“Exactly so, and Barocho follows as a good guess. But I doubt if it will be a case for bringing out the handcuffs. And now what about the movements of all these people? How far, to get back to where we were, have you traced their movements after the break-up of the common-room last night?”
Appleby was prowling round the study again. Dodd rustled among his papers as he answered. “In the course of the day I’ve taken preliminary statements from everybody who seems concerned – or everybody who seemed concerned until this infernal tenth key started up. Some are apparently checkable as alibi-statements for the time of the shooting; others not. I’m checking up as fast as the three capable men I’ve got can work – incidentally they’re your men now for the purposes of the case. Meantime here are the carbons of the different statements. You’d better hold on to them.” As he spoke, Dodd put the little pile of flimsies down in front of his colleague with an air that suggested plainly enough the symbolic shifting of responsibility latent in the act. Appleby turned to the first sheet.
Slotwiner, George Frederick (54). Entered the college service as buttery-boy at sixteen. Personal servant to Dr Umpleby on the latter’s becoming Dean of the college in 1910. Has acted as butler since Dr Umpleby became President in 1921.
10.30 p.m. Took in drinks to study, finding President working at his desk and alone. Thereafter had a full view of the study door from his pantry.
11 p.m. Crossed hall and admitted Mr Titlow at front door. Titlow still speaking to him when shot heard. Entered study along with Titlow and discovered body. Returned to hall and telephoned doctor, porter and police. Rejoined Titlow in study and kept guard until arrival of porters.
11.10 p.m. Took message from Titlow to Dean.
Corroboration:Titlow
Titlow, Samuel Still (51)…
At this moment there came an interruption in the form of a heavy knocking at the door, and the melancholy sergeant thrust in his head and announced lugubriously: “The valley has a message!”
The valley of the shadow… For a moment in the darkening room with its litter of dead men’s bones, the effect of the words was almost startling; a second later they were explained by the appearance of a discreet black-coated figure in the background. A discreet voice remonstrated, “Butler, if you please, constable!” and added, to the accompaniment of a ghost of a bow to Dodd, “The Dean’s compliments, sir, and if the gentleman from London has arrived he would be glad to see him in his rooms at his convenience.”
Appleby regarded George Frederick Slotwiner with all the interest due to the first intimate actor in the recent drama to present himself. Slotwiner bore little trace of any period he might have spent in the Army. Slight and sallow, he moved and held himself like a typical upper servant. Apparently somewhat short-sighted, he looked out upon the world through a pair of pince-nez glasses with an effect at once impressive and disconcerting – impressive because they contrived to elevate the mind from butlers to house-stewards, and from house-stewards to majordomos and grooms of the chamber; disconcerting because of a sudden doubt that their owner’s stiff bearing was less the expression of professional dignity than the result of some chronic balancing feat on his nose. As this thought crossed Appleby’s mind Slotwiner, who appeared to have been inwardly debating whether propriety permitted him any direct awareness of the gentleman from London’s presence, made the ghost of a bow to him as well and, having effected this judicious compromise, waited impassively for a reply.
Appleby solved Slotwiner’s difficulty. “My compliments to the Dean,” he said, “and I will be with him in half an hour. When Inspector Dodd rings the bell perhaps you will be good enough to take me across.” And as the butler turned to withdraw he suddenly added: “One moment. When did the President last use candles in this room?”
The effect of this question was remarkable. Slotwiner swung round with a most unbutler-like rapidity and stared at Appleby. He was plainly startled and confused – more so even than the odd and abrupt question, pitched at his back across the shrouded body of his employer, could warrant. But in a moment his look gave way to one of bewilderment; a moment more and he was wholly composed.
“The President never used candles, sir. As you will see, the room is very adequately lighted.” The man’s hand went swiftly out as he spoke and flicked down a switch by the door: the single standard lamp which had been burning was reinforced by half a dozen further lamps set high up on the walls and throwing out a brilliant light over the ceiling. Appleby continued his questions. “How did the President usually sit when he was here in the evenings? Did he use all the lights or merely the standard lamp?”
The butler answered now without hesitation. When at his desk, or when sitting in his armchair near the fire, Dr Umpleby had been accustomed to use only the standard lamp. But if he had to move about among his books, or if he had visitors, he would turn on the other lights as well. They worked on a dual control and could be turned on from the fireplace as well as by the door.
“Last night at ten-thirty,” Appleby next asked, “how were the lights then?”
“All the lights were on, sir. The President was selecting books from the far corner there while I was in the room.”
“And afterwards, when you broke in with Mr Titlow?”
“Only the standard lamp was burning.”
“Dr Umpleby would have turned off the others on returning to his desk?”
“I could not say, sir. It is possible.”
“Tell me what happened about the lights then.”
“Sir?”
“I mean did you, or did Mr Titlow, at once turn on the other lights when you found the body?”
Slotwiner hesitated. “I can’t say, sir,” he replied at length. “Not, I mean, with any certainty. I believe I turned them on almost at once myself, but at such a moment the action would be mechanical. I do not positively recollect it. Later certainly all the lights were on.”
Slotwiner, feeling now that he was being interrogated in form, was speaking with caution and every appearance of conscientious precision. But Appleby broke off. “I shall want your whole story later,” he said. “Only one more question now.” He had half turned away, as if what was significant in the interview was over. Suddenly he turned round and looked at the butler searchingly. “I wonder why you were so startled by my question about the candles?”
But this time Slotwiner was perfectly composed. “I’m sure I hardly know, sir,” he answered. “If I may say so, the question – any question, sir – was a trifle unexpected. But I am unable to account for my reaction – you must have seen that I was quite perturbed. If I may attempt to express my feeling when you spoke, it was one of puzzlement. And I was puzzled as to why I was puzzled.” Slotwiner paused to consider. “It was not over the overt content of your question, for I am quite clear that candles are never used in the Lodging. Dr Umpleby did not care for them, and with so much old panelling around I would certainly not sanction their use among the servants. To be as clear as I can, sir, I would speak a trifle technically and say that your question had a latent content. The feeling-tone evoked was decidedly peculiar.” And with this triumph of academic statement Slotwiner gave one more ghost of a bow to Appleby and glided – levitated almost, to speak technically – out of the room.
Dodd gave a chuckle which would have been boisterous had his eye not fallen on the object stretched before the fire. “You can see that you’ve landed among the dons,” he said. “If you get that sort of cackle from the butler, what are you likely to get from the Dean, eh?”
But Appleby’s smile in reply was thoughtful rather than merry. “The feeling-tone evoked was decidedly peculiar,” he quoted. “You know, Dodd, that’s an interesting man and he said an interesting thing. By the way” – Appleby glanced innocently at his colleague – “what do you make of the candle business?”
Dodd looked bewildered. “What candle business?” he said; “I had no idea what you were getting at.”
Appleby took his colleague’s arm f
or answer and led him to the far side of the room round which he had earlier made what had appeared to be a casual tour. Here the bookcases not only clothed the walls but projected into the room in the form of shallow bays. Islanded in one was a revolving bookcase containing the Dictionary of National Biography; in a second similarly was the New English Dictionary – the two sets of heavy volumes uniformly bound. But it was to the third of the four bays that Appleby led Dodd. Here was yet a third revolving bookcase – and Dodd found himself confronted by the fourteen bulky volumes of the Argentorati Athenaeus.
“The Deipnosophists,” Appleby was murmuring; “Schweighäuser’s edition…takes up a lot of room…Dindorf’s compacter – and there he is.” He pointed to the corner of the lower shelf where the same enormous miscellany stood compressed into the three compact volumes of the Leipsic edition. Dodd, somewhat nonplussed before this classical abracadabra, growled suspiciously: “These last three are upside down – is that what you mean?”
“Well, that’s a point. How many books do you reckon in this room – eight or nine thousand, perhaps? Just see if you can spot any others upside down. It’s not a way scholars often put away their books.”
Dodd declined the invitation. “I thought you said something about candles. Is it all a little classical joke?”
Appleby straightened himself from examining the lower shelf and pointed gently to the polished surface, breast high, of the top of the bookcase they were examining. A few inches from the edge farthest into the bay was a small spot, about half an inch in diameter, of what appeared to be candle-grease.
“Some cleaning stuff,” said Dodd. “Beeswax preparation, perhaps. Careless servant.”
“A burglar – an amateur burglar with a candle?” Appleby suggested.
Dodd’s response was immediate: he vanished from the room. When he returned, Appleby was on his knees beside the body. “You were right, Appleby,” he announced eagerly. “Only some sort of furniture cream is ever used on these bookcases. And they were done yesterday morning. The housemaid swears there wasn’t a speck on them then – and she’s a most respectable old person.” He paused, and seeing that Appleby’s inspection of the body seemed over, added: “I’ve something of my own to show you in that alcove. It made me jump to your suggestion of a burglar at once. We didn’t ignore the nine thousand books altogether, you know.” He led the way back to the bay and paused, this time not before the revolving bookcase but before the solid shelves of closely packed books behind it. Putting his hand behind what appeared to be a normal row he gave a sharp pull – and the whole swung easily out upon a hinge. “Dodge they sometimes decorate library doors with – isn’t it? And look what’s behind the dummies.” What was behind, sunk in the wall of the room, was a somewhat unusual, drawer-shaped steel safe.
“The sort of burglar who potters about with a candle,” remarked Appleby, “wouldn’t have much of a chance with that. Difficult to find too, unless he knew about it. Not that I expect you knew about it?”
Dodd had not known. He had found the safe in the course of a thorough search. The thousands of books had not been moved from their shelves, but every one had been pressed back as far as it would go to ensure that no discarded weapon lay anywhere concealed on the shelving between books and wall. He was positive, however, that the searchers were not responsible for turning the smaller Athenaeus. He had examined its particular revolving bookcase himself – missing, he admitted, the candle-grease – and had found it unnecessary to take any of the books out. He had also himself inspected the whole bay and had come upon the concealed safe in the process.
Appleby’s eye travelled once more along the endless rows of books, rapidly noting the character of the dead man’s library. But it was the physical appearance of hundreds of heavy folios on the lower shelves which prompted his next remark. “Lucky he was shot through the head, Dodd. Do you see what a job that has saved us?” And seeing his colleague’s puzzled look he went on: “Fancy it this way. Umpleby wants to commit suicide. For this reason or that – just out of devilment, perhaps – he decides to conceal the fact. Well, he takes any one of these books, probably a big one, perhaps quite a small one” – here Appleby tapped a stoutish crown octavo – “and he hollows out a little nest in it – large enough to hold an automatic. He holds it open with his left hand, close by its place on the shelf. Then he places the pistol just where a careful study of anatomy tells him, fires, slips the pistol in the book and the book in its place, staggers across the room and falls – just where you see him!”
Following Appleby’s pointing finger, Dodd strode across the room to where the body lay. The small round hole, central in the forehead of the dead man, reassured him – but he glanced with new curiosity nevertheless at the vellum and buckram and morocco rows, gleaming, gilt-tooled, dull, polished, stained – the representative backs of perhaps four centuries of bookbinding. But Appleby, with a gesture as if he had been wasting time, had turned back to consider the concealed safe. “Fingerprints?” he asked.
Dodd shook his head.
“None at all?” pursued Appleby, interested.
But this time Dodd nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I’m afraid so. Umpleby’s own. No one has been feeling the need of polishing up after himself. It looks as if the safe has been undisturbed. One thing’s queer about it all the same – and it’s this. Not a soul seems to know anything about it. I asked fishing questions of everyone the least likely – ‘Do you happen to know where the President kept his valuables?’ and that sort of thing. And then I asked outright. Slotwiner, the other servants, the Dean and the rest of the dons – none of them admitted to knowing of its existence. And there’s no key. It’s a combination lock and a combination lock only – not the kind where the combination opens to show a keyhole. Further than that I haven’t had time to follow the thing up.”
At the mention of time, Appleby looked at his watch. “I’m due for the Dean,” he said, “and you for your supper and a rest. They’ll want to take the body now, I expect.”
Dodd nodded. “The body goes out to the mortuary,” he agreed; “the room’s locked up and sealed and you take the key. And it’s for you to say when we bring a sack for these blasted bones.”
Appleby chuckled. “I see it’s the ossuary that really disturbs you. I think it may help a lot.” He picked up a fibula as he spoke and wagged it with professionally excusable callousness at Dodd. And with an association of thought which would have been clear to that efficient officer only if he had been a reader of Sir Thomas Browne he murmured: “What song the Sirens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women…”
The fibula dropped with a little dry rattle on its pile as Appleby broke off to add: “Nor is the other question, I hope, unanswerable.”
“Other question?”
Appleby had turned to the door. “Who, my dear Dodd, were the proprietaries of these bones? We must consult the Provincial Guardians.”
3
The Reverend the Honourable Tracy Deighton-Clerk, Dean of St Anthony’s, contrived, though still in middle age, to suggest the great Victorians. His features were at once wholly strong and wholly benevolent, evoking, even to a hint of side-whisker, the formidable canvases of G F Watts. His manner was a degree on the heavy side of courtesy and not at times without that temerarious combination of aloofness and charm which used to be attempted, some two generations ago, by those who had once glimpsed Matthew Arnold. He had a fancy for himself in the role of ultimus Romanorum; the last representative of a clerical and leisured university, of an academic society that was not cultured merely but also Polite.
The psychologically-minded Slotwiner (who was said to model himself not a little on Mr Deighton-Clerk’s manner) might have remarked that in the Dean’s persona the episcopal idea had of late been rapidly developing. Indeed, the episcopal idea was hovering round him now, a comforting penumbra to the disturbing situation which confronted him as he stood, in elegant clerical evening dress, before the fireplace of his
study.
It was a room in marked contrast with the sombre and somewhat oppressive solidity of the dead President’s apartment. Round a delicate Aubusson carpet, on which undergraduates instinctively trod as diffidently as if they had been schoolboys still, low white book-shelves enclosed the creamy vellum of the Schoolmen and the Fathers. The panelling was cream, its delicate Caroline carving touched with gold. The ceiling was cross-raftered in oak and from the interstices there gleamed, oddly but harmoniously in blue and silver, the twelve signs of the zodiac. Over the fireplace brooded in austere beauty one of Piero della Francesca’s mathematically-minded madonnas, the blue of her gown the same as that amid the rafters above. The whole made a pleasant frame – and the rest of the furnishing was ingeniously unnoticeable. Mr Deighton-Clerk and the Virgin between them dominated the room.
But at the moment the Dean was feeling in a scarcely dominant mood. He was doubting his own wisdom – a process he disliked and avoided. But he could not but doubt the wisdom of the action he had taken that morning. To insist on bringing down a detective-officer – no doubt a notorious detective-officer – from Scotland Yard because of this appalling affair! This was surely to court the widest publicity – to say the least?
Mr Deighton-Clerk’s gaze went slowly up to the ceiling, as if seeking comfort in his own private astrological heaven. Comfort came to him in some measure as his eye moved from Cancer to the taut form of Sagittarius. He had taken energetic action. And was it not (but here the thought floated only in the remoter regions of the Dean’s brain) – was it not the capacity for energetic action that was called in question when the possible preferment of a mere scholar was canvassed? At this moment the Dean’s eye, voyaging still among his rafters, rested on Aquarius, “the man who bears the watering-pot,” as the rhyme has it. And by processes connected perhaps with the association cold-douche, the full mischief of the business was brought home to him more vividly than it had been yet. To be mixed up in a scandal under these outrageous circumstances of modern nationwide publicity! Hardly helpful, he thought grimly; hardly helpful whatever solution of the business the police achieved. That there would be no sensational domestic revelation – it was for that that he must hope and pray. And it was of that that he had, in the course of the day, almost succeeded in convincing himself. (Pisces, as if they had ventured some contradiction, came in for a stern glance here.) In the long run it would not be left in any doubt that the crime (crime in St Anthony’s!) was an outside affair – the purposeless stroke, perhaps, of a madman.
Death At the President's Lodging Page 4