Josephine At 6.0 was being spanked by her father in the clergy-house. Subsequent movements uncertain, but took a false message to the police at the cathedral at 8.55.
Mrs Garbin At 6.0 was walking with Savernake to a friend’s for dinner and bridge. Remained there till 11.0.
Mrs Butler Returned at 6.15 from tea with a friend, accompanied by Dr Butler. Remained at home for the rest of the evening, with Dr Butler till shortly before 8.0, after that alone (hence unconfirmed) until Spitshuker brought her the news of her husband’s death.
At the bottom of the last sheet Fen had scribbled:
1. The police left the cathedral at 8.55;
2. The implications of the tomb-slab – unpremeditated;
3. The plant in Peace’s room – mistake about the hypodermic;
4. The cathedral grounds are locked in the evenings, but anyone who really wanted to could easily get in without a key (Josephine did).
On the point about Geoffrey’s Christian name, and the lasso, James may be involved; one other may be involved.
From the evidence of the time-tables and the points listed above, one person was quite definitely involved in Butler’s murder, may have been the murderer, and is almost certainly the brains of the spy-ring.
Fen looked at Geoffrey and Fielding. ‘Do you get it?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Geoffrey.
‘Nincompoop,’ said Fen.
12
Love’s Lute
O Love’s lute heard about the lands of death.
SWINBURNE
The next day broke in a haze of fierce, shimmering heat. Geoffrey’s night had been uneasy, beset with dreams which were just on the edge of real nightmares. He had woken, restlessly slept, woken again. And when towards morning he did sink into a deeper sleep, he was disturbed almost at once (as it seemed) by a light tapping on his bedroom door. He opened his eyes a little way, perceived without enthusiasm that it was quite light, and uttered that choking, miserable sound which those newly conscious employ to indicate their ready comprehension of what is going on around them. From behind the door, Frances’ voice said:
‘I’ve finished with the bathroom. For the Lord’s sake don’t be too long, or we shan’t have time to really do anything before breakfast.’
Geoffrey looked at his watch, saw that it was only shortly after six, shook his head at the lack of veracity of womankind, and succeeded eventually in getting out of bed.
When he arrived downstairs she was waiting for him, dressed in an open-necked check shirt and a pair of dark blue slacks. He wondered afresh at the dark beauty of her hair, the unblemished milk-white skin, just relieved from pallor by, here and there, a touch of red, the breath-taking perfection of her body. This morning she looked, somehow, almost a child; and the sparkle in her eyes, and her impatience to be away, added to the impression. He wondered just what she felt about her father’s death. And as if reading his thoughts, she said:
‘You think it’s rather shocking that I should be going out to enjoy myself when my father’s been killed.’
‘I don’t think so a bit.’
She smiled, a little sadly. ‘I suppose it is shocking, really. But…Well, damn it all, one can’t force oneself to feel sorry when one doesn’t.’
‘Weren’t you fond of him?’
‘Yes, I was. That’s the funny part. But only in an aloof sort of way. I mean…’ She laughed suddenly. ‘How absurd that must sound! I don’t know how to express it, really. Of course it was a horrible shock when…when you came and told me, but somehow it didn’t last long. None of us ever knew much about him, really. He was always shut up with his work.’
They went out of the house and through the garden, taking the road which led up to the cliffs between Tolnbridge and Tolnmouth.
‘I hope nobody sees us,’ said Frances. ‘I really oughtn’t to be gadding about.’
‘No one in his senses will be up at this hour.’
She turned to look at him, and grinned. ‘You really are an old maid.’
‘Yes, aren’t I? I think that’s why women don’t like me. They like a man to be a man – large, hairy, masterful. A sort of D. H. Lawrence gardener or pit-boy.’
‘What utter nonsense! All women like different things about men. Don’t make specious generalizations like that. Men who generalize about women simply show that they don’t know anything about them.’
‘I don’t know anything about them.’
‘I know. That’s partly what makes you so nice to be with. A man who’s really shy about a woman is a lovely change.’
‘Is Savernake shy?’
She looked at him quickly. ‘You would drag him into it.’
‘It’s because I’m jealous.’
‘Are you really? How nice. Well, he isn’t shy, if you want to know. He’s bumptious.’
‘Are you still engaged to him?’
‘Yes.’ She answered shortly, almost hurriedly.
‘Frances…I meant what I said yesterday…’
She put a hand quickly on his arm. ‘Please, Geoffrey, I don’t want to talk about that. Not now, anyway. Later, perhaps.’
He felt an irrational tinge of resentment; she seemed to sense this.
‘We’ll discuss things later.’
And, after all, he thought, I’ve only known the girl less than forty-eight hours. I’ve no right to try and burst into her personal life like this. Perhaps no right to do it ever. Perhaps I don’t even want to do it. To marry her would mean giving up a lot of things I don’t want to give up. But then I don’t know whether she’d want to marry me.
Almost, he wished he had not come. She was beautiful, she was desirable, but if he committed himself…He wanted more time to think. Then he cursed himself for an idiot and a coward, and, his sense of humour suddenly reasserting itself, he laughed out loud.
‘What are you laughing at?’
‘My own absurdity.’
‘I suppose you are rather absurd. Let’s not talk for a while.’
They walked on in silence. The sun, still low in the heavens, burned hotter, its edges ragged with fire. They turned from the hot, dusty road and climbed a path which led over a steep ramp into a wood hanging in the hillside. In the wood it was cool, a green, liquid coolness. Dying bracken and brambles were twisted together between the trees. There were one or two wild roses, and some sour-looking small blackberries. The path, which led up the hillside, was narrow, and sloped at the edges, like a trough. The centre was full of stones, and yellow mud still wet from the water which flowed down it, so that once or twice they stumbled as they went on upwards.
Coming out of the wood was like emerging from a cavern. They found themselves on a wide expanse, dotted with rough stones and encircled with gorse. Overhead the gulls glided, their wings stiff, in long, immensely rapid flights. Their harsh shouting was the only sound except for the distant murmur of the sea. The young ones were ugly, speckled with brown. One came so low that they could see its throat throbbing with the sound.
In another moment they stood above the estuary-mouth, looking out to sea. Below them stretched the brown cliffs, with a strip of sand at the bottom strewn with the wreckage of a disused quarry: a rotting wooden landing-stage; two lopsided trucks; rusted rails, broken and uneven, leading to nothing. The grass was short, hard, coarse, and brown with drought. A faint wind, brushing the surface of the sea into rows of tiny corrugated wavelets, played about their faces. Frances stretched out her arms in sheer animal pleasure.
‘Lovely!’
They went on along the cliff path, towards the sea itself. Tiny fishing-boats, blue and brown and red, with little triangular sails at the stern, chugged along below them, convoyed by gulls. After a time Frances beckoned to Geoffrey, and they both went to the very edge of the cliff. Beneath was a wide stretch of clean, almost white sand, a cove where the water ran out clear as glass as far as the eye could reach.
‘That’s nice,’ said Geoffrey rather prosaically.
‘Come on.�
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‘Good heavens! I can’t climb down there. It’d be mad. We’d break our necks.’
‘There’s a way down,’ she said, ‘if you know how. I do. It’s quite easy.’
‘It doesn’t look easy to me.’
‘No one else knows about it. Or next to no one. You can always rely on getting it to yourself.’
‘I should like my coffin to be of lead, if there’s anything recognizable left to put in it.’
Tant bien que mal, by a series of hair-raising athletic feats, they achieved the climb.
‘Lord,’ said Geoffrey, panting, when they reached the strand, ‘I hope we can get back again.’
‘It’s much easier to climb up than down.’ Frances performed a couple of tiny dancing steps on the sand. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? We’re quite alone. Let’s have a bathe.’
‘But I haven’t got any things.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Nor have I.’
He stared at her. ‘Do you think we’ve really known one another long enough?…’
She laughed infectiously. ‘Oh, Geoffrey, don’t be a prude. Wouldn’t you like a swim?’
‘Yes, but…’
It was too late. She had already begun to take off her clothes. Apprehensively, Geoffrey followed suit. When they had finished, they looked at one another for a moment in silence; then simultaneously burst out laughing.
‘Don’t stare so!’ she said with mock indignation. ‘It’s rude.’ They raced each other into the water; it seemed to Geoffrey very cold.
Frances swam quickly out, with a swift, competent crawl. Puffing slightly, Geoffrey followed her.
‘It’s a pleasant sensation,’ he said, ‘but I still feel very immoral.’ In the clear water, fathoms beneath their feet, they could see one or two small fish going about their esoteric affairs.
When they had come out, and were drying themselves on some rocks, Geoffrey put his arm round her shoulders, but she pushed him away.
‘Not till I’ve got some clothes on.’ Geoffrey suddenly and unexpectedly blushed.
Then, as soon as they were dressed again:
‘Frances.’
‘Well?’
‘You know I’m in love with you?’
‘Yes: I think I’m in love with you, too.’ He was almost troubled at the sincerity in her voice.
‘I should like to marry you.’
For a long time she was silent. Then she said: ‘Geoffrey, I’m sorry, but…I can’t.’
‘Why?’ He took her almost fiercely by the arm.
‘Don’t. You’re hurting me.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s Daddy. I’ve been thinking, and after what’s happened I can’t leave Mummy. You do understand, darling?’
‘Yes, but you’ve got your own life to live. And besides, all that can be got over. Your mother can live with us – and Josephine as well.’ He made the offer with a certain gloom.
‘That’s sweet of you, but I mustn’t promise anything – just now.’ She laughed. ‘Promise – as though I was conferring some kind of privilege. It does sound vain.’
‘You’re not refusing because of Savernake?’
‘No. No.’ The denial was quick and eager. ‘I shan’t marry him in any case.’
‘You did say you were fond of me.’
‘I am. Oh, my darling, I am. I love you so very much. But don’t you see…I’m confused. It’s all so quick. We can wait, can’t we?’
‘I don’t want to wait.’
‘We must. All that’s happened…Oh, darling, what did happen to him? Was it an accident? It must have been an accident. Surely not even Peace…’
‘They’ve arrested him.’
‘I know.’ It was like a shadow between them. ‘Has Professor Fen discovered anything?’
He put his arms round her. ‘Don’t bother about all that. Other people will look after it.’ He tried to put his lips to hers, but she pulled her head away. He stood back. She looked at him with eyes in which there was a hint of tears.
‘Let’s go home.’
But when they were again at the top of the cliff, she turned and pulled him to her and for a moment kissed him warmly. Then they walked back, in silence.
Thus began the third day.
Geoffrey afterwards looked upon it as the day when, quite suddenly and as if at a signal, the talk ended and the final struggle began. Hitherto they had dealt with characters single, isolated from one another, mere waxworks lined up for questioning. When they had turned their backs one of those figures had moved, and there had been killing. But now some sixth sense told him that the end was near, that the pretence could no longer be kept up. He felt that they stood at a cavern-mouth, waiting for some creature to spring at them from the darkness, and yet not knowing what kind of thing it would be. And there was no more time for conjecture now; they were committed, at last, to fight.
When he had played Mattins, he set out with Fen and Fielding to a little pub on the outskirts of the town, where Fen was proposing to put some plan of action before them, since they were less likely to be interrupted or overheard there than at the Whale and Coffin. Fen carried a large map of the district, which he persisted in opening as they walked along and refolding the wrong way, so that it became crumpled and torn.
‘I don’t think,’ he said, ‘that these people can possibly be operating from the centre of the town exclusively. It would be too dangerous. I’ve been trying to find out if there are any likely hideouts nearby – a pretty impossible business.’
‘Did you discover anything about the wireless messages they sent out?’ Fielding asked.
‘I’m going to ring up the cipher department, but I don’t expect they’ve decoded the stuff yet. That sort of thing takes time. But the trouble is,’ he added waspishly, ‘that it’s all so vague. Ten to one nothing will turn up at all.’
At this point there was an interruption. They were going down a narrow path, flanked by high yew hedges, which skirted the churchyard. And from the other side of one of these hedges they suddenly heard a voice.
‘You may seek it with thimbles,’ said the voice informatively, ‘and seek it with care, you may hunt it with forks and hope…’
Fen stopped dead. ‘I know who that is,’ he said gloomily.
‘You may threaten its life with a railway share,’ pursued the voice, ‘you may charm it with smiles and soap…’
‘Charlemagne!’ Fen bawled suddenly. The voice stopped, and there was a scraping sound on the other side of the hedge.
‘That, I fancy,’ said Fen grimly, ‘is the Regius Professor of Mathematics.’
A gruff, hairy, little old man put his head over the hedge.
‘What are you doing here, Charlemagne?’ asked Fen minatorily.
‘I am holidaying,’ said the head, ‘and it was impolite of you to interrupt a total stranger in that ungentlemanly way.’
This made Fen so indignant that he uttered a little shriek. ‘Don’t you know me?’ he said irritably. ‘Don’t you know me, you stupid old man?’
‘Yes, I know you,’ said the head. ‘You are the New College buttery boy.’ It then disappeared.
Fuming, Fen rushed on to the next gap in the hedge. The Regius Professor of Mathematics arrived there simultaneously.
‘But oh, beamish nephew,’ he chanted, wagging his finger at Fen, ‘beware of the day, if your Snark be a Boojum! For then’ – he lowered his voice to a bloodcurdling whisper – ‘you will softly and suddenly vanish away, and never be met with again! It is this, it is…’
‘Stop all that,’ Fen commanded peremptorily. ‘It’s nothing but affectation. You know perfectly well who I am. I’m Gervase Fen.’
‘You might be,’ said the R.P.M. ‘I remember a much younger man.’
‘Oh, it’s no use talking to you,’ said Fen. ‘Come on, you two.’
‘Where are you going?’ said the R.P.M. He said it with such suddenness and severity that they all started.
‘That’s no business of yours,’ said Fen
. ‘But if you must know, we’re going to have a drink.’
‘I shall come too.’
‘Oh, no, you won’t. We don’t want you.’
‘I shall recite you The Hunting of the Snark.’
‘We’d rather do without that, thank you.’
‘I shall accompany you,’ said the Professor with such firmness that even Fen was daunted.
‘Are you quite sure you want to?’ he asked feebly.
‘I am sure of nothing,’ said the Professor, ‘except the differential calculus. And I’m not as good on that as I used to be.’
Fen moaned and shrugged his shoulders, and they all set off. ‘He’s all right, really,’ Fen said to Geoffrey in a penetrating whisper. ‘Only he’s dishonest. He steals things. But I don’t think it’ll hurt to have him with us. And I don’t see,’ he added with more venom, ‘how we’d get rid of him even if we wanted to.’
Beside them, the Professor placidly continued reciting Lewis Carroll.
The public bar of the Three Shrews was empty when they arrived there, apart from the landlord, who stood polishing glasses in the detached, other-worldly manner of his kind. They ordered beer, for which Fen prodded the Regius Professor of Mathematics into paying. Then they all sat down at a table, listened patiently to the conclusion of Fit the Seventh, and began to talk.
‘It seems to me,’ said Fen, ‘that our general strategy has got to be (a) to try and find out where these people’s headquarters is and (b) when we’ve done that, to discover precisely what their plans are.’
‘As simple as that?’ said Geoffrey. Fen glared at him.
‘Well, if you can suggest anything else,’ he grumbled, ‘you suggest it. It may not be as difficult as it sounds. What we must not do is to start arresting them right and left without knowing what arrangements they’ve made for just that contingency.’
‘No.’
‘Very well, then.’ Fen opened the map. ‘I’ve been making inquiries about deserted buildings in the neighbourhood.’ He pointed at a section of the map, and Geoffrey, glancing idly at it, caught the words ‘Slater’s Wood’. ‘And I’ve come to the conclusion that apart from the Scout-hut, there’s only one…’
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