elsewhere he had decided to move. The Crown had been his immediate choice. It was off the main track yet could not have been nearer the college. And if the room and the food did not match the hotel’s standards, at least the management was friendly and he could come and go without subterfuge.
Chantek was idly toying with her knife as she listened to his account of the previous evening’s events. Suddenly he stopped and stared at her.
“Do that again,” he ordered.
She looked blank.
“Do what again?”
“Hold the knife the way you held it just now.”
Chantek obeyed as if preparing to cut off a piece of sausage.
“Now hold it as if you were going to stab me from behind.”
“Why?” Chantek asked in surprise.
“Never mind,” said the Saint. “Just do it.”
She reversed her grip on the handle, so that the blade projected beyond her little finger, raising her hand to head level as if to bring the point slashing downwards.
“Exactly,” Simon said triumphantly.
“Exactly what?” demanded Chantek, growing impatient with the game.
“Exactly the way any amateur would do it. But not the way a professional would do it. Casden was killed by somebody who knew his business. And there aren’t so many people around who know how to use a knife properly.”
“How do you mean, ‘properly’?”
“Your way would come down between the shoulder blades and probably miss any vital organs. An expert holds a knife pointing forward, something like a rapier, with his thumb on the flat of the blade to guide it.” He demonstrated. “Insert between the ribs at the right angle: knife pierces heart, victim dead in seconds.”
Chantek shuddered.
“How horrible!”
“But effective, very effective,” said the Saint. “And that is how Casden was killed. And men who are experts in that particular field usually have some special background in common.”
He stood up directly they had finished their plates. He seemed somehow larger than life, colder and more impersonal than the winter outside. There were still many things he did not understand, but at last he had a positive clue to follow and little doubt that it would lead him to his goal.
With the briefest of apologies for his sudden departure and a promise to call her later, he left Chantek and headed for the college.
In the entrance hallway he met Professor Darslow, who looked at him sheepishly and began to stammer excuses for his behaviour the previous day. Simon cut him short.
“Never mind that now. You said something about Nyall. ‘Physician, heal thyself.’ What were you getting at?”
“I think I remember,” Darslow replied uncertainly. “It was a joke, really. Godfrey is always advising people about shares to buy. It’s just a bit of a joke that if he’s so clever why isn’t he rich? That’s all.”
“Aren’t his tips any good?”
“I don’t really know. I haven’t followed them.”
“Then you don’t actually know that he isn’t rich,” said the Saint provocatively.
He left the professor and hurried to the bursar’s office. It was locked. He was considering picking the lock when another thought came to him. He went back to Darslow.
“Where is Sir Basil’s office?” he asked.
“First floor, almost directly above us. Why?”
“Tell you later,” said the Saint, the words floating over his shoulder as he took the stairs three at a time.
The office of the Master of St. Enoch’s College was unlocked but not empty. Professor Denzil Rosco turned in surprise as Simon swept into the room. “Good afternoon,” said the Saint evenly. “Found anything interesting?”
Rosco looked up from the open drawers of the desk by which he was standing.
“I suppose this appears rather suspicious,” he admitted with a wry smile. “Well, the police have just been trying to nail me for murder, so I suppose breaking and entering will be considered small cheese after that.”
The Saint perched himself on the edge of the desk.
“Tell me about it,” he invited.
Rosco obliged. He had spent the day and night before with friends, completely unaware of what had happened until he had returned that morning to find a policeman waiting for him in his rooms. He had been informed that his pistol had been used to kill Lazentree and Wakeforth. The police had searched his study and found it.
The Saint interrupted.
“They found the pistol in your study?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Never mind. Carry on.”
Rosco carried on. He had tried to explain that anyone could have taken it, but Nutkin had not been impressed. Only when his alibi had been checked had the superintendent reluctantly allowed him to leave.
“So what exactly are you doing here?” Simon wanted to know.
“Clutching at straws,” Rosco replied with a sigh. “But I thought it was worth a try.”
“What was?”
“Sir Basil and I became friendly very quickly. We both had similar ideas about St. Enoch’s, which made us both unpopular in certain quarters.”
“What did he tell you?”
Rosco shrugged.
“Not much, but he hinted. Said he’d got the financial backing for his plans. Businessmen, from what I could gather, but he didn’t say who. Said he was planning a fait accompli to present to the others in the New Year. He was very excited about it.”
Rosco paused and seemed less confident of himself when he continued.
“I started thinking about what you said about motive. Could someone have found out about it and killed him to stop it happening? It seemed absurd, but I couldn’t get the idea out of my mind. If that was possible, then mightn’t Wakeforth be one of the businessmen? Couldn’t Casden and Harker also have been involved? I thought I’d see if there was any sort of clue in Basil’s office.”
The Saint regarded him with respect.
“Professor, you must have your eye on Nutkin’s job,” he said. “But finding out who was backing Basil wouldn’t point to who killed him.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
Simon produced Casden’s address book.
“I thought I’d see if they had any other chums in common, which might point to another possible murderer. Then I could watch him until the murderer tries for another killing.” He looked at the young man keenly. “Are you sure Basil never mentioned any names?”
Rosco’s brow furrowed as he thought. At last he said: “Yes, there was someone, but I can’t quite remember. It was someone in the House of Lords who was going to lend his name to whatever Basil was planning. It would add some distinction, he said.”